“By which you mean Pol. I see. Well, I’m grateful to your brother, then, for leaving Feruche without a lord. I’m considering giving it to my eternal pests, the Merida.”
Ruval’s face froze in a pleasant smile. “Your grace understands that it is the castle of my birth.”
“Of course,” Miyon agreed blithely. “And belongs to Princemarch. But that’s why you’re here, is it not? To find out what I want in exchange for my help in getting what you want.”
“Your grace is very direct.”
“It saves time,” Miyon acknowledged. “Where is your brother, by the way?”
“Enjoying the hospitality of the guards mess, the better to fit in with your suite when you go to Stronghold.”
The prince could not disguise his astonishment. “What?”
Ruval, having betrayed Miyon into an honest reaction, smiled again as he followed up the advantage. It would not last long; he had made a study of the Cunaxan prince. He shifted his shoulders gingerely against the talon wounds on his back and said, “It would be entirely natural for you to wish a pre-Rialla discussion with Rohan, Pol, and Tallain of Tiglath—who speaks for Tuath Castle as well these days, since Kabil has no sons to follow him and his holding will undoubtedly go to Tallain on his death. Working out a trade agreement prior to the Rialla at Dragon’s Rest will put all three princedoms in a position of strength when it comes to further negotiations with Dorval, Grib, and so on.”
“How very clever of me,” Miyon drawled, angry that he had been outthought but too pragmatic to argue. Then his dark eyes began to sparkle with genuine glee. “And in my party at Stronghold will be you, your brother—and my daughter, Meiglan.”
“Exactly, your grace. I knew you’d find it an interesting proposal.”
Miyon leaned back in his chair, long legs sprawled in front of him. “Well, well. Now I understand. You’ll be disguised, of course. Members of the guard, I suppose. I hope you’re able to hide yourselves well. Pol has already seen you.”
Ruval waved away his worries. “You needn’t be concerned, your grace. Only get us to Stronghold, and we’ll do the rest.”
“Stronghold.”
Hate and envy lurked beneath the rich tones of Miyon’s voice, but the emotion in his eyes was covetousness. Ruval had never understood why the prince so desired that pile of rock on the Desert’s edge; perhaps it was a symbol for him, the way Castle Crag was to Chiana.
“You may have Feruche with my goodwill,” Miyon was saying. “But Stronghold is mine. And Tiglath.” He paused. “And Skybowl as well. That’s my price.”
“Done,” Ruval said, relieved that help was coming with so cheap a promise. “I’ve always thought draining the lake at Skybowl would make an intriguing agricultural project.” He smiled. “Tiglath is obvious, of course. Profits should increase tenfold once your merchants don’t have to triple the price of their goods because of transportation costs.”
Miyon’s brows rose. “I cannot describe to you how relieved I am that you comprehend trade objectives.”
“I should have thought they’d be clear to anyone with eyes to look. No one could visit Swalekeep, for instance, as I have, and not see the difference between its level of prosperity and your own.”
“The Desert strangles us,” Miyon agreed. “Tricks us, extorts money—” He broke off with a frown. “Perhaps you have some thoughts on a matter that has vexed me for some years now. Why is it that Rohan is so damnably rich?”
Ruval blinked. It was not a question that had occurred to him before. His grandfather Roelstra had been extremely wealthy, so he had assumed Rohan’s revenues from Princemarch had swollen Desert coffers all these years. He said as much to Miyon.
“Perhaps,” the prince admitted. “But consider what’s been spent in the last eight or nine years. Feruche appears to have been built out of Sorin’s share of Chaynals obscene wealth—and the iron that bitch Sioned tricked me out of in 719. Yet there’s been no discernible decrease in Sorin’s reserves—not that he’s around anymore to enjoy them, for which I must remember to thank your brother. And then there’s Dragon’s Rest. Total up the cost of the buildings, furnishings, carpets, fixtures—everything down to the silk napkins. It’s a colossal amount, probably equal to five years of revenue from Princemarch.”
Ruval leaned forward, intrigued. “Yet it doesn’t seem that he’s beggared my princedom.”
“No. And the sum I estimate is not even the whole. I am immediately informed whenever a caravan makes its way to Dragon’s Rest.” The prince grinned suddenly, as if daring Ruval to discover his sources of information. “They come from Castle Crag, from Syr, from Ossetia, from Radzyn—”
“Supplying still more items that look as if they were purchased by other courts!” Ruval made an incautious move and hid a wince as his shoulder twinged.
“Precisely. The money involved is staggering. Where is it coming from? Your grandfather was rich, but not that rich. And Rohan is fool enough not to take advantage of his position as High Prince to accept gifts in exchange for his favor.”
“Do you know where he’s getting the money, your grace?” Ruval asked, not bothering to disguise his eagerness.
Miyon shrugged irritably. “If I did, would I be sitting here trying to puzzle it out? There’s something else, too. The Desert took much less time to recover from the Plague than other princedoms—especially considering the amount of gold Rohan paid Roelstra for the drug that cured the disease. He didn’t demand money when he distributed it elsewhere. He didn’t bleed his vassals dry to pay for it. Where does his wealth come from?”
“When we capture Stronghold, we’re likely to find out.”
“Possibly. But I would rather find out before that, so we don’t have to go looking for it. I don’t trust Rohan, he’s too clever. He wouldn’t keep his treasury at his own castle. Perhaps it’s at Remagev.”
“Or Radzyn or Feruche—or Skybowl,” Ruval murmured.
Miyon grinned. “Second thoughts about your bargain, my lord?”
“Not at all, your grace. Princemarch’s wealth will be quite enough for me.”
“And your brother?” Miyon asked shrewdly.
Ruval only smiled.
The prince snorted his amusement. “I see. Well, then, shall I take you to meet my daughter? Or would you prefer anonymity as far as she’s concerned?”
“The latter. She should be as innocent as the first snow.”
“Stupidity is a great guarantee of innocence.”
Smile fading, Ruval asked sharply, “Has she brains enough to do as told?”
“She’ll ride where she’s reined,” Miyon said with a curt shrug.
They left the private suite for the antechamber where other petitioners waited. Ruval had come as a merchant pleading for patronage; it was a trifle unusual to gain an audience alone, but the court chamberlain was notoriously addicted to bribes. Those who had no money to buy their way in and must wait their turn cast sidelong glances of loathing at Ruval.
He ignored them, but could not ignore his brother. Marron lounged in the doorway, where he was not supposed to be. He had been ordered to the mess to learn what he could so he and Ruval could fit in easily when the time came. Ruval could have strangled him as he ambled forward to greet Miyon.
Marron gave the prince a smile that clearly said, I, too, am Roelstra’s grandson—and you will understand that, cousin. Before he reached them, however, a young girl, perhaps seventeen and perhaps not, came into the antechamber from a side door. She was delicately slender and had a glory of golden hair and very dark brown eyes that glowed with excitement, and she was incredibly beautiful if one appreciated the type.
“Father?” she ventured. “Oh, Father, please let me thank you for—”
“Meiglan!” The prince glowered down at her and she stopped dead in her tracks, all the pretty flush of enthusiasm dying from her face.
So this was the girl, Ruval mused.