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“Greetings, Monseigneur,” said Lady Alleyne, smiling at Conor. She had been very beautiful when young, and was still handsome, her voluptuous curves poured into her tight gown. The upper circles of her breasts spilled from the square neck of her bodice, only barely restrained by a thin layer of white netting. “Alas, we have already lost one member. Gremont is asleep.”
This was true. Mathieu Gremont, holder of the Charter for coffee and tea, was ninety-five, and already snoring quietly in his carved chair. Conor, flashing a smile at Lady Alleyne, said, “Hardly a good advertisement for the strength of his merchandise.”
There was a low ripple of laughter. Kel caught the eye of Falconet, who looked tired and a bit rumpled. Well, hehadbeen up until nearly dawn, drinking with Montfaucon and Roverge atop the West Tower. He winked at Kel.
Ambrose Uzec, whose Charter was wine, looked at Gremont darkly. “It is time for Gremont to pass the Charter on, surely. He has a son—”
“His son Artal is in Taprobana, meeting with the owners of tea estates,” said Lady Alleyne. Her shoes, as well as her dress, matched her daughter’s: white heels, sprigged with pink silk rosettes. Kel wondered if it bothered Antonetta that her mother so clearly saw her as a miniature version of herself. He knew Antonetta would never show it, if it did. “Important work, surely.”
Kel exchanged a look with Conor. Artal Gremont had been sent away amid a swirl of scandal when they had been fourteen years old. Neither of them had ever managed to find out what it was he’d done to be effectively exiled; even Montfaucon did not seem to know.
“Gremont’s business is his own,” said Lord Gasquet, looking irritable. He, too, was not a young man, and showed no signs ofturning his Charter over to one of his gaggle of sons, daughters, or grandchildren. Charter holders always thought they were immortal, Mayesh had said once, and tended to die without making any provisions as to who might inherit their places on the Council. Infighting would then ensue, usually settled by House Aurelian. Only the King or Queen had the power to grant Charters and strip them away.
“I believe,” Montfaucon said, ruffling the lace cuffs that spilled over his wrists like pale-green seafoam, “that we were discussing Roverge’s latest troubles, were we not?”
“There is no need to make it sound as if I am beset by troubles, Lupin,” growled Roverge. Charlon, beside him, nodded sagely. His eyes were only half open; he was clearly suffering a brutal headache from the jenever he’d drunk the night before. His father turned to Conor. “It is a question of tithes, which I seek to put before you, Monseigneur.”
Kel’s mind began to drift as Conor considered the matter of whether merchants selling colored paper should tithe a percent of their proceeds to the Roverge House, or to House Raspail. Trade was the blood that ran through the veins of Castellane. Every one of the Charter Families had caravans on the roads and ships on the seas, laden down with precious cargo. Their control of specific goods was the source of their wealth and power. House Raspail, for instance, had the Charter for timber, so no bit of wood or paper, nor the smallest carved flute, changed hands without them getting a share of the profit.
That did not mean, however, that it was objectively interesting to anyone else. Kel could not stop his mind returning to the Ragpicker King. In Kel’s memory, the Ragpicker King’s voice was soft as the nap on velvet.
Conor had been nodding along as Roverge and Raspail argued, his gray eyes sleepy beneath the tumble of his black hair. Now he said, “The tithe on colored paper will be split between your twoHouses, evenly. Understood? Good. What is the next matter at hand?”
“Bandits,” said Alonse Esteve, leaning forward. He was an odd one. The Esteve Charter was horses, and Alonse, though in his fifties, had no wife, nor any heirs to inherit his Charter. He seemed far happier with horses than people and was usually in Valderan, where the best horseflesh was bred. “We must discuss the problem at the Narrow Pass. It affects us all.”
It was as if he had tossed a lit match into kindling. A loud squabble blazed up as the nobles fell to arguing. It seemed that several caravans had been attacked by teams of well-coordinated bandits while approaching the Narrow Pass that connected Sarthe to Castellane; it was a concern, as there was no other land route into the city, but no one was agreed on a solution.
“If you ask me,” said Polidor Sardou, whose Charter was glass, “the thing to do is march the Arrow Squadron into Sarthe. Put them on the back foot. We need to demonstrate our strength, show them we can’t be trifled with.”
“That risks war with Sarthe,” said Falconet languidly. “The Black Guard would be on us like flies.”
“No one wants war,” said Lady Alleyne, watching Conor out of the corner of her eye. “A stupid and unprofitable way to settle disputes.”
“Liorada, that’s simply not true,” said Montfaucon. “War can be very profitable indeed.”
“Perhaps,” said Raspail, “we should consider strengthening our alliance with Sarthe. This state of uneasy détente serves no one, really.”
“I had heard tell,” Falconet said, “of a possible alliance with Sarthe.”
All eyes turned to Conor. He sat motionless in his black velvet, his eyes glittering like the rings on his fingers. The light from the oculus cast his face in shadow. It was Mayesh who spoke.
“The matter of the Prince’s marriage,” he said, “has not progressed to a place at which you need worry yourself about alliances, Falconet. We can all agree, I think, that it is an area in which our Prince should have time to apply due consideration.”
This was not, Kel knew, what Mayesh really thought. He wanted to advise Conor and for Conor to take that advice—and sooner rather than later. But his loyalty was to House Aurelian, not the Charter Families. He would place his words between them and Conor, just as Kel placed his body between Conor and danger.
“I recall,” said Roverge, “that when this matter arose for King Markus, he placed it before us to hear our voices. There is no pact more binding than a marriage, and pacts between Castellane and foreign powers are a Council matter.”
“Are they?” Conor murmured. “Are you all planning on joining me on my wedding night? We shall have to make a list of names, that I might know how many bottles of wine to provide.”
Roverge smiled stiffly. “You are young, dear Prince. It is part of your undeniable charm. But when a royal weds, whole nations are joined in the bedchamber.”
“How scandalously put,” said Falconet.
Cazalet said, “When Markus came to us then, matters with Marakand were different. We were at odds. Now, of course, there is harmony between us.”
“But,” said Conor, “not all disputes can be solved with marriage. I can only be married once, for one thing.”
Kel wished he could lay a hand on Conor’s shoulder. He could see that Conor’s fingers were curling in on themselves, a nervous habit. He was letting the Council get under his skin. If he snapped, Lilibet would declare that he had failed to show the Council who was in control.
