Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(95)

“Your Majesty, please,” Lady Argincourt, one of the queen’s ladies, murmured, gesturing at the crowd of blackbirds in the room. “If you could give the queen a little privacy?”

“I want to see you downstairs in less than fifteen minutes,” Montaigne said. “Freeman, you will attend the queen in the dining room to handle anything that might arise. And find something other than that bloody healer brown to wear. Having a healer hover over her would also send the wrong message.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ash said.

Signaling to his blackbird guard, the king strode from the room, leaving Ash with two questions: Would he at long last get close enough to the king to do some actual damage? And where could he possibly get hold of dinner clothes in the next fifteen minutes?

When he was sure the king was gone, Ash turned back to the queen. “No rum, Your Grace,” he said. “Not while your liver is still recovering from the poison. I suggest small beer or tea.”

“Tea suits me well, Master Freeman,” the queen said.

“Good,” Ash said. “And, finally—would any of you know where I could find some suitable clothes in a hurry?”

Fifteen minutes later, Ash was shadowing the queen into the state dining room. Somehow, Queen Marina’s ladies had managed to scrounge up some black breeches and a doublet in green velvet and leather that fit—more or less. Happily, he had a fine silver collar to go with.

It had been a long time since he’d worn anything resembling court garb. It felt like he was wearing a costume.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Ash could tell that something was wrong. The tension in the room was as thick as day-old porridge and the room was lined with more blackbirds than was usual, even these days. The main course had been served, but most of the plates looked to be untouched. The women in the room were staring down at the table as if they hoped they could disappear.

All eyes were fixed on a tall muscular thane with a bristle of gray hair and a black eye patch. He stood at the end of the table nearest the door, surrounded by a handful of men-at-arms. He was the kind of hard-bitten soldier who looked out of place in civilian clothes. Next to him stood a much younger edition of the thane, maybe twelve or thirteen, this one in mudback brown.

As they walked in, the queen seemed to tap some hidden reservoir of strength. Her spine straightened, her chin rose, and she smiled brilliantly when the guests rose to greet her. She walked the length of the room with great dignity and took her place beside the king. Ash followed a few steps behind and stood against the wall behind the royal couple, staring at the barricade of blackbirds between him and the king.

No opportunity there, Ash thought.

Montaigne kissed Queen Marina’s hand, turned to the other guests, and said through gritted teeth, “I know you’ll join with me in toasting Her Majesty’s good health.”

This was met with a murmur of good wishes and a few raised glasses, but it didn’t change the mood in the room. It looked more like a standoff than a dinner party. Marin Karn, for instance, looked like he could chew rocks and spit out gravel.

“Sit down, Lord Matelon, and eat,” the king said. “This is the Saint’s Day. It is not the appropriate time to discuss the state of the war. We will take it up when the Thane Council meets.”

“You have not called a council in months, Your Majesty,” the eye-patched lord said. “Instead, you seize property and treasure from your loyal bannermen to fund this never-ending grudge match.”

A rumble rolled around the table, mingled protest and assent.

Reliable royal ally Michel Botetort stood as well. “I beg you, Arschel, let’s defer this.”

“I agree,” General Karn said. “I’ve not yet had the chance to brief His Majesty on . . . recent developments.”

“Then by all means, Karn, let us brief him now,” Matelon said. He scanned the room. “I believe we have a quorum.”

“Perhaps the ladies should leave the room,” the king said, eyes glittering, his hand on his sword, “so that we can speak plainly.”

“Perhaps they should,” Matelon said.

The women rose in a rustle of silk and brocade and left the room. All except the queen. “I will stay and hear what you have to say, Lord Matelon,” she said simply.

Matelon shrugged. “If you like, Your Majesty.” He turned to the boy. “My son Robert is a corporal stationed at Delphi. He has a report to offer. Corporal?”

Robert was so nervous that the paper in his hand was shaking. “D-Delphi has fallen, Your Majesty.”

Delphi! Ash struggled to maintain his street face while he scanned the room for reactions. If he was any judge, Marin Karn, the king, and Botetort, at least, already knew.

The king waved an impatient hand. “Rumors are always flying about this or that disaster. I have heard a rumor about Delphi, and we are in the process of investigating.”

“It is more than a rumor, Your Majesty,” Lord Matelon said. “Go on, Corporal.”

Robert stood ramrod-straight. “I spent the Solstice holiday at temple church, on leave from my posting at Delphi. While I was there, we received a message from my brother—from Captain Matelon’s headquarters north of the city. Shall I read it?”

“Go ahead, Son,” Matelon said, resting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.