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Chapter 863: A Prelude

Two days later, Roland Wimbledon’s fleet arrived at the pier of Redwater City.

Earl Delta, who had received word in advance, had taken the arrival seriously—perhaps too seriously. The pier had been scrubbed clean and hung with eye-catching satin and long banners. On the day itself, the earl led his nobles out beyond the city gate and met the fleet in the open suburb, his welcome considerably warmer than the reception he had offered the First Army’s earlier visit.

Among the greeting party, as great nobles of the Central Region, George Nery and Guye Yurianne stood in the second row.

He had to admit the new king’s presence was arresting.

This was not the first time George had seen the steel flagship named for the prince. Half a year had passed since the Tooth Extraction Campaign, and yet the sight struck him in the same way it had then—that uneasy, reluctant shock of something you know is stronger than you. Behind it came the concrete vessels in neat columns, more of them than before, their snow-white chimneys trailing heavy smoke up into a sky that seemed to lower itself for the occasion. When the uniformed soldiers began descending the pier in matched step—same color, same pace, same deliberate silence—George felt something he recognized as admiration and disliked himself for it.

If the Rock family had ever commanded such an army, the throne would have been within reach. Not just Redwater City. The throne.

“That fool,” he said, low enough for Guye alone. “Five or six years ago in the king’s city, he was the stupidest of the lot. His brothers had him beaten in every regard. Even his youngest sister, barely out of the cradle, showed more promise.”

“Which means,” Guye replied, with a shrug of easy irony, “that Prince Roland is either the most sophisticated one among them, or has benefited from extraordinary luck. A man who develops a border posting into this”—he gestured toward the fleet—“and outpaces all his siblings in the process is not a fool. Remember to smile and show your hospitality.”

“I know how to smile,” George said carelessly. “He’s a member of the royal family. Even if he were an idiot, I would do my best. Rest easy.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

A horn sounded from the direction of the pier—long, brass-bright, carrying across the water—and a ripple of movement passed through the assembled crowd. Roland Wimbledon had appeared.

George leaned toward Guye without moving his head. “How’s your preparation?”

“Fifty-one men already placed in the castle,” Guye murmured, keeping his face pleasantly expectant, turned toward the pier. “I can move the remainder within two more days.”

“Same for me.” George let his smile appear, slow and comfortable. “We have plenty of time. The odds improve the longer we wait.”

They had discussed Roland’s likely movements at length. The king would almost certainly negotiate with Earl Delta before making any public announcement—Redwater City was too large, the surrounding noble network too complex, for the summary approach that had worked at Willow Town. Delta’s indecisiveness would add days of its own. Then the news would need to spread, the other nobles to react. The whole process would take a week at least, possibly two. Time enough to fill every secret passage without drawing notice.

And when the midnight bell tolled, their men would converge from multiple directions at once. The snow powder weapons would be useless in confined stone corridors. Numbers and position—those were what mattered in a castle, and both would belong to George.

Roland Wimbledon would not escape.

“He’s coming,” Guye said quietly.

George arranged his face into welcome and stepped forward with the crowd.

Earl Delta stood at the front of the greeting line, introducing the assembled nobles in his eager, flattering way, his round face flushed above his quivering double chin. George watched him and felt his stomach turn. The earl had worn exactly that expression when Timothy’s army had marched through here, years ago—the same broad grin, the same proprietary pleasure at being seen to know everyone. A man for all seasons and none of them his own.

“Your Majesty, this is the lord of Rock Ridge, Earl George Nery.” Delta had reached him.

“I am greatly honored, Your Majesty.” George pressed his right fist to his chest and bowed low, his voice carrying the warmth he had practiced. “Rock Ridge produces the finest tea and fruit wine in the region. It would be my great honor if you found occasion to visit.”

“Is that so?” The reply surprised him. “Where exactly is your domain?”

George paused—just for an instant. Shouldn’t the response be the honor is mine, and I shall call on you at my earliest convenience? That was the form. “Just east of Redwater City,” he said smoothly. “Two kilometers out, behind the first hill—that is Rock Ridge, and the Nery lands.”

“A pleasant location.” The new king patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “I hope you will treasure it.”

Treasure it. What does that mean?

George kept the question off his face. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, and stepped back.

The greeting ceremony concluded without incident. Earl Delta announced a grand banquet at the Lakeside Villa and called for his knights to clear the road ahead. Everything had gone precisely to plan—better than plan, in fact, because the First Army had remained encamped at the pier in the suburb. Roland had entered the city with fewer than a hundred guards. Once he settled into the castle, perhaps twenty would be stationed outside his bedchamber.

George was certain of the outcome.

And yet that smile had been odd. He could not say why. Something in it hadn’t reached the man’s eyes—or had reached them in a way that wasn’t warmth. An ineffable chill settled at the base of his throat, unwilled, which he immediately dismissed.

Maybe I was wrong. Even if he suspects something, suspicion becomes meaningless the moment he’s inside the castle. When he’s in my hands, we’ll have a different kind of conversation than this one.

By then, he would not need to perform warmth.

Night fell over Redwater City like a slow exhaled breath. The whole city knew that the last prince of the Wimbledon line was within its walls—knew it and celebrated, the Inner City blazing with torchlight until the dark felt almost warm. The Lakeside Villa had always been the great entertainment house of Redwater, built half over water, linked to the Redwater River by a trestle corridor supported on century-old larches. Running water in the hall. The dining room hanging above the lake. Earl Delta had stripped the region of its finest seasonal food and arrayed it on tables long enough for three generations to share a meal.

George ate without tasting any of it.

He was tracking two things: Roland Wimbledon’s movements and the attitudes of the Delta-aligned nobles who might complicate his plans.

When the new king finally entered the dining hall, George frowned.

All of Roland’s guards were women.

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