Makke’s face turned gray, but both Zhaneel and Winterhart nodded. Zhaneel’s hackles were up, and Winterhart’s jaw clenched.
“The obvious answer is to demand Leyuet’s services in Court,” he continued, but Winterhart interrupted. And not, as he might have supposed, with angry words about the Emperor.
“You have to be careful not to imply in any way that Shalaman was using the accusation as a way to obtain me,” she pointed out. “You can’t even let other people make that implication. If anyone besides Leyuet suspects him of dishonorable intentions, he’ll never forgive us.”
Oh, that is the lady I love—thinking ahead, seeing all the implications, even while her own heart is in turmoil! He felt better with every passing moment, more alive than he had in years—the way he had right after the Catastrophe, when every day brought a new crisis, but she was there to help him solve it.
“Even if it all simply slipped his mind in the excitement, people could still suspect that if I act in public,” he replied, thinking out loud. “If he was operating with those intentions—he’ll become our enemy for exposing him. And if he wasn’t, well, when people put facts together and come up with their own suspicions, however erroneous, wouldn’t he lose face with his own Court?”
Winterhart nodded as Zhaneel looked from one to the other of them. She toyed with the necklace as she spoke. “It is almost as bad for the Haighlei to lose face as to be dishonorable, and while he might not become our enemy over his own mistake, he isn’t going to be our friend, either.” Winterhart frowned. “But we can’t simply leave things the way they are!”
“If he is disgraced before his own people, might he not even declare war upon us in an attempt to show that he did not want Winterhart after all?” Zhaneel hazarded, her eyes narrowed with worry. “Oh, I wish that Skandranon were here!”
I’m just as glad he’s not. He’s more than a bit too direct for a situation like this one.
“In any event, if we do this in public, and everything came out well, we still must have Makke’s part of the story—and that makes her a conspicuous target for anger,” Amberdrake said, as Makke nodded and turned even grayer. “I can’t have that. And we have to remember something else—there is someone out there who wants all of us dead or gotten rid of, and if we take care of this in public, he’ll only try again to do just that. The next time he might be still more clever about it. As long as we don’t know who our enemy is, we can’t guard against him without just going home.”
Winterhart clasped her hands together in her lap, around the cup of tea, and Amberdrake pretended not to notice that her knuckles were white.
“You are saying that we can’t do anything, then?” she asked tightly. “But—”
“No, what I’m saying is that this can’t be public. I spoke at length with Silver Veil, and she gave me another piece of advice—”That which is unthinkable in public is often conducted in private.’ Is there a way, do you think, that we could get Shalaman alone, without any witnesses to what we say to him?”
“I don’t see how,” Winterhart began. “He always has bodyguards with him, even when he gave me the Necklace and the Lilies—”
Makke cleared her throat, interrupting Winterhart, and all eyes turned toward her.
“A bride-to-be accepts her betrothed’s proposal in her own house,” she said carefully. “She does so in private. This is an old custom, and one that dates back to the days when the Haighlei were barbarians, and occasionally kidnapped women they wished to wed. By making the groom come to her, alone, she prevents being coerced into acceptance.”
“So—if I sent a message to Shalaman saying I wished to see him here, alone—” Winterhart began.
Makke nodded. “He would assume that you were going to accept the Necklace, and he would send away his guards, arriving at your door unaccompanied. He would, of course, expect that you would be alone as well.” She coughed delicately. “It is often said that there are many children whose births come at intervals that are easily calculated back nine months to the date of the bride’s acceptance. . . .”
“Would now be too soon?” Winterhart said, blushing furiously. “I—I wouldn’t want to seem too forward.”
“I suspect,” Makke replied, with a hint of her old spirit, “that our King is pacing the floor, hoping that you will find it impossible to sleep until you have answered him.”
Winterhart smiled, but it was a tight, thin smile. “So I shall,” she said. “So I shall. . . .”
Skandranon, predictably, arrived just at the moment when they were about to send that carefully worded message to the King.
“I was on the roof,” he said, looking at all of their tense faces with puzzlement. “I was waiting for Kechara to contact me. I was concerned that there might be an off chance that there was someone capable of sensing mind-magic at work within the Palace.”
“Why go on the roof?” Amberdrake asked.
He shrugged. “If that was the case, I didn’t want anyone to associate the messages passing between myself and our little gryphon with me. It wasn’t our roof, you see.”
They had to explain it all over again to him, which took a bit more time. Amberdrake was a little worried that Skan might come up with another one of his wild plans instead of falling in with theirs. To his relief, Skan was in complete agreement with all of them.
“I must admit I didn’t expect you to go along with this without an argument,” Amberdrake finally said, as Skan settled himself into a corner with Zhaneel tucked under a wing.
The gryphon looked up at him thoughtfully. “Not an argument, exactly,” he replied. “More of an addition. It’s unethical, of course—but you’ve had a game played on you that was worse than unethical, and I think this would just even the scales between you and Shalaman.”
Amberdrake winced; whenever the gryphon suggested something “unethical,” or something to “even the scales,” there was no predicting what he was going to say. Gryphons were carnivores, and they showed it in their ideas of justice and fair play. “Well—what was your suggestion?”
“Two things, really,” Skan said, preening a talon. “The first is the unethical one. You’ve got a rather formidable Gift in that Empathy of yours. Use it. You know very well you can make people feel things as well as feeling them yourself—so use that. Make Shalaman feel very guilty and in your debt for not exposing him. Shove your sincerity and good-will down his throat until he chokes on them. Make him eat kindness until he has to do us major favors or burst.”
Amberdrake gritted his teeth over that one, but he had to admit that Skan had a good idea. He hated using his powers that way, but—
But if I’m going to ensure the success of this, I have to use every weapon I have. He’s right.
“And the other?” he asked.
“Tell him you’re lifebonded.” Skan finished preening the talon, and regarded him with that direct gryphonic gaze. “From what I’ve learned, it’s unusual here and it’s important to these people. Leyuet can probably confirm that to him. I think telling him might just tip the scales in our favor.”
Amberdrake considered that for a moment. “Well, I can’t see why it should, but I also can’t see how it can hurt. All right, Gesten—are you ready to play messenger?”