Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (24 page)

"The only change–" He made a moue of distaste. "There's been a revelation among the more poetic that our divine
Aluster's
rose is a very black shade of red, which does not
at all fit with the descriptions and pictures history's left us. There's no limit to the speculation around
that. The wisest heads have concluded
that it reflects the nature of our new ruler, and predict dire events and
calamities."

That would teach Strake for his thunder-cloud humours.

"You knew that one already," Aspen said, watching
her closely. "I see I'll have to
scare up something truly original for you."

"Or concoct it,"
Halcean
murmured, softly enough that Aspen could pretend he hadn't heard. The look he gave her suggested their game of
rivalry was about to be taken up a notch.

"Aspen, can you tell if a person's a mage?"

The quiet, grim tone almost drew corresponding gravity. "Not casually. Not unless they're casting, when I'd be able
to feel the current of worked power. You
can test a person you suspect of being a mage, if you've the time and energy
and they don't hit you for your insolence, but since magic is everywhere, in
everything and everyone, even tests can be wrong. The simplest way to know a mage is to keep
track of the children of mages, the students of mages, and everyone who's ever
cast publicly."

"And if I wanted to keep an eye out for mages
casting? Could I tell?"

"Not a true-mage. I presume you don't mean a word-mage or, Sun forbid, a blood-mage?"

"Would I always be able to tell if one of them were
casting?"

"If you were in the room, surely. No-one can mistake the sound of spoken magic,
and I'd hope you'd notice if someone started etching runes about the place or
sacrificing some hapless creature for summon-price. They could use a trigger spell, but trigger
spells are hard, and unless you're really good they tend to...swell. They want to finish themselves, you see, and
they push at you and unless you've said every word just right and left
absolutely no wriggle room, you can't keep them in order too long."

"But still, I need to be able to tell if someone's
casting – whether they're a true-mage or a word-mage with a trigger spell or
whatever. Could you teach me?"

"You–" Aspen was imperfectly hiding his sympathy. "I suppose – yes and no. It's within the bounds of possibility. Anyone with a tongue can learn to be a
word-mage, after all, and a spell could give a word-mage something of the
senses of a true-mage. I could look for
one, could even try to write one. How
long it would take you to learn to cast it... It's a truly bad idea to cast without comprehension. No-one ever really finds a scroll, reads it
and has the spell work. You have to
pronounce everything just right, and what you think you're saying has an
immense effect on your result. For such
an exact language, there's a lot of shades of meaning in
elachar
. I could cast and maintain the spell for
you. But–" He stopped, let his breath out. "You serve a Rathen mage, Soren. The Diamond supports him. Half the mages in Darest are in the palace,
ready to point a finger at any intruding mage. Don't you think the threat of magic's sufficiently covered?"

"Do you? Truly?"

He wrinkled his nose at her. "Don't ask me for honesty when I'm trying to be reassuring."

"Even if all the known mages in the palace were going
to leap to the King's defence, you just said that anyone could be a mage. Anyone could be Vixen's killer. Or another killer. The King certainly has a better chance of
spotting a spell-caster than I, but I'm not always with him. And I want to–" Contribute. She didn't say it, didn't want to know how well Aspen thought the title
of Champion fit Soren
Armitage
.

"You may be certain I'll leap to the divine
Aluster's
defence, at any rate," Aspen said, draining
his mug. "How could I pass up the
chance to win his gratitude? Let alone
yours?" He stood, and bowed
elegantly enough to rival the Diamond. "I must off. Do send word if
you reconsider." With a final pert
flourish for
Halcean's
benefit, he left.

"Lord Aristide's factotum found him rooms overlooking
the barracks practice yard,"
Halcean
said, when
they were safely alone. "Noisy, but
with a view."

Soren grinned. Aspen
was sure to wax poetic about the morning exercises. But the time for lightness was past. "And have you narrowed on any
candidates?" she asked.

"No."
Halcean
met her eyes with characteristic directness. "But I still don't think it's this
monster out of the past. One that creeps
into palace grounds unseen, kills a horse, then leaves just as quietly? There's no reason at all to believe the thing
survived into the future as King
Aluster
did. You're right to concentrate on mages."

Not keen to discuss night-time encounters, Soren sipped at
her cooling cider, inhaling apple and spice. "I'm told there's few capable of turning divinations."

"In Darest."
Halcean's
tone was derisive, and she caught
herself up, ducking her head. "You'd only need one, true enough."

"Have you heard the same as Aspen about the black
rose?"

Her aide hesitated, then said: "Yes. More that it's a doom-sign. That he's to die, and soon."

Truth had a way of uncovering itself. Soren could only hope no-one came up with the
bright idea of announcing her pregnancy to allay concern.

That speculative gaze had been turned on her again, hastily
redirected as Soren looked back up. When
Soren made a wry face,
Halcean
laughed, adding a
shrug to admit her curiosity. "You
don't like this at all, do you? No, not
whatever murderous wretch butchered your horse – the palace, the Court."

"The Court isn't the nicest of places."

"Oh, it's not too bad. King
Aluster
– well, he's high-tempered I own,
but I haven't seen any malice in him, which is an improvement on the
Couerveurs
. And even
Lady Arista didn't over-stock the jail-houses with those who looked at her the
wrong way, let alone line their heads along the docks. There's a lot of pointed conversation, and
jostling for position, the occasional fortune staked on some political
manoeuvre, but that's half the fun, isn't it?"

"If you say so."

"You come from a place where there's no gossip, no
scuffles for precedence?"

"Well, no–"

"Everyone's kind and generous and
well-intentioned?"

"Hardly."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The stakes are higher here. And–" Soren sat back, resting her mug on her knee, staring across the
palace. The Rose's barbed contribution
wasn't something she was willing to share with her aide, any more than her
less-than-perfect relationship with her Rathen. "What I'm expected to do is different. I didn't have to involve myself in those kind
of games, back home. Didn't like them,
wasn't any good at them, nobody really cared if I didn't play."

"Power, prestige, position. A lovely apartment, free meals–"

"Delightful people to work with, and a horse to call my
own. It's all part and parcel,
Halcean
."

"There's many who'd change places with you in a
moment."

"I expect so." Soren smiled a little lopsidedly. "Until they knew what it was like." Then she laughed at the expression
Halcean
didn't try to hide, reminded of her sense of
proportion. "That does sound
pettish, doesn't it? Maybe I'm just
homesick. Even with all your successes,
don't you miss your family?"

"My family wants me here,"
Halcean
replied matter-of-factly. "The
useful youngest child, purpose-built for courtly machination. I've spent so long learning how to get every
advantage out of Tor Darest that I doubt I'd know what to do with myself
anywhere else. Nor," she added,
with a conspiratorial grin, "is my family the kind you miss."

"I'm sorry."

As
Halcean
shook her head at
misplaced sympathy, Soren's attention was pulled away by the sight of Aristide
Couerveur
, the Captain of the Guard and Lady Rothwell in
the corner of one of the ballroom antechambers. Just what was going on? Aristide
had been studying a transcription of the Rose's wall of runes, and was due to
visit her to try and probe the Rose's secrets. Nothing had been said to Soren about Francesca Rothwell. And why were they just sitting silently in an
empty room?

"You could always have your family come visit,"
Halcean
pointed out, oblivious.

"I could. I
will, I hope, before Winter closes in. My
mothers
won't be so busy, and perhaps
things will have settled down."

Or Strake would be dead, and Soren would see how far the
Diamond's avowed loyalty went.

"Are you all right?"

"Distracted," Soren replied, embarrassed by how
obviously she must have been staring off into the distance.

"I'll leave you to it, then."
Halcean
smiled and
gave her a courteous little bow. "It can be nasty at times," she added. "Even I don't like everything I do, all
the time. But it's important to remember
that it's all really just a game, that everyone's playing it. Don't worry too much."

"I'll try." But it was hard when Aristide and the Captain of the Guard were so
obviously engaged in some manoeuvre they'd neglected to inform her about.

A few minutes later explanation came in the form of Everett
Rothwell. He looked carefully around the
room, eyes passing over his mother and her escort without so much as
blinking. Lady Rothwell bowed her head,
then lifted it, apparently struggling with an impulse to cry out some
warning. Soren could see Captain
Vereck
tense then relax, the moment passing.

A woman came into the room, her face faintly familiar, her
clothing that of a clerk. Everett's
manner was peremptory, hiding relief. They spoke. A small, heavy purse
was exchanged. They moved to depart.

Nothing changed to Soren's eyes, but suddenly Everett
noticed the three seated in the corner: Captain
Vereck
grim, his mother with tears in her eyes but her chin held high and firm. Aristide, just the faintest curl touching his
lips. Almost, Soren imagined she could
hear another audience, reacting with approval to the dumb-show's denouement. Everett's reaction was certainly that of the
villain undone: springing back, hand going to his belt knife.

So tidily managed. Guards appeared at the door even as the woman dressed as a clerk
ran. Everett stood his ground, face
bloodless. More words were
exchanged. Aristide asked something of
Lady Rothwell. She shook her head, said
something which brought a touch of surprise, of disbelieving hope to her son's
face. And then, with no flicker of
triumph or compassion, Aristide moved one of his hands and Everett Rothwell was
gone.

A small, brown thing fluttered on the floor. A sparrow, shaking and crashing its wings as
if it had no concept of how to use them. Lady Rothwell quickly stooped and captured it, her face tightly closed
against anger or relief. The players
scattered, the Captain escorting guards and prisoner, Lady Rothwell carrying
her transformed child: off to find a suitable cage.

Aristide came and knocked on the door of Soren's apartment.

-
oOo
-

Soren had to admire the ease with which
Halcean
left the Diamond
Couerveur
to kick his heels in the
entry hall while she punctiliously went to consult the Champion on whether she
was receiving visitors.

"Send him in," Soren ordered, feeling remarkably
nervous after the scene she'd watched. "And you'd best go out yourself, I suppose. Come back in an hour."

Halcean
nodded obediently, even
managing to hide her no doubt avid curiosity as she bowed Aristide into the
receiving room. Palace-sight let Soren
see that practiced courtier's manner dissolve as he walked past her aide,
leaving
Halcean's
face filled with speculation, and
an emotion which looked very much like the one Soren now felt herself whenever
she looked at Aristide
Couerveur
. It was a kind of frustrated fascination, wary
and discomfited.

"Please sit down, Lord Aristide," Soren said, as
Halcean
closed the door, hesitated, then left the
apartment. "Perhaps you'd care to
tell me just what it was Everett Rothwell was trying to buy?"

"Death. Mine,
interestingly enough." He sounded
more bored than intrigued. "It
seems I influence the King too much toward The Deeping."

Soren couldn't help but stare at him. He'd uncovered and countered a plot against
his own life, had just turned someone into a bird for pity's sake! He was acting like he did that kind of thing
every day.

But then, he probably did. Soren, who could see everything which went on in the palace, hadn't
spotted whatever Everett had done to expose himself, nor even the preparation
of the trap set for him. For all her
expanse of vision, it was almost impossible to catch the important among all
the everyday. She should thank Sun and
Moon both that Aristide had chosen to ally himself with Strake, for Soren could
do nothing to match him.

"You've come to experiment, I take it?" she asked,
struggling not to let sudden desolation show in her voice.

"With your permission, Champion," He'd made no move toward any of the chairs,
was considering her with analytical abstraction.

"Do I need to do anything?"

"Shield me from the Rose, should it seem
necessary? No, Champion. You I will place into a trance, while I test
this theory that a long set of instructions has developed a personality. It should be quite painless."

Though she was not at all worried he'd be anything but
correct, Soren was less than easy at the thought of being unconscious in
Aristide
Couerveur's
presence. And the mocking glitter in his eyes told her
he knew that perfectly well. But she
needed to know more about the enchantment driving her life.