Cobweb Empire by Vera Nazarian Page A

the
Domain.”
    “My dear boy, you always have such good news
for me. Tell me more of what the Lady says.”
    “The Lady assures Your Brilliance that Duke
Ian Chidair, known as Hoarfrost, is precisely as dead as rumored,
furious at his fate, and halfway-mad. But he is otherwise
sufficiently reasonable, and quite interested in your offer.”
    “Can he offer me arms?”
    “Yes, he can. He has amassed an army of men
in a similar condition to his own. It is apparently a natural
selection, for the dead clamor to him, and he now commands enough
rabble to storm a city, much less hunt Cobweb Brides.”
    “And how successful has he been in his
hunting?”
    Quentin paused, as though attempting to
recall. “Begging all pardons, but the message did not go into
sufficient detail.”
    “No matter. But when you write back, inquire
regarding this one detail.”
    “It will be done as Your Brilliance
Commands.”
    “Indeed. Do keep us well informed in that
regard. And now, this is what you will write to the Lady in our
confidence: tell her that Chidair, the Blue Duke, Hoarfrost—call
him what you will—is to gather his army and advance south. Tell him
that in due course I shall meet him halfway and unite our ranks.
But first, he is to make his stand at Letheburg.”
    Ebrai did not blink, nor did he make any
movement. But his breath seemed to have stilled somewhat.
    The Sovereign was perfectly aware of the
difference in her favorite advisor’s breathing, as she continued to
disregard him and instead watched young Quentin Loirre with her
impassive gaze.
    The young Loirre bowed crisply, and then was
dismissed with one finger.
    When the youth was gone from the Hall, the
Sovereign again turned to Fiomarre. “Well?” she said. “What is your
reaction now, my dear Ebrai?”
    Ebrai looked at her with a stilled
expression. “My reaction is a mixture of distress and relief,” he
said, his dark eyes meeting hers openly. “I am stirred by the fact
that this long-desired military action is happening at last. And I
am elated that revenge is in sight. Altogether the combination is
too much for me . . . I am frankly rendered
speechless. . . .”
    “And yet your words are so eloquent, even
now.”
    Ebrai Fiomarre bowed.
    The Chamberlains were directed to admit the
next party seeking Audience. They announced the Count Lecrant
D’Arvu of Balmue and the Countess Arabella D’Arvu.
    The Count was a middle-aged, vigorous man
with a dark complexion and an artful powdered platinum wig, dressed
in somber black of mourning. And his wife was similarly clad in a
black court dress, with no embellishments except mourning lace and
a black, stark, unpowdered wig. The Countess had a thin, pinched
face, and eyes red from weeping. She was possibly youthful, but
grief had wrung all life juices from her, and she moved at her
husband’s side like a shade.
    “Approach, D’Arvu,” the Sovereign spoke to
them.
    “Your Brilliance,” spoke the Count and
Countess, bowing and curtsying in unison.
    “Yes, what news from Balmue?” The Sovereign
did not bother with personal courtesies.
    “It is all as planned, and Balmue stands
ready to proceed at the border,” the Count replied in a weary
voice. “Furthermore, the Ambassador, Marquis Nuor Alfre, is newly
returned from his Realm visit to see the Liguon Emperor at the
Silver Court, and is at present back home in Ulpheo, at the court
of His Majesty King Clavian Sestial. He says—that is—the news he
brings is rather remarkable.”
    The Sovereign watched with softly lidded
languid eyes. “Go on. What news?”
    There was a tiny pause before Count D’Arvu
replied. “It appears, Your Brilliance, that the Imperial House
Liguon is in mourning. The Emperor’s daughter, the Infanta, has
suffered an assassination, on her sixteenth Birthday Feast Day,
only a week or so ago. She has been struck down with a dagger
through the heart, and because death no longer takes us, she is now
dead, yet ‘lives’—she is