Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

She tied off a thread, snipping it with a tiny pair of silver scissors. “Thamos looks just like his grandfather. None will doubt the child is Rhiney’s.”

“Why Thamos?” Leesha demanded.

“I could argue that Mickael is already wed,” Araine said as she started a new stitch, “and Pether a Shepherd vowed to chastity. But truer is, neither would be able to keep from crowing about it. Rhiney would find out, and do something stupid.”

She looked at Leesha. “As justices go, it’s not without poetry. If you want to keep Thamos’ spear dry, then you fix his brother’s. If not, you can both have a bastard to hide as you start your life together.”

“Princess Amanvah of Krasia,” Jasin called loudly, his voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling for all to hear. “Firstborn daughter to Ahmann Jardir, Duke of Fort Krasia.”

Amanvah bristled at that. “Duke? Fort? My father is as far above one of your pathetic dukes as they are a peasant’s dog, and his empire stretches …”

Rojer tightened his hold on her arm. “He’s just doing it to get a rise from us. Everyone knows precisely who your father is.”

Amanvah gave a slight nod, her dama’ting serenity returning.

Jasin cast a dim eye at Rojer as they stood in the doorway. “And her husband, Jongleur Rojer Inn, of Riverbridge.”

It was Rojer’s turn to bristle. Normally as husband, he would have been announced first, but the chasm between his and Amanvah’s ranks made it impossible. That, he could accept.

But Rojer was a Jongleur master now, and his stage name, Halfgrip, known throughout land. He had written The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow and the Song of Waning. Jasin made him sound like a juggler brought to entertain the guests between courses.

Amanvah squeezed his arm in return. “Breathe, husband, and add it to the tally to be avenged.”

Rojer nodded as they paced into the room, allowing time for them to see and be seen. Their lackluster introduction did little to quell interest, as they were approached by a seemingly endless stream of nobles eager for introduction to the Krasian princess and fiddle wizard who could charm demons.

“Princess Sikvah of Krasia,” Jasin called, “niece of Ahmann Jardir, Duke of Fort Krasia. Jongleur Kendall Inn, of the famed fiddle wizards of Hollow County.”

Rojer grit his teeth.

Sikvah steered Kendall in another direction after their introduction. Her rank demanded she be invited, but Amanvah had forbidden her and Kendall from sitting with them. Apparently it did not do for a man to attend a formal dinner with his Jiwah Sen.

A small group approached them, led by a man with bright red hair, dressed in subdued heraldic motley in the colors of Duke Euchor. He made a smooth leg before Amanvah, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder in a flash of color. “Your Highness,” he looked to Rojer, “Master Halfgrip. I am Keerin, royal herald to Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Guardian of the Northland, Lord of Miln.”

He waited for Amanvah to offer a hand to kiss, but men and women did not touch in Krasia, especially married women, and dama’ting most of all. Amanvah gave only the slightest nod of her head, as if to a servant who had brought her refreshment.

Keerin cleared his throat. “Please allow me to introduce Her Highness, Princess Lorain of Miln, youngest daughter to Duke Euchor.”

The woman stepped forward, and Rojer saw immediately the rumors were true. Euchor’s daughters were all said to take after him in appearance, and Lorain’s square face had much in common with the one stamped on Milnese coin.

Her frame, tall and wide-shouldered, had much in common with a man’s as well. She looked fit enough to wrestle Wonda. Her hair was still gold with no signs of gray, but her face had none of the softness of youth. She was the shady side of thirty-five, at the least. Old for a political bride.

Amanvah bowed, but it was shallow—an act of respect, but not equality. “It is an honor to meet you, Lorain vah Euchor. I am pleased to see I am not the only princess in a strange city.”

It was unclear if Lorain registered the slight. The politics of Krasian bowing were a language all their own. But her return bow mirrored Amanvah’s in depth and duration—a statement of equality, and a challenge to Amanvah.

But then she did something that put them all off guard.

“The honor is mine, Amanvah daughter of Ahmann,” Lorain said in Krasian.

Amanvah blinked, switching immediately to her native tongue. “You speak my language?”

Lorain smiled. “Of course. A properly educated lady can make dinner conversation in all the dead languages, though none of us has ever had the chance to speak with a native. I’m sure you will be flooded with invitations to tea from those of blood eager to practice.”

“Dead languages?” Amanvah asked.

“Ruskan, Limnese, Albeen, and Krasian,” Lorain said.

“My language is hardly dead,” Amanvah said.

Lorain gave a slight bow. “Of course. But it’s been centuries since we’ve entertained one of your people at court. From the Northern perspective, the language is no longer spoken.”

“Your education will serve you well,” Amanvah said. “The dice foretell a great resurgence of Krasian speakers in the North.”

Lorain’s smile was dangerous. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

A man cleared his throat, breaking the tension between the women.

“Allow me to present my escort, Lord Sament,” Lorain said, switching to Thesan as she indicated the last member of her party. The man wore his rich clothing comfortably, but he looked more bodyguard than escort, his eyes hard. He bowed.

“We’ll leave you to mingle,” Lorain told Amanvah. “I just wanted to make your acquaintance. No doubt we will have time to get to know each other after dinner in the women’s wing.”

With that, the Milnese swept off as quickly as they had come.

“Escort?” Amanvah asked.

“Chaperone, more like,” Rojer said. “Rhinebeck has been through several wives, but none has been able to give him a child. Lorain is the next hopeful.”

“She will likely fare no better, if several have gone before her,” Amanvah said. “It sounds as if the problem is with him.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it in polite company,” Rojer said. “Lorain has two sons to prove her fertility at least.”

Amanvah looked at him. “The Duke of Miln sends his rival an aging bride who is not even a virgin? What happened to her sons’ father?”

“Euchor divorced them, and sent her south,” Rojer said.

Amanvah snorted. “A desperate attempt to form an alliance against my father.”

“Can you blame them?” Rojer asked.

“No,” Amanvah said, “but it will make no difference in the end.”

It was pointless to debate the topic. Amanvah was wise about many things, but where her father was concerned, she saw only what she wanted to see. He was Shar’Dama Ka, and his rule was inevitable.

“Little Rojer, now a married man,” a voice said, and Rojer turned to see the Duchess Mum approaching with Duchess Melny. “How old were you when I caught you climbing the shelves in the royal library?”

Rojer swept into a low bow. “Five, Your Grace.” His backside ached as he recalled the incident. The Duchess Mum had only huffed, but it might as well have been a command, for Jessa had a strap in hand the moment she left.

Amanvah ignored the young duchess, meeting the old woman’s eyes. Something passed between them, and Amanvah’s bow was deeper and longer than before. “It is an honor to meet the famed Duchess Mother.”

Melny, technically outranking her mother-in-law, might have been offended at that, but she seemed to take it in stride. Araine had little real power in Angiers, but while Rhinebeck’s wives came and went, his mother was constant, and the vapid noblewomen at court all took their cues from her.