Sunshield

by Emily B. Martin

  By my tenth recitation of the Social Calendar Exemplar, it was like a worm had wriggled into my brain. Or a seed had sprouted, if you like—that’s a bit less disgusting of an example. Either way, the intricacies of the text buried deep in my psyche, and I found myself drawn to the idea of the Moquoian court—not for its politics, not for its society, but for the fusion of those two things. How they influenced and fed off each other, how they manifested and grew and shaped the daily life of an ordinary citizen like myself.

  I wanted more.

  When I was thirteen, Papi died after a bout with pneumonia. It wrecked me—for two months I couldn’t even look at a book, much less read one. But Mami had trouble keeping our income afloat—her hands were becoming gnarled with scriveners’ arthritis, and she could only work a few hours a day—so I was forced out of my stupor of grief by necessity. I picked up the extra hours Mami couldn’t handle, coming straight to the library after school to work until suppertime. It was during this period that I delved into the details of Moquoian history, our trade alliances, our relationship to the islands and the countries to the east. I won’t pretend I retained every scrap of information I read, but it’s hard to copy a text word for word, sometimes multiple times, and not absorb much of it—especially when the subject fascinates you.

  The ultimate result is well known in the palace—everybody loves a good ashoki’s journey tale, and for several months after my appointment, the court was awash in embellished stories of my audition and selection. I even heard one rendition where my apparently mystical skills on the dulcimer had compelled a kindhearted quarry overseer to shorten my bond, on one condition—that I travel to Tolukum to play for the king. In that tale, the overseer supposedly gifted me a coin, which I carried with me, step by step, to purchase an audition for a royal audience, and the rest is history. Oh, what a noble, wise man that fictional overseer was, to spot the country’s ashoki when she was but a lowly bond slave.

  Never mind that the truth is far less glamorous, and far more insidious.

  That’s how truth generally works.

  But only one person knows the full truth—the real truth—and I’ve been aggressively trying not to think about him at all, because it fills my sore head with a different kind of ache. As depressing as it is, dwelling on the people in court who might like to see me maimed and imprisoned is a more pleasant use of my time. My endless, empty, wordless time.

  The storm outside has made its way directly overhead, the thunder booming out the same second the lightning hits, making the walls shake. I stand under the tiny window and stare up into the square slice of storming sky. My waste bucket is partially full, so I can’t turn it over to stand on it. With a kind of stumbling impulse, I back up as far as the room allows, setting my palms on the far wall.

  And then I push off and lunge forward, taking four giant steps before hurling myself upward toward the vent. One hand finds the lip of the hole, but it’s wet now, and there’s not a shred of strength in my arms. I slide down the solid adobe wall, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  I scraped my wrist, right where I used to wear my si-oque with the amber cabochons, which they took off me after the attack four weeks ago. Dazed, slightly intrigued by the absolute lack of substance in my muscles, I roll painfully onto my back and suck the raw spot. Flecks of rain continue to spatter my face, speckled bits of a world that has continued on without me.

  I wonder if the bats will fly tonight. They must, I suppose, if they want to eat, heedless to the raucous thunder, cruel in their freedom and fitness for their purpose.

  I, on the other hand, fall asleep.

  Veran

  It’s the day before the Bakkonso Ball, famous for its indigo lamps and glowing powder. The custom before this event, as I tried to explain to Ambassador Rou as he was arguing with his valet over wardrobe options, is to promenade around the glassed patios and strategize one’s color scheme for the next day. He’s paired me up with Eloise again, perhaps to continue our attempt to appear youthful and friendly rather than anxiously politic, which has been our primary state since Iano’s announcement a few days ago. But Eloise, it seems, has more ambitious plans today. I follow her as she weaves among the buzzing nobility, listening to the negotiations—some to match their partners and allies, some to stand out in the crowd, many designed to communicate political leanings and business intentions, and at least one calculated to humble a former lover.

  It’s still pouring down rain, the thick greenish glass smeared with water. While Eloise stops to retrieve a cup of chilled tul from a black-clad servant, I tilt my head against the window, looking down the dizzying height to the treetops waving below, the leaves showing their pale underbellies in the wind. I press my fingertips to the glass—it’s double-paned, muffling the sound of the storm. Not for the first time, my chest twinges with longing for a feel of moving air or trickling water, fever-bearing mosquitoes or no. I get a vision of spending our remaining four weeks slowly wilting under glass.

  Ethnocentric bias, Colm whispers in my head.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. I angle my head and nearly gasp out loud—there’s a person just off to the side of the bank of windows, climbing nimbly downward. His clothes and hair whip in the wind, along with a jumble of objects around his waist. I squint through the pouring rain, recognizing a flat handheld mop flapping loosely from his belt—a glass cleaner. He’s climbing down a metal ladder driven into the narrow space between the massive windowpanes. By the Light, there must be hundreds of them built into the side of the palace, highways for the battalion of servants who must clamber over them night and day. I crane my head to follow his progress—in no time at all he’s descended the vertical length of the patio and is lost to my sight.

  “Right,” Eloise says, returning to my side with her cup of tul. I reel back from the window, a little dizzy from the thought of all those workers climbing those tiny ladders in the driving wind and rain. I brace myself on my walking cane. Eloise sips her tul, her face businesslike. “Here’s the plan. I’ve been digging around, and it sounds like the two allies we need to make are the chairwoman of the Citizen Welfare Committee, and the minister of industry.”

  “Minister Kobok?” I ask. “I thought he leaned the other way from the chairwoman.”

  “Very much so—preserve the traditional labor model, and all that. A lot like the ashoki, Kimela.” She scans the crowd, her gaze lingering on Minister Kobok. “But from what I’ve read, if we can appear to ally with both, it may communicate that the East is not out to destroy Moquoian industry, only to stop the practice of abducting Alcoran citizens for bond labor.”

  “And close down the sand quarries they operate illegally on Alcoran land,” I point out.

  “Well, yes, and that, but baby steps, you know?” She nods across the room, where the chairwoman is chatting with a few other courtiers. “So I’ll go talk to the chairwoman. You go talk to Kobok.”

  “Alone?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we . . . I mean, don’t you need me to translate?” I know it’s a hopeful statement—in truth, I need her much more than she needs me.

  “From what I’ve heard, the chairwoman is friendly—friendlier than Kobok, anyway. I think she’ll be patient with my grasp on the language. He probably won’t be. That’s why you need to talk to him—he’ll have a harder time brushing you off. Show our interest in his work. Try to figure out what colors he’s wearing to Bakkonso, and then see if you can secure the promise of an audience—a hard date and time would be best.” She squares her shoulders. “Okay?”

  “Um . . .”

  “I’ll meet you back here afterward to discuss our options.” With that, she takes off across the long patio, her lavender skirts billowing behind her. She chose her colors today specifically to convey friendliness and approachability.

  Friendliness. I can be friendly, can’t I? I look down at my tunic—one of my typical shades of green, which is closer to the Moquoian si for optimism . . . unless it’s dark enou
gh to be regret.

  Maybe I should have given the color more thought.

  I can’t change it now, though. I swallow and turn for Minister Kobok. He’s mingling not far from the group clustered around Queen Isme. Ambassador Rou is among them, his ear cocked to keep track of the rapid Moquoian. He sees me across the crowd and gives me a wink. I give what I hope is a normal-looking grin in response, trying to keep from conveying my nerves.

  I focus back on Kobok and the knot of courtiers around him, pushing forward until I’m standing beside them. I hover awkwardly, waiting for him to finish his conversation, drawing the curious gazes of several of his companions. When he’s unable to ignore me any longer, Kobok turns to me, eyebrows knitted. His ensemble for today is a subtle gray-blue—water under a steely sky. Solemnity? Serenity? I can’t recall what his precise shade means, so I focus on other clues in his appearance, though it doesn’t tell me much. Rather than a fashionable bun or braid like many of the younger Moquoians, his long salt-and-pepper hair is swept back loose to brush his shoulders. His only adornments are two small gold bands securing his hair away from his graying temples, and an opal ring so large it spans his entire knuckle. His elaborate si-oque rests over his cuff, studded with garnets.

  “Yes?” he asks brusquely.

  I straighten, trying to channel Eloise. “Good afternoon, Minister. We haven’t had the chance to officially meet—I’m Prince Veran Greenbrier, of the Eastern delegation.”

  “Oh, yes—the translator. I’ve seen you bobbing around the ambassadors’ elbows,” he says. I can’t tell if it’s meant unkindly or not—his tone is certainly sharp, but perhaps it’s just his usual manner. It doesn’t escape my notice, though, that he identified me as an accessory to the ambassadors, not an ambassador myself. I squirm under the eyes of the other courtiers. Dammit, why did Eloise think this was a good idea?

  “Yes. I am . . . pleased to meet you,” I offer.

  His gaze drops to my empty hand—my other is occupied with my cane—and then he snaps his fingers at someone over my shoulder.

  “Tul, maid, if you please.”

  “Oh,” I say quickly. “No, it’s all right . . .”

  But a servant slips into our midst before I can finish. I start to wave her away, when I recognize her—it’s the head of staff from the Hall of the Ashoki. “Oh, hello, Fala.”

  Her gaze flicks up to my face and then back down, but she doesn’t answer, merely offering her tray of tul to me.

  “No, thank you—really,” I begin, but Kobok lifts a glass from the tray and thrusts it toward me.

  “I trust you are enjoying the hospitality of our court?” he asks pointedly. I swallow—the question feels almost like a threat. My fingers close unsteadily on the glass.

  “Yes, sir, very much so.”

  He swats the air dismissively, and Fala obediently curtsies and melts away. I’d prefer to scurry after her, but I force myself to stand my ground, trying to shake off his scrutiny—I can’t waste this opportunity. Show our interest in his work. “I understand that you have been on a tour of the glass facilities. How does the industry fare?”

  “Halfway to cannibalizing itself,” he says with disapproval. “Everyone from the foremen to the quarriers shouting for unionizing and wage hikes, pretending those things can be conjured from thin air.” He’s still examining me, clearly not to be deterred. “You don’t look Alcoran.”

  “No, sir. I’m of the Wood-folk in the Silverwood Mountains.”

  He leans back, his brow furrowing, and too late I realize what I called my folk. I keep forgetting that the Moquoians consider the traditional folk names outdated. A few of the other courtiers shift and mutter, and I flush. “Oh . . . forgive me. At home it’s considered acceptable to refer to each country by their folk name.”

  The minister’s nostrils flare. “So I expect we are referred to as the Tree-folk?”

  I think of the mighty redwoods and lush maple forests and silently suggest it’s an admirable association. Ethnocentric bias. “It is sometimes used, but . . .”

  “Without a thought to oversimplification. There are trees in the Silverwood, are there not?”

  “Yes, sir . . .”

  “And hills in Lumen Lake, but they are called Lake-folk. Rivers in Winder, but they are called Hill-folk. Coastline in Cyprien, but they’re called River-folk. Shall I continue?”

  I swallow again. “I apologize, sir, I didn’t mean to offend—”

  “Do you see how the antiquated characterization of each country serves to diminish it?”

  Great Light, he’s making me feel like a backward rube. I try to straighten, my knuckles white on the glass in my hand. “Yes, of course you’re correct. Forgive the slip of my tongue. It’s my hope that with a strengthened partnership between Moquoia and the East, this old-fashioned verbiage will fall out of favor.”

  It seems to satisfy him. He nods shortly and gives a little “hm.” Several courtiers copy his movement. I allow myself the briefest of congratulations for dodging that particular strike. He takes a sip from his glass and studies the firefly pin on my lapel. “Will you pronounce your surname again, please?”

  “Greenbrier,” I say, trying to organize my thoughts in Moquoian. “But it’s not exactly . . .”

  “I don’t recall that name in Silvern records.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s not a surname. We take . . . we have . . .” I can’t remember the Moquoian word for epithet. “A name you choose for yourself. Not family names.”

  “A si,” says one of the courtiers, using the name of the color titles Moquoian nobility take. It’s not the word I would have chosen, but the others nod in sudden understanding.

  “What color does it represent?” Kobok asks, his gaze flicking over my forest green tunic. “Is it a form of Iksi? I have been told you overwear that color.”

  It’s hardly my fault that nearly all my tunics are the color of my parents’ banner. The momentary relief at my tiny victory dissolves away. “Greenbrier . . . it does have iksi in its name, but it’s actually a vine. A little thorny vine.”

  “What concepts does it represent?” asks the first courtier.

  “It . . . doesn’t, really, it’s not the same—”

  “Why did you choose it?” asks another.

  “Because . . . I just . . . liked it,” I lie—even if I wasn’t floundering with the language, I can hardly air my quiet, childish secrets to this group of foreign politicians. I cast frantically for another topic, trying to remember what Eloise wanted me to achieve here. “Minister, Ambassador Alastaire and Princess Eloise were hoping we might coordinate our colors with you for tomorrow’s Bakkonso Ball.”

  Kobok lifts an eyebrow, and I run back through my statement, hoping I got all my wording correct. Silence stretches out, first thoughtful before quickly becoming awkward. I shift on my blistered feet.

  Finally he turns his attention back to the group of courtiers. “Ladies, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I would like a private word with our guest.”

  The cluster obediently breaks up. Some take up positions only a few feet away, probably hoping to eavesdrop.

  Whether he’s expecting this, or whether he’s simply an expert at scare tactics, Kobok steps closer to me. I lean back, gripping my cane.

  “I do not mean to be rude,” I say. “I am still learning the language.”

  He doesn’t respond to this. His ample mustache curls as his lips purse. “Ambassador Greenbrier, if you please, enlighten me. I heard of your proposed presence in our court at the beginning of the year, and since then I have wondered—what is the real reason you are here?”

  I blink again. “I’m sorry?”

  “It is all very benign on paper,” he continues. “New economic opportunities and safer trade routes and such, but this is only with our neighbor Alcoro. You are not Alcoran. Your master is not Alcoran, and neither is the princess. In fact, if my facts are correct, Alcoro is the historic enemy to all three countries you represent. What has suddenly cr
eated a bond so strong that you can speak for their government?”

  “Alcoro and the Silverwood have been allies for almost two decades,” I say, taken aback. “As have the other Eastern countries. We represent the allied East.”

  “Mm,” he says again, his eyes narrowing. “Are you quite sure there isn’t a more intimate reason?”

  I’m so mixed up that I wonder if I heard him correctly. I repeat his word back to him. “Intimate?”

  “Yes, intimate.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.” He takes another step forward—a tiny one, but it makes me shift backward all the same. “Do you know when I took this office?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Fifteen years ago,” he says. “Do you know what happened in the sixth month I held the office? I received a letter. From Lumen Lake. For over a month it had traveled around the cape and up the coast—this was before the desert routes were even remotely passable. Queen Mona Alastaire risked a ship full of soldiers—Lumeni, Cypri, and Paroan—to bring me this letter.”

  Ah, I’m starting to understand, and I’m entirely at a loss for what to say back. Of all the topics I’d anticipated discussing today, Mona and Rou’s long-lost daughter was hardly among them. I cast a panicked glance at the crowd—Eloise is clear on the other side of the patio, and Rou is engaged with Queen Isme.

  “It was quite strongly worded, written once in both Common Eastern and a rustic attempt at Moquoian,” the minister continues. “Suggesting that if I had any information on a recent shipload of captives bound for my glass forges, I should surrender everything I knew. Particularly information regarding a little girl, five years old, named Moira Alastaire.”