Chapter Twenty-Two
Benedict slipped out of bed in the morning before dawn had even managed to break through the rain clouds, when my bedroom still lay shrouded in the world’s most enervating gloom.
“Umph,” I managed, and curled into the warm spot he’d left behind.
He glanced over his bare shoulder from where he’d crouched by the fireplace, smiled at me, and went back to effortlessly lighting a new pile of kindling with a snap of his fingers. The flames crackled around the logs he set on top, throwing out enough light to limn all his muscles. Mmm. All right. That might be worth keeping my eyes open for a bit.
And he loved me.
Oh, that was strange, and it didn’t feel particularly real, either.
He’d killed Tavius, and my father. Yes, that would also take some getting used to. The stab of pain somewhere under my solar plexus might take much longer to get used to, or to fade, depending. My love for Tavius would almost certainly be more lasting than my anger at his betrayal, and I knew I’d wake with a sudden shock of grief for a long time, mourning what could’ve been. After my mother left, it’d been three years before it didn’t hurt every morning.
I rolled onto my back and winced as all my very, very well-used flesh tugged with the motion, and winced again as more of Benedict’s spend seeped out of me.
That, at least, I’d enjoy getting used to.
Blinking at the canopy above me only made my eyes sting and my temples ache.
“Go back to sleep,” Benedict said quietly, and I blinked again to find him leaning over me. He bent and kissed me so quickly I couldn’t even kiss him back, and then was already rummaging on the floor for his clothes. “I’m going to get a report from Venet. Take a walk through the palace, down to the barracks. See if everything seems as it ought to be.” He cleared his throat. “Let you wake up in your own time.”
I should probably send word to Mattia. Or simply get out of bed, as a duke with endless responsibilities needed to do no matter how few hours of sleep he’d had the night before, or how many of his relatives he’d seen die.
Fuck it.
I nodded and closed my eyes, and a moment later Benedict shut the door softly behind him.
Wake up in my own time. Wake up alone, he meant, unconstrained by his presence.
My perception of him had shifted enough that I recognized it for tact rather than embarrassment or avoidance. He didn’t want to crowd me.
And gods, I couldn’t have been more grateful. No silence had ever been so beautiful, an emptiness into which my mind and soul and mixed feelings could expand, like bedraggled butterflies airing out their damp wings.
Tears dripped down my temples for a while, as steady and gentle as the rain pattering outside my windows. The fire crackled, the room slowly warming. Faint gray light finally filtered in. My breath hitched and then settled into an easier rhythm than it’d had for a long time.
At last I drifted back to sleep.
When I woke again I felt much more alert. And I remembered everything, thank the gods, and didn’t need to go through that bloody awful process again—at least until tomorrow. The light hadn’t changed, still an indeterminate gray. The rain continued unabated, interspersed with the occasional wail of the wind.
When I turned my head and peered through the dimness, the mantel clock told me it was almost eleven, and I rolled out of bed with a start.
Gods, I hadn’t stayed abed that late since I’d been a raw youth.
Bathing and dressing took me twice as long as usual, my body seemingly unable to shake off the sluggishness of shock and exhaustion, and a hundred aches and pains I hadn’t noticed the night before making themselves known. Tavius had been rough with me, and then Benedict had been a bit rough with me in an entirely different way.
Four guards waited at the entrance to the private corridor, and two stayed behind while the others followed me obediently…where? My study, I supposed, for lack of any better ideas. Although I wished I knew what would be waiting for me there. Someone had probably seen Clothurn being arrested, and even if not, his servants would’ve gone looking for him when he didn’t go home. Lord Zettine had informants everywhere. I’d have bet my left testicle that he’d already received a full report on everything that had happened last night.
So where was he? It was midday. Had Benedict intercepted him? Why hadn’t he been raising a riot outside my rooms, demanding that I appear? Why didn’t I have urgent messages from my whole council, for that matter, or an emergency meeting already in session that no one had told me about?
Perhaps there was. I quickened my stride.
Outside my study I found only a page, who jumped up from a chair when I approached and opened the door for me. A short passage led to an antechamber where anyone seeking an audience with me would present himself and then wait, and a wary glance in that direction showed me nothing but a bored-looking clerk making conversation with an equally relaxed guard.
Mattia popped out of my study, bowed, and said, “Good morn—well, close enough, Your Grace! I have coffee waiting for you.” I followed him in, and the page shut the door behind us. “Lord Benedict was here and said you’d want some,” he continued. “And he asked me to tell you to go ahead and drink it. Which seemed a bit strange, but—”
Abruptly, I was far too weary to dance around the subject any more, at least not with Mattia. “He’s not giving me permission to have coffee, he’s telling me I don’t need to worry that it’s been poisoned,” I said. Mattia’s eyes went wide, and his mouth rounded into an O. “There was some concern. I think it’s over now. Pour me some, and you too, if you’re not too afraid to drink it. And tell me if anyone’s been here looking for me this morning. Lord Zettine, probably?”
“Poison? Ennolu preserve us, on top of everything else!”
“Coffee, Mattia,” I said, and went to sit behind my desk, hoping the familiar view might make everything seem a bit less surreal.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Mattia said, and went to the sideboard. “But I—Lord Zettine wasn’t here. But there have been a few visitors, including the Surbini ambassador. They seemed to have heard—ah, rumors. About last night.” He put my coffee in front of me. “About Lord Tavius, and Lord Clothurn, and Lord Benedict. And you.”
Of course there were. I’d have been shocked otherwise.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said. “For now, all you need to know is that Lord Clothurn’s been arrested. And Lord Tavius is dead. Don’t answer any questions from anyone today.”
Mattia muttered and fussed, but I drank my coffee and ignored him, considering the problem of the rumors. In all likelihood, most of the palace had been on tenterhooks all morning waiting for me to emerge and provide clarity—or start putting people’s heads on spikes over the gates.
It wasn’t like Zettine to be on tenterhooks, was it? Hiding himself away and waiting for someone else to take action, rather than running roughshod over anyone he could bully.
Mattia subsided at last, refilling my cup and then sitting across from me in silence. His presence didn’t disturb me the way most people’s would; we’d spent so many years working together that I found his quiet company stimulating, rather than a barrier to contemplation.
A bracing sip of fresh coffee, and then another, and I let my mind drift, idly picking up thoughts and putting them down again, waiting for the moment when I’d…yes. That. So many little threads that had been floating in the breeze, waiting to be woven together into a coherent fabric.
I drained my cup and put it down with a click.
“Didn’t Lord Zettine’s youngest daughter marry a Surbini lady?” I asked. “Some great heiress. I remember hearing about the wedding gowns, they were encrusted with pearls, an absurd expense. Thank Ennolu they held it in Surbino so I had a good excuse not to go.”
“Last summer, yes,” Mattia said. “Why?”
“Am I right in remembering that one of their estates produces some staggering fraction of Surbino’s white wine grapes?”
Mattia chuckled, shaking his head. “Only you would remember such a thing, Your Grace. If you’d like me to verify it with the clerks, I can, but—”
“Just read me the part of the trade agreement we’ve been working on that deals with wine, if you’d be so kind.”
Mattia’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear,” he muttered, clearly already busily going down the same path I’d mentally trodden, and went to pull the latest draft from the files on the opposite wall. “Here it is, Your Grace. Yes. For red wines…”
The tariffs on wines, and in some cases lack thereof, had been a particular sticking point for me, but the Surbini ambassador had been incredibly stubborn, almost nonchalant in his dismissal of my concerns. And now I thought I knew why: he’d been privately assured of Lord Zettine’s support in making sure that Surbino’s white wines would command the best possible prices at the greatest possible volume, while sacrificing the interests of other vintners on both sides of the border to compensate for it.
“That’s enough,” I said, cutting Mattia off as he began to fight his way through a subparagraph about barrels. “Thank you. I think that’s what I wanted to know.”
My voice had gone grim—nearly as much as my mood.
Zettine had been Calatria’s Lord Chancellor for more than thirty years, since well before either Tavius or I had been conceived. He’d been here, in this palace, when my father carried on his affair with Tavius’s married mother, and I had no doubt he’d been as canny and ambitious and well-supplied with spies nearly three decades ago as he was now.
Fabian had known. Zettine had almost certainly known. Tavius would’ve come to the same conclusion, I felt sure. And if Zettine had known all this time, and never said a word…well, Tavius would never have trusted him. Zettine would’ve been out on his ass at best, and far more likely his head would’ve adorned one of those spikes Benedict knew damn well I’d never actually use. But Tavius wouldn’t have had the same qualms.
Even if Zettine and his family survived Tavius’s ascent to power, they’d have ended up bankrupt, either through Tavius’s persecution of them or through a war. Tavius had hated Surbino, something about effete southerners who hadn’t come to our aid a hundred years ago during a war we’d had with the Elaquin Archipelago. He’d had similar attitudes regarding every other kingdom I could think of. And then, of course, there was whatever he’d been plotting with a Surbini captive. He’d have had Calatria embroiled in some stupid, wasteful conflict within months of taking the throne.
No, Zettine would’ve been highly motivated to see to it that Tavius never made a claim on the throne, let alone succeeded.
And now, he’d be highly motivated to avoid drawing attention to himself—and to his part in what had happened. If he came charging to my study demanding answers, I might expect the same from him.
I stood, straightened my tunic, and said, “If Lord Benedict comes looking for me, tell him I have a meeting. And don’t specify with whom.”
“It’s very difficult to lie to Lord Benedict,” Mattia said dubiously. “With the best will in the world, Your Grace.”
“You won’t need to lie. I won’t tell you where I’m going.”
Mattia raised his eyebrows. “Not that I can’t guess, Your Grace. But I’ll do my best to pretend I don’t know. Although—speaking of poison? Not that I’m accusing anyone of anything. But don’t take any refreshment, if you’re going to have the confrontation I think you are.”
“Good advice,” I said, and set out for Lord Zettine’s offices. Particularly good and also quite pertinent, if only Mattia had known it.
Zettine had an administrative suite in the same wing as mine, in a small annex overlooking a private courtyard. I knew him well enough to be fairly sure he’d be there, even though he wanted to avoid me. He spent even more time buried in paperwork than I did. Nothing short of an apocalypse would keep him from his desk.
That said, I also knew he’d have no compunction about fleeing through the side door into the courtyard and having his secretary, a humorless, ageless stick of a man who’d terrified me since I was old enough to walk, lie to me that Zettine had never been there in the first place.
And so I went around and in through the courtyard rather than along the busy corridor and through Zettine’s anteroom, where he’d have notice of my arrival.
When my men pushed the protesting guard on duty out of the way and opened the door from the courtyard into Zettine’s private study, the look of shock and dismay on my Lord Chancellor’s face was one of the most satisfying sights of my life.
It gave me the courage to shoot my coldest ducal glare at that horrible secretary and say, without any apology, “Leave us, and don’t allow anyone to interrupt us until you’re summoned.”
To my gratified surprise, and to Zettine’s sputtering indignation, he did just that, bowing and stepping out of the room with no more than a muttered, “Yes, Your Grace.”
I turned to my guards. “Wait in the courtyard.” They hesitated, I frowned, and they left.
Zettine had risen and now stood behind his desk, drawing himself up to his full height, beard bristling over his high embroidered collar.
“I must protest, Your Grace,” he said. I raised my eyebrows and stared him down. “Of course my duke is always entitled to my time,” he went on, a bit less confidently. I kept staring, and this time I curled my lip at him. Benedict had mentioned the effectiveness of my lip curling, and why not. “But out of respect for my position, you could at least present yourself at the door, or knock!”
“I have the greatest respect for your position,” I said. “And, in fact, for you, though we’ve had our differences, and you haven’t always reciprocated.” I overrode his protests with, “It’s that respect that brings me here. If I didn’t value your decades of service to me and my father before me, I’d simply have you arrested for murder and have done with it. Or for treason, if I really wanted to be vindictive. It was the duke’s wine, after all. Only you and I know for certain that you meant it for Fabian and not for me.”
Not even Zettine’s practiced court mask could remain in place when struck such a blow as that. I watched in fascination as his age-reddened cheeks went ashen. He wobbled, caught himself on the edge of his desk, and remained stubbornly upright.
Well, good for him. Anyway, if he dropped dead of an apoplexy, I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of watching him squirm. Not to mention, I had a few questions. There were holes in what I knew, and if I didn’t get them filled in I’d never rest.
“You’re going to answer my questions, Lord Zettine, and it may take some little time,” I said, and dropped into one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace across from his desk. “Why don’t you join me.”
When he came around and sat in the other chair, lips pressed in a flat line and hands clenched in his lap, I knew I’d won—and more importantly, so did he.
“Thank you for not insulting my intelligence and injuring your own dignity by pretending not to understand me.” Zettine nodded stiffly, his teeth gritting together. “Have you known about Lord Tavius’s true paternity the entire time?” Another nod. “And so did Fabian.”
“Yes,” he said, after a pause. “We both knew. Neither of us ever spoke of it to anyone. Not even my wife knew the truth.”
He said it as if I ought to praise him for his discretion, but I knew damn well he’d have kept that secret out of pure self-preservation. My father clearly hadn’t wanted to recognize Tavius, and anyone who went against my father in matters of state ended up in a dungeon being nibbled by rats, at best.
“Until?” I prompted him. Fabian hadn’t liked me, but he’d wanted my father’s son on the throne—and he’d cared about things like legitimacy of birth. Tavius wasn’t any improvement over me in that regard.
“Until Lord Benedict returned from his journeys, and Fabian feared he had designs on the crown. I beg your pardon, Duke Lucian, of course I didn’t share this belief. But Fabian didn’t think you had the strength and resolution to hold your throne if Lord Benedict chose to take it.” Didn’t share that belief, my sweet, slightly too-flat ass. I coughed to cover an ungentlemanly snort of laughter. Zettine frowned disapprovingly and added, “He also doubted that you’d produce an heir of your own, a concern that I admit I share, along with the majority of your council.”
He sounded shockingly sincere. Well, he might be an asshole, but he’d served Calatria loyally for longer than I’d been alive—mostly. Unless it conflicted with his daughter-in-law’s profits from her vineyards, of course.
“Given recent events, I think that this year I’ll give my attention to the matter of an eventual heir. Not of my body, I don’t think. But other Calatrian dukes have been unable or unwilling to father a child. We’ve gotten over it. There are legal provisions for it. It’s possible you may even be a part of that discussion.”
Zettine raised his eyebrows. “You mean if I’m not imprisoned for murder, Your Grace?” he asked drily. “If you attempt to lay charges against me, I’ll admit to no such—”
“You’ll admit to it now, or I’ll set Benedict on you,” I said briskly, and had the pleasure of watching him go pale again. “The full truth, Lord Zettine.”
His lips compressed again. “Very well,” he bit off. “In brief: Fabian came to me some months ago and shared his concerns. He told me he wished to inform Lord Tavius of the circumstances of his conception. I forbade it. But he disobeyed me, and I discovered his treachery. I would eventually have needed to handle Lord Tavius more directly,” by which I presumed he meant murder him, too, but I let it pass without comment, “but in the meantime, I had to prevent him from approaching the council with his story and with a reliable witness. I was forced to remove any possibility of Fabian presenting his testimony. And I could argue, were I required to,” he said with sudden animation, “that not only did I not commit treason, I punished treason. Fabian was the traitor. He conspired to remove the rightful duke, Your Grace. I only did my duty.”
“I’d like to see you prove you didn’t intend to poison me with that wine,” I replied, my tone as dry as his. “You certainly ran the risk of doing so accidentally. And if you try to look me in the eye and tell me you cared one way or the other, I’ll clap you in irons on principle.”
“Hmmph,” Zettine sniffed. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I did indeed care. Of the current options for the Calatrian throne, you are the most acceptable.”
That broke my grip on my self-control; I burst out laughing. Zettine glared at me as I wheezed my way to recovery. “That at least is probably honest, my Lord Chancellor,” I said. “Fine. But you’re going to need to do better than that if you expect to keep your head and your title.”
Zettine sat up straighter. “My title?” he said. “Lord Chancellor, not my barony, I assume you mean.”
“You’re experienced and generally extremely competent.” And Fabian had sold me out to Tavius. Having really digested that information, the last of my concern over his death had evaporated. My anger at his murder could only be considered a formality at this point—or simply a matter of leverage. “So yes, under a series of conditions, any violation of which will be met with immediate and possibly final consequences, you will keep your position and the honors and perquisites that pertain to it. Except for any authority over tariffs,” I added, taking malicious pleasure in watching his mouth open in unhappy surprise. “We will be taxing white wine from Surbino at the usual rate. I may not be the duke you’d have chosen, if you had your way, but I’m not an idiot.”
Zettine gazed at me thoughtfully for a few moments, his jaw working. “No,” he said at last, and for once I didn’t think he had any agenda other than simply saying what he thought. “You’re not an idiot. I think I might have chosen a rather stupider duke, in fact. A stupider, more biddable duke who wanted to marry a stupid, biddable duchess. And I certainly wouldn’t have chosen a duke who could not be more precisely designed to attract the attention of the very unbiddable Lord General Rathenas.”
“Lord Benedict and I have come to an understanding, Lord Zettine,” I said, as airily as I could manage, although I could feel my cheeks heating. “In fact, one of my conditions relates to him.”
“You seem to have brought him into line, yes.” He sniffed again. “Since more accepted means of controlling him proved insufficient, Your Grace, then I suppose I must congratulate you on having found one that’s more effective, albeit a bit unorthodox given your familial relationship. And of course Lord Tavius contributed the potion.” He smiled sourly at the little start of surprise I couldn’t suppress. “Lord Benedict’s officer took all of Lord Tavius’s servants into custody, as was his duty, except for one who’d already fled. One of my men located him in the lower town. We had a very informative chat early this morning.”
Oh, for the love of all the gods. Executing Lord Zettine would be by far the best choice if I wanted any chance of having a biddable Lord Chancellor. But…a more biddable one would probably also be stupider. And a clever duke would use his resources, bend them to his will, rather than simply execute them when they became unruly.
At least bringing Lord Zettine under control wouldn’t involve spreading my legs.
“Good,” I said. “You can tell me everything you learned from him after I’ve laid out my conditions. We’ll start with the wine…”