“And anyone in the way is in danger, too,” Mairti said gently.
“We can’t stay here,” Kristos said, as though I had no say in the proceedings. I shot him a pointed look that he ignored. “The a’Mavha know about plenty of things, but I’m fairly sure they don’t know much about the Warren.”
41
I LET MAIRTI BUSTLE ME INTO HER ROOM AND DIG THROUGH her trunk, searching for clothes that would fit me. “No offense, but you stick out like—in Serafe we say ‘a drunk’s nose.’”
“Sore thumb,” I whispered, shaken by all I’d just heard. I was doubtful Mairti would find anything in her wardrobe to fit me—Serafans tended to be petite compared to Pellians, but Mairti was slighter and shorter than most. She produced a loose-fitting shift in pale yellow and a belted green over-robe.
“It’s not perfect,” she said. “It will be too short, and I haven’t slippers to fit you. And it’s the sort of thing no one would wear out of the house unless she was ill and going to the apothecary.”
“Then she can be ill and going to the apothecary,” Alba said, appearing in the doorway behind us. “Just get changed. Leave the clothes here,” she added.
“I’ll try to get them back to you.” Penny slipped inside after Alba.
“No, make them over and sell them,” I said. “I don’t even know where to tell you to send them.” I laughed as though it were a joke, but the uncertainty opened like a pit before me—I didn’t know where I was going tonight, or how I was going to leave Isildi, or where I would find safe haven in Galitha. I felt ill, and regretted having drunk any wine at all as I stepped behind the carved screen bisecting Mairti’s room.
“It’s a very pretty print,” Penny said, picking up the sleeve of my gown with its ruched trim. “It suits you well. The clothes, your betrothal, your place beside the prince—it all suits you well,” she added with a shy smile.
I returned it, and wished we had more time to talk about clothes and weddings and sewing—how Penny would have loved debating what color wedding gown I should make! But there wasn’t time for that now. “Where are we going?”
“The Warren,” Alba said with a wry smile. “I will not be accompanying you. It is not the sort of place considered proper for a sister of a Kvys order.”
Mairti rolled her eyes, handing me the shift. It was of lightweight linen, and I blushed as I realized it was nearly transparent. “It’s not proper for a princess, either, but we’re sending her.”
“I’m not a princess,” I said, rote.
“It’s a brothel,” Alba said abruptly, holding up her hands as though absolving herself of the decision. “Prostitution is illegal in Serafe, but the Warren survives.”
Before I could protest, Mairti explained, “It’s ideal for hiding someone. It’s not merely a—a brothel. It’s a sort of traveling party. It moves, nearly every night. But the students always know where to find it—and Kristos is well connected, even if he’s only been here a few months.”
“Sounds about right for Kristos.” I sighed.
“We’ve a friend there,” Penny said. “Sianh. One of the men in the employ of the Warren.” I tried to keep a disapproving frown from pulling at my mouth; surely I was in no position to judge the friends Penny and Kristos kept here.
“He and Kristos argue like a pair of drunk barristers, but he’s a trustworthy man,” Penny said.
“How can you be sure?” I asked. “Not that I don’t trust you, it’s just…”
“The stakes are rather high, I understand.” Penny tugged at my sleeve and tied a loose drawstring. “When I first came here, I didn’t know the neighborhood well. There are… some wineshops it’s better to stay away from when the fellows are deep in their cups. I didn’t know, and went looking for Kristos in the wrong one. Sianh knocked the man’s teeth loose before I’d thought to call for help.”
“And then,” said Mairti, “he walked home with her. That is something, in Serafe—to stand up for a woman and then to walk with her like an equal. Not expecting compensation.”
I nodded. If Penny trusted him, so did I. “But surely the a’Mavha would know where to find it, too?”
“It’s possible, but the Warren is very judicious in who they let in on the secret. High-ranking scholars and advanced students, mostly.”
“I can’t imagine the prostitutes are so judicious,” I retorted.
“Of course they are—they don’t want to be arrested,” Kristos said from the other side of the door. “But more importantly, it’s not the sort of place one can just stumble into. The Warren is usually in someone’s private home, or gardens, or a hidden corner of the university. They’ll be looking for you, likely, in slightly more traditional accommodations. Inns, the diplomatic compound, near the harbor. They won’t think to look in a moveable coven of courtesans.”
Mairti adjusted the belt on the over-robe, grimaced, and dug a length of yellow silk from the trunk. “I’ll wrap your hair. I can’t say you look nice. Or Serafan, if that’s what we were aiming for.”
“She wouldn’t look Serafan even if we costumed her perfectly,” Alba said. “But at least she won’t be wearing Galatine finery. That’s the first thing the a’Mavha would ask about, and the first thing someone would notice. This”—Alba shrugged—“this is a foreign woman wearing an unfortunate housedress.”
“I’m sure it looks much better on Mairti,” I added hastily, but Mairti merely snorted.
“Hardly. I bought it at a rag sale.”
I finished adjusting my stockings, and then Alba allowed Kristos inside. “She’s decent. Well”—she shrugged again—“she’s clothed.” I dipped my hand into my pocket, which I had kept on, with my shift, under the Serafan clothing. Corvin’s kerchief, still wrapped in the paper, met my fingers. Guilt stabbed me—I should have given it to him while he was here, but I had forgotten. And, I admitted, I liked the additional luck it gave me. Luck that, perhaps, shielded me from the assassin, calm that perhaps reduced my anxiety and helped my judgment. I left the kerchief in my pocket. Alba sidled into the hallway as Kristos entered, and Mairti followed, leaving us alone in the cramped, low-ceilinged room.
Kristos took one look at me and laughed. “Far cry from what you made in your atelier,” he explained. “It’s kind of nice seeing you like this. Like when we were kids.”
I had to smile. “When we wore castoffs that Mother tried to make over? I recall a particular orange coat you wore for years; it was half patchwork.”
“I loved that thing,” Kristos admitted. “It was probably hideous, wasn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I said. It was so long ago, but I could see both of us as children, wearing oversize coats with breeches too short, gowns that gaped in the back and whose skirts had been let out as many times as they could. Now he was finally a scholar, and I, the crown prince’s betrothed and, at a faded and hazy distance, an uncertain future queen. We had come so far, but the costs had been high, far higher than any cost we paid as poor Pellian ragamuffins scrounging the streets of Galitha City. They weren’t diminishing, the costs of these new lives, I acknowledged. They were only mounting, the stakes rising higher and higher, and I wasn’t sure how long I could keep playing. I sank onto Mairti’s neatly made bed.
“A few things before we go,” Kristos said, sitting next to me. “The Warren is not dangerous, not in and of itself. The patrons are respectful, because they know the madam is the law there, not the authorities. They won’t bother you. The madam might put you to work—” He laughed as I jerked away in shock. “Washing dishes or doing some cleaning,” he amended. “To further your cover. Sweet mercy, Sophie, I wouldn’t whore out my own sister.”
In an uncharacteristically compassionate gesture, he took my hand. “I wish we could stay here longer. I—I’m happy here. I wish you could meet my patron at the university, his wife, his children. She’d want to fatten you up like she’s done me.”
“It sounds as though they’ve adopted you,” I said with a twinge of jealousy. My only fam
ily had left me and found another.
“It’s customary for the student to be somewhat integrated into his sponsor’s family. I just got lucky that Thain’s wife is such an excellent cook.” He smiled. “I’m learning so much, refining so much of what I thought I knew. Discovering that for all he knew, Pyord didn’t have any sort of monopoly on political theory.” He snorted.
I searched his face. “You discussed him here?”
“Not in so many words, no. I don’t acknowledge the role I played at Midwinter and they don’t ask. But Pyord—it’s no mistake he settled at the Galatine university, as a lecturer, instead of pursuing tenure here. He’s not exactly well-liked or respected. He came here, briefly, years and years ago. Threw a fit that he’d have to begin as an apprentice-level scholar—not even a lowly novice—and when no one acknowledged his genius or acquiesced to his tantrums, he left.”
“That’s not the image he would have had us believe, is it?” I could almost laugh at arrogant, self-righteous Pyord, unacknowledged and unappreciated in the great Serafan university. But I didn’t laugh; his rejection here had spurred him on to Galitha, and his unsated ambition turned to something else.
“No,” Kristos said, “it’s not. I fell for him, Sophie. I fell for his lines like a hooked fish because I… I was like him, in a way. I wanted more than Galitha as she stood could give me. I only hope it’s not too late.”
“And you were right all along.” I sighed. “That those in power won’t yield it without a fight.”
“I don’t relish being right. And I wasn’t, not completely. Plenty of nobles yielded power, willingly. Your… friend Theodor, for one.” I couldn’t resist laughing as he awkwardly sidestepped calling Theodor by what we both knew he was—my betrothed, my future husband.
“Plenty yielded it grudgingly, too, and are all too willing to take it back.”
“Yes, well, that I would have expected. I didn’t expect a crown prince to fight for his own people. I believed we would be alone in any struggle to rise up. But we have allies.” The creases between his brows deepened and knotted as he spoke. “That was your way, not my revolt and demands. Maybe… maybe I should have thought about the whole thing differently.”
I shook my head. “When I have a length of fabric, I can cut it dozens of different ways. A large piece for a pleated back, narrow curves for a bodice, flared skirts of a jacket, panels for a petticoat—it’s a dozen things at once. But put the scissors to the cloth, and it’s one thing. We’ve cut the cloth, Kristos. Now we have to work with it as it stands.”
“And we will. We will get back to Galitha, and soon, and make a stand.”
I smiled faintly; the spark was coming back into Kristos’s eyes, that fire fueled by philosophy and dogged belief.
“Any time you’re ready,” Alba said, fingers drumming the door frame.
“Patience is a virtue,” Kristos replied, though he got to his feet quickly. “I thought nuns tried to exemplify all forms of virtue.”
“Discernment is also a virtue,” Alba replied, adjusting her coif as she led us down the hallway. “And when the a’Mavha is sniffing at your scent, patience ceases to be a virtue and becomes a liability.”
42
THE WARREN WASN’T AT ALL WHAT I HAD EXPECTED. I HAD NOT known, of course, what to expect at all, but my understanding of houses of a similar nature in Galitha City led me to envision smoke-filled rooms, grimy walls, and sparse, broken-down furniture in seldom-used common rooms. Kristos did his best to disabuse me of my assumptions before we arrived.
“The Warren employs courtesans, not common whores,” Kristos said, voice low as we moved as discreetly as possible up a narrow, winding street. I felt as though every footfall echoed tenfold on the stones, but no one glanced at us. “They consider it a profession, not merely their day’s pay.”
“I’m not sure I see the difference,” I replied, sidestepping a pothole.
“There are games, music, food. The men and women entertain the guests, not just… you know,” he said, reddening. “Not just… service them.” It didn’t matter how old the two of us got, or how clear it was that we were both well versed in physical “service,” Kristos would never be comfortable admitting as much to me. “Some are apprentice-level scholars at the university, even. Their primary talent is engaging patrons in intelligent conversation.”
“Scholars hired to talk.” I smirked. “Is that how you found the place?”
“I haven’t been employed there, if that’s what you’re asking. But yes, I’ve enjoyed conversations over a cup of tea at the Warren. As a guest, for the social hours, not a patron of a particular courtesan.”
“You’re that well connected? Wanted at elite society parties?”
“My patron is quite well-known, yes. And I’ve been told I have a certain charm.” I rolled my eyes, but Kristos persisted. “No, really. They collect acquaintances here like souvenir handkerchiefs. Scholars, foreign visitors, artists—people who make them feel like they’re well versed, worldly. Conversation is a currency here, and one in which I’m fairly affluent.” He paused, and added, “And that is a large part of the Warren’s cover, making it look like an upscale party, and part is Serafan culture. Hospitality and conversation, first and foremost.”
“So a nice cup of tea is like foreplay?”
“Sophie!” he hissed, ears on fire. “Is this how they teach princesses to speak in Galitha now?”
“New protocol,” I replied with a cool smile. Mairti, who had until now watched our conversation play out with an amused smile, choked on a laugh, trying not to draw any attention to us. It was absurd, joking and laughing while we were, quite plausibly, stalked by assassins, but I was buoyed by a strange nervous optimism.
“At any rate. If you’re seen in the common areas at all, just try not to react like…”
“Like a Galatine prude?”
Kristos grinned. “Or a Kvys nun.”
We stopped at the crest of the hill, the city center behind us and a residential quarter opening up before us on a plateau. “This is it,” Mairti said, gesturing toward a walled villa.
“It’s… someone’s house?” I stared in unabashed awe at the sprawling pale stone main house, the treetops that hinted at courtyards and gardens from behind the wall, the faint spray from a fountain escaping in the breeze. Not just a house, I acknowledged, but a fine villa.
“Tonight it is,” Kristos replied. “Once it was in the catacombs underneath the oldest university buildings, and the amount of wine—of course, I was only there for the conversation,” he added with a crooked grin. He caught my hand and squeezed it. “Good luck. I’ll see you soon.” He stayed behind, and I realized I was sad to see his silhouette fade into the shadows.
Mairti took my arm and steered me toward the alley that bordered the villa’s wall. “People don’t only come for the professionals,” she said. “The Warren is also the best party in Isildi.”
“Whose house is this?” I asked as we entered through a gate behind the house. A service entrance, most likely, I surmised by the lack of decoration and the kitchen smells wafting from an open door.
“A high-ranking scholar at the university,” Mairti answered. I gaped at a residence that would have put Viola’s townhouse in Galitha City to shame. “The elite scholars are well paid by the Serafan government as well as the university, so that they want to stay in Serafe. It makes the Ainirs happy, to know they hire the smartest people in the world.” She motioned for me to wait. “Let me make the introductions.”
She slipped inside, slim figure disappearing into what I could now clearly see was a bustling kitchen. I wavered between a twisted fig tree and an herb garden, unease reappearing as soon as I was alone. The breeze animated the branches of the tree, and I started at every shadow. I thought of nightmares I had woken from, terrified and gasping, as a child, the realness of the terror of those dreams following me into morning though I couldn’t place what, in the dream, had forced me to feel so strongly. The threat was undef
ined and only the fear was real. I felt none of that terror now; the fear felt abstract, distant, as though it was happening to someone else. This was the deadly opposite of a nightmare, in which the danger was real but my fear bland and out of my grasp.
“All right,” Mairti called. I followed her through the kitchen and into a small anteroom, clean and simply appointed. “This is the Mistress.”
The woman who greeted me was taller than the average Serafan, and plump, with cheerful dimples. She wore her dark hair in a tidy bun, like a grandmother might, but her robes were the brilliant hues of a garden in bloom.
“You, my dear, are very lucky your brother has such an influential network. He’s a charming goose,” she clucked with a laugh, taking my hand, businesslike and maternal at once. “You look a fright.”
She ushered me farther into the house, talking the entire time as Mairti trailed us. “I could set you up in the kitchen, washing dishes, but servants talk. They might already talk, but at least they’ve no idea yet that you’re, well, unusual. Not local. You know.” She gestured to an arched doorway. “I could also dress you up like a little doll and have you just sit in the front room, but that wouldn’t do, either; you’d out yourself the moment someone tried to talk to you.”
She followed me into what I realized was a makeshift dressing room. “My employees know better than to talk, but just the littlest serving of a strong tonic and lime and a few of the guests…” She shook her head. “So you’ll be entertained by a particular employee of mine in the private dining room.”
She handed me an intricately pleated and draped robe of the finest, lightest silk I’d ever handled, pink and diaphanous as a sunset cloud. I balked. “I don’t think I can manage pretending to be one of your… guests.”
“It’s a cover, dear. He’s in on the whole thing, don’t fret. He’s a friend of your brother’s—Sianh.” She rustled through a bag, producing a lightly boned Serafan corset and petticoat in sunset hues that matched the robe. “He wouldn’t impress any services on you that you don’t want,” she said with a smile.
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