The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(88)
The Estate itself was a rambling country home built of the same precisely cut stone—something the elite of Colnora might have referred to as a grand villa. The house was three stories high with gables and a centered portico complete with stone pillars. Royce counted five chimneys and twenty-nine glass windows facing front, including a round one set at the portico’s peak. At the very top, the ducal flag flew just below the colors of Alburn. The entry path formed a circle before the front doors, and fine gravel lined a neatly edged lawn, well-trimmed hedges, and early purple flowers that Royce couldn’t identify. The style was relaxed, opulent, and open, nothing like the homes of western nobles, which skewed toward the dull and solid—with an emphasis on solid. In places like Warric and Melengar, a duke’s residence was barely discernible from a stronghold. Even successful knights lived in gray stone citadels with narrow, glassless openings. But this place . . .
If the wall was a relatively recent addition, Royce struggled to imagine how the Dukes of Rochelle could have lived in an open, defenseless house. The idea was both incredible and unfathomable. The lack of walls suggests an absence of enemies, but no ruler fits that description. Had the ancient governors been so ruthless that sheer terror replaced the need for walls? Perhaps in place of stone battlements they had encircled the island with posts laden with corpses. Or . . . An odd, alien thought popped into Royce’s head, one that was as unlikely as his walking alongside the captain of the guard into a ducal estate. Could there have been no need for walls because it was a more virtuous world? The sort of place where Hadrian would have fit in? Royce pondered all this as he walked past the yellow-flowering forsythia bushes, listening to his feet crush the gravel. Hadrian is one of those people born too late, and I? Am I born too early?
Royce wasn’t surprised that obtaining an audience in the dead of night was difficult even for the captain of the duke’s guard. Wyberg had to browbeat the soldiers at the gate, who complained about his lack of an appointment. At the front doors, Roland had to remind the pair of men about his rank in order to gain entry to the foyer.
Looking up, Royce spotted an open third-story window. He could have already entered the duke’s bedroom by then, though the meeting might not have been as cordial with that approach.
Inside, the Estate continued to impress. The duke’s foyer was ballroom-sized and decorated with sculptures and paintings instead of swords and shields, the normal ornaments for any serious lord intent on projecting a sense of power. Royce was genuinely impressed by some of the art. When he’d visited such places in the past, the homes were always dark, and he was in too much of a hurry to notice the furnishings. The place was elegant, but he wouldn’t want to live there. The residences of the rich always felt cold.
“Duke Leopold does not meet with his soldiers in the middle of the night,” said the duke’s chamberlain, a portly, balding man who displayed a well-worn frown beneath a neat mustache. While unarmed and unimposing, he was proving to be a worthier adversary than the gate or door guards. With thumbs hooked on the breast of his robe, chest thrust out, he stood blocking the way. “We have a hierarchy to handle problems.”
“Exactly, and I’m captain of the guard,” Wyberg declared.
“But did His Grace request an audience?”
“No, this is an emergency.”
The chamberlain’s frown deepened. “Aren’t you supposed to handle emergencies? Why does the duke have you in charge, if not to provide him the luxury of sleeping at night? As you can see, the sun is down. We don’t bother him with trifles when he is sleeping.”
“Trifles!” Roland burst out. “I just said—”
“Tut-tut!” The chamberlain placed the palms of his hands together then tilted the tips of his pressed fingers toward Roland. “This is what you will do. Tomorrow morning—and not too early—you can come and make an appointment to speak to the ducal clerk. Given the feast, I’m sure he’ll be too busy to receive you, but if it truly is an emergency”—he looked at Wyberg skeptically—“he’ll get you in to see the duke’s secretary, who will evaluate your request and determine if it warrants an audience. If it does, your request will be passed on to the Ducal Council of Attendance, which will review His Lordship’s itinerary and try and find time in the schedule for you. Now, doesn’t that sound like a better way to go about this? I’m sure whatever the problem is, you can manage it for a while.”
“This can’t wait!” Roland exploded.
Royce stayed out of the confrontation. He had entered behind the captain, acting as Roland’s shadow, and soundlessly moved about the foyer, feigning interest in the art. With all of Wyberg’s outbursts, the chamberlain only gave Royce a cursory glance, then ignored him altogether. Royce inched behind the chamberlain, slipping beyond his peripheral vision. Spotting a painting of a stag in a river valley, Royce moved toward it. While it wasn’t the best art in the room, it was near the corridor. Moving over, he leaned in to inspect it further.
“I must see the duke tonight!” Wyberg shouted and thrust his arms out in a rage. “You have no idea what’s going on! If I don’t—”
“Calm yourself!” the chamberlain snapped, throwing up his hands and cringing as if he felt Wyberg was about to attack.
Royce took that opportunity to slip into the unguarded hallway.