Page 101 of Traitor Son

This morning excursion was their compromise.

It was a fitting reward to show her how far the wall had advanced in her absence, though there were practical reasons for visiting, as well. Remin was coping with an increasingly familiar blend of fondness and anxiety as he followed her to the cookhouse, though outwardly his face was as grim as ever. Most of Tresingale’s inhabitants were already abroad for the day, but every man that passed paused to offer greetings to their duchess, and they looked so dazzled at her answering smile that Remin was struck with an irrational urge to growl.

“Master Wen?” Ophele paused cautiously at the threshold of the sacred kitchen.

“How many times have I told ye, it’s Wen.” The vast cook turned with his hands on his hips. “Did the fever affect your memory, Your Grace? You’ll find Master Eugene’s treats in the usual place. And wash your hands before you touch me cupboards.Vectors for plague,the lot of you, that’s what Genon says.” He relished the words, jabbing a fat finger at the small washbasin to the left of the cabinets.

“The bread smells good,” she offered as she went obediently to wash, and while her back was turned, Wen’s glare faltered, one beady eye twitching. He had been shockingly willing to provide tempting dishes at all hours of the day for the past two weeks, beginning with thin soups and porridge and graduating to richer, heartier fare, aromatic and subtly spiced.

“It’s good ye can offer some compliment today, considering the wrong you’ve done,” he growled. “’Tis a wonder I can hold me head up for shame.”

“What?” She turned to face him, eyes wide. “Why?”

“Aye, ye heard me,” Wen said loudly, crossing massive arms over his chest and glowering down at her. “Is there something wrong with me cooking, I’d like to know? Is there a reason the Duchess of Andelin should be reeling about and fainting and looking like a chicken someone’s plucked?”

That was going a little far, but Remin suspected he knew where this was headed and held his tongue.

“No, there’s nothing wrong, it’s very good,” Ophele said, bewildered. “Thank you for the porridge, I liked the berries—”

“Theneat!”The cook bellowed. “If someone were to ask,who is it that cooks for the wife of Duke Remin of Andelin, hero of the Gresein,and pointed to a wisp like yourself, I’d be the laughingstock of the whole ruddy Empire! My cooking putsmeat on bones! Meat!Soldiers march the length of the Empire and chew up armies by teatime becauseIfeed them! I will not be defeated by apicky teenage girl!”

Snapping a pair of cupboard doors apart, he produced a basket of large, buttery croissants and slapped it down on the end of the counter, all of them studded with berries and dusted temptingly with sugar.

“Croissants?”

“Aye, croissants!” He thundered. “Bleeding croissants! I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be reduced to bloodypastry!But by the stars a woman what’s fed by Wen of Tallford has fat cheeks and a waist a yard round or I’ll know the reason why! And if ye call me Master Tallford just once, then that will be Master Eugene’s final carrot! Now take your croissants and get out of me kitchen!”

“I—thank you, I will, I do like your cooking—” Ophele plucked a croissant from the basket and retreated, clearly unsure whether she was supposed to eat or was about to be eaten.

“I saidall the croissants!”Wen roared, and she grabbed the basket and fled out the door like a rabbit.

“I’ll get the carrots,” Remin said in a ringing silence, and went to wash his hands. “You couldn’t just tell her you hope she feels better?”

“Croissants.” Wen was still breathing fire. “To think this day would come. Mincing about the kitchen with an armload of butter like a poxy Caprician pâtissier.”

“Thank you, Wen.”

“Sod off, Your Grace.”

Ophele was waiting outside at the side of the road, hugging the basket of croissants and looking anxious.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, when she saw the carrots in Remin’s hand. “I only remembered after I got outside, is he really mad about the croissants?”

“It could be viewed as a commentary on his cooking,” Remin acknowledged, though from the glance she gave him, he suspected Ophele was wise to Wen’s game, even if his bellowing did make her flee in terror.

“I can’t eat all this,” she said, tearing a croissant in half and offering it to him. “Would he be offended if I gave some away?”

“Eat at least two yourself.” Remin bit into the treat with pleasure. After observing his wife for some days, he thought her problem had been overwork rather than starvation. She ate orders of magnitude less than he did, but for her size, he thought she probably did well enough. Just not enough to support the work she had been doing.

It was still early as they walked to the stables together, chewing contentedly on the croissants. The sun was only two fingers above the horizon and Ophele prevailed on him to give his murderous warhorse a carrot as he saddled it, looking longingly at the handsome animal. The horse was velvety black and powerfully muscled, with deep scars over his chest and flanks and fierce dark eyes. Looking at the girl, he put his ears back warningly, as if he suspected her of nefarious designs.

“Come, up you get,” Remin said, holding out a hand and feeling a wave of nostalgia as he lifted her into the saddle before him. He was torn between the warring impulses to pull her close and push her away, and his heart beat faster as she settled shyly into place before him, clutching her basket and uncertain whether she should keep her distance.

That made two of them.

“Are they almost to the gatehouse?” she asked, peering east. The walls were three miles away from the main road of Tresingale, at best a vague white line shimmering on the horizon.

“Getting close. We’ve already got a third crew digging there, it won’t hurt to have a pit between us and the devils. The walls should get there in a few more weeks, and we’ll be done with the palisade in days.” Remin was grimly satisfied with these milestones. “That will leave only defenders on the palisade and behind the barricades at the gatehouse. Soon nothing will get past our perimeter.”

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