Rivendell pointed his crop at Owen. "I will have that note from the enemy, Captain Strake."
Owen ignored him, broke the seal and read. He grunted. "Just an apology for not including me in the dinner. Given the circumstances of my previous departure, he found me an ungracious guest."
"Give it here."
Owen's face darkened. "Are you calling me a liar?"
"You are a man who is known to be familiar with ciphers and who, beyond all belief, escaped to Temperance with two broken legs."
"So you believe I am du Malphias' agent."
"I think it is also curious that his native allies killed our soldiers, but let you live." Rivendell sneered. "Langford, you are getting this down, are you not?"
The scratch of a pencil on paper answered him.
Vlad sighed and held his hand out. Owen gave him the note. The Prince read it, then looked up at Rivendell. "I should remind you, sir, that I am the expert in ciphers. This note contains none, and is exactly what Captain Strake reported it to be. Now, unless you want to call me a liar or suggest I am in the Laureate's employ, I think you should get to your wardrobe and prepare yourself for this evening's dinner."
The Prince looked at himself in the small hand mirror von Metternin held up. "This will have to do."
The Kessian shook his head. "You will be the vulture at a peacock ball, highness. I have waistcoats and shoes that will fit you."
Vlad laughed. "I appreciate the offer, but homespun will be fine. I represent the people of Mystria-as Rivendell is oft wont to remind me-so I shall be attired as they are. I do appreciate, however, the loan of clean hose."
"I would lend you one more thing." The Count withdrew a small, double-barreled, over-and-under pistol. "Take this. Kill the Laureate. We will be done with this business."
The Prince stared at the weapon. "But that would be murder, and under a white flag."
"My friend, you are smarter than to believe that. Du Malphias will be waging war under the white flag. He will scare Rivendell, or make him overconfident. This campaign will be won over dinner this evening. You can win it with one shot."
"I can't do it."
"Of course you can. It is easy. Point. Shoot. It is never hard."
Vlad glanced down. "You are a soldier."
"By the blood of God, you have never killed a man, have you?"
The Prince met the man's incredulous stare. "I've seen them die. I've never killed one."
Von Metternin returned the pistol to his pocket. "How I envy you, and pity you. Firing the shot is easy. Living with the consequences is not. I do not think, however, I would lose sleep over killing du Malphias."
Vlad smiled. "Then I hope, my friend, that the opportunity falls to you."
The Prince remained silent on the ride to the dinner simply because he did not want to invite his companions to speak. Langford and Rivendell led the way. Colonel Harry Thornbury of the Cavalry and Colonel Anthony Exeter of the Fourth Foot came next. The Prince rode in the back next to a self-invited guest, Bishop Bumble. The Bishop bore the white flag.
Vlad contented himself with studying the landscape. Wildflowers splashed color into tiny spots where the sun managed to knife its way through the leafy green canopy. In the darker spots lichens and mosses, mushrooms and shelf-fungus took over, with wonderful golds and reds to contrast with the flowers' blues and yellows. Just enough of a breeze came off the lake to make the flowers and leaves dance, animating a mosaic of color and light.
Blue jays chattered and a couple of squirrels scolded from on high. He saw signs of where bears had climbed trees, or moose and tanners had scraped their horns against them. Rabbits scampered through the brush almost unseen and ravens watched them pass, offering haunting commentary.
Any other time, I would have enjoyed this ride. The source of his displeasure was his companions. He would have welcomed them looking about, too, knowing that they were searching for tactical advantages even while he was studying beauty. They were not even doing that. Taking their cue from Rivendell, they sat their horses with straight spines, eyes forward, faces tilted up, and remained that way as if posing for portraits.
Not even sight of the pavilion broke their composure. Vlad had expected a large tent erected in the middle of the road, but du Malphias had other ideas. His pavilion had been fashioned from a stand of birches. A dozen of the trees bent inward, curving softly to form a high ceiling. A wooden floor had been fitted together tightly, with the wood sanded, lacquered and polished until it glowed from the sun's dying light. A long table had six chairs set at it, likewise shaped of native woods and left blonde in keeping with the nature of the pavilion. Cloth streamers of blue, red, and green to honor the various military units floated playfully in the breeze.
Back a bit, deeper in the woods, a large tent had been erected to serve as the cooking station.
Soldiers of the Platine Regiment took charge of their mounts and conducted them to the pavilion. The Laureate stood at the head, dressed in white and gold. He opened his arms and smiled.
"Welcome, gentlemen. Highness, I would have you here at my right hand and Lord Rivendell opposite me. Lieutenant Laforge, we will need another place setting, down there, on the other side of Colonel Langford. And you are, sir?"
Bumble tried to look imposing. He failed. He had shed thirty pounds. His clothing hung on him poorly and when he further sucked in his stomach, his breeches threatened to fall to his knees. "I am the Right Reverend Bishop Othniel Bumble of the Church of Norisle, Temperance."
"This could be more interesting than I expected. Please, gentlemen, sit."
The moment they had pulled their chairs up to the table, service began. While soldiers stood all around, civilians served them. A comely lass had been assigned to attend to Prince Vlad; nondescript men to deal with the middle of the table, and a beautiful young boy attended to Rivendell's every pleasure. As the sun's light began to die, and the soldiers lit lanterns, Vlad could not be certain, but the pallor of the girl's skin suggested she was a pasmorte. Which would make all of the servants pasmortes.
As hosts went, du Malphias had to be the greatest on the continent in spite of the rustic nature of his banquet hall. Each course had its own wine, and each wine had its own glass, which the servants presented and kept filled. They began the evening with fresh-caught salmon, followed by roasted duck with mushrooms and wild rice, then moose with a quince compote and fresh peas. Each course arrived on its own plate, covered with a silver turtle, which the servants removed with a flourish when the Laureate gave them the sign.
In addition to providing fine fare, du Malphias likewise encouraged discussion among his guests. He skillfully set the military men to refighting the Villerupt campaign through their anecdotes, while speaking to Vlad of a variety of experiments he'd conducted in Mystria. The man had no trouble following multiple conversations and offering cogent commentary on all.
Vlad's chill returned. He is a genius. The Count is right. The battle is being won even now.
When it came time for dessert and cognac poured into glasses, du Malphias stood. "Before we reveal the dessert-and I assure you it shall be a surprise-I should offer a toast to the brave men who will serve in the battle to come. Serve now and serve forever."
The others raised their glasses and drank.
Rivendell rose, raising his glass. "And a toast to those who will lose the battle. May they never fear treatment at the hands of an honorable foe."
The Laureate smiled and drank, but his eyes became cold.
Rivendell meant his toast one way, but du Malphias read it another. And Rivendell will rue his comments.
Du Malphias seated himself after Rivendell had returned to his chair, then nodded. The servants lifted the silver domes from the dessert plates.
Vlad stared down. A small, single-barreled pistol similar to Count von Metternin's, sat centered on the plate and garnished with a sprig of rosemary.