Kushiel's Mercy

Prince Imriel,” he announced.
    “Is aught amiss?” I asked.
    He looked surprised. “I don’t believe so, your highness. Should there be?”
    “No.” I shook my head. “And please, call me Imriel.”
    “Imriel.” Alfonse tasted the word, then grinned. “All right.”
    I’d never been comfortable standing on ceremony. I wasn’t raised to be a Prince of the Blood. I’d obey the protocols when I had to, but I preferred to dispense with them whenever possible.
    Alfonse led me to the wing of the Palace that housed the barracks of the Dauphine’s Guard, which in truth were generous and comfortable. Most members of the Palace Guard came from the ranks of the lesser nobility—younger scions unlikely to inherit lands of their own, hoping to make names for themselves in the service of the throne and earn a reward, or mayhap make a wealthy love-match.
    The captain of Sidonie’s guard, Claude de Monluc, was one such—although he’d fallen in love with a chambermaid, not an heiress. I knew that much about him and little else, except that he seemed serious and competent, and he’d cared enough for the chambermaid to wed her.
    The full complement of the Palace Guard numbered five hundred, but only fifty of them were personally attached to Sidonie’s service. That day, it seemed half of them were lounging in the common room of the barracks, tending to their equipment, playing games of chance, drinking and flirting with servants and sundry guests. There was a pause when I entered, the captain’s men watching curiously.
    “Prince Imriel.” Claude de Monluc was seated on a hassock, running a whetstone down the edge of his sword. He rose, sheathed his blade, and gave me an exacting bow. “Thank you for coming, your highness.”
    I inclined my head. “You’re welcome, my lord captain. Is there some danger I should be aware of? Your men seem sufficiently at ease.”
    “No.” De Monluc hesitated, frowning. He was a tall fellow with blond hair and cool blue eyes, an expression that sought to keep its own counsel. “I thought we should talk, you and I. Will you join me in a tankard of ale?”
    I shrugged. “Why not?”
    We retired to a quiet corner with a pair of chairs drawn up to an unlit brazier. A barracks attendant brought over a pair of foaming tankards. I hadn’t seen them poured. I gazed at the ale, then at de Monluc’s face.
    “Do you fear poison?” he asked in a dry tone.
    “No,” I said thoughtfully. “No, you’re a man with a sense of honor, albeit a rigid one.” I took a healthy drink. “And anyway, ’tis you who mistrusts me.”
    He gave a short laugh. “I cede the point, your highness.”
    “I’m not interested in playing games,” I said mildly. “And I’d sooner have you call me Imriel.”
    De Monluc’s lips tightened. “You’re blunt. Will you give me an honest answer to a blunt query?”
    “I might,” I said. “It depends on the query.” I watched suspicion creep into his expression and rolled my eyes. “Elua’s Balls, man! I’ll not lie, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Do you seek my post?”
    “Your post?” Whatever I’d expected, it wasn’t this. I stared blankly at him. “The captaincy of the Dauphine’s Guard? Why in the world would I want that?”
    “Well, the last man to share her highness’ bed did,” de Monluc observed. “But I reckon you might have reasons of your own.” He studied me with his cool, blue gaze. “You’ve enemies at Court. Taking command of the Dauphine’s Guard and creating your own personal army would be a shrewd step. It would afford you a measure of protection.”
    I returned his gaze. He looked away, taking a sip of ale. It didn’t matter. I could see the aching lines of pain and sorrow beneath the distrust. “You’re one of them,” I said. “You don’t wear the black armband, but you are, aren’t you? You lost family at the battle of Troyes-le-Mont.”
    “It didn’t . . .” De Monluc paused. “My father. I was ten.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
    He was silent a moment. I waited.
    “I’m not one of them,” he said at length. “Not one to reckon a man should be judged by the deeds of his forebears. I talked to men who served under you in Alba, Urist and some of his fellows. They thought well of you.”
    “I thought well of them,” I said.
    Claude de Monluc glanced at me. “So do you want it or no?”
    “Are you good at your job?” I asked.
    He