The entrance hall of the Imperial Laurel Inn was busy when they came in. Servants hurried between the guests, a porter was wrestling a trunk toward the stairs, and the low murmur of conversation drifted out from the dining room.
Owen barely noticed any of it. He had only taken a few steps inside when Hugh came up beside him.
"Young Master," Hugh said. "There’s nothing left keeping us in the capital. Shall I make preparations for us to leave tomorrow morning?"
Owen thought about it briefly. The ball was over, and so was everything that had come after it. He couldn’t think of a single reason to stay.
"Yes," he said. "Tomorrow morning."
"Then I’ll let the staff know this afternoon and arrange the carriages," Hugh said. "I’ll see to it that everyone’s belongings are packed and ready before we set off."
"Try not to let it drag on," Owen said. "I’d rather we left early than spent half the morning waiting in the courtyard."
"It’ll be done, Young Master."
Hugh went off to find the rest of the escort.
Owen climbed the stairs toward his room. His ribs ached a little with every step, and he decided he would spend what remained of the day doing nothing at all.
* * *
Afternoon sunlight came in through the tall windows of the study and lay across the polished surface of the desk.
Edmund Ferrers sat behind it with a document open in front of him. Several more were stacked neatly to one side, waiting their turn. The only sounds in the room were the occasional rustle of parchment and the scratch of his pen.
Captain Thomas Mercer stood on the other side of the desk with the day’s reports tucked under his arm. He had been admitted a few minutes earlier, and he waited without fidgeting while Edmund finished reading.
Edmund signed the bottom of the page, set his pen down, and looked up.
"Go ahead, Thomas."
"The garrison supplies first, Your Grace," Mercer said. "The provisions requested by the officers in the outlying districts have been assembled. The quartermasters are waiting for your authorization to complete the distributions."
He laid a sheet on the desk. Edmund drew it toward him and ran his eyes down the figures.
"Do these allow for what the garrisons actually need now?" he asked. "Not what they needed when they last sent requests?"
"They’ve been checked against the most recent submissions, Your Grace. The quantities match."
Edmund looked at the figures a moment longer, then picked up his pen again and signed.
"Approved. Tell the quartermasters I want the deliveries finished without delay."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Mercer took the sheet back and offered the next. "The patrol rotations for the main roads and trade routes. The officers responsible have submitted their proposed changes. They need your approval before they can put them in place."
Edmund read through the proposal more slowly. Once or twice he turned back to an earlier line.
"Will this leave any of the important routes thin?"
"No, Your Grace. Coverage on all the main routes stays where it is. The changes only affect how the shifts are divided."
"Good." Edmund signed that one as well and handed it back.
Mercer slid both sheets into his folder. Then he paused, very briefly, before he spoke again.
"There’s one more matter, Your Grace. News arrived from the capital this afternoon. It concerns the young master."
Edmund had already reached for the next document on the pile. He looked up.
"Owen?" he said. "What’s my youngest been doing?"
"He fought a duel with Lucien de Clare, Your Grace," Mercer said. "And he won."
Edmund’s eyebrows rose.
He put the pen down and turned his full attention to Mercer. "A duel? He was meant to be attending Princess Adelaide’s ball. How does a ball turn into a duel with a de Clare?"
"The confrontation began during the ball, Your Grace. The duel itself took place the following morning, at the East Martial Court. By then, the dispute had become serious enough that they had agreed to a formal wager."
"What could they possibly have disagreed about that badly?"
"According to the report, Lucien de Clare insulted House Ferrers," Mercer said. "The young master wouldn’t stand for it. The argument escalated from there, and the wager came out of it."
Edmund’s expression sharpened. "And the terms?"
"If the young master lost, he would publicly acknowledge Lucien de Clare’s accusations against House Ferrers and serve him for a year. If he won, he had the right to claim a part of Lucien’s body of his choosing."
Edmund said nothing. He gestured for Mercer to go on.
"The young master defeated him decisively, Your Grace. Lucien de Clare surrendered in front of Princess Adelaide and the assembled nobles." Mercer kept his voice even. "Afterward, the young master claimed his left arm as payment for the wager. Lucien de Clare protested and tried to avoid paying, but the young master refused to reconsider. He severed the arm."
He let a moment pass.
"Lucien de Clare received medical attention immediately. The incident has attracted a great deal of attention among the nobles who witnessed it."
The study was quiet.
Edmund looked at Mercer for a long moment. When he spoke, it was slowly. "He actually took the arm. He didn’t accept some other settlement?"
"The report is clear on that, Your Grace."
Edmund burst out laughing.
It was a deep, hearty laugh, and it filled the whole study. Mercer blinked. Edmund leaned back in his chair with one hand on the desk, the documents forgotten, and laughed until he had to stop and catch his breath.
"And here I thought," he said, still chuckling, "that Gareth went to the capital after his mission partly to keep an eye on his little brother." He shook his head. "It sounds as though Owen didn’t need much looking after at all."
That set him off again.
Mercer waited.
When Edmund finally settled, the warmth was still in his face. He picked up the pen without seeming to realise he had done it and turned it slowly between his fingers.
"I’m proud of him, Thomas," he said. "I don’t mind admitting it. He stood his ground, he didn’t let anyone insult this family to his face, and he made sure the boy who did it paid for it." He smiled. "And he beat a de Clare in front of half the capital. I know how hard he’s been working. It’s good to hear that it shows."
"The young master has certainly made an impression, Your Grace," Mercer said.
"Gareth must have been beside himself," Edmund said. "Riding all that way to look after his brother, and all he gets to do is sit and watch."
Mercer allowed himself the smallest of smiles. Then it was gone, and he cleared his throat.
"If I may, Your Grace," he said. "Lucien de Clare is a member of a Grand Ducal family. Losing an arm in a public dispute with the young master could become a serious matter between the two houses." He hesitated. "Do you expect Grand Duke Isembard to let it pass quietly? Given the history between our families?"
Edmund’s laughter faded, though the smile didn’t leave his face.
Mercer was right, of course. Edmund knew Isembard de Clare far too well to imagine he would simply shrug at the sight of his son coming home with one arm. It was entirely possible that he would decide to make something of it.
But Edmund found that the possibility didn’t trouble him nearly as much as Owen’s conduct pleased him.
"Don’t worry about House de Clare," he said. "If Isembard wants to make an issue of it, I’ll deal with him myself."
Mercer studied him for a moment.
He had served Edmund for a long time. Long enough to recognise when his mind was made up, and Edmund could see him recognise it now. Mercer didn’t press any further.
"Understood, Your Grace."
He gathered the remaining reports into his folder, tucked it beneath his arm and saluted. "Is there anything else you require?"
"No. That’ll be all, Thomas."
Mercer turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Edmund drew the document he had been reading before the briefing back toward him and squared it on the desk. He dipped his pen and found his place again.
The smile was still there.
Gareth, riding into the capital to watch over his little brother, only to find himself sitting on a bench while Owen took a de Clare apart.
Edmund chuckled quietly to himself, shook his head, and bent back over his work.
* * *
The evening light was fading over the capital.
It came in through the enormous windows of the private chamber and lay in long bars across the polished floor, between the tall carved pillars that held up the ceiling. Heavy curtains framed each window. Farther back in the room stood a large desk, its surface arranged with correspondence and official documents, and above it hung the imperial insignia.
A tall figure stood before the central window, looking out over the city.
It was the Emperor.
Only his back could be seen. He wore a dark imperial robe, finely tailored, with gold embroidery running along its edges and down the length of its sleeves. It fell cleanly across his broad shoulders. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood very still as he looked down at the capital spread out below him.
A few members of his personal guard stood near the chamber’s entrance, so quietly that they might have been part of the room.
Closer to the window, though still several respectful paces behind the Emperor, stood his private secretary. He was a man in his middle years, in formal court dress of dark cloth with restrained gold trim, and his hair was neatly kept and touched with grey at the temples. He held a slim folio against his chest. He waited with the ease of a man long used to it.
Below the window, lights were beginning to appear across the city, one by one.
The Emperor watched them for a long while without speaking.
Then he let out a long sigh.
"A storm is brewing," he said.
The secretary raised his eyes to the figure at the window. "Your Imperial Majesty is referring to the incident between Owen Ferrers and Lucien de Clare?"
"I am."
The Emperor was quiet for a moment.
"For years," he said, "I have taken care that the bad blood between House Ferrers and House de Clare did not become anything worse. They have never been friends. I have never expected them to be. But I have worked to keep their quarrels from becoming something that threatens the Empire." His voice was calm and even. "And now, after all of that, their children have handed me exactly the problem I had hoped to avoid."
The secretary said nothing. He waited.
"A humiliation might have been forgotten, in time," the Emperor went on. "Young men lose duels. Pride heals. But an arm will not grow back." He paused. "This will put a strain on the two houses that they have not felt in a long time."
The secretary considered that before he spoke.
"Does Your Majesty intend to intervene before it goes any further?"
The Emperor didn’t answer straight away.
He turned his head slightly toward the secretary. From where the secretary stood, the fading light caught only part of the Emperor’s face, the line of his jaw and his mouth in profile. The rest stayed in shadow.
"Prepare letters," the Emperor said. "Official letters, addressed to the heads of the Great Families. I want them here, at the palace, next month."
The secretary inclined his head. "Should the letters state the reason for the meeting, Your Majesty? So that the family heads can prepare accordingly?"
"No."
The Emperor turned back to the window.
"Tell them only that their presence is requested at an imperial meeting. Nothing more. There is no need for them to know the purpose."
"As Your Majesty commands. The letters will be prepared and dispatched."
The Emperor gave him leave with a slight movement of his hand. The secretary bowed, stepped back, and withdrew from the chamber with the folio under his arm, his footsteps fading quietly down the corridor beyond.
The guards remained at their posts.
At the window, the Emperor stood as he had before, his hands clasped behind his back and his face turned away, watching the lights of the capital spread through the gathering dark.