Meanwhile, in the Capitol, Prince Blaine was hiding. It had been a highly stressful day already, and there was no end in sight. His father had sent him to Estus to meet with the team of architects about the new addition to the Grand College. He'd only just returned when the stewards had stripped him down, changed his clothes, and shooed him into the Hall of Lords to dedicate one of the lower nobles' babies. Then he'd heard the supplications of about twenty people from the Commons' Guild. Now he was hiding, hoping to spend his lunch break in peace.
"My Prince?"
He got up and slid the panel back, allowing his personal page, Pagan, to enter.
"I've brought your lunch, sire," the younger man said, setting a tray down on the table. "And your mail."
"Thank you, Pagan," Blaine said. "If you would be so good as to read the letters to me - or no, better yet, summarize them - while I eat."
"Indeed, sire," Pagan said, clearing his throat. "The first is from his grace, Count Chang. He writes that the countess has returned from her treasure hunting expedition. She is currently taking stock of the findings, and will be personally delivering a portion to the royal treasury come the next Day of Peace. He also writes that she seems to have disturbed some sort of haunting being that was protecting the loot, and is currently working to contain, if not rid herself of, it."
Blaine chuckled, spreading marmalade on the thick slab of bread. "Tell me, Pagan, since you've been known to have the occasional flutter on various matches. Given some sort of quasi-demonic entity of malice and vengeance on the one hand, and Countess Tina Elizabeth Almana Chang on the other, where would you bet, say, three dollars?"
Pagan thought about that for a moment. "The countess, sire."
"Indeed, as would I. Write back thanking them and wishing them good luck. The next letter?"
"From Baron Hudson. He thanks your Highness for your assistance in planning the railway, and would like you to know that they've run into a small snag, but will begin construction as soon as it is dealt with. Apparently there's something killing the Diamondwood trees on the eastern bank, sire."
Blaine looked up, brow furrowed. "What on earth could kill a Diamondwood?"
"I know not, sire, and nor does the Baron. He fears it is some sort of new bacteria, and has dispensed a team of Wizards and Magi to study the problem."
Blaine nodded slowly, nibbling a slice of cheese.
"Shall I write back, sire?"
"No, Pagan. I would like to speak to the King about this first. Diamondwood is one of the country's chief exports, and we should proceed carefully. The next letter?"
Pagan read it through, and sniggered, causing Blaine to quirk an eyebrow at him. Blushing, the twenty-five year old cleared his throat again before continuing. "From Archduchess Lopez," he said. "She...er...baulks a bit at your jesting suggestion to hang the servant by her ankles in the dungeon, reminding your Highness that she promised young Mistress Rachel not to harm the girl. And also that she feels that particular punishment may not fit the crime. She also craves to know why your Highness did not warn her that her mother - that is, Lady Maribel - was going to visit. Sire!" Pagan said, sidestepping just in time.
Juice had come out of Blaine's nose and sprayed a few inches. "Sorry," he gasped, still laughing. He'd had no idea the Dowager Countess was going home, as it were. That was priceless. "Poor Rachel," he mumbled. "Leave the second two letters here, Pagan. I shall respond in my own hand."
"Yes, my Prince," Pagan said, bowing and exiting.
Blaine sighed and pushed the rest of his lunch away from him. Time to get back to work. He stood, stretching, and stuffed the letters in the pocket of his waistcoat. With a deep breath to relax his somewhat frazzled nerves, he left his secret study and walked into the main hall of the palace. Court was always busy this time of year, but the people parted for the heir apparent, bowing respectfully. He reached what was known as the Red Study to find a gaggle of random courtiers flocking toward his father's secretary, requesting an audience with King Darren. Not in the mood to wait, Blaine called clearly,
"Good Master Bryant, a moment of your time?"
The crowd parted instantly, some even bending at the knee. Blaine strode forward, smiling at the older man.
"Good afternoon, your Highness," Bryant said, bowing.
"Is my father within?"
"Yes, sire. I believe he has an audience with Lord Estus at the moment, but I shall announce you presently."
"Thank you, Bryant."
It took a moment, but after a bit Lord Estus appeared, tipping his floppy green hat to Blaine. Blaine liked him - one of the few Lower Nobles who had both class and common sense. He waited until a page announced him, and then walked into the room. It was a relatively small room, with a deep red carpet leading up to a throne of Diamondwood and oak. Blaine stood before his father, and bowed. His normally gelled hair was loose that day, and he knew from the sympathetic titters of the small group around him that he was the spitting image of the king that day. He smiled slightly and waved a pinkie at Cooper, who was seated at his father's left side.
"My son!" his father boomed jovially. "What brings you at this hour? Have you not a meeting with the Lower Nobles quite soon?"
"In a bit, yes," Blaine said. "But I wanted to seek your opinion on a matter first."
"Yes, I'm listening."
"Baron Hudson wrote to me. He says there is some sort of malady that has befallen the Diamondwood forest. He's investigating, but I wanted your thoughts before I acted or wrote back."
King Darren frowned and scratched his chin. "Send a few of our best Theoretical Biomancy up there. You may use one of the Airships."
"Yes, Majesty."
"Good luck at the Small Council today," King Darren said, waving him away with a cryptic smile.
Blaine managed to hold in a groan as he bowed and left the room. Small Council was different than the Council of Lords. Entirely comprised of Lower Nobles, it was a two-hour bitching session. At least in the High Council they got things done - matters of state and budget were settled, agreements were met. This was like herding two year olds.
"His oxen keep crossing onto my lands!"
"I demand a larger stronghold!"
"But I don't like Archduchess Lopez!"
And worst of all, he had to deal with his cousin. By rights, Lord Sebastian Arcturus Jameson Smythe was an extremely distant relative. Something like a fourth cousin in law, eight times removed or something. But he was as pompous as the highest noble in the land, an idiot with ideas far above his station, debatably highborn (but he couldn't take that into account too much, knowing how Cooper came into the world), and to sum it up, a smug bastard. If Blaine had a choice between dealing with him, and taking on Countess Chang's vengeance demon, he would go with the demon quite happily.
"Make way for his grace, the Most Illustrious, Most Right High, Crown Prince Blaine Phillip Darren Chris Anderson, First of His Name!" the page called, advancing his entrance into the Green Hall.
He hated that. But it was expected. He took his seat at the head of the long table, and waited as the Lower Nobles took their seats as well. "My Lords and Ladies, we will start with the general business of the month…."
Pagan strode the halls, folded blanket in his arms. Actually, the term "blanket" didn't really do this justice. It was far heavier than the name suggested, and embroidered with beautiful, delicate stitching. It was far past supper time, and most everyone had retired to bed. Everyone except Prince Blaine, apparently. Pagan had gone in to give the Prince his evening tea and check on his hot water bottle, and found the bed still made. It happened quite often, actually, so Pagan knew what to do. He nudged the door to Blaine's private library open and tiptoed in.
There was the prince, fast asleep in a large, cushy chair. The book he'd been reading was open on the floor.
Pagan smiled and tried hard not to stare. He'd been trying hard not to stare since the age of sixteen, when he'd been promoted to Prince Blaine's personal manservant. He loved the prince dearly, but a servant's love wasn't where it stopped. He knew better though. He always had - it was just that now, with the girl Rachel in the picture for the Archduchess…. He shook his head. No, it couldn't happen, he thought as he covered the sleeping heir with the thick blanket. Princes don't marry their butlers. He turned to leave.
"Thank you, Pagan," Blaine whispered sleepily.
"You're welcome, sire."