Theft of Swords (The Riyria Revelations #1-2)

The front wheels of the carriage bounced in a hole, followed abruptly by the rear ones. Arista nearly struck her head on the roof and lost her concentration, which was frustrating, because she was certain she was on the verge of recalling the name of Dunmore’s Secretary of the Treasury. It started with a Bon, a Bonny, or a Bobo—no, it could not be Bobo, could it? It was something like that. All these names, all these titles, the third baron of Brodinia, the Earl of Nith—or was it the third baron of Nith and the Earl of Brodinia? Arista looked at the palm of her hand, wondering if she could write them there. If caught, it would be an embarrassment not just for herself, but for Alric, and all of Melengar as well. From now on, everything she did, every mistake, every stumble would not just hurt her, it would reflect poorly on her kingdom. She had to be perfect. The problem was she did not know how to be perfect. She wished her brother had given her more time to prepare.

Dunmore was a new kingdom, only seventy years old, an overgrown fief reclaimed from the wilderness by ambitious nobles with only passing pedigrees. It had none of the traditions or refinement found in the rest of Avryn, but it did have a plethora of mind-numbing titled offices. She was convinced King Roswort created them the way a self-conscious man might overdecorate a modest house. He certainly had more ministers than Alric, with titles twice as long and uniquely vague, such as the Assistant Secretary of the Second Royal Avenue Inspection Quorum. What does that even mean? And then there was the simply unfathomable, since Dunmore was landlocked, Grandmaster of the Fleet! Nevertheless, Julian had provided her with a list and she was doing her best to memorize it, along with a tally sheet of their imports, exports, trade agreements, military treaties, and even the name of the king’s dog. She laid her head back on the velvet upholstery and sighed.

“Something wrong, my dear?” Bishop Saldur inquired from his seat directly across from her, where he sat pressing his fingers together. He stared at her with unwavering eyes that took in more than her face. She would have considered his looks rude if he had been anyone else. Saldur—or Sauly, as she always called him—had taught her the art of blowing dandelions that had gone to seed when she was five. He had shown her how to play checkers and pretended not to notice when she climbed trees or rode her pony at a gallop. For commencement on her sixteenth birthday, Sauly had personally instructed her on the Tenets of the Faith of Nyphron. He was like a grandfather. He always stared at her. She had given up wondering why.

“There’s too much to learn. I can’t keep it all straight. The bouncing doesn’t help either. It’s just that”—she flipped through the parchments on her lap, shaking her head—“I want to do a good job, but I don’t think I will.”

The old man smiled at her, his eyebrows rising in sympathy. “You’ll do fine. Besides, it’s only Dunmore.” He gave her a wink. “I think you’ll find His Majesty King Roswort an unpleasant sort of man to deal with. Dunmore has been slow to gain the virtues that the rest of civilization has learned to enjoy. Just be patient and respectful. Remember that you’ll be standing in his court, not Melengar, and there you are subject to his authority. Your best ally in any discussion is silence. Learn to develop that skill. Learn to listen instead of speaking and you’ll weather many storms. Also, avoid promising anything. Give the impression you are promising, but never actually say the words. That way Alric always has room to maneuver. It is a bad practice to tie the hands of your monarch.”

“Would you like something to drink, my lady?” Bernice asked, sitting beside Arista on the cushioned bench, guarding a basket of travel treats. She sat straight, her knees together, hands clutching the basket, thumbs rubbing it gently. Bernice beamed at her, fanning deep lines from the corners of her eyes. Her round pudgy cheeks were forced too high by a smile too broad—a condescending smile, the sort displayed to a child who had scraped her knee. At times Arista wondered if the old woman was trying to be her mother.

“What have you got in there, dear?” Saldur asked. “Anything with a bite to it?”

“I brought a pint of brandy,” she said, and then hastily added, “in case it got cold.”

“Come to think of it, I feel a bit chilled,” Saldur said, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, pretending to shiver.

Arista raised an eyebrow. “This carriage is like an oven,” she said while pulling on the high dress collar that ran to her chin. Alric had emphasized that she needed to wear properly modest attire, as if she had made a habit of strolling about the castle in bosom-baring scarlet tavern dresses. Bernice took this edict as carte blanche to imprison Arista in antiquated costumes of heavy material. The sole exception was the dress for her meeting with the King of Dunmore. Arista wanted all the help she could get to make a good impression and decided to wear the formal reception gown that had once belonged to her mother. It was simply the most stunning dress Arista had ever seen. When her mother had worn it, every head had turned. She had looked so impressive, so magnificent—every bit the queen.

“Old bones, my dear,” Saldur told her. “Come, Bernice, why don’t you and I share a little cup?” This brought a self-conscious smile to the old lady’s face.

Arista pulled the velvet curtain aside and looked out the window. Her carriage was in the middle of a caravan consisting of wagons and soldiers on horseback. Mauvin and Fanen were somewhere out there, but all she could see was what the window framed. They were in the kingdom of Ghent, although Ghent had no king. The Nyphron Church administered the region directly and had for several hundred years. There were few trees in this rocky land and the hills remained a dull brown, as if spring were tardy—off playing in other realms and neglecting its chores here. High above the plain a hawk circled in wide loops.

“Oh dear!” Bernice exclaimed as the carriage bounced again. Oh dear! was as close as Bernice ever came to cursing. Arista glanced over to see that the jostling was making the process of pouring the brandy a challenge. Sauly with the bottle, Bernice with the cup, their arms shifting up and down, struggling to meet in the middle like in some test-of-skill at a May Fair—a game that was designed to look simple but ultimately embarrassed the players. At last, Sauly managed to tip the bottle and they both cheered.

“Not a drop lost,” he said, pleased with himself. “Here’s to our new ambassador. May she do us proud.” He raised the cup, took a large mouthful, and sat back with a sigh. “Have you been to Ervanon before, my dear?”