The Best-Laid Plans

Chapter 1: …of Mice Efren Crown Prince Efren of Zioneven sat on the end of the bed and grinned as Prince Marcelo’s personal servant eased a brush through the strawberry blonde curls that had taken Efren’s breath away when he’d caught his first glimpse of his new husband—or husband-to-be, at the time. Before Marcelo had known of Efren’s intentions. When Marcelo had stood in a line with his family, quietly assessing the entourage from Zioneven that had arrived for the wedding they’d thought would be canceled. The wedding had gone on, but with a change in one of the participants. Marcelo had taken the place of his deceased sister. A delicate blush crept across Marcelo’s cheeks as he peeked at Efren through half-lowered eyelids. Perhaps recalling their successful joining last night? Successful not in that the consummation of their marriage had been accomplished—they hadn’t had any choice in that regard—but in that they had reveled in each other’s touch. And better yet was the budding mutual affection developing between them. Marcelo stood and smoothed down his already wrinkle-free travel tunic. He drew in a breath as if to steady his nerves and crossed the large room to join Efren. Efren stood and put out his hands to take Marcelo’s. The young man—barely eighteen—was quiet-natured and perhaps a touch shy, but had spirit. Efren leaned across the gap Marcelo had left between them and brushed his lips over the curve of a slight smile. “Are you ready to go down, my darling?” Efren resisted a strong desire to run his fingers through those freshly brushed loose ringlets. “Yes, I look forward to seeing your kingdom and meeting your family,” Marcelo replied in a routine manner. But the compliant words rang true. Doubtful he was looking forward to the journey itself, but he had asked earnest questions since learning of his pending marriage, taking the inevitability of it in stride, and seemed to truly embrace the new life awaiting him. Marcelo clasped Efren’s proffered elbow, and together they descended to the great hall to break their fast before beginning the long trek home. Efren restrained an inner scowl that threatened to break free when Gideon Bailey, Zioneven’s ambassador to Sheburat, signaled to him with a subtle tilt of his head. The brief respite from official business offered by his wedding night was over. Efren braced himself, simultaneously anticipating and dreading Gideon’s report. He turned to Marcelo, whose long, soft hair shone in the early morning light slanting through an east-facing window. “My darling, please excuse me for a moment.” Efren lifted the hand he’d been holding and landed a brief kiss to the inside of Marcelo’s wrist. “I’ll join you shortly at the table.” Marcelo’s manners were too refined for him to voice an objection, but the tilt of his brows conveyed a mild curiosity. He nodded to Efren, and a smile played at his lips. “Of course.” Efren strode across the hall to face Gideon. “Do you have news of the missing ‘mouse’?” “I do,” Gideon replied. “Hugh’s returned.” Hugh was one of the “mice,” the Zioneven spies who had long ago infiltrated the village where Sheburat’s castle was situated. They monitored the general mood of the people, gathered and traced rumors, and were continually on the lookout for anything that might be pertinent to Zioneven’s still-raw relationship and fledgling peace with Sheburat. “Where was he?” “Tracking a man to Gagel.” Efren closed his eyes and took a calming breath. There was only one likely reason for the man to have bolted toward this particular neighboring kingdom. Efren should have known the explanation for the accident that had occurred, killing his intended bride, had been too simple to be true. He didn’t need to ask what, or even why, that much he could surmise. A knot tightened in his gut as he asked the remaining question. “How did they do it?” Both Gideon and one of the advanced riders of Efren’s entourage who had traveled from Zioneven to Sheburat for the wedding had witnessed the accident. They had not noticed anything suspicious. Neither had the number of Sheburat soldiers stationed around the courtyard. Only the disappearance of Hugh had tipped off Gideon and Efren to the possibility of foul play. The horse Princess Marcela had been riding had stumbled, throwing her and breaking her neck two days before she and Efren were to have wed. Apparently, that stumble had been engineered in some manner. “We suspect Shalmo.” Gideon’s face appeared a tight mask. He would know the implications as well as Efren did. Shalmo was a delayed-reaction drug developed by alchemists in Zioneven. It didn’t kill, but it would daze the victim. Once the drug activated, the victim would suddenly behave in a drunken manner. A horse drugged with Shalmo would unexpectedly stagger around aimlessly. If Gideon was correct, and the horse had been dosed with Shalmo, then that had probably been the Gagel agent’s intent—to taint the treaty between the two nations by making it appear that Marcela’s horse had been drugged by Zioneven agents. That goal had been thwarted because the drug had activated while the horse was mid-sprint, resulting in a lethal outcome for its rider, and downing the horse so the drug’s effects were not apparent. Gagel hadn’t needed to kill Marcela. Likely they’d only wanted to make it appear that an attempt had been made…by Zioneven. “What did Hugh witness?” Efren asked. “And why didn’t he stop it?” “He did not witness the drug being administered,” Gideon replied. “If indeed that is what happened. We’re making an assumption based upon what happened after the man abruptly fled the scene. Hugh was tailing him before the accident occurred and knew nothing of it until his return.” Presumably, Zioneven’s motive would have been to acquire the innocuous and undereducated Prince Marcelo in lieu of his sister. In Sheburat’s matriarchal society, Princess Marcela would have been brought up to be a shrewd diplomat. Her loyalty would likely have remained with Sheburat, and she would have done her best to sway Zioneven’s policies in their favor and communicate any intelligence she managed to acquire. However, Queen Giselle—along with all of the Sheburat entourage—had appeared genuinely shocked when Efren had chosen Marcelo as the contingency plan. But perhaps they would have considered the mildly less-hardened next-younger sister to be enough of a motive. Or perhaps King Deverick of Gagel simply hadn’t recognized the degree of Sheburat’s cultural blindness to the possibility of one of their men entering into a marriage contract with another man, and he’d erroneously assumed Queen Giselle would attribute that motive to the attempt on Marcela’s life. That marriage had been the final detail sealing a treaty between the kingdoms of Zioneven and Sheburat. The treaty had allowed for a contingency plan with Efren being allowed to choose a replacement from among Marcela’s younger siblings. He’d chosen Marcelo for several reasons. Because as Marcela’s twin, Marcelo was the same age and the marriage would not have to wait for the next younger sister to reach her majority. Because Marcelo was a naïve, yet empathetic and intelligent soul, which made him a better political choice from Zioneven’s perspective. And because Efren preferred the company of men. Efren pulled in a deep breath and paused while his heart rate settled. “What made Hugh notice him, and how did the man gain access to the stables?” “With the arrival of so many courtiers and diplomats for the wedding, there were added and unfamiliar stable hands, making it relatively easy for a spare man to walk in, pretending as if he belonged. But Hugh had been paying attention and knew the guy had been lurking around the village for days. When the guy slipped into the stables, Hugh would’ve raised the alarm, but the man exited almost immediately after his entrance, and Hugh figured—wrongly, apparently—that he’d been shooed out before he could do whatever he’d come to do. Still, he’d seemed worth watching, so Hugh followed him.” Efren nodded. It would have taken mere seconds to poke the horse with a small, Shalmo-dipped barb. Easy to conceal and appearing as if merely patting or petting the animal—if anyone had noticed him. But none had admitted to witnessing suspicious persons or activity when they’d been questioned. “All right.” Efren gritted his teeth. He was not looking forward to his upcoming conversation with Queen Giselle of Sheburat. “Go now. Speak with Denis.” Denis Byrde was the captain of his security detail. “We need to confirm if that is what happened, and if so, find out how Gagel got ahold of Shalmo, how much they have, and do they have the recipe to make their own.” “Right away, sir.” Gideon gave a curt nod and left. Queen Giselle, her husband, and their remaining six daughters had not yet made their appearance in the great hall, but Efren had no doubt they would come down to see them off. The sounds of servants scurrying through the upper corridors confirmed they were in the process of readying themselves. Efren sat at the foot of the table where Marcelo waited in the seat at his right hand. Two plates were swiftly placed in front of them. As he’d done every time they’d encountered each other in the two days since Efren had arrived, Marcelo respectfully remained silent, waiting for higher-ranked Efren to speak first. Efren took only a moment to decide Marcelo deserved to know the potential for danger they would face on their journey to Zioneven, but let them each take a few bites before speaking. “I’m afraid Gideon has given me some grim news.” “Oh?” Marcelo’s features were as well-schooled as Efren would expect for a young man brought up in a royal family, yet his expressive eyes always betrayed him. Some of the unbound hope for his future that had filled them since they’d said their marriage vows yesterday dimmed in favor of a hint of concern, and was echoed by a slight and very brief crease between his brows. “First, I’d like to emphasize that, beyond our observations, we can only extrapolate what might have been done and surmise the meaning behind that action.” “I see.” Marcelo blinked a few times. He was unused to being included in conversations with serious political overtones. “And will you share those observations with me?” “I think you deserve to know, yes.” Efren nodded decisively, although he could hedge a bit regarding the full nature of Hugh’s higher function. “One of our men who’d arrived early for security reasons was stationed in the village. Another man, who’d only recently arrived there, caught our agent’s attention. On the day of your sister’s death, this man was observed briefly entering the stables shortly before Marcela went for her daily ride. He was in there no more than a few seconds, and our agent assumed he’d been run out by the legitimate stable occupants. Regardless, that behavior was suspicious enough to warrant our agent’s decision to follow him. Our agent returned a few hours ago. He’d tracked the other man to Gagel.” Marcelo stared for a few moments as if processing the information. He blinked a few times. “That’s it?” Efren nodded. “Those are the facts, yes.” “I don’t understand.” Marcelo’s head angled and his body tensed as if waiting for a blow he couldn’t quite fathom, but sensed must be coming. “Gagel is our ally, and you said the man was in the stables only a few seconds. If you’re suggesting he might have had something to do with Marcela’s accident, I’m afraid I am missing some pertinent information to make that association.” “There are three bits of intelligence that will make that connection for you.” Clearly, Marcelo was every bit as out of the loop as Zioneven’s diplomats had indicated, because one thing Efren had established since his arrival was that Marcelo’s raw intelligence wasn’t lacking. “First, it is now well known in upper political circles that Zioneven’s alchemists developed a drug—we call it Shalmo—that produces a delayed drunken effect. It is administered via a slight jab or scratch with a small barb dipped in the serum. The target barely notices the small prick, and with the reaction delayed, the results and the cause are not always associated with each other. Second, if indeed this drug has fallen into outside hands, my family—and most likely yours—was previously unaware of that fact.” Marcelo remained silent, but Efren could practically see the wheels turning behind his widened eyes. “Third,” Efren continued. “We know that Gagel’s economy benefited from the war between our two kingdoms.” Marcelo inclined his head. “They provided many of our army’s provisions.” “Correct. And their economy has suffered greatly during the ensuing peace.” “I see.” Marcelo’s jaw tightened. “You’ve connected the dots?” “It would be in Gagel’s economic interests if Sheburat were to become entrenched in another war. Framing an assassination attempt on Zioneven would contribute greatly to making that happen.” “Excellent, my darling. And dosing Marcela’s horse with Shalmo would do that because…?” Marcelo lips quivered. “If she’d been riding the horse with any gait less than a full gallop when the Shalmo activated, the horse’s behavior would have clued those in-the-know into what was causing it. As the only known holders of the drug, Zioneven would have been implicated. Gagel’s mission actually failed because the horse went down with an injury.” “Correct.” Marcelo closed his eyes for a moment as if settling his thoughts. He reopened them to the accompaniment of a heavy sigh. “Will you tell my mother?” “Yes.” Even if Queen Giselle never caught wind of what had likely caused her daughter’s death, there was a reasonable chance Gagel would make further efforts to trigger unrest between Sheburat and Zioneven. Best that she be forewarned both for her kingdom’s protection and so her ire could be directed in the proper direction.