Deck of Cards

Deck of Cards

by

Rebecca Lickiss

Smashwords Edition

Deck of Cards copyright © 2008 by Rebecca Lickiss

Cover art copyright © 2010 by Alan L. Lickiss and Rebecca Lickiss

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1: The King’s Announcement

Omega System, Planet Fenris, Tyrannis Continent, Cerberus Principality, Wolf Keep.

Dust storm, straight ahead, moving fast. Eleven’s whispered voice, somewhat electronically distorted but still recognizable, hissed in Five’s ear from the fringed epaulet on his right shoulder. Five quickly shelved the book he had been reading. He had to stop himself, and flip the book right-side-up. Just because his day had been turned upside-down was no excuse for doing the same to innocent books. He turned his head to his left shoulder, and whispered into the elaborate, and to all appearances only decorative, epaulet. All call. On your marks. Eleven, I’m on my way.

I’m with you. Praiseworthy appeared around one of the stacks in the cavernous library. We’ll handle it.

Five nodded, and together they negotiated their way through the maze of shelves to the main doors. Five felt a twinge of regret as he walked through the door into the spacious, blank, stone hallway beyond. The library with its familiar smell of books, quiet atmosphere and copious hiding places was infinitely preferable to what was outside. He hoped against hope that this time Eleven was mistaken. Usually when their despised father, Prince Sigil, was summoned to meet with the King he would be gone for days. This time it had only been hours.

Five had to measure his long-legged running pace back slightly, to allow Praiseworthy to keep up. They were only half-brothers. Five the last son of Sigil’s first wife and Praiseworthy the first son of Sigil’s third, both women now deceased. They looked nothing like each other.

Praiseworthy was a short, stocky adolescent. His pale skin, wispy blond hair and pale gray eyes made it look as though he’d just crawled out from under a rock. Unfortunately, he looked like an exact, but younger, copy of their father. Five, however, was a tall young man, dark-haired, dark eyed, and broad shouldered with a tapering, muscular body.

They raced through the gloomy, ill-lit keep, through a hidden panel in the woodwork of the north wing, up a high turret to a stone room their father would have been surprised and furious to discover. The house slippers Five wore were no protection from the cold stone floor, but he ignored the discomfort. Three sides of the room were taken up with monitoring, communicating, and computing equipment. The holos showed various views of the interior of the keep. The fourth wall had wooden pegs sticking out in a stair wise fashion, leading to the eagle’s nest above. Five climbed up to better view the situation. Praiseworthy settled himself at the displays.

The eagle’s nest was nothing more than a small ledge surrounding the conical roof of their secret room. A low stone wall ringed the ledge, providing some protection from the notice of the surrounding countryside. Spring was blossoming on the ground spread out before them. The trees were only beginning to put on their thick, shielding cover of green, but the surrounding wilderness ran riot with colorful wildflowers. The Keep’s gardens blazed with what had once, many years ago, been manicured, artificially separated color. It was windy and cold outside, with a few clouds banding.

Eleven crouched on the east side of the ledge, peering out at the distance with a monoscope. He watched the kicked up dust of a skiff hurrying along the dirt roadway leading from the capital. Eleven was thirteen years old, two years younger than Praiseworthy who was his full brother. He was taller and thinner, but still pale. He glanced over as Five scrambled to him in a crouch and handed the scope over. Looks like Him.

Five sighted through the scope, wishing it was attached to a heat-seeking, bomb-tipped arrow. Forcing himself, Five concentrated on what he saw in the scope. The front of the bobbing skiff clearly showed the Wolfarchon crest and the skiff was driven fast and recklessly. It was Him, all right.

Five spoke to his left shoulder again. All call. Scatter. He tapped Eleven with the end of the scope. You too. Praiseworthy will take over monitoring. He barely noticed Eleven nod and leave, before he was back on the scope. A few taps on the right buttons and Five knew the speed of the skiff. He had learned to almost gauge the man’s temper by the speed. Bad, very bad. Wonder who He’s mad at this time. Probably the King. He headed back into the turret.

Praiseworthy turned to him as he jumped off the second highest peg. Fourteen and Fifteen aren’t answering. Eleven’s gone in search of them. You’ll have to meet Him at the front entrance.

I’ll make it, Five said. I’ll handle him.

Also, Ten’s got trouble. Rulphia’s in the nursery, Praiseworthy added.

Gas them. Five grimaced. I’ll take care of Rulphia, before I meet Him. Looks like it might be rough. Keep me monitored. If it looks bad, send everyone to ground. As he spoke, Five removed his decorative, discreetly useful, half-sleeved vest, and slung it on a peg. Reaching into a couple of pockets in the vest, he pulled out a watch on a chain and a handkerchief. The watch went into the left breast pocket of his smooth, form-fitting, green silk tunic. The handkerchief was wadded into the tight wrist cuff of his left sleeve. Stand-by to notify Piere, Aven, and Baroness Rose. Your call.

You think it’ll be that bad? Praiseworthy asked.

Sighing, Five shrugged. He’s moving at max boost. He isn’t happy. Maybe we’ll get lucky.

Praiseworthy made a rude noise, as he turned back to the monitors. Five raced out, back into the Keep proper, heading for the nursery.

The Keep was ancient. The floors were stone or decorative wood, covered here and there in rushes. In some of the better rooms rugs graced the floors. The corridors were bare of furnishings and wall hangings. The rooms were sparsely supplied with old, crumbling wood furniture that could be called antique only because it was ancient, not well kept. The tumble-down appearance was cultivated by Prince Sigil, both to hide the actual size of his purse, and as a punishment for the sorry rabble unlucky enough to be members of his immediate family.

Stone walls and lead-lined steel conduits hid the mass of up-to-date cybermech conveniences, most of which Prince Sigil actually knew about. Some few of them had been added by, or under the authority of, Five, unbeknownst to the Prince. Additions such as the room under the eagle’s nest, various bolt-hole security accommodations, and scattered electronic amenities.

Five found Ten and the old nanny, known comfortingly as Nanny, waiting in the corridor outside the nursery. Ten spoke into the watch pinned to her chest. Can we secure the nursery?

Go ahead. It’s clear, Praiseworthy’s voice whispered out of the watch.

In the nursery three small children lay on the floor where they’d fallen asleep. A medium-sized pregnant woman of no more than average appearance lounged in a chair, unconscious. The room was furnished in the same decay-of-better-times as the rest of the keep, the few toys were well-worn and rather badly used. A faint, swiftly vanishing trace odor of orange-cinnamon spice, persisted in the room to indicate that the inhabitants’ sleep was induced. Ten and Nanny scooped up the babies and hurried out. Five picked up his latest stepmother, Princess Rulphia, and carried her out to a nearby bedroom. She often used it for naps when she watched the babies, and would probably assume she’d gone there on her own. She knew nothing of Five’s organization or methods, and he knew better than to let her find out.

Once she was settled, Five made for the east wing, and the front entrance to the keep. He flashed by the children’s bolt-hole as Nanny and Ten were squeezing their way in. Nanny could make it only because she was old, stooped and excessively thin. Ten, a tall emaciated blonde, should have grown too big, but she managed to squeeze in today possibly out of sheer force of will. Five had been unable to fit for twelve years, since he was ten. Prince Sigil knew about the bolt-hole, but only about the narrow stairs leading to the next level. He was ignorant of the spacious, well-stocked room off the secret door halfway up. None of his children were inclined to tell him.

Using the precious seconds of his run to calculate the odds this time, Five decided that Sigil’s rage had to be directed at the King. In which case His favorite whipping boy would do as a substitute. A better situation than when Sigil had some helpless child or underling at the center of His rage. Though time, repetition, and subtle subliminal conditioning had done much to give Five some influence on these situations. Enough to spare most of Five’s younger siblings the physical torments of his own childhood. As Five reached the long corridor leading to the second floor of the Entrance Hall, he heard Praiseworthy’s whisper from his left breast pocket. You’re not going to make it. Eleven still hasn’t found Fourteen and Fifteen.

I’ll make it. I always make it. Well, except that once. Better not to think about that. Five slowed down and pulled the handkerchief from his left cuff, waving it in front of his face, both to cool himself and to cover the obvious signs of his desperate race. He would just have to make do with greeting his father from the upper hall, something Prince Sigil hated. Lord Valor your cue, in fifteen seconds. Five sighed, slipping into the Lord Valor persona. Not that he liked or disliked Lord Valor, he was Lord Valor. Five was merely his number. A simplicity his father had taken to when He decided to conquer the aristocracy through sheer numbers. He considered it to be single-handedly, since He didn’t count the brood-mare wives left dead in His wake or the children He considered puppets.

Lord Valor walked into the upper hall with a light, bouncy step, left hand on his waist, right hand still waving the handkerchief in front of his face. Valor pretended to just notice Prince Sigil fuming not far from the bottom of the stairs. A full military bodyguard accompanied him, including some extras in the King’s livery.

Father! Lord Valor breathed in feigned delighted surprise, lifting his left hand limply in a fey, shocked gesture. He bowed deeply, bending waist and knees, and fluttered the handkerchief prettily. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Sergeant Belgren and Captain Gizsure, his spies in his father’s security. The Captain raised his hand to his temple, as if to push his short hair back, and as it fell to his side it touched his chin and chest briefly. Don’t make Him wait for an excuse.

I figured that out when he didn’t return my greeting. Valor pranced like a prize dressage stallion to the top of the stairs, and did the forbidden. He hopped onto the rail, sliding elegantly down, landing neatly off the side of the stairs.

You disobedient simpleton, Prince Sigil bawled grabbing Valor roughly by the elbow. The rest of what he said was lost to Valor, who’d long since given up paying attention to his father in these rages. It never made sense anyway.

He followed meekly as his father towed him into the depths of the east wing. It undoubtedly looked like a large elegant ocean clipper, towed by a much smaller ugly tug. He glanced back to see the King’s men looking uncomfortable and displeased. Possibly they had some idea what his father was up to. They couldn’t know exactly, otherwise they’d look very uncomfortable and sickening green.

He slapped his handkerchief across the side of his right thigh repeatedly as he walked, an unconscious gesture, almost a reflex. It was the save me signal. No one would answer, though it was possible the Captain and the Sergeant might be able to get the King’s men within earshot of what was going on. Even if they couldn’t stop it, they could at least report it.

Prince Sigil pushed him into a small unfurnished room, whose walls were completely covered with Sigil’s tools, screaming the entire time. Valor walked to almost the exact center of the room, and stood waiting. I will survive this man. At the crack of the whip, Valor dropped to his knees. The whip hadn’t touched him yet, but it would. He slipped the handkerchief back into his left wrist cuff and waited for the first blow. I will survive-

Consciousness came to Five in a flood of pain and cold hard stone. Someone beside him bumped his right hand as they pushed him onto a grounded glide stretcher, and the overwhelming tsunami of pain carried him back into blissful unconsciousness. When he next awoke it was to a foul smell he couldn’t escape.

Argh. He batted the vial away from his face with his left hand. His right seemed to be immobile. He couldn’t seem to form words properly. He tried licking his lips to see if that would help them work better. His tongue felt thick and heavy. A quick self inventory informed him that great pain could be found in the left side of his face, his left ribs and his right hand. The rest of him was merely sore.

Footsteps to his right alerted him to someone’s presence. Two someone’s, one light tread, one heavy, on a wooden floor. Ten’s voice spoke quietly beside him. We’ll have to get a surgeon. We have no choice.

Praiseworthy answered, Is he awake yet?

Yes, Five managed to croak. He sat up. They were in his bedroom, a smallish room with only a bed to its name. A few electorches cast meager light on the room from their wall pegs. He tried talking again, cautiously, Why a surgeon?

Almost every bone in your right hand and wrist is broken. And there’s nerve damage to boot. I could fix the ribs, but I can’t fix your hand. Ten sat beside him on the bed. She looked guilty, as if this lack of ability were some unforgivable fault.

Five blew out a breath. She’s only fourteen, he thought. She shouldn’t feel guilty for not being a doctor. Maybe guilt was the destiny decreed by her name, Duty. Not your fault. You didn’t break it. He looked at his heavily bandaged and throbbing hand quizzically. Why my hand?

Praiseworthy shrugged, and walked over to stand in front of them. Don’t know, but He definitely took exception to that hand. Giving it His particular attention.

Well, Praiseworthy would know, watching on the monitors. Five didn’t remember anything. He couldn’t remember most of the beatings. He’d long since concluded that his brain turned off the record on his short term memory for those episodes. It was just as well. Five hazarded a guess. The handkerchief, maybe. The other two were just as baffled. Not worth worrying about, probably. Go ahead and report.

Twelve and Nanny are still hiding with the children, Ten said. Eleven is monitoring. Everyone’s going to stay in hiding until time to get ready for this banquet the King is giving tonight.

What? Tonight? A party? Five looked at his bandaged ribs and hand. The way his face felt it was probably going to be wonderfully purpled. How long did he have to prepare?

That’s the big mystery, said Praiseworthy. Apparently the King is throwing a party in your honor tonight. That’s what set Sigil off. We are all to be there. Even the babies, even One, Seven, and Eight.

Tonight? What time is it?

Three in the morning, said Ten.

Five flung the covers back and pushed himself out of bed, shivering slightly against the cold. How long was I out?

Ten looked guilty again. About half a day. I gave you..., Her hand gestured to the far corner of the room. His ripped and bloody tunic had been tossed in a heap, on top of it he could see some empty snooze cartridges. Definitely two, possibly three, hard to tell in the dull light.

Where’s Sigil? Five asked. He winced at the pain in his ribs as he took an electorch from its peg, and headed for the door to his closet.

Sleeping, answered Praiseworthy matter-of-factly.

At least He’s vented his rage. He’s safe enough now. Five turned to Ten. Go hide with Eleven. Praiseworthy and I will go see the surgeon now. Without asking His permission. We’ll rendezvous by noon.

Ten nodded and left. Praiseworthy followed Five into the closet. The closet was much larger than the bedroom, by several times. Clothes bars, shelves and drawers lined all four walls and made a maze of the center of the room. Every nook, cranny, shelf and hanger was covered with clothes. Praiseworthy helped Five peel out of his hose, then left to dispose of the ruined garments. Five stalked through the room, looking for something appropriate. The surgeon didn’t know the undercurrents of power and intrigue that flowed through Prince Sigil’s house. So, Five would have to go in character as the simpering Lord Valor.

After helping Five dress, Praiseworthy opened the handkerchief dresser and pulled out two dark green lace handkerchiefs. Five stowed them in his pants pockets, grabbed a pack of cards and followed Praiseworthy out.

Five almost fainted with relief as the surgeon slipped the anesthetic ring around his arm above his elbow, numbing everything below. Time to save up and get one for home. Finally freed of the pain riveting his attention to himself, he tried to ignore the surgeon’s actions, afraid it would remind him how it was injured in the first place. Think of something else.

He pulled out the cards, and swiftly dealt a game of solitaire one-handed. Five lost the first game, and the second, and the third, distracted into an unusual losing streak.

The surgeon placed and knitted all the broken bones in Five’s hand, then electrostimmed the nerves. He fitted a clear plascast over the hand from fingertips almost to the elbow. The anesthetic ring was removed only after he’d double-checked his work. The right hand would need to remain in the plascast and immobilized for two weeks. The broken ribs took mere minutes to place and knit. Five elected to leave the bruises on his face as they were. It would help urge his father into the I’m sorry phase of his rage swings and it would further remind the King of neglected duties.

While showing Five and Praiseworthy out, the surgeon asked, Do I bill the Prince or the King.

Five glanced at his arm, then Praiseworthy.

The King, Praiseworthy said. Better make it the King.

They snuck back into the keep and up to the eagle’s room just before noon, to wait until time to prepare for the King’s banquet. Their father never bothered to look for them this time, his rage having been vented on Valor. And out of sight, out of mind. Eleven reported that the news media had announced an address by the King tomorrow, topic unknown. Rumor was running riot, but the Wolfarchon children were certain it had to do with whatever the King had planned for that night. And whatever was planned, it was for Five.

For the party Five selected an ensemble of white, silver and baby blue, to emphasize innocence and purity. Not that he had either, but to tweak the King. It was form fitting, except for the flaring lace cuffs which would accommodate his plascast. Praiseworthy patiently played valet again. Five rewarded him with the use of the black bear stole and muff for the occasion. Praiseworthy wore black as always, a rather shapeless suit which made him look criminally sinister, exactly the sort of person usually found lurking in dark alleyways with a club.

As they walked to the entrance with the other children following, Five could feel himself giving way to the persona of Lord Valor. His steps became shorter and prancing, hips swinging, head slightly cocked, the ubiquitous handkerchief waving from his left hand. He made a quick headcount of the children still living at the Wolf Keep as they walked. Lord Valor, himself, of course. Lord Praiseworthy, Lady Duty, Lord Justice, Lady Faith, Lord Victorious, Lady Splendor, Lady Brilliance, Lady Excellence, Lord Sterling, Lord Merit, Lord Loyalty, Lady Candor and Baby Lady Honor.

They rode to the palace in separate skiffs. Prince Sigil insisted Valor ride with him and the Princess Rulphia. The other thirteen children were split between two more skiffs. Bodyguards rode shotgun in all the skiffs, with the King’s men in a separate, smaller skiff leading and a few extras from the Prince’s retinue guarding the rear.

Taken at a normal pace this time, the ride took little over an hour. Though it seemed like an eternity to Valor, stuck in the rear facing seat, calmly ignoring his hostile parents silently glowering at him. Not that conversation would have been an improvement.

Instead he watched the scenery out the window. The change between Sigil’s lands and the Kings wasn’t immediately apparent, unless you knew what to look for. The fields in both were in the early stages of planting; the orchards preparing to flower. Mud lined the sides of the road and a few small drifts of snow clung to the shadows of stone buildings and fences. People made the difference. Sigil’s fields, orchards, and small towns appeared deserted. The populace except for the aristocracy hid from him, by choice and consistently. In the King’s lands workers populated the fields, watching the motorcade cautiously. The towns bustled with commerce and the occasional blocks and stacks of manufacturing squatted in the distance.

A thriving capital surrounded the palace. The skiffs slowed to a more decorous pace to wind in and through the tall buildings and heavy traffic. Short government buildings sprawled around the palace at the center of the city. The front of the palace was besieged by media battalions. The skiffs stopped at the theatrically appropriate spot to disgorge their passengers. The media trained their video and audio pickups on Sigil as he assisted his pregnant wife from the skiff, then followed him up the steps. Sigil smiled at them all, pausing to greet them, calling to a few by name and feeding them quick quotes for publication. Valor watched Sigil leave Rulphia’s side, momentarily, to slither next to a famous news announcer.

Sigil whispered in the man’s ear loud enough for all to hear, I’ll make an opportunity to speak with His Majesty tonight about changing the broadcast regulations to be more in keeping with the Congress’ recommendations. Then he reclaimed his wife and assisted her as they entered the palace.

Valor and the other children trailed behind, barely noticed except perhaps as a background blur. Valor paused at the doorway, as if to count the other children as they went in, making sure the battered side of his face was to the media, but knew it for an empty hope.

At the edge of his hearing his father’s dupe snorted. Can you believe that boy? Flapping around for attention.

Turning, Valor just caught the man stepping mincingly and waving an imaginary handkerchief. Happily the media weren’t allowed inside tonight. Sighing, Valor entered the palace.

They were greeted personally by King Ashlar and Queen Julit as they entered the Great Hall. The King’s Palace was gorgeous, warm, well-lit, spacious and still managed to be comfortable. The exact opposite of his brother Sigil’s. Julit had exquisite taste, and applied it liberally where she could.

After making his obeisances, Valor moved off, making room for his younger siblings, and took time for a quick stroll around the room. They would all be as safe from Prince Sigil here as anywhere. He first checked for family members, immediate and extended. The more of the late King Heale’s descendants gathered in one place the worse the party would be.

Valor heard Prince Sigil greet Count Bloodhawk, and turned to watch Sigil link his arm with the taller man’s. I hope you’ll excuse my interference, but I overheard that you’ve been having trouble expanding the Flames’ colleges in your district. I happen to know that Duke Boltorch has several colleges on the verge of mitosis and perhaps if you were to take in a few extras....

Count Bloodhawk looked taken aback. He was one of the few aristocrats Sigil hadn’t been able to land yet. Bloodhawk was a cautious, conservative man, inclined to reserve judgment until he could determine with certainty if Sigil was as he appeared, or as rumor had it. In any case, he obviously didn’t care for strangers or acquaintances getting too familiar. It is something to consider. His eyes met Valor’s and widened. What happened to your son?

Sigil looked up and frowned at Valor, shaking his head. I’ve told him thousands of times not to slide down the banister and at twenty-two you’d think he’d know better. Still, I suppose accidents will happen, no matter what you may do to prevent it.

Valor smiled prettily and wandered off to continue his reconnaissance of the room.

His eldest brother, Duke Courage Wolfarchon, One, was already there with his wife, the Duchess Genia. Her parents and some of her siblings surrounded them like a guard, eyes glittering hatefully at Valor as he nodded and passed by. One looked trapped and caged, his resentful gaze following Valor.

Three, the shy, stuttering, timid Lord Gallantry Wolfarchon, lived at the palace, supposedly as Sigil’s Pledge of Loyalty. Though to hear Sigil tell it, Three was the most expendable of all. Currently, Three was hiding behind the young Princess Cicera, the King’s daughter, in the guise of an escort. Undoubtedly to mollify Sigil, who had high hopes they would marry. A most unlikely event. Not the least impediment was their age difference, Three was twenty-five and Cicera twelve. Valor bestowed a familial kiss on each of them, with a few murmured encouraging words and light gestures with his handkerchief, before flitting on.

Seven and Eight, better known as Lady Beauty and Lady Purity, were in the corner with their husbands Piere and Aven. Huddled like strangers, possibly because Piere and Aven were not of the aristocracy. And not insane. Princess Petrona, sister to Ashlar and Sigil, in her widow’s black shroud, clung like a ghost to the wall next to them. Valor fluttered his handkerchief at them prettily, but didn’t gad over.

Moving on he found Bastard Prince Iac Licasren and Bastard Lord Grigari Lycosigil waiting for him, sipping wine. Uncle Iac was the son of the late King Heale’s mistress and the best court scandal in over a hundred years, along with his now dead sister Bastard Lady Dimita. Grigari was twice bastarded: his mother the bastard daughter of King Heale and himself her bastard son by the married Baron Ervl Lycosigil. Between the four of them: Iac, Dimita, Grigari and Valor, they’d managed to give Fenris more than enough gossip to be scandalously offended and amused.

Valor hurried to Grigari and Iac. Finally, sane rational people he could talk to. Do you know what’s going on? Valor fluttered a white silk handkerchief, and exchanging familial kisses with his uncle and cousin. We are in such a twitter. Father wouldn’t tell us anything. Iac was Valor’s favorite uncle, but knew nothing about his secret activities.

Grigari smiled. Valor, I honestly don’t know. Uncle and I were about to ask you that. You’re the guest of honor.

Iac grabbed Valor’s chin to hold him still while he examined the facial bruises. Iac was almost as large as Valor. He was closer to Valor’s size than any other man Valor knew. Valor was stronger, but as the simpering dandy he had to pretend weakness. Iac just growled and stalked away, toward where Ashlar and Sigil held conference. Iac was, possibly, the only man daring enough to take Prince Sigil to task.

Your father is at it again, Grigari noticed mildly.

Valor slid his right arm around Grigari’s shoulders, where Grigari could surreptitiously examine the plascast, and pulled him close to whisper, He about smashed my right hand to a pulp. It’s completely immobilized. Whatever’s up, He hates it.

Grigari sipped his wine. Why your hand?

Shrugging, Valor glanced over his shoulder at his father and uncles. Arguing, what else would they be doing? He sighed, hoping he would’nt have to pay for it later tomorrow. A group of five giggling young women walked into his field of view. The party wasn’t confined to Heale’s descendants. Valor had social duties to attend to, and his cover to maintain.

He turned back to Grigari and smiled. Shall we partake of tonight’s beauties?

Grigari linked his arm around Valor with a swift lifting of his eyebrows. Let’s do. They made a beeline for the girls.

Valor honestly liked Grigari. Grigari knew the truth about Lord Valor Wolfarchon, and the intricate ins and outs of Fenris’ court intrigue. Technically a double-first-cousin, he was as close as a brother. Grigari had been born one day after Valor, and they had shared a milk mother for three years, the Baroness Rose Ogdin, their mothers having both died due to complications of childbirth. At least for Grigari’s mother the complication had not been induced by the child’s father. Grigari also looked like an almost exact twin of Valor, but came only as high as Valor’s shoulder. A tall, but more normal sized, man.

Valor and Grigari quickly caught up to the group of girls, who pretended not to notice them until they burst into the circle. Ladies, they said simultaneously, while bowing.

A well-rounded blonde across the circle from Valor reached over to tap his shoulder with her fan. Really, Lord Valor, you look positively awful. What were you two conferencing about?

Oozing across to her, Valor rested his left wrist on her right shoulder. He allowed his handkerchief to dangle and dance caressingly into the ample cleave provided by the enormous upward push of her low-cut dress. Sweet Lady Rayse. He quickly touched her cheek with his lips. We were both in agreement that this would be a stiflingly dull party if it were only family. The scenery is much improved by the addition of fairer members of society outside the confines of King Heale’s descendants. And my looks can only be improved by such company.

The shorter brunette on his right attempted to take his hand in hers and discovered the plascast. Poor Valor. You’re truly injured. She pressed his hand to her less-than-ample, well-covered bosom. Since the surgeon is through with his work, I guess all I can do is try to kiss it, and make it better.

Oh, kisses on a plascast, Valor sighed, looking at her through his eyelashes. I doubt that would help much. ‘For tis but the kiss of passion that will mend this wound.’

‘-ed heart,’ Grigari muttered jealously, while Valor collected his kiss. Grigari was still trying to attach himself to the petite blonde beside him.

Lady Pamel! called a shrill dowager’s voice.

The brunette disengaged from Valor, sighing, and hurried away. Three of the remaining young ladies were also quickly called away by their watchful chaperones. They were left with the buxom fan-wielding blonde Lady Rayse, who was more than content to be bookended by the two gentlemen. She smiled up at Valor, So how did you injure your arm?

Valor, Grigari pointed, Even your fosterlings are here.

Valor turned quickly, hiding his dismay behind the handkerchief to his mouth. His worst fears were confirmed, all of King Heale’s descendants would be in attendance. Standing in the entrance were the Baroness Rose Ogdin and his three fosterlings, the children of dead siblings. Baroness Rose supervised the children as they made their obeisances to the King and Queen. Swallowing hard on the acid rising in his throat, Valor excused himself to intercept them before his father could corrupt them with a touch. Bastard Lord Baston Wolfarchon, age nine, son of the late Lord Bravery better known as Two, saw Valor and ran to him. Following close behind were Six’s, the deceased Lady Grace’s, children, Fealeof Stabler, age five, and Tiger Stabler, age three. For a moment Valor was engulfed in a swarming mass of children.

He needn’t have worried about his father. As he and Baroness Rose herded the children over to Grigari, Sigil merely glance up from his intent conversation with Duke Boltorch.

Praiseworthy joined them as they reached Grigari. Looks like an exciting night tonight.

Now that everyone was in attendance they were quickly called to the banquet. Using a series of innocuous gestures of his handkerchief, Valor made certain his siblings seated his fosterlings with them, and as far from Prince Sigil as possible, considering the constraints of the room and the tables. Valor, unfortunately, found himself at the head table with the Royal family, his father and stepmother, partnered with Princess Cicera. Worse and worse. Ten courses followed, with indigestion and heartburn as the main motif. All in all a thoroughly frustrating and gastronomically unrewarding experience.

When the last of the fruits and cheeses were removed, and the last pages disappeared into the woodwork after refilling all the wine glasses with a fine vintage Bacchal, the King stood to make one of his awful Announcements. The worst sign of all. Valor firmly pasted a blank look on his face like a mask. He tried to prepare himself by thinking of the worst his uncle could do to him. Make me his heir. With that in mind, Valor felt as prepared as he could possibly be.

King Ashlar smiled. Lord Valor Wolfarchon is honored to be sacrificed to the Royal family of Ariel in eight weeks at the Midsummer Conjunction. His execution to take place at the convenience of Her Royal Highness Princess Dedalean Leonargus.

Handkerchief to his mouth to stifle the scream, or was it a whimper, climbing up his throat, Valor stared at the king horrified. That couldn’t have been what he said. No, he said marriage. And made it sound a lot more flowery, but there’s the basic meaning. All eyes were on him, so Valor stayed in character and slid gracefully off his chair and under the table, in a skillful, flawless, fraudulent faint.

Chapter 2: The King’s Bargain

Guardian preserve me, Valor thought, taking what time his feint faint had given him to search for a way out. Ariel, sister planet to Fenris, was populated with savage barbarians, cutthroat pirates, and homicidal social-climbers. And that was among the better classes. The Princess Dedalean was noted for having put two husbands in the grave already, and she not yet of age! Valor realized he was staring death in the face. Death by execution due to treasonously refusing a royal command. Or death by whatever means the crazies on Ariel used. How had her previous husbands died? More importantly how could he protect the children if he was on Ariel? Try as he might, the only real coherent thought he could manage was, this explains the right hand, the marriage ring goes on the center finger. Father’d be extremely pissed to lose his whipping boy and handsome marriage pawn.

Someone rolled him over. He opened his eyes to discover his father pulling him out from under the table. Without thinking Valor stood, grabbing his father and pulling him up to his feet. Help me. You can’t let him do this to me.

In the silence that followed, Valor realized exactly how desperate the situation had to be for him to ask his father for help. Prince Sigil looked wary, but secretly pleased. Valor turned to take in the room. All eyes stared in horrified fascination at him. He realized he was swatting his left thigh with his handkerchief. No one moved to save him. Grigari had covered his mouth in horror, mute sympathy in his eyes. Praiseworthy looked sick. Valor was only slightly cheered to see some marriageable maidens looking disappointed.

King Ashlar gently clasped his left elbow and urged him out of the room. Come. We will discuss this.

Valor followed in uncomprehending shock. The king led him to the Blue Sitting Room. A small room, just big enough for three chairs and a low table, used for confidential conversations and bureaucratic influencing. Decorated in various medium shades of blue with silver and burgundy accents, it complimented Valor’s clothing, but did nothing for the King’s. King Ashlar seated himself in a comfortable chair, and motioned Valor to one directly across from it. Valor sat warily.

With a stern look the king began, We have engaged His Majesty, King Leoman of Ariel in talks for several months now, looking to create an accord between our planets, Fenris, the Wolf of the Guardian, and Ariel, the Lioness of the Guardian…

Why so formal Ashlar? What sort of lecture will I get this time? Duties or responsibilities probably.

Fenris and Ariel have traditionally warred with each other. Ever since our ancestors...

Oh, historical.

...settled this system four hundred years ago. They planned to develop an unstoppable horde, of revenge and revolt, aimed at the Target, with their plan culminating in five hundred years. We are close to that point now, one hundred years, almost, 101 BR. We must start conducting negotiations with Ariel, along the lines of mutual cooperation and benefit against such time. Ashlar paused.

Valor forbore to comment that Ashlar didn’t care about his long dead ancestors far-away plans. Never had and probably never would. Someone should have told them that five hundred years was far too long to wait for revenge.

We are starting with an agricultural agreement, Ashlar continued. We want to expand our trade, it could be most profitable.

You’ve just discovered this new market?

We have conducted long negotiations with King Leoman. Who agrees with Us. We need a greater exchange of people and trade. We need normalized relations, not another war. We need open borders and mutually beneficial goals. When Valor still didn’t respond, Ashlar frowned. You will do as you are told. You will marry Dedalean and make her happy. You will make a good impression on everyone you meet on Ariel, as a representative of Fenris. And you will further all opportunities for cultural and economic exchange. You may take your trousseau, and any other personal items you wish. You will be accompanied by a transport carrying one hundred head of sheep, one hundred head of cattle, and fifty representatives of various large fowl. These will be presented to King Leoman as first earnest offering of Our side of the agreement. Ashlar ran out of steam.

Beginning to recover from his shock and regain his composure, Valor cocked an eyebrow at the king, while stuffing the handkerchief up his right sleeve. Am I to understand you’re sending prize studs to improve the breeding stock in sheep, cattle, fowl, and the aristocracy of Ariel?

Ashlar now had a deep flush to go with his frown.

What are you really doing, and where do I fit in? Valor rested his left elbow on the soft, padded arm of the chair, his hand elegantly cupping his chin, eyes wide innocence.

Ashlar stood abruptly, and began pacing. Valor watched him through slitted eyes. Now he would get the truth.

Pretend what you will, Valor. I know you protect your siblings from your father. I want you to protect my son from Him too.

Lord Valor dropped from Five like a robe sliding off his shoulders. You have no son, Sire. Or rather he’d had three sons, all dead. Prince Sigil’s work, alas unproveable.

Ashlar’s mind was following along the same tracks. We will. In seven months. We don’t want your father to even know about this one. Until it’s too late.

What do you mean, exactly.

Smiling Ashlar re-seated himself across from Five, leaning close to whisper. "You will take your fosterlings with you to Ariel. Lord Valor may have a reputation as