Page 90 of The Favourite

Alisander braced himself, but the King’s Chief Advisor seemed in no hurry to get to the point. “There was something you wished to discuss with me?” he ventured.

“Was there?”

“You said our meeting was fortuitous,” he reminded him, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, it is always a pleasure to see you, my dear Bardulf,” Vawdrey murmured. Alisander almost rolled his eyes. “At least you will not try to force me into a row over mutual trade routes,” he added dryly.

“Who has been doing that?” Alisander asked, casting his eye about the room.

“Our friend from Ballamaigne,” Vawdrey sighed.

“Ah, I have not conversed with Burkhard today. I am sure you grew progressively vaguer until he reached his boiling point.”

Vawdrey laughed. “It is the only way to deal with him, I assure you.” His own eyes were passing over the crowd. “But I do not see your friend Hubair here today.”

“My friend?”

“Lascony and Kloberg are historical allies are they not?”

Alisander snorted. Everyone knew Kloberg was, to all intents and purposes, ruled by Lascony, with its puppet king, King Stefan, barely out of leading strings. “Whereas Karadok and Lascony are historically enemies?”

“Times change.” Vawdrey shrugged. “Sadly, sometimes people need reminding of that fact.”

“People?”

“Monseiur Hubair seems, at times, more concerned with House Lisle’s cause than he does about his own king’s.”

Alisander tipped his head back. This was so uncharacteristically forthright of Vawdrey; it made him instinctively uneasy. “King Stefan is a mere child,” he pointed out, “and likely concerned about precious little.”

“He is fifteen,” Vawdrey said lightly, “and old enough.”

“For what?”

“For plenty of things,” the other replied dryly.

“I have not heard that the boy king has done anything notable, if that is what you are asking me,” Alisander responded, and Vawdrey’s shoulders seemed to relax. “The last time I saw him, Hubair seemed to be in a frenzy over some clandestine betrothal.” Vawdrey’s enigmatic gaze turned on him. “Not of Stefan’s,” he clarified, “but some first-cousin of his.”

“Oh that,” Vawdrey said with a short laugh. “Tell me, does poor Alphonse still believe it all part of some infernal Karadokian plot?”

“Nothing can convince him otherwise,” Alisander answered. “I tried telling him that Wymer would not give a fig if an archduke of some small province in Kloberg is plotting to marry a highborn Karadokian, but really my hands were tied.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Alisander said with a shrug, “I could hardly point out that Wymer views Kloberg as a nation of pastry-makers now, could I?”

Oswald Vawdrey’s smile flashed out. “I almost pity poor Hubair, trying to express his fears to you.”

“No, you don’t,” he smirked. “Tell me, is there a secret betrothal?”

“Oh yes,” Vawdrey confirmed. “To the Duchess of Rand’s niece, but it’ll never come to anything.”

Alisander nodded. “It is as I suspected.” He glanced at the window again, noting it was getting dark. That was good. It meant he could soon reasonably take his leave without comment.

“You have another meeting, perhaps, planned for this evening?” Vawdrey asked politely.

“Another meeting?”

“Only, you seem to be marking time.”