Grand Leon cleared his throat and silenced the room. He gazed intently at Isabelle. She felt herself start to shrink and melt away like a sugar sculpture in the rain. She dared not offend le roi, and many nobles grew wrathful if proper deference was not given … but Grand Leon was in no way typical. He was the man who had employed Jean-Claude, after all.
What does he want? That was Jean-Claude’s favorite question. Le roi wanted to use Isabelle to see to Célestial interests in Aragoth. The question became whether he would try to use her as pawn, player, or partner. Not the latter if she shrank from the comte’s bullying.
Stand tall, she could almost hear Jean-Claude whispering in her ear. Riding her pain and outrage, Isabelle squared her shoulders and met Grand Leon’s gaze steadily. She did not race to defend herself verbally as a desperate woman might. She had to be both strong and reserved and trust him to read her correctly.
The corner of Grand Leon’s mouth twitched in what might have been a suppressed smile, and he turned to Kantelvar. “What do you think, Artifex? Was my musketeer’s ploy reckless or inspired?”
The artifex’s hump gurgled, and his clicking voice said, “That which is inspired is frequently reckless. In any case, it seems not to have affected the outcome.”
“An aphorism and an evasion. I should have expected nothing else. Comte, your petition is denied. We choose to include Princess Isabelle in our councils. I now assume you will point out that, until she is married, you remain her legal guardian, entitled to know her business.”
“I would not presume to tell you what you already know, sire.”
“Indeed. We would hear what Isabelle thinks should be done to ensure her safety.”
The request caught Isabelle off guard. She was on trial, her mettle being tested. Even that was something; she’d never been acknowledged to have mettle before. Forge it hot and hammer it hard.
She wished for eloquence but settled for logic. “I suggest a small troupe of guards loyal only to me as a last line of defense, and a larger group of agents to seek out threats and deal with them before they get near me. I would rather confront my enemies in their bedrooms than mine.”
Grand Leon said, “Your husband may wish for you to be more heavily guarded.”
Isabelle tried to keep the sourness from her voice. “Despite two attempts on my life, my betrothed has made no attempt whatever to contact me, not even by proxy. For now, I must assume his indifference will continue.”
“Two attacks?” the comte asked.
Kantelvar ignored him and said, “The prince is well apprised of your situation, Highness, and he looks forward to meeting you, but he is constantly observed and politics have made it impossible for him to seek you out in person.”
“Which politics?” Isabelle asked. “And why does he accede to them?”
“In the interest of prosecuting the investigation, the attack against you on the ship was kept secret—”
“I had a right to know!” the comte snapped, and then he started coughing as the stress of his anger and the effort of projecting into Marie took a toll on his distant, enfeebled body. Isabelle hoped it would force him to withdraw but prayed the fit would not kill him, not until Kantelvar had a chance to resuscitate Marie … if that was not an empty blandishment.
“He could have sent a message,” Isabelle said. “And why is he not here now?”
Kantelvar said, “Because after today’s attempt on your life, and with the threat of civil war on the horizon, all the royal family currently in the city have been moved to places of refuge lest some political opportunist attempt to abort the succession debate by an assassination during the uproar.”
Once again, Grand Leon coughed quietly, and the conversation stilled. “Gentlemen, if you please, we would have a private word with our cousin.”
Kantelvar raised a mechanical finger as if to make a point, but Grand Leon’s bloodshadow rippled, a sleeping giant on the verge of awakening, and the cleric subsided. The artifex took the comte by the arm and led him into the corridor outside with all the other servants. The felt-lined door shut with a dull thunk. A heavy and complete silence fell.
Isabelle almost wished her father had stayed; she could count on her fury at him to give her strength beyond fear. Perhaps that was why he had been dismissed.
She faced her sovereign. Suddenly the spacious chamber felt very small, or Grand Leon very large within it. She waited, trying not to shudder, wondering why he deigned to treat her as, if not an equal, at least someone worth listening to. Her wormfinger twitched in its glove, agitated.
Grand Leon gazed upon her for a long moment. She was just wondering if she ought to offer a conversational gambit when he said, “You have cultivated the gift of silence. Good. Most of my nobles prefer to assail me with opinions, requests, outrage, flattery, demands, and the occasional outright lie. Can you see the problem, from their point of view, that is?”
Since he seemed to value silence, Isabelle gave the question due consideration before saying, “Because they are telling you what they want, and therefore giving you a way to manipulate them.”
Grand Leon smiled, saying neither yes or no, and then changed the subject. “The world turns. King Carlemmo is dying. I should rejoice, for his death will leave his kingdom divided and weak. Ripe for the plucking. But how to obtain it without bruising the fruit?
“Carlemmo’s obvious heir, Príncipe Alejandro, is out of favor and has been exiled across the deep sky, and his reserve heir, your betrothed, is crippled and weak, almost entirely under the thrall of his mother.
“And yet with Carlemmo dead, I will have outlived my oldest rival, and all my younger ones are so tediously earnest. They are still filled with the deadly delusions of youth and power, not realizing that youth is temporary and power, even the power of sorcerer kings, is fundamentally limited. We cannot alter the skylands in their peregrinations, or the Solar in its daily journey, or the weather on which it seems all other things ultimately depend. I have ruled my empire for more than fifty years, and while I have no intention of dying any time soon, I have come to be humbled by the vastness of time.”
Isabelle strove to divine a deeper purpose to this soliloquy. Was he truly baring his soul to her, or was this some official fiction? It had the grandiose stage quality of a nonpareil autobiography, but there was no doubt that he had a grandiose soul, so there was no telling.