Snippet #1069152

Larsus Montclair, Duke of Coldharbour and Myrantia, and much else besides, covered his eyes with one pearl-gloved hand. The laments and murmurs of the court hammered on his ears and the smell of ambergris and death burned in his nostrils.

Still, at least he'd gone with the Seygan traditions. The eunuchs made it easier, really. More dignified. Better than physicians and sawbones, always poking around where they weren't wanted and saying things like: 'We'd better examine this powder in His Majesty's stomach,' or 'Look how the heart has been corroded.'

Far better the eunuchs, who knew how to handle things discreetly and with dignity. Most of the court might disagree, but Larsus was Seygan through and through. Dying with grace was the Seygan way, not cut about on a physic's table.

He listened and observed - keenly, even through the facade of mourning - to the high court as it swarmed and twittered in the imperial bedchamber. There was Ser Delian, the knight-hostage, who'd served the Crown Prince before his death, the idiot still dressed for warfare, sword and all. Swords, Larsus snorted internally. Bloody useless in the Palace; far better the needle-thin and razor-sharp poniards he himself carried, capable of shearing through chainmail or lopping off a pound of flesh in an instant.

King Raine, too - the profligate wastrel who lived too well, beyond his means and flaunted the purple on his nails. It was all to the good that he overtaxed his trading ports, of course; it meant a greater influx to the more friendly havens of Coldharbour, Helios, Coreollis and Vandemar, all coastal cities part of the Poison Counties, but sometimes the man simply grated. It was perhaps telling of the Seygan attitude to things that he cared little for Raine's execution of Vaynmark duchy; while he himself preferred venom or loyalty through penury, slaughtering everyone was also perfectly valid.

"Who shall sit on the Throne of Serpents?"

Larsus paid attention, balancing heavily on his dragon-headed cane. Whomsoever had the throne would have a great bearing on House Montclair's fortunes.

The next words out of the attendant's mouth sent a wave of muttering washing across the room, and had King Raine dashing up the steps to the imperial bed in defiance of all protocol, demanding answers of his liege.

"All hail King Kendrik!" Larsus blinked, and cleared his throat, with a short, perfunctory bow to King Raine.

"Majesty, I must ask how you know our master - our late master - the Lion's heir shall be male? Or indeed fit to rule? There were great hopes for His Lamented Highness, Prince Basil, but with his life cut short on the Long Border..." Larsus let his voice trail off expressively.

Unsaid, hovering in the air, was the simple fact that a regency would in all probability tear the Empire asunder.