Twilight's Dawn dj-9 Read online

  THREE

  After giving the door to the butler’s pantry a perfunctory knock, Daemon walked into the room and wasn’t sure who was more flustered—himself or Beale.

  Good manners dictated that he walk out of the room as if he’d seen nothing. Curiosity had him closing the door and asking, “Are the acoustics good in this room?”

  Beale lowered the flute and said, “It’s a private place to practice.”

  There was enough emphasis and bite to the word “private” to tell Daemon that if he’d been a boy instead of a grown man—regardless of being the High Lord’s son—he would have been booted out the door, and that boot would have had the strength of Beale’s leg behind it.

  “Beale . . .” Daemon looked around the pantry. Two rolltop desks, side by side, shelves of the best silver, the bottles of wine that were anticipated to be needed for the next few days.

  Hell’s fire, the Hall had at least one music room. Why was the man hiding out here to practice?

  “I suppose this is a practical place to practice whenever you have a few minutes between your duties,” Daemon said, feeling a sudden need to choose his words with care. In no way did he want to imply that Beale might be shirking his duties. “But surely you have some free time in the evenings, even with all the preparations needed because the Lady and I will have a more demanding social calendar than usual.”

  Beale gave him a measuring look. Daemon wasn’t sure against what standard he was being measured—and he was even less sure that he measured up to that standard.

  At last Beale said, “We do have free time, even with the increased activity at the Hall. The High Lord always insisted that everyone working here have some time for their own lives. Since there are so many who work at the Hall, and so many who reside here as well, we are our own community and have our own entertainments. Several people play musical instruments, so we have a musical evening each week and give a performance once a season. Those who enjoy reading have literary discussions. There are also weekly card games. Since the Hall allows several beginning positions to be used as a training ground for Blood who have chosen to work in domestic service, such activities provide the younger staff with opportunities to enjoy society without needing to go to the village. And because the rules at the Hall are so strict—and strictly kept—the penalties for mistakes while playing cards are not so great.”

  “Like a youngster gambling away all his wages,” Daemon said.

  “Exactly.”

  Feeling awkward, Daemon looked away. “I’ve owned the Hall for a year now. Should I have known about this?”

  Beale laid the flute in its case. “Taking care of the interests of the SaDiablo family is not a small task, Prince. Neither is taking care of Dhemlan. And you’ve also had the equally demanding—and more important—task of helping the Lady regain her health. I don’t think last Winsol you were able to think much beyond those things.”

  Astute assessment, Daemon thought, nodding.

  “This year the Lady is well and you’ve settled into the routine of ruling Dhemlan, so your own view of the world can now widen.”

  He started to agree. Then he noticed a look in Beale’s eyes and rocked back on his heels to reassess all the information he’d been given during this little chat.

  “So what duties am I ready to assume?” he asked warily.

  Beale smiled. “The servants’ Winsol party is held on the first evening of Winsol. There is dancing later, but the evening begins with a short musical program. The High Lord and the Lady would join us for that part of the evening before going on to their own engagement. And they would sing one of the traditional Dhemlan songs for Winsol, a lovely one about the warmth of family on the darkest night. Last year, the High Lord came down and sang it for us.”

  “Is the Lady coming down this year to sing it for you?” Daemon asked.

  “Yes, she’s already said she would.”

  He nodded. His singing voice wouldn’t hold up to professional standards, but he could carry a tune and read music, so he did well enough for at-home entertainment. “Do you have the music?”

  “I do.” Beale opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small stack of sheet music. “The top one is the Dhemlan song. The next one is a song the Lady and the High Lord used to sing for guests. It is in the Old Tongue.”

  Daemon groaned. The Old Tongue was a liquid kind of language, beautiful to hear and damned difficult to learn.

  “Perhaps if you learned the music, you could accompany one of them?” Beale suggested.

  “That would be better.” Much better. “Thanks for the music.” Daemon opened the door, ready to retreat.

  “You’re quite welcome, Prince.”

  Having a suspicious feeling that his list of things to do before Winsol had lengthened more than he thought, Daemon hurried toward his study—and stopped short when he saw Lord Marcus, his man of business, handing a coat and hat to Holt, the footman on duty in the great hall.

  “Did we have an appointment?” Daemon asked.

  “Not exactly,” Marcus said. “I came in the hopes you could spare an hour or two for me to review some things.”

  An hour or two. Mother Night.

  “Of course,” Daemon said. “Holt? Please ask Mrs. Beale for a tray of coffee.”

  “There’s some fresh baking,” Holt said. “I’ll ask if she’ll add a bit to the tray.”

  “Thank you.” He’d been lured to that part of the Hall because he’d passed a stairway and caught some delicious scents rising up from the kitchen. But when he got to the doorway and heard Mrs. Beale snarl about “them who try to snitch the treats before the pans were cool,” he decided he liked his balls better than nutcakes. Realizing he needed some excuse if his presence near the kitchen was discovered, he had ended up in the butler’s pantry—and now had his musical assignment for the festivities.

  Which made him wonder if the scents coming up from the kitchen had been a Craft-enhanced lure. And damn it, he’d swallowed the bait without getting a taste of anything else.

  “Have you come to add to my list of things to do?” Daemon asked as he led Marcus into his study and settled into one of the chairs on the informal side of the room.

  “Afraid so.” Marcus set a bulging leather case near his feet. “I was informed, discreetly, by both Beale and Helton that the bonuses traditionally given at Winsol are usually distributed on the first evening so that the servants who are spending a few days with their families at the beginning of the holiday have some extra spending money.”

  “I see.” He’d presented the envelopes on Winsol Day last year, and no one had said anything to him. Apparently this was another part of his duties he was ready to assume in the correct way. “All right. Do you have the lists of people working at each SaDiablo residence or estate?”

  “I have them.” Marcus hesitated. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “This seems to be the day for them,” Daemon said dryly. “Go ahead.”

  “You should hire a secretary.”

  “Feeling overworked, Marcus?”

  “A bit, but that’s not the point. I take care of your investments and check on the property you personally own here in Kaeleer, and you have the firm that worked with your father looking after the rest of the investments for the SaDiablo family, but I think you need someone who can help you take care of day-to-day business. Someone with sufficient rank and polish to be your representative at the SaDiablo estates or at a Queen’s court. The High Lord, I believe, had your elder brother, Mephis, working in that capacity. You should consider hiring someone for the position.”

  Daemon almost dismissed the idea out of hand. Then he realized he already had someone working for him who would fit the criteria—if Prince Rainier was willing to take on that kind of work.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Marcus looked surprised and pleased—until they heard the jingling and howling outside the study door. Then he looked like he’d swallowed something sour.

&
nbsp; “Is there something else I should be aware of?” Daemon asked.

  Marcus shook his head and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Concerned now, he pushed. “Your wife and daughter? They’re well?”

  “Yes.” Marcus glanced at the study door and winced.

  Daemon weighed what he knew about Marcus’s girl against what was outside the study door and asked innocently, “Have you finished your shopping for Winsol? Gotten all your gifts?”

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “My daughter wants a puppy, but we haven’t decided on the breed—or if we’re going to get one at all,” he added hurriedly.

  Fortunately, Holt brought in the tray of coffee and baked goods. Daemon focused his attention on the tray and hoped his expression would be mistaken for eagerness to indulge in the treats.

  “You’ll be coming by again before Winsol Night, won’t you?” he asked, working to keep his voice neutral. “Why don’t you bring your daughter with you the next time?”

  Apparently he hadn’t kept his voice neutral enough, because Marcus’s hand froze over the plate and he looked up, alarmed.

  “No,” Marcus said. “She’s been hinting that she’d like to have a kindred Sceltie live with us, but I don’t need a bundle of fur that could end up being the highest-ranking member of the household.”

  Considering the Sceltie pups who were still in residence, that was a distinct possibility.

  “Think of the advantages of having a playmate who could also be a good protector,” Daemon soothed. “And I would consider it a personal favor if you brought her with you to look at the pups. Consider it a gift from you to me. Besides, just because your daughter sees the puppies doesn’t mean she’ll take to any of them.” Or that any of them will take to her.

  Marcus said words that were not in keeping with the spirit of the season. Then he ate two fruit tarts and a nutcake, wiped his hands on a napkin, and opened his leather case, a clear indication that they were changing the subject.

  They worked steadily through the lists of people employed by the SaDiablo family, with Daemon mostly confirming the amount Marcus suggested for each bonus. Neither said a word when Daemon doubled the amount of Marcus’s bonus. After all, at this time of year, it would be rude to call a bribe a bribe.

  Marcus sighed as he put all the papers back in his leather case. “I’ll send on the packets to the other houses, and bring the packet for the Hall myself.”

  “And you’ll bring your daughter?”

  “I’ll bring her.” Marcus sighed again. “You drive a hard bargain, Prince.”

  Daemon smiled. “It could have been worse, Marcus.”

  “How?”

  “She could have asked for a cat.”

  FOUR

  “Come in,” Daemon said, glancing up from the paperwork on his desk as the study door opened. Leaning back, he crossed his legs at the knees and steepled his fingers, resting two of his long black-tinted nails against his chin as he watched Rainier limp to the visitor’s chair and sit down with exaggerated care.

  That autumn Rainier and Surreal SaDiablo, along with seven landen children, had been caught in a trap meant to kill members of the SaDiablo family.

  The spooky house. Daemon still wasn’t sure whether it was arrogance or a kind of madness that had led a writer who had discovered his Blood heritage to try a pissing contest with the darkest-Jeweled Blood in the Realm. Realizing how close they’d all come to being caught in that trap had been a sobering lesson. If Lucivar hadn’t been an Eyrien warrior backed by the strength of his Ebon-gray Jewels, Surreal and Rainier wouldn’t have gotten out of that damn house. As it was, three of the children were killed, not to mention all the other people who had been killed so that they would be the predators in the game. Surreal had been wounded, and the poison still hadn’t worked its way out of her body completely. And Rainier . . .

  He was a dancer, Daemon thought sadly. Then he added, Everything has a price.

  “How’s the leg?” Daemon asked, even though anyone could see the healing wasn’t going the way it should. Hell’s fire, Rainier had been walking better a few weeks ago when he’d joined them for a viewing of Jaenelle and Marian’s spooky house, an entertainment for children that had been one of the reasons Jarvis Jenkell had created a deadly version of the place.

  Rainier shrugged, but his face was pale and strained despite his effort to smile, and there was a fear in his green eyes that he couldn’t quite hide. “Some days it’s better than others. I wanted your opinion of something.”

  Trying to change the subject, boyo? All right, I’ll let you lead this dance. For the moment.

  Using Craft, Rainier called in a rectangular box and floated it over to the desk, placing it directly in front of Daemon.

  Jewelry box, Daemon decided, leaning forward to study the flowers and leaves carved into the top. The box itself was excellent in craftsmanship and sufficient as a Winsol gift, so when he opened the lid, he whistled softly.

  A gold metalwork gauntlet. Delicate-looking, if you ignored the talons on the ends of the articulated fingers. A weapon disguised as a pretty.

  “It’s a Winsol gift for Surreal,” Rainier said. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “It’s beautiful and deadly,” Daemon replied. “She’ll love it.” He closed the box and returned it to Rainier before offering the man a brandy.

  Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

  Rainier had been a dance instructor for years. Hell’s fire, he’d been Jaenelle’s dance instructor—a young Warlord Prince who had been able to hold his own with Jaenelle and the coven of young Queens who had been her closest friends.

  Now Rainier worked for him, and he paid the man a generous salary. But he recognized Banard’s work. The jeweler made some pieces that wouldn’t beggar an ordinary man’s pocket for a year, but that custom-made gauntlet wasn’t one of them.

  What was Rainier trying to prove?

  “What are your plans for Winsol?” Daemon asked.

  “I’m going to Dharo to spend some time with my family,” Rainier replied, his smile looking sicker than before.

  Why? Daemon wondered. They usually prefer that you keep your distance. Hadn’t Rainier made a family visit a few weeks ago? Right around the time when something began to go wrong with the healing of his leg?

  “Unless there’s something you need from me,” Rainier added.

  “No, I don’t—” A thought occurred to him, and he didn’t think he’d get an honest answer without inflicting some pain. So he would inflict the pain.

  “It’s come to my attention that there is a traditional Winsol dance. It would be prudent for me to learn it.”

  “Don’t look to me to teach you,” Rainier said. “I’m crippled.”

  At least he didn’t have to dig for the bitterness festering inside the other Warlord Prince.

  “And who do you blame for that, Rainier?” Daemon asked too softly, leaning back and steepling his fingers again.

  “I don’t blame anyone,” Rainier snapped. “It happened.”

  “Yes, it happened, because you did what you were supposed to do—defend and protect.”

  “Not well enough. Three children died and Surreal got poisoned. I didn’t protect them well enough, and I lost . . .” He swallowed, obviously fighting not to say more. “I was a dancer. It’s all I’ve ever been. All I wanted to be. I’ll never be that again.”

  “Are you sure?” Daemon asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure!”

  Daemon hesitated, but it had to be said. “Everything has a price, Prince Rainier. An escort’s life is always on the line.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? You were wounded in battle. It doesn’t matter what the battleground looked like; that’s the truth of it. You’re not the first man who’s had to rebuild his life because of battle scars. You won’t be the last.” Knowing that he wasn’t getting through to the man, Daemon unleashed some of his own frustration. “You could have lost your leg instead of losi
ng some mobility. Hell’s fire, Rainier, you could have died in that place.”

  “Maybe it would have been better if I had,” Rainier said softly.

  Daemon felt his temper rise from the depth of his Black Jewel—sweet, cold, and deadly. Rainier wasn’t stupid. He knew who would be waiting for him if he got maudlin enough to commit suicide. The boy thought he had troubles now? Wait until Saetan got done explaining things to the fool—especially a fool who had helped himself become demon-dead sooner than he should have.

  But it might explain Rainier buying a gift he really couldn’t afford. And Lucivar needed to be aware of that possibility.

  “What’s the state of your finances?” Daemon asked.

  Rainier blinked. Then color stained his cheeks. “Frankly, Prince Sadi, that’s none of your business.”

  “I just made it my business. Do you want to find out how fast I can acquire every scrap of private information about you, or are you going to answer the question?”

  Rainier squirmed. “I’m doing all right. I have some savings.”

  “Your salary will continue, paid quarterly as usual,” Daemon said.

  “For what?” Rainier let out a pained laugh. “There’s not much I can do.”

  “I have some thoughts about that, but right now you can make some effort to heal.” Daemon put enough ice in his voice to have Rainier’s eyes fill with wariness. “I’ll take care of the rent on your apartment in Amdarh, as well as any other necessary expenses like food.”

  “I don’t need your charity, and I don’t want your pity,” Rainier snapped.

  “You’re not getting either, so shut up.” But it was becoming clear that someone was giving Rainier heavy doses of both, and those things could become more crippling than a damaged leg.

  Daemon huffed out a sigh. “You’re going to have to come to terms with what you can do physically and what you can’t. I can’t help you with that, but I can make things easier for a while so that you can concentrate on healing. You’re a good Warlord Prince, Rainier, and a good escort. Too good to lose because you’re having trouble finding your balance.”