Traitor's Masque by Kenley Davidson

would exploit any weakness on Ramsey's part without a moment's hesitation. This unknown girl's acquaintance was precisely the sort of transgression they would take great delight in pointing out. If their objections could even be heard amidst the din of his own father's explosive objections.
    And anyway, the girl was gone, and had given him no encouragement to pursue the acquaintance. He would never see her again, and would no doubt forget her quickly enough as he became ever more absorbed in the pressing details of economic unrest, his brother’s indiscretions and his father’s impatient temper.
    Ramsey couldn’t afford distractions. Especially not attractive female distractions with exquisite taste in horses.
    Reduced to rolling his eyes at his own idiocy, Ramsey pressed his mare forward and tried to think about something else. Anything else.

    Too soon, Parsifal’s hooves echoed on cobblestone, as they made their way slowly through the crowded streets of the city. Too soon Ramsey spotted the stocky, gray-haired and green-coated guardsman waiting at the next corner for him to draw even.
    Brawley. Looking harried and resigned.
    “Your Highness, you promised.” The horses fell in beside each other without a fuss.
    “No, Brawley, I didn’t,” Ramsey answered wearily. “I said I’d think about it, and I did.”
    “This is thinking about it?” Brawley had been the captain of the princes' guard since Ramsey was five, and the years had worn their exchanges to a blunt familiarity Ramsey treasured. Most of the time.
    “This is me not running mad, Brawley. The rest of the world can either deal with it or stop pretending I’m supposed to be a saint.”
    “I never asked you to give up riding, Your Highness.” Brawley’s persistence was one of the man’s most useful characteristics. When it wasn’t being used against his prince. “Only that you tell me when you go and take a guard.”
    “Which would necessarily defeat the purpose of being alone ,” replied Ramsey, “and therefore be a waste of time for all of us. Stop worrying. I only ride in the Kingswood and you did train me to take care of myself.”
    Brawley eyed his charge with evident disgust. “I tried,” he snorted. “About the only thing I can say for you is that you paid more attention than your brother.”
    Ramsey sensed defeat in this admission and decided to exploit it, hoping to cajole his guard captain into a better mood. The last thing he needed was another lecture. “You were an impeccable teacher,” he insisted, “and you know I was a better than average student.” He offered Brawley a disarming grin. “And of course there’s Parsifal to consider. If you can name me one horse that can outrun her I’ll repent.”
    Brawley’s lips twisted sourly. “No, Your Highness, you would go out and buy the other horse and keep disappearing.”
    Ramsey shrugged, a tacit admission of agreement, containing not a shred of repentance. He regretted disappointing and inconveniencing his keeper, but the two of them had had this discussion many times in the past few months. Especially since the economic troubles had fueled further discontent over the issue of the succession.
    Prince Rowan was not only the elder, but had always been more popular amongst the younger, more ambitious members of the peerage. Of late their stridently vocal minority had grown, both in size and volume. They now numbered among their ranks a startling percentage of the merchant nobility, who claimed to fear the precedent of passing over a legitimate and healthy heir. Considering that none of them had shown much inclination to care ten years ago when King Hollin first announced his decision, their current complaints seemed as spurious as they were suspicious.
    Despite the lack of any discernible uniting force amongst the dissenters, the increasingly volatile rhetoric had convinced the king and his advisors that there was some danger to the heir’s well-being, and Brawley took this