Jim Hines - The Snow Queen's shadow

The responsibility gave Talia something to focus on. Few nobles would risk acting directly, but each had brought his or her own retinue. If something did happen, it would likely be someone in his or her staff who did it. Someone most people would overlook, who could be disavowed if caught.

Lord Oren of Dragon Lake was a possible candidate. The man was paranoid enough to bring his own personal food taster, despite the implied insult to King Theodore’s hospitality. Oren and his wife ate with their own utensils of pearl-handled silver. Such fears revealed much about the mind that harbored them.

Another man to watch was Anton of Eastpointe. Anton was an older man, one who gave every impression of contentment with his lot. But his son was known to harbor a grudge against Jessica of Emrildale, who had spurned a marriage proposal. When the delegation from Emrildale arrived, Talia would have to watch them all.

Then there was the pixie Febblekeck, recently-appointed ambassador from Fairytown. Febblekeck was a pretentious rag doll with wings who shed glittering orange dust everywhere he went. He sat cross-legged on the table, sipping a noxious drink of salted honey water from a thimble-sized cup as he leered up at Oren’s wife Yvette.

Febblekeck was unlikely to be involved in any assassination attempt, at least directly. The treaty between Lorindar and Fairytown prevented Febblekeck from harming humans. But Talia had watched too many fairies snake their way around the stipulations of that treaty. Though Yvette appeared ready to stab him with her fork, which would take care of any fairy threat for the moment.

“Humans have a peculiar attraction to all things fairy,” Febblekeck was saying. “To this day, there are those who smuggle pixie dust out of Fairytown, to be used as a drug. I’m told the effects on a human are quite… potent.”

Yvette wrinkled her nose. “I can’t imagine inhaling that filthy stuff.”

Febblekeck’s smile grew. “Inhaling. Yes, let’s say that’s what they do.”

If Snow were here, she would be whispering crude comments to Talia regarding the mechanics of pixie/human relations, trying to crack Talia’s composure and make her laugh. But Snow had been spending all her time cleaning the debris from her broken mirrors and repairing the damage to her library. Given Snow’s vanity, Talia suspected she would try to keep to herself until her wounds healed.

Talia stared at one of the windows, trying to push the image of Snow’s bloody face from her mind. Had the glass cut any deeper, or if one of the shards had struck her throat… Snow could have bled to death, and it would have been hours before anyone found her.

“What did you say to my wife?” Lord Oren struck the table hard enough to rattle his plate, jolting Talia’s attention back to the conversation. The room fell silent.

Febblekeck’s wings blurred, raising him to eye level with Oren and showering the table in glowing pixie dander. “I merely asked if she might join me for breakfast tomorrow. I’ve a bottle of syrup from Fairytown that’s far too much for one pixie.” Glittering eyebrows wagged. “Tapped from the maple of a dryad, with all of the associated

… benefits that come from a nymph’s magic.”

“You miserable little insect!” Oren kicked back his chair and stood. Talia was already circling the table.

“Lord Oren, stop.” Danielle’s tone was the one she used when Jakob refused to listen, and it cut through Oren’s bellowing as easily as a sword. “Would you play into the pixie’s hands?”

“If he’d keep those hands where they belong-”

“He’s not touched your wife,” Danielle said. “He’s committed no crime.” She glanced at Febblekeck. “There’s no law against behaving like an ass. However, if you were to attack him-an ambassador from Fairytown-”

“What kind of ambassador dishonors the very people he’s supposed to work with?” Oren demanded. By now, Talia was in position behind them both, ready to seize human or pixie should the need arise.

Danielle gave Talia a slight nod of appreciation before turning her glare on Febblekeck. “The kind who’s more interested in leverage than peace. The kind who views politics as a game, seeking to score points for himself and his masters.”

Febblekeck flashed a disarming smile. “I humbly beg your forgiveness, Princess. And yours, Lord Oren. I was overcome by your wife’s attractiveness, and forgot myself. It’s a flaw of the fairy race. We’re far too susceptible to beauty.”

Prince Armand snorted. Without looking up from his meal, he said, “Pixies have an unfortunate sense of beauty.”

Talia froze. Even Febblekeck appeared taken aback.

“Excuse me, Your Highness?” Lord Oren appeared torn between anger and uncertainty. “I… believe I misheard you.”

Armand took a drink, then returned his cup to the table. “Lady Yvette has the complexion of a plucked boar, and her voice grates the very soul. Febblekeck might as well seduce one of the hunting dogs from the kennel.”

Oren’s cheeks went blood red. His hands balled into fists. Talia swore softly and moved to the left, to better intercept him if he forgot himself and lunged for the prince.

“Forgive my son,” said King Theodore, speaking for the first time since dinner began. He stared at Armand as though seeing a stranger. “Beatrice’s death has been a strain upon us all, but grief is no excuse for such behavior. My apologies, Lord Oren.”

Armand stood. “Do we now beg forgiveness for speaking the truth?”

“Armand, sit down.” Danielle grabbed his hand, but he pulled away.

“I take no orders from commoners.”

Danielle jerked back as though struck. Lady Jeraldsen started to speak, trying to intervene, but Armand ignored her.

“You’ve nothing to fear,” he went on. “Oren is a fat old coward, no threat to anyone.”

Oren snarled and started toward the prince, one arm pulled back to strike.

Talia hooked her arm through Oren’s and yanked him off-balance. A kick to the back of his leg spilled him to the floor. “Would you assault the Prince of Lorindar in his own hall?” Talia whispered.

Oren shoved her away and pushed himself upright. His hands were shaking and his face was red, but he made no further move toward the prince. Armand stood with arms folded, an expression of boredom on his face.

Talia glanced around the table, making sure nobody tried to take advantage of the chaos. Most of the assembled nobles had risen and backed away, distancing themselves from the fight. Danielle was talking to the king. Febblekeck had flown up to the rafters.

“Have you suffered humiliation enough?” Armand asked. “If being knocked down by a servant doesn’t satisfy your need to look the fool, perhaps I could summon a young child to trounce you next.”

Oren moved before Talia could stop him. She couldn’t tell which of the two men struck first as they crashed together. Oren punched the prince in the jaw, even as Armand buried his fist in Oren’s stomach. Talia jumped onto the table, dancing between plates and platters as she grabbed a silver pitcher of wine and emptied the contents over both men.

Oren sputtered and reached for Talia. She swung the pitcher, which rang like a gong against his knuckles. He howled and spun away.

“Enough!” King Theodore’s voice thundered through the hall. “If either of you so much as sneer at the other, I will have you both locked away. Is that clear?”

Armand gave his father an exaggerated bow. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty.” Without another word, he spun and left the hall.

Oren was clutching his fist. The knuckles had already begun to swell. “My deepest sympathies on the death of your wife, King Theodore.” He stared after Armand. “I hope you’ll forgive me if my family chooses not to attend the funeral. We will be departing tonight.”