Her Rightful Place

50: The Ultimatum

"Sharnuk. Report on Vyrunia," the Grand Chancellor of Khandazar demands at a Full Council of the Board of Chancellors. They have been meeting daily since the letter from Mordalce regarding the Bundthall Assassins, which is an unusually high workload for them.

"I am afraid there is not terribly much to report, Your Eminence," Sharnuk replies timidly, quite afraid that knives will start flying again. His fear is not unreasonable; two servants and another Chancellor have died at the Grand Chancellor's hands in the past three days.

"And why not? Have our spies and ambassadors not been doing their jobs?"

"Forgive me, Your Eminence, but all I can tell you is what is in this single letter that I received from one of our spies this morning. The Vyrunian court is celebrating some sort of religious feast week and government operations have been suspended. Our ambassadors told my correspondent that they have been trying and failing to get a personal meeting with the King, and his Royal Ministers decline to discuss any sort of alliance with us if their monarch is not present. The spies have not been able to get anywhere near the Princess; evidently her household is being downsized, and those in charge of her household are severely strict about who can see the Princess and when."

"They have learned caution, it seems," one of the Chancellors mutters. The Grand Chancellor hears him and sends a knife whizzing past his head. He yelps and drops to the floor, cowering and whimpering unintelligibly.

"No more of that. It seems almost as though they knew, or at least suspected, what we were planning," the Grand Chancellor growls. "But how..."

"Is it not possible, Your Eminence, that Mordalce, in their efforts to secure an alliance with Vyrunia, saw fit to tell the Vyrunians about the Bundthall Assassins we sent to Cloiche Fuar?" another Chancellor inquires, already cringing with fear of a violent reprisal.

"Aye, quite possible. However, it is equally possible that one of our own has turned traitor, and I will stop at nothing until I discover which of you—"

A crash interrupts the Grand Chancellor, caused by a door colliding with the wall as a courier stumbles through it. He prostrates himself on the floor and slinks across the stone like a slug to the Grand Chancellor's feet.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Eminence. I know you are most busy at present—" the courier snivels.

"Then why did you come here, knave?!" The Grand Chancellor brandishes a scimitar, pulled seemingly out of nowhere, over the courier's head.

"I thought you would want to see this message, just arrived from the Vyrunian court," the courier quavers, offering the Grand Chancellor a small piece of parchment, rolled into a scroll and sealed with wax. The Grand Chancellor snatches the scroll from the courier's trembling grasp.

"Get out," he orders.

"Yes, Your Eminence," the courier agrees, skittering haphazardly across the floor until he escapes the Hall of Chancellors. A passing soldier thoughtfully closes the door behind him. The Grand Chancellor breaks the seal with a knife and unrolls it, then sighs irritably and throws it on the table.

"Linguist!" he roars. The Chancellors collectively flinch. Angélique, ancient and unruffled as ever, shuffles out of her room behind the throne and makes her way to the table where the Chancellors are gathered.

"What is your wish, Your Eminence?" she asks the Grand Chancellor politely. He gestures irritably to the message on the table.

"It's in Vyrunian. Translate it so that I can read it."

"As you wish, Your Eminence." Angélique, who is fluent in all the languages of the continent, takes an open seat at the table and sets to work, using a fresh piece of parchment from one of the deep pockets in her skirt, on translating the message. Oh, His Eminence will not like this, not one bit, she thinks while she works. It seems the usual way of doing things around here, losing tempers and acting hastily, has worked against them this time, which has been a long time coming.