“Breckton? What does he want?” Archibald sat in the armchair opposite the chancellor and rested his booted feet on a footstool.
“No matter how many times I tell him to wait and be patient, he refuses to grasp that we know more than he does. He wants permission to attack Ratibor.”
Archibald sighed. “Again? I suppose you see now what I’ve had to put up with all these years. He and Enden are so headstrong I—”
“Were,” the chancellor said, correcting him. “Sir Enden died in Dahlgren.”
Ballentyne nodded. “And wasn’t that a waste of a good man?” He took another bite and, with his mouth still full, went on. “Do you need me to write him personally? He’s my knight, after all.”
“What would help is to be able to tell him why he doesn’t need to attack.”
Archibald shook his head. “Saldur and Ethelred are still insisting on secrecy regarding the—”
The chancellor raised a hand, stopping him. Archibald looked confused and the chancellor pointed at the chambermaid on her knees scrubbing the floor near the windows of his office.
Archibald rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Do you really think the scrub girl is a spy?”
“I’ve always found it best to err on the side of caution. She doesn’t have to be a spy to get you hanged for treason.”
“She doesn’t even know what we’re talking about. Besides, look at her. It isn’t likely she’ll be bragging in some pub. You don’t go out at night boasting in bars, do you, lass?”
Ella shook her head and refused to look up, so that her brown sweat-snarled hair continued to hang in her face.
“See!” Archibald said in a vindicated tone. “It’s like censoring yourself because there is a couch or a chair in the room.”
“I was referring to a more subtle kind of danger,” Biddings told him. “Should something happen. Something unfortunate with the plan, such that it fails—someone always has to be blamed. How fortunate it would be to discover a loquacious earl who had boasted details to even a mindless chambermaid.”
Archibald’s smirk faded immediately.
“The third son of a dishonored baron doesn’t rise to the position of imperial chancellor by being stupid,” Biddings said.
“Point taken.” Archibald glanced back at the scrub girl with a new expression of loathing. “I had best return to Saldur’s office or he’ll be looking for me. Honestly, Biddings, I’m really starting to detest staying in this palace.”
“She still won’t see you?”
“No, I can’t get past her secretary. That Lady Amilia is a sly one. Plays all innocent and doe-eyed, but she guards the empress with ruthless determination. And Saldur and Ethelred are no help at all. They insist she plans to marry Ethelred. It has to be a lie. I simply can’t imagine Modina wanting that old moose.”
“Particularly when she could choose a young buck like yourself?”
“Exactly.”
“And your desire is true love, of course. You’ve given absolutely no thought about how marrying Modina would make you emperor?”
“For a man who went from third baron’s son to chancellor, I’m surprised you can even ask me that.”
“Archie!” bellowed the voice of Regent Saldur, echoing down the hall outside the office.
“I’m in with Biddings!” Archibald shouted back through the open door. “And don’t call me—” He was interrupted by the sudden rush of the scrub girl running, bucket in hand, from the office. “Looks like she doesn’t like Saldur any more than I do.”
Arista had spilled scrub water onto her skirt, causing it to plaster the rough material to her legs. Her thin cloth shoes made a disagreeable slapping noise as she ran down the corridor. The sound of Saldur’s voice made her run faster.
That had been close, yet she wondered if even Saldur, who had known her since birth, would recognize her now. There was nothing magical about her transformation, but that did not make it any less impenetrable. She wore dirty rags, she lacked makeup, and her once lustrous hair was now a tangled mess. It had lightened, bleached by the same sun that had tanned her skin. Still, it was more than just her appearance. Arista had changed. At times, when she caught her own reflection, it took a moment to register that she was seeing herself and not some poor peasant woman. The bright-eyed girl was gone, and a dark, brooding spirit possessed her battered body.