“Then why don’t you treat with your brother?” she asked.
“What would be the point?” Julio said. “They say the dead give no testimony, but wills can be faked; competing wills are even better. Damned spring-wound spider thinks I’m too stupid to figure it out. Thinks I’m just his puppet.”
“Kantelvar,” Isabelle said. “Do you understand his scheme?”
That evoked a humorless chuckle. “I have no idea what he thinks to gain. All I know is that he talks to everyone, generally about what they want and how he can help them get it. The people he seduces become the careful gardeners of their own lies.”
“What did he offer you?”
Julio gave her a wary look. “He never offered me anything. No promises to keep that way. Just a pawn with no open moves, waiting to be sacrificed.”
“Then you must change the rules.”
Julio shook his head. “He is not two moves ahead. He is two games ahead.”
Isabelle’s spirit sagged under the weight of his listlessness and of all the lies she had been told about him. This was not a man who had ever set out to be the greatest sorcerer in the world, or the greatest swordsman. He would be no help to her at all unless she could turn his apathy into a tool.
“Then shall I bargain with your brother on your behalf? If I can persuade him—”
Julio made a shooing gesture. “Make whatever bargain you like—it won’t matter—but for the Savior’s sake, can we please talk about something else?”
That was as definitive a commission as she was likely to get, but she imagined he would stand by any deal she made if it saved his sorry hide.
She shifted into rehearsed small talk. “Were you named after King Julio the Just?” That was a name she had picked up from her readings, one of the feudal kings who had fought the Skaladin to a standstill during the long occupation.
“No, I was named after my grandfather Julio, the Duc de Bosque de Dolores.”
Isabelle translated the name: “The Forest of Sorrows.” And a connection clicked in her mind like the hammer of a flintlock being cocked.
Her skin went suddenly cold and she must have been staring into the middle distance, because Julio asked, “Are you ill?”
She blinked hard and then asked, “The Forest of Sorrows. Is that still in your family?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Ah…” Julio pulled at his chin. “I think we’ve had it for a few centuries. It was one of the few places the Skaladin never conquered. Why?”
“Nothing,” Isabelle said, not trusting her own conclusions, not trusting Julio. Kantelvar said he had revived a bloodhollow in the Forest of Sorrows, which meant it had been ruled by Célestials, which meant either Kantelvar was lying or the revival had taken place over two hundred years ago. Impossible. Kantelvar could not have been creeping around that long; even if his quondam clockworks were somehow keeping him alive, someone would have noticed.
Even as she grappled with this deduction, a herald announced her first supplicant, Duque Ramon de la Gallegos Diego.
Isabelle’s head snapped around and her gut knotted as the man who had used her brother to arrange an attempt on her life approached. She pasted on her most professional smile and forced herself to breathe steadily.
Diego was not a looming nightmare giant, but rather a man of average height with above-average thickness. His mask was that of a dragon, the emperor of all fell beasts. It was not a terribly subtle message, but then, she gathered his ambition was well-known. Like all his kind, his eyes were pure mirrors and she could see her distorted reflection in them.
Yet whatever emotions he felt toward Isabelle, his manner and tone were entirely reserved as he made a leg to her and said, “Your Highness, I bid you welcome; your presence brings hope to us all. Please allow me to present you with this small token of my esteem.” He lifted a narrow box of polished wood from a pillow carried by his servant and held it up to her in his large, meaty hands.
Isabelle forced her good hand to remain steady as she accepted the box and thumbed it open. Inside lay a vellum scroll fastened with a ribbon and a wax seal bearing the Diego coat of arms.
The herald announced, “The deed to Monarch’s Cove.” A murmur of appreciation rolled through the crowd. Apparently this was a good gift.
Diego said, “For your own use, unattached to any dowry.”
Isabelle forced a smile. “Your Grace, I thank you for this. I hope to use it well.” That was all diplomacy required or protocol permitted, but she could not let the exchange go so easily. “And my condolences for the loss of your friend.”
Duque Diego’s expression was unreadable behind his dragon mask, but he remained stiff just a fraction too long before saying, “It is a loss everyone should mourn.” He turned his gaze on Julio, then bowed himself out.
Isabelle barely had time to wonder what he meant by that cryptic response before her next supplicant stepped forward, and the next. Servants circulated bearing silver trays laden with hors d’oeuvres and goblets of drink. Somebody poured Isabelle a chalice of strong wine. She calculated the size of her bladder relative to the length of the line in front of her and resolved to sip slowly.
An elegant parade of high nobility greeted her. Some were subtly hostile, others guardedly enthusiastic. Everyone brought gifts, though none so grand as Duque Diego’s. Julio supplied acerbic if not terribly useful commentary about most of them. “He has the manners of a saint but a manor in disrepair.” “No, that isn’t a mask; he really does have a nose like a pig.”
“Please, Julio. My poor mind cannot absorb your wit.” Jean-Claude was fond of mocking nobility, but at least his observations were clever and useful. “Don’t you care what your future subjects think of you?”
Julio frowned at this mild reproof and slouched deeper into his chair. “Long have I observed this … game.” He waved a languid hand at the assembly. “And I have come to the conclusion that a king does not and cannot command his subjects to behave. If everyone cleaved strictly to the rules, a balance would be reached, which would not be so bad for those on top, but would be intolerable for those being cooked on the bottom of the pot, and since there are more on the bottom than the top, they would soon cease to put up with it. The king therefore stirs the cauldron of courtly intrigue. He gives his subjects very subtle incentives to misbehave and taxes them for the privilege. This well-dressed rabble couldn’t care a fig what I think of them so long as they believe I can give them what they want.”