Chapter XXXII Pliny #2
“Your Scrupulousness,” Unruoching said. He bowed so low, and with such a grandiose flourish, it could not be anything but drollery.
Yet Pliny had never known Unruoching to be droll.
The humor was not meant for him, for Pliny, his father’s leech and trusted adviser.
It was meant for Unruoching alone. The corner of his narrow mouth twitched, barely resisting the grin his own jest had provoked.
“My lord,” Pliny replied.
“How momentous the day has been,” Unruoching said, rising to his full height.
“A visit from the prince himself; who could have foreseen it? And now…a new wife for Lord Fredegar, after so many years of lonesome widowhood. What do you think, Pliny? Shall I call her Mother? I believe she is closer to my son’s age than to mine. ”
“Gamelyn is just a boy,” said Pliny. “The lady Agnes is a woman grown, and mistress of one of Drepane’s most ancient and noble houses.”
Unruoching’s lips curled upward. Yet it was not what could be called a smile. “Father has warmed to this proposition, then.”
“He could not refuse it, even if he wished. And it is a greatly favorable match. No man has ever suffered for having the confidence of the king.”
“A pretty aphorism,” Unruoching replied. “You are always so full of them. Yet not all kings are made from the same stuff.”
Pliny sniffed. “You are safe to speak such words with me, my lord. But I would put these whispers away in the presence of the prince and the lady Agnes.”
“The prince is clever enough to know what many nobles think of his father. The Sluggard, they have titled him. And he even wears this epithet with pride.” His eyes, with their mottling of light and shadow, settled upon Pliny.
“You are clever enough to know that my words are merely a jest. If you repeated them to the prince or to my father, they would surely see the humor in them. And they would also see the faithless leech who does not keep his master’s secrets. ”
You are not my master, Pliny wished to say.
It was not the House of Blood to whom his loyalty belonged.
Leeches were not servants, not slaves, not vassals, not men-at-arms, not sworn swords.
Their foremost faith was to their duties, and then to the Most Esteemed Surgeon himself.
Pliny the leech served the articles of the Septinsular Covenant.
But Pliny the man served the wise and genial Lord Fredegar, and none other.
Yet Pliny was not so full of pride that he would risk the aggravation of his master’s son.
Unruoching’s vengeful nature was nothing to be underestimated.
As an infant, he had bitten the nipples of his wet nurse until they bled; he had raged at his mother until she wept; he had pulled the tails of the kitchen cats until they yowled.
He had once cornered a dog from the butcher’s slaughter-yard and tied one of its legs up against its body, then fell down laughing as it hobbled about, whimpering.
This act had impressed Pliny. Until then he had thought his master’s son as simple as an animal.
This degree of cruelty required a human’s wiles.
So he did not go about riling Unruoching now. He merely said, “I would never think to betray the House of Blood.”
“Of course not.” Unruoching’s mottled eyes danced. “That is why I know it was a simple mistake that the king’s missives were discarded under your hand.”
Pliny could not help the strangled noise that leapt from his throat. “Pardon me?”
“An unfortunate error,” Unruoching went on. “A mind of your years is not the most reliable. You have served this house since my own father’s infancy, have you not? Age takes its toll upon a man’s reasoning.”
“My mind is as sharp as it has ever been,” Pliny bit out. “I saw no missives.”
“Precisely. They passed beneath your attention. It is understandable.” Unruoching’s voice took on a tone of gentleness, but it was as false as the eye on the wing of a moth.
“And the matter has been settled now. But I expect, if the prince inquires further, that you will confess to your part in it.”
Pliny met the gaze of his master’s son. He still had the lankiness of a boy, but Pliny had thought he had left behind his boyhood’s cruelties. He realized now that he had not. He had only grown cleverer at disguising them.
Pliny was not proud. But he did believe himself to be a reasonably clever man in his own right. At least, clever enough not to fall into a trap so clumsily set.
“Then I will confess it,” he replied. “But it seems that perhaps the loss of these missives was a secret blessing. For now your father will have a new wife, and you a new mother, and perhaps, if the lady is fertile, a new brother.”
There was a low, rough exhale from Unruoching. His eyes narrowed. “My father has no wish for more sons.”
“So he has said. But perhaps his love for the lady will change his mind. She is from an immensely virtuous bloodline. It stands to reason that she would want to see her own line continued.” Pliny raised his shoulders, then let them drop. “But who can know what works behind the lady’s silent gaze?”
For a long moment, Unruoching did not speak. Unlike the lady Agnes, his thoughts were not well disguised. His anger burned right through his eyes.
“I will always be the eldest boy,” he said at last. “My father’s first son.”
Pliny pressed his lips together—inclined, in that moment, to allow the silence to speak for him.
“You are old, leech,” Unruoching snarled.
“And so is my father. Too addled and frail to see that the world you have always known is breaking apart beneath you. The prince, of all people, understands the burden of a son not to allow his father to rule beyond his limitations. He knows it is to the detriment of all.”
“Perhaps,” Pliny said. And then he spoke no more.
With a wordless growl, Unruoching pushed past him.
Pliny watched him go, shadow loping after him.
It was a distorted beast, its limbs overlong, its fingers sharp at their ends.
Even when Unruoching turned the corner and vanished, his shadow remained for several heartbeats after, stretched across the wall like a stain of wine from a shattered glass.