Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Leesha reached quickly into the top drawer of her desk, taking her hand mirror and checking her hair and face. It was vain, but she didn’t care. She stuck a finger in the front of her dress, pulling it down and giving her bust a lift.

But it wasn’t Thamos. Instead, Rosal sauntered into the room, carrying a lacquered goldwood box.

“Did anyone see you?” Leesha asked, trying to keep the disappointment from her tone. “The duke …”

Rosal shook her head with a giggle. “I brought His Grace to a boil before I emptied him. He was passed out before I stopped stroking.”

She laid the box on the desk, lifting the lid. The inside was cured and filled with crushed ice. Resting atop the ice were three tiny crystal vials with a thick, cloudy liquid inside.

She closed the lid. “How fresh?”

“Not half an hour,” Rosal said. “I took the tunnel.”

Leesha wondered if the duke’s brothel tunnel was warded as well as the rest of his walls. “Pure? No other … fluids mixed in?”

Rosal smiled. “Are you asking if I spit it into the vials? Mistress Jessa would have my head if I delivered a sample like that. I don’t even use oil. I pull him dry.”

Leesha shuddered at the mental image of corpulent Rhinebeck grunting and twitching under Rosal’s ministration. “You seem to enjoy your work.”

Rosal shrugged. “Better than working in my da’s lacquer shop, head ready to explode from the fumes. Ent so bad, practicing a wife’s tricks on the Royals. Mistress Jessa taught us to lead the dance, emptying purses as well as seedpods.”

“So you’re there willingly?” Leesha asked.

Rosal nodded. “Ay. But I won’t miss it when I graduate. Looking forward to starting my real life.”

The girl swept back out of the room, leaving just a hint of rose in the air. Leesha immediately began polishing and assembling her lens chamber. She set a drop of the duke’s seed on the glass and adjusted the lens until the cells came into focus. Much as Jessa described, Leesha saw few active seeds. She slipped on her warded spectacles, and it was worse. A healthy sample should glow bright with teeming life. Rhinebeck’s was gray, like a cloudy sky.

So much for the Duchess Mum’s hopes of surgery. If the seeds were not reaching his issue, she might correct that. If they were dead …

Gared paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his huge hands. A young squire watched in horror as his bunched shoulders threatened to tear the seams of his fine jacket.

“Night, Gar, sit down and have a ripping pipe.” Rojer was already sucking on his own, feet comfortably on the tea table.

Gared shook his head. “Don’t want to smell like smoke.” His hair was oiled and tied at the nape of his neck with a velvet bow. His beard was cropped close, and his wool coat was emblazoned with his new crest, a two-headed axe crossed with a machete before a goldwood tree. Gared had stared at the crest for hours when the tailor had presented him the patch for his approval. The man had needed to wrestle it from his hands just to sew it on the jacket.

“A drink, then,” Rojer said, pouring two cups as the big man continued to pace.

“Ay, so I can slur whatever stupid words I manage to stutter out,” Gared said.

“Stop that talk,” Rojer said. “You’re not stupid just because you weren’t raised in a manse.”

“Then how come I feel like every other word anyone says is just there to poke fun at me?” Gared asked.

“It probably is,” Rojer said, emptying his brandy. “Royals are always cutting each other, even as they smile and talk about the weather.”

“Don’t want a wife like that,” Gared said.

“Then don’t pick one like that,” Rojer said. “You’re in charge tonight, even if it doesn’t feel that way. You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to.”

“What if I don’t want any of ’em?” Gared asked. “Duke said I had to go back to the Hollow with a girl to court. What if the Duchess Mum gets fed up and just picks one?”

Rojer gave a short, sharp laugh. “You stand toe-to-toe with twenty-foot rock demons, and you’re more scared of a woman half your size and thrice your age?”

Gared chuckled. “Hadn’t thought of it that way, but … ay. Guess I am. Reminds me o’ Hag Bruna, only scarier.”

“You’ve just got stage fright,” Rojer said, taking the brandy he had poured Gared and emptying that as well. “You’ll be fine once it starts.”

Gared started pacing again, but then he paused.

“Ya think Rosal will be here?” He inhaled deeply, as if to catch her perfume. “Pretty name, that. Smelled like roses, too.”

“Careful, Gar,” Rojer warned. “I know she was a sight, but you don’t want to marry one of Jessa’s girls.”

“Why not?” Gared asked.

“Because the duke and his brothers will be laughing the whole time.” Rojer made a face. “Besides, you want to kiss a mouth that’s been on Rhinebeck’s pecker?”

Gared balled a meaty fist, putting it right up to Rojer’s face. “True or not, don’t want to hear that kind of talk about her, Rojer. Not if ya want to keep your teeth.”

Rojer let out a low whistle. “You really fell for it, didn’t you?”

“Fell for what?” Gared asked.

“Jessa paraded that girl in front of you on purpose,” Rojer said. “I’ll bet she’s the mistress’ star pupil. Everything that girl did was meant to catch your attention.”

Gared shrugged. “How’s that make her different from the others? Only with her, it worked.”

“I’m just saying, be careful,” Rojer said. “Jessa’s girls can be … jaded. They get what they want from a man and make it think it’s his idea.”

“My da said that’s what all marriage is like,” Gared said. “Sayin’ it’s different for you?”

Rojer stuck his pipe in his mouth, neglecting to answer.

Rojer and his quartet stood in a sound shell behind Gared, who stood center stage with Duchess Araine. The young baron looked very much the bridegroom waiting at the altar.

The ballroom was already filled with the cream of society, Royals, wealthy tradesmen and their wives, all in their finest dress. But outside the great double doors on the far end of the room stood a long line of hopeful young debutantes, waiting to be announced.

The duchess gave a few tugs to Gared’s collar. “You ready, boy?”

“Think I might be sick,” Gared said.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Araine said, brushing a fleck of dust from his jacket. “But I doubt it would thin your dance card. Not every bachelor has a barony in his pocket. That’s worth ignoring a shirtfront of sick for.”

Gared paled, and Araine laughed. “A young bride to make children with is hardly a death sentence, boy. Glory in it while it lasts.”

She gave him a swat to the bottom with her walking stick, and Gared jumped. “All you have to do now is stand here while Jasin introduces the debutantes. Once that’s done, you can go backstage and empty your stomach before the dancing.”

She shuffled off, signaling Jasin to open the doors. Immediately Rojer put his fiddle to his chin, mirrored by Kendall as they played the first entrance. Each woman had chosen her own entrance music, the song they requested on the dance card. Rojer’s quartet had been practicing for days to learn them all.

“Miss Kareen Easterly,” Jasin called, “daughter of Count Alen of Riverbridge.” Rojer changed tune. Kareen had chosen a slow song, both for the intimacy and the chance to saunter down the walkway at a crawl, maximizing her time as the center of attention.

A poor choice, as it would have Gared’s nose buried in the young woman’s perfume cloud for the entire dance, at which point he wouldn’t be able to get away from her fast enough.