The Duke's Decision

Sabine's coach arrived at sunset. She stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard and waved back up at her maids who stood outside waiting for orders. “Take my luggage inside, please. Have my bath drawn while I change clothes.” Sabine's voice was calm, but she couldn't keep a hint of nervousness out of her tone, even if she was determined to hide it. She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Let's hope the duke is worth all the fuss,” she muttered under her breath as she walked back inside.

Two months ago, she'd pointed out to her father that a single man in possession of England's largest duchy must be in want of a wife, whether he realized it or not. It had taken a month to convince her father, then her grandfather, and then her granduncle that it would be better for Lancaster if there was a Lancastrian duchess in charge of things in York. Preparations for the trip had taken a fortnight; the trip itself, involving several brief but necessary social calls along the way, took another fortnight.

Now that she'd reached York, all that remained was to get a private audience with the duke. As her maidservant carefully removed her travel clothes, she went down the list of tools at her disposal for convincing the duke that she was the perfect bride. Every blemish and flaw she or her maidservants could find on the surface of her body had been transmuted away. Her figure was impeccable, her hair a lustrous gold. That, she felt, should be enough to convince most men, especially packaged in a similarly perfect dress.

Two of her dresses were enchanted to attract the eye and carefully defy gravity to display her figure to best advantage – one vermillion and one a rich royal purple, both embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread. She had brought half a dozen different perfumes. Her diamond-encrusted bracelets would ward off charms or curses cast by rivals. Her ruby necklace was literally mesmerizing, a property that the Yorkish duke would hopefully attribute to her bosom rather than to the enchantments of a Lancastrian archmage. Her pearl earrings were enspelled to perfectly translate any language she heard.

Not that she would likely need the earrings in York; she was confident her education in French, German, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew was sufficient for anything someone might quote to her. She could skillfully play the harpsichord, which she felt confident few Yorkers had seen before. Hopefully it had survived transit without damage. She was confident she could carefully and narrowly lose to Avery at chess. And she was fairly certain she could dance well enough to impress him.

Even so, she was worried she was overdoing it just slightly. The last thing she wanted was for him to dismiss all this effort as simply trying too hard. The maids had finished taking off her travel clothes, and the bath was drawn, so she carefully stepped into the tub. As the maids scrubbed her, she resolved to try to seem like she was not trying too hard. Her mother had always told her men enjoyed the pursuit as much as the capture, and that they wanted to feel themselves the hunter rather than the prey.

There was a loud knock at her door, and then it opened without as much as a polite pause and her father burst into the room. His eyes widened in surprise at seeing his daughter naked in the bathtub; he bowed politely and coughed as she sank under the surface of the water.

“Father! I wasn't expecting you!” Sabine said through clenched teeth.

“A messenger arrived,” he said, waving a piece of paper. “It's from the duke.”

“Already? So soon? I know we sent word ahead, but I hadn't expected that he would call for us right away.” Sabine shook her head. “Where are we going?”

“No, no. He said he wants to meet with your brother Stephen sometime very soon, and if we would mind sending for him,” he said. “What do you know about this?”

“I cannot say. It seems most unusual, but … I will send Stephen a message directly. After I have finished my bath.” Sabine pointed at the door. “He can get here much more quickly than we did.”

Obediently, her father backed out of the room.

“I will need salt, five of the special candles from my purple bag, a lit candle, and a length of copper wire. The wire should also be in the purple bag.” She addressed her request to the room without looking directly at any of the maidservants. After a moment, one of the maidservants hurried over to her luggage to look for the purple bag; the others resumed bathing her.

Isolde sipped her tea. “My apologies, dearest Sabine. I'm afraid my cousin's plans must have changed. My mother promised me he wouldn't go hunting this afternoon.” She smiled apologetically.

“I understand. These things do happen.” Sabine waved her hand dismissively. She sighed, settled into her chair, and crossed her legs primly beneath her gown.

Isolde took a sip from her cup, and looked around the room.

The matron in the dark blue dress sighed. “I thought he might invite my daughter Johanna along if he went hunting.”

At this, the aforementioned Johanna looked like she might cry. Today she was wearing an emerald green gown, one better suited to a ballroom than a drawing room. Isolde thought it was a definite improvement from the lavender dress with all the lace. It was a pity her cousin wasn't here to see it. It was also a pity that he'd seen fit to snub Sabine, who was a duke's grandniece and very well put together.

Surely one of those two could manage to get Metalface’s attention, Isolde thought to herself, pulling her eyes away from the ruby necklace that draped over daringly exposed décolletage. I’m usually not one to stare at another woman’s bosom like that. If only its intended target were here…

“I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, dear. I’ll make sure he knows of your interest. Have some tea, it'll make you feel better,” Isolde said with a calm outward expression. Inwardly she seethed, broadcasting her annoyance. Marcus, where is my cousin? I have a salon full of bored and irritable women here, most of them of high rank, and I didn't schedule any alternate entertainment.

The reply was quick. My apologies, Lady Isolde. He is with James, and I can say nothing more about that matter.

“Well.” Isolde turned her attention back to her guests. “Sabine, I understand you have brought one of those newfangled harpsichords to town with you. Could you send a footman for it?”

Sabine frowned. “Two footmen, perhaps. It fit in the coach we took from Lancaster, but it is a bit large to manage in a carriage. I had it set up at the house in town. It would take a while.”

“Ah, I see,” Isolde said.

“Do any of you play chess? There's a set over here in the corner.” The interrupting woman was a brunette, the daughter of a country knight who had been seriously wounded during Richard’s assault on the city. Isolde wracked her brain for a minute before remembering the dark-haired woman's name. Anna had been very determined to gain an introduction to Avery.

“I have played a game or two,” said Sabine reluctantly, glancing over at Isolde.

Isolde gestured to a maid. “There should be at least one more set in Avery's old room. It appears as though we are in the mood to play games.”

Stephen had hoped his sister would change her mind and return from her journey swiftly. Marrying the upstart who had inherited the Silver Duke's seat just didn't make sense to him. Was the title of “duchess” really worth moving to an underdeveloped backwater like York, where they didn't appreciate the conveniences that modern wizardry and industry could bring? She was brilliant and a promising young wizard. Better to concentrate on real power, not waste her life on some inbred dullard who happened to look like his legendary ancestor.

True, the Silver Duke had been terrifyingly powerful even in his old age. Stephen remembered that from his one visit to York. Ordinary wizards manipulated power; the old duke was power. A negligent wave of his hand could set a table to dancing or start a fire. The room itself would grow cold if he were annoyed. Anyone unwise enough to lie to him in his court would simply disintegrate. Stephen could understand why the Emperor had placed that man in charge of the largest duchy of England.

Stephen chewed a thin slice of meat carefully. There could, he admitted, be advantages to the family if Sabine married into the duchy east of Lancaster. Sabine had deployed that argument skillfully to convince their father, their grandfather, even their granduncle. But what would Sabine get out of that sort of arrangement? A sound like a gong startled him.

“Brother dearest,” Sabine's voice said from a spot about three feet from his nose. “I need you to come to York, quickly. Fly if you have to, but I want you here tomorrow.”

“Sabine,” he started, then realized she couldn't hear him as she heedlessly continued.

“Duke Avery wants to meet with you, and I want to be Duchess Avery, so get your lazy butt in the air and be ready to tell him whatever he wants to hear. Flap flap.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. There was a second gong sound.

“I know you're probably just sitting there rolling your eyes at me, but Dad's the boss of you and he's with me on this. Butt. In the air. Now. If you're not here by this time tomorrow, I'm going to try out the summoning circle from Grandfather's spellbook. I hear it's … itchy.”

“Women,” Stephen said with a heavy sigh. “She's my own sister and it's like she's from another continent. No sense whatsoever. Fine.” He picked up a bell from the table and rang it, then waited until a servant was hovering at his elbow. “Pack my travel bag and get my heavy coat out of storage,” he commanded, staring at the wall.

Stephen sat on the bench, a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand. After bundling himself up in his best winter coat and flying for three hours at high altitude to meet with Duke Avery, he'd spent three days waiting for another message. Nothing. His sister had been invited to see Isolde, and his father was off discussing some sort of business related to textiles, and he had nothing to do but wait, study his spellwork, and entertain himself. At least the wine was cheap, and some of his sister's maidservants were comely.

Comely maidservants or not, three days in the guest house was too long. He'd briefly entertained the idea of going out to a pub, or visiting York's new wizard collegium, but he expected both to be disappointing. Instead, he'd bought a bottle of wine and walked over to a bench by the river, staring at the castle. The sooner he could change his sister's mind, the sooner he could go home. He wouldn't at all mind flying three hours through the cold to get back to Lancaster. Flap flap, as my sister would say.

“Good evening,” said a voice behind him.

“Hello,” said Stephen, turning his head slightly as he spoke. It was a man in a silk robe with a well-waxed beard. From the pouches and well-thumbed spellbook hanging on his belt, a professional wizard. Stephen stood and bowed politely, then moved aside so his visitor could sit down on the other end of the bench.

“Pardon me,” said the newcomer as he sat down. “Are you in the trade? Perhaps new to town? I couldn't help but notice the ink stains, and I didn't recognize you.”

Stephen flexed his fingers ruefully. “I dabble. I suppose I should wash my hands better. Just visiting this town while my sister chases some flight of fancy she's gotten into her head. She wants to get married.”

“A lot of that going along lately, sir,” said the wizard, taking in Stephen's well-worn but expensive outfit and upgrading his appraisal of the young man's social status. “Or perhaps milord? Taking a shot at the silver boy, is she?”

“Cleverly deduced. For what it's worth, I don't approve,” Stephen said, waving in the general direction of the keep. “I'd rather she stayed in our duchy.”

“Ah. My name is Alric. I'm a member of the collegium here. We do find him a rather difficult fellow.” Alric shrugged. “However, he is the duke, and we're not in the business of trying to change that. Dangerous business, that.”

“I suppose so,” Stephen offered the wizard the bottle.

The wizard took a polite swig and passed it back to Stephen. “Much better business to change minds. I'm hoping he'll marry someone with a friendlier attitude towards wizardry and industry. You understand, it's not as simple to run a manufactory in York as it is in… Lancaster, perhaps? The laws are a bit backwards. I'd like to see that change. There's a lot of opportunity for growth here, if only the duke were to step out of the way a little bit.”

Stephen blinked. “I see your point. My sister dabbles a bit herself. She's more interested in the art of directing the living than the industry of directing the dead, but I guess it would be good for York if she were duchess.”

“It would be a truly noble sacrifice, milord. Industry is at the mercy of the whims of the nobility, this far from London. May I do the honor of buying you a bottle of something a little higher quality? I know a place.”

Sabine delicately cut a small piece out of the slice of hand-raised meat pie on her plate, stabbed it with her fork, and then stabbed a fried wedge of moonapple. “You were out late last night,” she said dryly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Father said you were angry.” Stephen took a healthy gulp of wine. “I can't imagine I missed much. He said you didn't get to meet the duke after all.”

Sabine raised her fork, eyeing the food carefully stacked on it. She slipped it into her mouth, lowered her fork, and chewed deliberately and slowly for a minute and a half before swallowing. “I did not. I wondered if you had something to do with that.”

Stephen snorted. “I haven't seen him either. He hasn't sent for me. I haven't even had a chance to sabotage you, sister dearest. Even if you're being a fool about this.”

Sabine frowned. “I am not,” she said. “Brother dearest, when I sent for you, how did that make you feel?”

“What? Angry? Worried? Bored? Mostly annoyed, really. I hate having my chain jerked. Why does that matter?” Stephen asked curiously.

“That's exactly why!” Sabine exclaimed angrily. She waved her arm at her maidservants, who were sitting at another table nearby. They stood up and stared at her nervously, waiting for her to give an order. She shook her head, and they sat down.

“Now they’re probably confused and bit unhappy. I jerked their chains. They answer to me.” Sabine drew her chin down firmly, then let out an exasperated breath. “Who do you answer to? Who gets to jerk your chain regularly?”

“Usually not you, at least.” Stephen glared sullenly, but his sister was patiently waiting, her fork perfectly still. “Our parents. Our grandfather and granduncle. Auntie Clara. Archmage Wulfric and the other senior members of the Order.”

“Who does the Duke of York answer to?” Sabine made a twirling motion with her fork.

“The Emperor. I guess everybody answers to him.” Stephen took another drink as he pondered the question carefully. “But he doesn't get very involved with much unless something goes badly wrong. He didn't even intervene in the succession crisis in York, at least not openly.”

“Right. And who would the Duchess of York answer to?” Sabine gave Stephen a look.

Stephen rolled his eyes and drained his goblet. His sister put down his fork and looked at him calmly. Too calmly. Stephen stared back. Sabine didn't blink. Stephen sighed, conceding the obvious answer. “Just the duke,” he said.

His sister held up her little finger and made a small circle in the air.

Stephen sighed heavily. “Whom you will have wrapped around your little finger. If anything, you’ll be the one jerking his chain.”

Sabine smiled. “So, now you understand.” She looked at the chipped moonapple on her plate, and selected another wedge to stab with her fork. “I'm sorry I jerked your chain. I truly am.”

Stephen sighed. “And I'm sorry I called you a fool. Last night, I was talking with one of the local wizards, and he had a different perspective on this, too.” Stephen shook his head. “I guess I can’t say it’s a bad idea, after all.”