At the Queen_s command

The Kessian shook his head. "You will be the vulture at a peacock ball, highness. I have waistcoats and shoes that will fit you."

Vlad laughed. "I appreciate the offer, but homespun will be fine. I represent the people of Mystria-as Rivendell is oft wont to remind me-so I shall be attired as they are. I do appreciate, however, the loan of clean hose."

"I would lend you one more thing." The Count withdrew a small, double-barreled, over-and-under pistol. "Take this. Kill the Laureate. We will be done with this business."

The Prince stared at the weapon. "But that would be murder, and under a white flag."

"My friend, you are smarter than to believe that. Du Malphias will be waging war under the white flag. He will scare Rivendell, or make him overconfident. This campaign will be won over dinner this evening. You can win it with one shot."

"I can't do it."

"Of course you can. It is easy. Point. Shoot. It is never hard."

Vlad glanced down. "You are a soldier."

"By the blood of God, you have never killed a man, have you?"

The Prince met the man's incredulous stare. "I've seen them die. I've never killed one."

Von Metternin returned the pistol to his pocket. "How I envy you, and pity you. Firing the shot is easy. Living with the consequences is not. I do not think, however, I would lose sleep over killing du Malphias."

Vlad smiled. "Then I hope, my friend, that the opportunity falls to you."

The Prince remained silent on the ride to the dinner simply because he did not want to invite his companions to speak. Langford and Rivendell led the way. Colonel Harry Thornbury of the Cavalry and Colonel Anthony Exeter of the Fourth Foot came next. The Prince rode in the back next to a self-invited guest, Bishop Bumble. The Bishop bore the white flag.

Vlad contented himself with studying the landscape. Wildflowers splashed color into tiny spots where the sun managed to knife its way through the leafy green canopy. In the darker spots lichens and mosses, mushrooms and shelf-fungus took over, with wonderful golds and reds to contrast with the flowers' blues and yellows. Just enough of a breeze came off the lake to make the flowers and leaves dance, animating a mosaic of color and light.

Blue jays chattered and a couple of squirrels scolded from on high. He saw signs of where bears had climbed trees, or moose and tanners had scraped their horns against them. Rabbits scampered through the brush almost unseen and ravens watched them pass, offering haunting commentary.

Any other time, I would have enjoyed this ride. The source of his displeasure was his companions. He would have welcomed them looking about, too, knowing that they were searching for tactical advantages even while he was studying beauty. They were not even doing that. Taking their cue from Rivendell, they sat their horses with straight spines, eyes forward, faces tilted up, and remained that way as if posing for portraits.

Not even sight of the pavilion broke their composure. Vlad had expected a large tent erected in the middle of the road, but du Malphias had other ideas. His pavilion had been fashioned from a stand of birches. A dozen of the trees bent inward, curving softly to form a high ceiling. A wooden floor had been fitted together tightly, with the wood sanded, lacquered and polished until it glowed from the sun's dying light. A long table had six chairs set at it, likewise shaped of native woods and left blonde in keeping with the nature of the pavilion. Cloth streamers of blue, red, and green to honor the various military units floated playfully in the breeze.

Back a bit, deeper in the woods, a large tent had been erected to serve as the cooking station.

Soldiers of the Platine Regiment took charge of their mounts and conducted them to the pavilion. The Laureate stood at the head, dressed in white and gold. He opened his arms and smiled.

"Welcome, gentlemen. Highness, I would have you here at my right hand and Lord Rivendell opposite me. Lieutenant Laforge, we will need another place setting, down there, on the other side of Colonel Langford. And you are, sir?"

Bumble tried to look imposing. He failed. He had shed thirty pounds. His clothing hung on him poorly and when he further sucked in his stomach, his breeches threatened to fall to his knees. "I am the Right Reverend Bishop Othniel Bumble of the Church of Norisle, Temperance."

"This could be more interesting than I expected. Please, gentlemen, sit."

The moment they had pulled their chairs up to the table, service began. While soldiers stood all around, civilians served them. A comely lass had been assigned to attend to Prince Vlad; nondescript men to deal with the middle of the table, and a beautiful young boy attended to Rivendell's every pleasure. As the sun's light began to die, and the soldiers lit lanterns, Vlad could not be certain, but the pallor of the girl's skin suggested she was a pasmorte. Which would make all of the servants pasmortes.