“Saying ‘don’t worry’ again won’t help, will it?” Marek tries not to grin at Sei’s brief glare. It’s strangely tempting to trick Sei out of his usual composure. “You’re here with me, which means you’re supposed to be here. I’ve known Zora for years, and I’ll handle the talking.”
Marek should have prepared Sei better for this. He hadn’t considered it before they left the palace, Marek on horseback and Sei in a carriage. Because Marek dislikes being closed in, while Sei doesn’t know how to ride.
Sei needs riding lessons before Marek breaks the betrothal. Marek can’t turn Sei loose without knowing how to ride a horse.
Before Marek can decide on an equestrian teacher he trusts with Sei, an inner door opens. The woman who emerges is someone even more familiar than Zora Bernek. Her short-cropped hair is the same white and red as ever, but she leans more heavily on her cane than Marek remembers.
“General Gabra.” Marek raises his right fist to his heart in salute. “It’s been a while.”
“I bet you’re glad of that, Stormrider.” Gabra moves slowly, placing her cane carefully before each step. A weathered, pale woman in her sixties, just a few years ago she was Marek’s predecessor as wing-marshal. She seemed primed to continue in the position forever until a sudden illness stole her sense of balance and forced her retirement. “Nobody wants the old crone breathing down their necks and interfering with their command.”
Marek salutes again. “I admire your confidence thinking you could interfere.”
Gabra’s amusement is little more than a sparkle in her eyes. Most people would just see the deepening scowl. Her temper has only worsened since retirement.
“Is this the grail?” Gabra asks, barely glancing at Sei.
Her attitude doesn’t usually bother Marek—but he bristles now. Chewing out recruits is one thing. Sei never signed up for Gabra’s scrutiny.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, General.” Sei bows before Marek can introduce him. “I’ve heard so much about your paintings.”
“Have you?” Gabra asks, unusually pleased.
“I would be honored to see them if you’re ever free,” Sei says earnestly. “I have a small interest in landscapes.”
Marek must be dreaming. The only other possibility is that he’s stuck in the most complex illusion he’s ever encountered. Because General Gabra smiles back at Sei.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Sei Mallory.”
“Well, Sei, have your claimant’s people talk to my people,” Gabra says. “Nice to get some culture in the dragon corps.”
Marek hadn’t known Gabra had taken up painting. He hadn’t known Sei had an interest in landscapes either. He navigates the rest of the conversation on reflex until Gabra hobbles out of the Bernek estate. Then he turns to Sei.
“How did you know about Gabra’s paintings?”
“Clem mentioned it the other day,” Sei answers. “They said General Gabra was intimidating, but she seemed nice.”
Niceis not how Marek would describe Gabra. As wing-marshal, she was a brutal taskmaster and a fervent warmonger. But she was better placed there than her previous position training recruits. That was before Marek joined the dragon corps, but everyone knows Gabra presided over the highest trainee fatality rate in dragon corps history.
Before Marek decides whether to scare Sei with that information or not, a servant walks over and bows.
“Thank you for your patience, Your Highness,” she says. “The countess can see you now.”
As the servant retreats, Sei touches Marek’s arm. “Your Highness?”
“Yes?”
Sei’s friendly smile is gone, replaced with caution. “We’re not just here to offer condolences, are we?”
“Of course we are.” Marek won’t admit otherwise anywhere someone can hear him.
If Petir Bernek didn’t kill himself, someone else did.
Marek has no reason to suspect misdirection. The late count was an unstable alcoholic for years. The palace drasgard conducted a thorough two-week investigation, neither too hasty nor too dragged-out.
There’s just the matter of timing. Petir died the night before Vana fled the palace. The same night Lady Naoko Mallory’s servant died by accident.
