It was hardly bravery of Sasha's standard, but it was a bravery all the same. She nearly grinned with excitement.
The staircase spiralled once, then arrived at a curtain pulled across the entrance to Koenyg's quarters…Sofy had seen it before, but never from this side. She paused, excitement giving way to nervous concentration, straining her ears to make out the voices from the rooms beyond. Men's voices, clear and reasonably loud…but not immediately close. Another relief. They were in the main room, adjoining the dining room.
Well…she had to risk it. She backed through the curtain and into the dining room. A long table was set for lunch, six places ready with plates and cutlery. The windows to the right fronted directly onto Saint Ambellion Temple, with a view of Soros Square further to its north.
Sofy walked as quietly as she could to the table, trying desperately to recall how she'd seen the servants themselves do it, so as not to attract attention. She kept her back to the main room, where men stood and talked with cups in hand. She could hear Koenyg's voice as she unloaded the tray, but she was concentrating too hard on not dropping a glass to hear what he said. She heard an answering voice, with a familiar accent—lovely, flowing vowels and soft consonants. The Larosa. Sofy was surprised. Koenyg had just ridden into battle against the representatives of a province of Lenayin, and the first people he talked to were the Larosa?
She walked around the table, setting glasses before each plate…and glanced furtively into the next room. She could see four of the six men, and a servant with a tea tray, hovering inconspicuously. She recognised Koenyg, in formal clothes, his hair wet in the manner of one recently bathed. He appeared utterly unruffled. Another man she recognised was Archbishop Dalryn, black robed and fuzzy headed.
“One greatly doubts the risks to be quite so grave as some would make out,” the archbishop was saying, in ponderous, thoughtful tones. “The pagans of Lenayin are truly pagan, yet they are also Lenay, and they obey their king. Obedience to the king is honourable to them and I must admit that, however godless, the pagans are greatly honourable. In their own way.”
Sofy took up her tray and moved back toward the curtained exit. Beside that exit, however, the door to Koenyg's bedchambers was similarly curtained. Sofy took a deep breath, risked a glance over her shoulder…and slipped behind the bedchamber curtains. She waited, her heart pounding. She did not know what would happen if she were caught. Certainly it would be difficult to feign innocence.
She strained her ears to hear, but the conversation was mixed and it was difficult to pick out individual strands. Something drew her gaze back to Koenyg's broad bed in the centre of his room. Silver chainmail lay spread across the skin blankets, and heavy, leather gloves with steel knuckles. One had blood on it. Sofy stared.
And nearly jumped as voices came suddenly near, silencing a startled gasp before it could quite escape her lips. “I assure you that this was not entirely unforeseen,” came the archbishop's voice. He seemed to be standing by the near end of the table. And he was not speaking so loud as the others. Perhaps this conversation was meant to be private. “The prince is truly a man of steel. Where another man might have faltered before such threats as Lord Krayliss made, Prince Koenyg has endeavoured to turn a difficult situation into an opportunity. And now, it seems, the Taneryn problem has been dealt with once and for all.”
“I am most impressed, Your Grace,” came Duke Stefhan's voice, silky smooth and ever so gracious. “And yet, one is still disquieted. My king was assured, in forging this alliance, that the clans of Lenayin no longer fought. It is disturbing to us to see our great ally so divided.”
“I assure you, Duke Stefhan, these divisions are merely temporary. All bold new directions are accompanied by a temporary tumult, are they not? King Torvaal's mind is decided on the alliance, and he could not have an abler lieutenant than Prince Koenyg. I trust that you are not having second thoughts, my good Duke?”
“But of course not, Your Grace.” The duke's footsteps came closer. Sofy stared down at the short gap between the bottom of the dividing curtain and the floor, wondered abruptly if the men might see her boots beneath. She backed up several steps, gingerly.