Marooned in her island chambers like a lost mariner, Briony found herself longing for something with more substance than Syannese court gossip and for better companionship than the ladies of the court could offer.
Then one morning Agnes, one of the ladies-in-waiting, came to Briony with great excitement in her pretty young face. “Your Highness, you will never guess who is here!”
“Here where?” But Briony sat up straighter. Was it the prince, come to see her on his own? If so, how could she lead the subject around to Southmarch and its needs?
“Here at the court,” the girl said. “He just rode in last night—all dressed up in furs like a Vuttish merchant captain!”
“I can’t guess.” It wasn’t the prince, that was certain, since he was already in residence. It must be some other noble, some legendary object of Syannese court gossip. If Perin himself came down to earth waving his holy hammer, Briony thought, all these people would talk about would be his shoes. And maybe whether or not he was wearing colors appropriate to the season. Sweet Zoria, and my brother and I thought the nobles of Southmarch were shallow…
Agnes was practically bouncing up and down. “Oh, but you should be able to guess, Highness—he is one of your countrymen!”
“What?” For an instant her heart leaped impossibly to Barrick, and then to Shaso, and even Ferras Vansen, all lost in different ways, but all lost beyond question. A sadness struck her then so swiftly and so deeply that for a moment she feared she might break into tears. It took her a long moment to regain her breath. “Out with it, quickly. Who is it?”
“His name is Jenkin Crowel!” The girl clasped her hands across her bodice as though she could barely control herself. “Do you know him?”
For a moment the name meant nothing to Briony—it had been so long since she had thought of any of those folk or the world she had shared with them… but then it came and the sadness turned to something more sour.
“Oh. Yes, I do. Brother of Durstin Crowel, Baron of Graylock, although I’m sure Durstin’s more than a baron now since he’s long been one of Hendon Tolly’s most determined lickspittles.” The thought of the Crowels made her want to kick something over. “Why is Jenkin here?”
“He is the new envoy here at Broadhall from your brother Alessandros.”
Briony snorted. “Alessandros is less than half a year old. Envoy from the bloody-handed usurper Hendon Tolly, you mean.”
The young lady’s eyes widened. “Of course, Highness. As you say.” Briony did her best to control her temper. The treachery of the Tollys was not this girl’s fault, even if she was one of Ananka’s spies. “Thank you for telling me, Agnes.”
“But what are you going to do, Highness? He has asked to see you.”
“He has? Truly? By all the gods, these people must have solid brass…” She stopped herself. Using language appropriate among strolling players would only cause more talk about her here in Syan. The sourness in her belly became something worse, almost dread, but she felt a strong, hot surge of anger as well. “Very well. Yes, of course we will see him. If he is the Tollys’ man we have much to talk about, he and I. But let me make some arrangements first.”
After all, she had learned all the lessons she needed about the trustworthiness of Crowel’s master. If she was going to talk to the man, she wanted King Enander’s guards inside the room as well as outside.
Someone who knew neither of them might have thought that Jenkin Crowel was the one doing a favor and Briony the one gratefully accepting it. He brought two guards of his own and a thin, sour-faced cleric dressed in black, as though a contract were being negotiated.
Crowel himself was fleshy without being fat, with a ruddy face, prominent nose, and dimpled chin. He was dressed in what he obviously believed was the height of current Syannese style: when he made an elaborate bow his stiff pantaloons and frilly, oversized sleeves rustled and creaked.
“Your Highness, this is a delightful and most unexpected surprise! I could scarce credit it when I was told. Your people will be thrilled to hear that you are alive and well. How did you come here? I will at once send a message home of your survival that will put joy into the hearts of a grieving populace!”
Briony looked to her maids. All were sewing assiduously. Compared to this idiot, the childish obsessions and subtle cruelties of the Syannse court suddenly looked much better. Still, if that was the game Crowel wished to play, then Briony could have her sport as well.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “I have missed my home so much, Lord Crowel. Tell me, how is my infant brother Alessandros? And my stepmother, Anissa? And of course, dear Cousin Hendon, who is taking such good care of all of them?”
He hesitated. “Is the steward… is Hendon Tolly truly your cousin? I, ah, I did not think the family relationship quite so close.”
Briony waved her hand. “Ah, but the Tollys have always been closer than family to me. That is why I call Hendon ‘Cousin.’ Why, do you know, the night I left Southmarch we had the most illuminating conversation. Hendon told me all that he had planned for me and my family and the throne. I was touched that he had expended so much thought and effort on our behalf—oh, yes, touched. In fact, it has grieved me so terribly I cannot tell you that I still have not shown him my gratitude. But I have considered very carefully how Lord Tolly and his supporters should be rewarded, you may be sure. Yes, I have given it much thought, and I believe I have come up with a few rewards so unusual even Hendon himself cannot guess at them.”
Crowel stared, his mouth slightly open. “Ah,” he said at last. “Ah. Yes, of course, Highness.”
“So when you write to dear Hendon, be sure and tell him that. As you will discover, I have many friends here in Syan, many powerful friends, and they all agree that such noble, loyal stewardship as his should be suitably rewarded.”
Of all the hundreds of men and women living in the court of Enander, only a very few went out of their way to speak to Briony or seek anything beyond a passing acquaintance. One such was Ivgenia e’Doursos, the young daughter of the Viscount of Teryon, a small but important territory in the middle of Syan, south of the capital. The fact that it was she who reached out to Briony meant that she couldn’t be trusted—the chances were too great that she was acting on behalf of the king’s mistress—but Briony discovered she enjoyed Ivgenia’s company anyway.
They met at one of the uncomfortable meals in the main hall, with dozens of tables and hundreds of servants, the room absolutely throbbing with the clamor of voices. Ivgenia was seated across from Briony, who had been put next to an older nobleman who drank too much wine and kept trying to look down the front of Briony’s dress. Late in the meal he fell off his seat and had to be helped up by servants. The dark-haired girl leaned across the table toward Briony as the baron stumbled off to bed and, with a properly serious face, said, “We provincials have so much to learn from these sophisticated Tessians.” Briony laughed so hard she almost choked on a piece of bread and their friendship began that night.
Ivgenia had been sent to the court to receive an education and she had certainly learned to pay attention to what was going on around her: she was a fountainhead of gossip and amused observation, her sensibility almost as dry as Barrick’s. Ivgenia was an outsider herself, not because of her breeding, which was perfectly good, but because of her wit, a quality not much valued in Syannese girls, at least not in those young and pretty enough not to need it. Wit, as the popular saying explained, was a tool for ambitious men or ugly women.