The Queen's Bastard

AKILINA PANKEJEFF, DVORYANIN

12 January 1588 Lutetia Akilina descends into the dungeons with her mouth pursed distastefully; it isn’t that she fails to understand the necessity of such places, or, indeed, that she’s above making use of them. It’s that the floors stain the hem of her gown, and the scent seems to linger in her skin for days, even when she bathes with perfumed soaps and has a woman to carefully wash her hair. Still, she believes it wiser to do her own bargaining, and she has an offer in hand that it seems Robert Drake cannot possibly refuse.

She is followed by two strong men, one her own guard, Viktor, and the other some broad-shouldered creature put in place by Sandalia, so that Akilina’s polite house arrest might not be slipped. Viktor she does not object to, but the other man irritates her. It’s all right; he won’t for long.

There are four passageways in the dungeons. One leads deeper down, to where the ordinary dissonants and problem-makers are thrown-literally: the stairs simply stop some ten or fifteen feet below her, a gaping pit beneath them. It’s crude, but extremely effective. Many are killed or broken simply by being tossed in, and those who survive turn on one another within a matter of hours. Such is the fate of petty men; it requires intelligence and planning to survive games of treason.

The other three passages lead to oubliettes, a particularly Gallic manner of isolation. Akilina snaps her fingers, sending Viktor and the other guard into the right-hand passage, where the scrape of stone on stone sounds, and then a crashing thud of heavy rock falling back into place. The floor beneath her feet vibrates, and she wonders if Robert Drake and Belinda Primrose can feel the shaking within their prisons.

Viktor exits with a shake of his head; Akilina nods toward the second passage. Moments later he calls, “Here,” and she walks delicately into the passage.

Drake squints up at her from the bottom of his pit, and, unexpectedly, chuckles. It looks and sounds painful, though he manages a bow as well, and says, drolly, “Lady Akilina. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He cranes his head again, peering up at her, and she feels a surge of delight at how vulnerable he seems. It’s an illusion built by their locations, but that makes it no less appealing.

“I have a proposal for you,” she says in Khazarian. Viktor she trusts, but the Gallic guard will run to his queen with word of her intentions, if she lets him. Robert flicks an eyebrow upward and spreads his hands.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re to die at dawn,” she says, which garners a nod from him. No surprise, no dismay, just agreement. She finds that she likes that in him; perhaps it’s the same quality she finds delightful in his daughter. “I can save you.”

“In exchange for?” His voice is steady; whatever he fears, it’s not the threat of being left to die. Akilina crouches, though it means more of her skirt touches the filthy floor, and smiles down at him before murmuring secrets of state and treason into the dark.