Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [118]
‘I’ve never heard of the fellow,’ Fordwright stated flatly. ‘An ambassador?’
‘Well, yes,’ Tynisa said, now somewhat thrown. ‘He said he was, anyway. He’s a College man.’
Hardy frowned, quietened beyond Tynisa’s wildest hopes. At last she said, ‘Well, then, I suppose I should take a trip to Suon Ren. That’s . . . Prince Vas Nares?’
‘Felipe Shah.’
‘Oh, the Prince-Major’s stamping ground. Well, perhaps Sammi and I will go south from here. Be good to hear another Collegiate voice.’ Her tone so clearly equated ‘Collegiate’ with ‘civilized’.
For a moment Tynisa felt guilty about dumping this brash, loud woman on poor old Gramo, but then she recalled the ambassador’s lament on how he missed the familiar talk of his former home. Well, then, Hardy Fordwright would sate that need of his – or cure him of it for ever.
The meal was lengthy, the flavours of the food subtle and elusive, the wine tart and dry where a Collegium vintage would have been sweet. Tynisa, who had been happy, for months now, to drift along at Lowre Cean’s aimless pace, was suddenly impatient with it all. Alain’s arrival was like a stone cast into the clear waters of a pond.
Something is about to change. The world has been sleeping until now.
And, once the meal was done, he approached her with that smile which he shared with his dead brother.
‘We are to celebrate, at Leose,’ he announced. ‘We have scored a great victory over the bandits and the dissenters.’ He spoke loudly, deliberately including Lowre Cean, who was nearby. ‘My mother wished you to know that she has not been idle, Your Highness.’
Again, Cean’s look was coolly distant. ‘I thank your mother for her kindness. I am too old, alas, to enjoy such festivities. I trust you will bear my apologies.’
‘I will bear more than that, if I may.’ Alain grinned at him. ‘I would bear one of your guests away.’ His glance at Tynisa was clear.
‘But . . . when is this celebration?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, over several nights, but the greatest share of it will be as soon as I return,’ Alain said carelessly. ‘And it would be impolite to keep them waiting.’
‘But Leose is . . .’
‘Oh, I am here with Lycene, who will carry us both.’ His smile flashed again, like a blade. ‘You’ll come, won’t you?’
‘Your mother didn’t seem too fond of me, when we last met,’ Tynisa said weakly.
‘I am her heir, and she may not therefore turn away my guests,’ Alain declared, with a rebellious spark.
She found herself glancing at Lowre Cean, which was ridiculous. He was not her guardian, and she needed no one’s permission. Still, she had hoped to see some manner of approval on the old man’s lean face. He was quite unreadable, though, save that he had evidently no warmth to spare for Salme Alain, nor apparently for the young man’s mother.
Strange, she considered, for Cean seemed to be guesting within Elas Mar province at the Salmae’s invitation, and yet the fallen prince-major was obviously anything but grateful. Is it merely that, then? Does he resent being beholden to them? But that conclusion would go against all she had gathered of the old man’s character. Or is it his losses in the war? She could understand that he might not wish to be reminded, by seeing those still in possession of what he himself had been stripped of. Not lands, not castle, but . . . She racked her memory, then decided, Yes, there was a son of the house of Lowre. Someone has mentioned that to me. Perhaps that alone is enough to make him a bitter neighbour. He certainly goes to some lengths to put aside the trappings of a prince, and loses himself in trivial matters instead.
The thought still did not quite sit right, but she had no better option, nor could she readily enquire of either Lowre or Alain. Gaved, she felt sure, would know, and would tell her, but the Wasp was not here to ask.
‘I shall go,’ she told Alain. ‘I would be honoured.’
Twenty-One
‘They are celebrating our demise even now, I’ll wager,’ said the broad-shouldered