Prisoner of the Iron Tower by Sarah Ash Page B

rich black bread with sour cream. Muscobar provided the finest vodka to drink with the caviar. Rich Smarnan wines were offered with rolled slices of dried beef, olives marinated in fiery oil, or little cakes of honey and nuts. But Khitari had supplied the most exotic selection; Khan Khalien had sent five of his most skilled cooks to prepare the dishes and, in their emerald brocade jackets and tasseled hats, they were exciting as much comment from the guests as the delicious spicy parcels and crisp crackers they had cooked. Only Azhkendir was poorly represented: All that could be found in the food halls of the Muscobar merchants were a few barrels of salted herrings and some jars of cloudberries and lingonberries from the moors. Eugene’s chefs had avoided the herrings and, displaying considerable culinary imagination, had popped the berries into tiny shells of almond tuile, subtly adding florets of liqueur-flavored cream.
    “It’s hard to imagine any dish less representative of that harsh, barbaric country,” Eugene heard Chancellor Maltheus declare as he crunched one of the dainty tartlets.
    “May I offer my congratulations, imperial highness?” A tall man of distinguished bearing placed one hand on his heart and inclined his head in a brief bow.
    “His excellency, Fabien d’Abrissard, the Francian ambassador,” Chancellor Maltheus said, shooting Eugene a significant look from beneath his bushy brows. Relations between Francia and Tielen had been chilly since Eugene’s father Karl had defeated a Francian invasion fleet some twenty-five years before.
    “Let us hope,” Eugene said smoothly, “that this heralds a new relationship between Francia and New Rossiya.”
    “Indeed,” said Abrissard, equally smoothly, “Francia is most eager to place our relationship on a different—”
    “Imperial highness!” A veiled woman suddenly pushed through the throng. “I come to beg for your protection, imperial highness!”
    Instantly Eugene’s bodyguard surrounded her.
    She was dressed in widow’s black, her rich chestnut hair bound back in a severe chignon. In her arms she carried a baby, an infant of no more than four or five months old.
    Eugene saw—to his acute embarrassment—Fabien d’Abrissard raise one elegant eyebrow at this intrusion. Did the ambassador think the child was his?
    “Protection for my son, whose father was killed in the recent war in Azhkendir.” The woman’s voice throbbed with emotion; he saw courtiers standing close by glance uneasily at one another.
    “Lilias Arbelian,” Chancellor Maltheus murmured in his ear. “One of Velemir’s agents.”
    Eugene frowned. How had she gained admission to this prestigious reception without an invitation? And was the child another of Velemir’s bastards?
    “Award her an army widow’s pension, Maltheus. The usual arrangement.” He made to move on.
    “Only now, imperial highness, can I tell the truth.” She lifted her child, drawing back the delicate lace shawl from his little face. “This is Artamon Arkhel—Lord Jaromir’s son.”
    A lightning flash of memory flung Eugene back to a bare wintry hillside in Azhkendir. Jaromir Arkhel gazed at him, asking eagerly, “Lilias? And the child? Are they safe?”
    Blinking back sudden, unbidden tears, he put out his undamaged hand to touch the soft cheek of the little child.
    “
His
son?” The baby’s fine wisps of hair glinted gold, dark Arkhel gold in the candlelight.
    He became vaguely aware that Maltheus was whispering, “She’s an adventuress, highness. She was Velemir’s mistress, then Volkh’s. Don’t trust her. . . .”
    He did not trust her word—but he trusted Jaromir’s. In all the bitter ashes of loss, one faint hope suddenly glimmered. He could not bring his dearest Jaromir back to life—but he could care for his son, and ensure that the boy’s rightful inheritance was restored.
    A plan began to form in his mind. Now that he was crowned Emperor, it was time to bring Azhkendir