Duchess Satryani moved into the room, though she remained a step behind her guards. She tapped one of their arms, signaling for them to put away their swords. The rest of her entourage filed into the chamber before shutting the door. Seven guards, including the one holding a torch. How fortunate that Vern had seven knives.
The lady continued, “Forgive me, I was not aware of your return. Welcome back, Lord Count. Has the Queen also arrived? I should make arrangements–”
“She has not. But I will resume my usual duties, including that of steward.” He held out his hand.
Her hand dropped to her side, the gold bracelet dangling loosely on her wrist. The surprise on her face was replaced with a haughty lift of her chin. “I'm afraid you're mistaken, my lord. Only the Queen may demand the royal accoutrements. I am her steward, and she did not indicate a replacement.”
“My presence is enough to convey her command. The bracelet, Lady Satryani.”
A sharp glint was in her eyes. Her lips curved. “No. And to avoid further embarrassment, my lord, I will also inform you that the council has unanimously voted in favor of my continued stewardship. The Queen has made questionable choices as of late. The healers agree she is under severe stress and needs to rest. I have accepted the burden of the crown until she recovers.”
Six guards placed their hands on their swords. Perhaps the seventh didn’t want to risk dropping his torch. Whatever the reason, Vern had only six targets tonight.
It was a bit more difficult to disable and disarm without killing, but guards deserved a modicum more respect than courtiers. There had been enough death lately, even for him.
Knives flew from both his hands, sailing silently past Satryani’s dress. Four sank into wrists. The guards behind her wouldn't be able to hold a sword for a while. They should be thankful he didn’t aim for a major artery.
For the two in front, he drew and blocked in the same motion – left, dagger; right, sword. His sword batted the male guard’s weapon to the floor, then sliced through the muscle of a forearm.
The woman hesitated. Attacking an Escort was never a good idea. Mercy was in order, but so was a reminder.
The reminder was a shallow cut on the guard’s neck after he disarmed and shoved her to her knees. The slightest bit morepressure from his blade, and the woman would be bleeding out at his feet. Her fearful eyes reflected that knowledge.
Vern sheathed his weapons. The torchbearer hadn’t moved. Retrieving a nasty-looking curved dagger from his belt, he strode past groaning, helpless bodies and stopped in front of the furious duchess. “You are correct, my lady. The Queen will expect a formal handover upon her return. In the meantime…” The dagger whipped through the air. Satryani flinched and paled. The rose on her dress fell into his palm. “The council will change its vote, or the council will die. I am not like our dear Queen. I do not care how many throats I need to slit, how much blood flows, or how highborn the blood that stains my sword. See to it, Lady Satryani, or you will die first.”
Hatred and anger burned in her eyes. Leather squeaked. Her whip was in her hand. He tilted his head slightly with an air of curiosity. Whip to dagger, he knew who would win, but did she?
The duchess snarled, “You wouldn’t dare. The court would revolt. Youcouldn’t. The guards–”
He sighed, bored. “Are no match for the army. General Trishve answers to me, my lady. And yes, my Queen will be very angry with me. But she will be the Queen.”
“You are nothing more than a mad dog off its leash. Jana should have put you down.”
As threats went, this one was laughable. He tucked away the dagger and inclined his chin. “You’re welcome to try again whenever you please. Keeps me entertained.”
—
Walking casually out of the nobles' apartments, Vern picked up a shadow halfway to the Queen's Wing. He weaved through the servants carrying out late-night tasks, but the effort wasminimal. He was tired. The Queen had set a demanding pace, rarely pausing for breath in over a moon.
Thakris entered the Queen's Wing a step behind him. “My lord, welcome back.”
“Report.” He strode straight for the baths.
“The court is manageable. Lady Laureline was called home two weeks ago – an illness in the family. The others remain here and are well. There have been two attempts to manipulate the army, one to infiltrate the Queen's Wing, and I seized a message inviting the royal family to court. Most urgent is the army. Jerrl needs to speak to you.”
Vern tugged at the strings of his bracers and hooked them onto his belt. His armor was next. Since Trishve had not mentioned an imminent problem, Jerrl could wait until the morning. “Thank you. Make a list of priorities–”
Thakris presented a piece of paper. “I’ll leave it in your room.”
He scanned the top few items and nodded. “One last thing. Is Octavius asleep?”
“He’s been in the healers’ hall all day. It’s been a long moon. Will the Queen arrive soon?”
“A week, no more than two.” He paused in front of the baths. His responsibility was to the Queen first. She had commanded him returned alive and presented to the healer. But not when. If the rebel leader could wait, so could a wayward courtesan-turned-traitor.
“Good night, Thakris.”
“Good night, sir.”
