Mouse stared fixedly at the Empress, noting, as best she could, every detail of her appearance from the slight upturn of her nose to the curve of her cheek.
These observations served to confirm the result of her previous study carried out in the glass the night before, revealing a nose that was somewhat rounder, a chin that was not quite so small, and eyes a shade lighter than the Empress’s. And while Mouse knew that twins need not look identical, just as cousins, even distant ones, need not look dissimilar, she could not see a likeness equal to allow that they should be anything other than the latter.
She had always known that she shared blood with the Empress; she was a Toth after all. But she was certain beyond a doubt that she did not share enough to call her a sister. If it could not be said that their looks were sufficiently distinct, everything within their dispositions must serve to confirm Mouse’s surmise.
The Empress was forceful where Mouse was yielding, daring where Mouse was timid, quick-tempered and changeable where Mouse was constant.
Two more different people, she told herself, had never been born. The fact that it had even been suggested was the most absurd revelation that had ever endeavored to make itself known, and Mouse would not believe it for even the smallest fraction of a moment.
Her resemblance to the Empress had been both a blessing and a curse to her for most of her life, and now, she feared, it would also be the tipping point in her relationship with the old man, who seemed content to berate and beguile her with nonsense.
The Empress now stood in the middle of the somewhat cramped auxiliary chamber, her dark eyes traveling over a sheet of parchment covered front and back in a scrawling hand.
“Do they mean to insult me?” she scoffed, holding out the sheet as her free hand took up a cup of wine from the table. “I ask for a delegation, and they send me a child.”
Mouse retrieved the sheet of parchment from the Empress’s outstretched hand and dutifully refilled her cup, narrowly avoiding a collision with the clothier who was buzzing about, persistently if unsuccessfully trying to draw a string across the Empress’s shoulders.
“The Val is no younger than you were when you took the throne, Majesty,” Lord Alfric said, reclining back into his richly upholstered chair with one leg crossed over the other, twirling absently at his mustaches as he watched the clothier’s apprentice bend beneath the weight of the fabric draped across outstretched arms.
“And do you think that at fifteen I was not a child?” the Empress returned, casting a pointed look in the courtier's direction. “I urge you to be careful how you answer that question, Alfric.”
A gleam flashed across the eyes of the mustachioed courtier as he uncrossed his legs and sat forward, snapping his fingers at Mouse, who carried to the letter to him with no small degree of annoyance at being beckoned thusly.
“You were indeed young when you ascended, Majesty,” he replied, his eyes skimming over the scrawling script that covered the parchment. “But even at just shy of sixteen, as you were, you had wisdom beyond your years and were well-versed in diplomacy and practiced in matters of state besides. Who’s to say the Val won’t be equally impressive?”
The Empress had not been in possession of the letter above half an hour, and already it had been read through a dozen times by the different parties present.
The Chatti had been quick to respond to the Empress’s demands for a delegation, with Val Hector, an elected leader of the Chatti people, having set out at once with a retinue and already being received by General Ralist and his ladywife at Pothes Mar.
Lady Margarethe had, of course, written to the Empress at once upon the Chatti’s arrival, conveying all that information which she deemed most noteworthy, but which was, in reality, the most irrelevant, including the style of clothing worn by the members of the delegation, the number of carriages with which they rode, and a personal assessment of their personages based solely on her own conjecture.
Mouse read the letter once again over the courtier’s shoulder, looking for anything she might have missed the first few times through.
But the letter, written, as it was, by a lady with disproportionate amounts of influence and sense, was not one of utility. It was written only to incite and excite, to rouse suspicion and dislike against the Chatti before they had even arrived at Kriftel, and it seemed to have already achieved its purpose.
The Empress laughed at the courtier’s sycophantic reply.
“Does that silver tongue of yours show no discernment in whose praise it sings?” she asked.
Lord Alfric concluded his perusal of the letter and held it up for Mouse to take.
“A candle to the sun, Your Majesty," he said with a placating smile. "Val Hector is highly respected among her people. That ought to be worth something, don't you think?”
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The Empress took another drink from her cup but made no answer to this.
“Perhaps Your Majesty might venture to become acquainted with the girl before dismissing her,” Alfric said, “or at least wait until you have laid your own eyes upon her.” He leaned back in his chair, returning his gaze to the clothier’s laden apprentice and rubbing the tips of his mustaches between his thumb and forefinger. “After all, Lady Margarethe’s word is hardly worth the ink used to convey it.”
Mouse was not particularly fond of Lord Alfric, but she could see why the Empress was. The man had an even, dispassionate demeanor that was not easily excited, and more importantly, had a gift for saying with an unpracticed air of persuasion that which might sound contradictory coming from anyone else.
“Lady Margarethe,” replied the Empress, “simple though she may be, has my best interests at heart.”
Lord Alfric laughed.
“Lady Margarethe has Lady Margareth’s best interests at heart,” he said. “If she seeks so adamantly to turn you against the girl before you have yet had occasion to meet her, it is only because she feels threatened by her presence at Kriftel.”
The Empress swatted impatiently at the clothier who was lingering about her waist with a string.
“You think Lady Margarethe jealous of the Chatti girl?” the Empress asked in something of surprise.
Lord Alfric smiled.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “Lady Margarethe is married to a general. A retired general. She is jealous of anyone and everyone who has yet escaped the clutches of such unhappiness.”
The Empress laughed heartily at this.
“Well, she shall soon find herself in good company with Lady Agatha,” she smirked, taking a sip from her cup.
Mouse had marked Lady Agatha’s absence and now wondered whether it was because the poor girl was locked away in her rooms, suffering still from the painful accusations leveled against her the other day at breakfast, or from the news of her impending nuptials to a certain gauche Councilor.
Mouse had not believed at first that the Empress truly intended to wed the girl to Lord Hildimar, but it seemed now that there was little to contest it, and though the match likely seemed little more a condemnation of the most egregious kind to the girl, Mouse did not think it without its benefits.
What Lord Hildimar lacked in looks, style, and charm, he made up for, at least to some degree, in other ways; he was an accomplished and well-respected man of the court not without influence and was in possession of good connections and sufficient coin to make any woman comfortable. Furthermore, his age and experience might prove beneficial to a young and impressionable lady like Agatha
Lady Agatha had not had the advantage of a strong education and had no immediate family at court to advise or protect her. She had therefore been left for much of her life largely to her own devices, under the guidance of a few undiscerning ladies and the persuasion of the most degenerate nobleman to plague the court. Upon each inevitable misstep, she was then made to suffer at the hands of one who seemed to make sport of punishing others.
Besides all that Lord Hildimar might offer the young lady in terms of material comfort, he often traveled, meaning that if Agatha was unable to find love in her marriage, she might at least find it elsewhere from time to time.
“It is a shame for a girl with Agatha’s looks to be wasted on a man like Hildimar,” Alfric said, twirling at his mustaches, “but perhaps the man will surprise us all and make something of her yet.” He cast a glance toward the cluster of ladies who sat giggling on the far side of the room. “After all,” he said, “a young mind is often more pliable than a more mature one.” He looked at the Empress. “Do not you agree, Your Majesty?”
Lord Alfric was clever, thought Mouse. He had softened the Empress with flattery before leading her to his object, and he had left enough unsaid that the Empress might even think it her own idea to bring the Chatti girl into her camarilla, to allow the court to influence the Val rather than the other way around.
“I supposed that as usual, Alfric,” the Empress sighed, “you may have the right of it.” She took another drink from her cup. “But I’ve a dozen gold crowns that say the girl is either an illiterate, a mute, or both.”
The courtier’s eyes gleamed.
“Make it two and you’ve a willing adversary,” he smiled, his mustaches tipping to the side.
Lord Alfric had been born Aelfheah, Prince Aelfheah, in fact, but had changed his name to conceal his parentage and better assimilate to Arosian culture. His efforts had been a rousing success, for not only did nobody seem to remember that he hailed from the western islands and had come to Aros to escape the escalating threat of a continual string of peasant uprisings, but he was now, in fact, one of the most fashionable and covetous Lords among the Empress’s court.
He had distinguished himself in the Arosian court through his diplomacy and connections with high-ranking members of foreign courts, but his most impressive achievement was the rapidity with which he had risen in favor with the Empress, gaining her ear while sacrificing nothing of his own freedom.
The man was well-dressed, well-liked, and for the moment, the closest thing the Empress had to an advisor, and though he possessed what many might call too much self-importance, he wore it with such élan that it did not seem to detract from his virtues.
Mouse moved to once again fill the Empress’s cup, which she had replaced upon the table so that she might examine the swaths of fabric laid out by the clothier. However, as she crossed to do so, Lord Alfric grabbed her by the wrist.
“I wonder if you have seen our Lord Johannes lately,” he said, looking up at her from his chair. “He’s been missed our last two card games, and he still owes me a fair sum.”
Mouse wrested her wrist from him in perturbation.
“You know the man I’m talking about,” the courtier said, “handsome fellow who can’t seem to keep his boots under the right bed?”
“Indeed, sir, I know Lord Johannes,” Mouse replied, praying her face would not betray her lie. “But I have not the privilege of a recent exchange.”
Lord Alfric looked her over carefully.
“Is that right?” he murmured. “Well, if you do happen upon him,” he said, “let him know I am eager to have both my winnings and my saddle back. I’ve a new palfrey to break in, and that man of his from Silver Lake is long overdue.”
Mouse felt the hair on her arms stand on end as the all the blood seemed to drain from her face.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, the words seeming to fall from her mouth.
The courtier smiled curiously at her.
“What part are you having trouble understanding, my dear?” he asked.
The second part, Mouse wanted to say, the part about Lord Johannes and a saddler from Silver Lake. But she could not seem to produce the words.
“I’ll tell you what,” the courtier sighed with a patronizing smile, “why don’t you just tell him that Alfric’s looking for him?”