Sianh had already loosened his grip. “Idiot,” he said, shoving my brother back and swiftly closing the door. Kristos still held his knife, and his hand rubbed his neck with his free hand.
“You actually tried to kill me,” he said with half a grin.
“If I had actually tried, I would have killed you,” Sianh answered, simmering anger.
Kristos didn’t answer him. “It’s morning, time to get out of here. Before the other patrons are up—we don’t need you wandering the halls.”
“You’re wandering the halls,” I muttered.
“I’ve arranged with the Mistress for you to remain with the Warren another evening,” he replied. “I wasn’t wandering the halls like some peeping pervert.”
I smiled indulgently, which always infuriated him when we were younger. “Of course you weren’t.”
“You’re exhausting.” Kristos rolled his eyes. “I’d almost forgotten that.” He glanced at Sianh, who watched us both with detached amusement. “Time to leave. I can’t go with you, so he’ll take you,” Kristos said, jerking a thumb at Sianh.
“Very well.” I hesitated. “Are you—do you know if Theodor is all right?”
Kristos softened. “Haven’t checked in at the compound. We’re trying to lie low and avoid any suspicion. But I’ve heard nothing, so I’m sure he’s fine.”
I swallowed against the hollowness in my throat. “I wish you could come with me,” I said impulsively. “No offense meant,” I added to Sianh, “but a familiar face, his stupid jokes.” I sighed. Even much of that familiarity was pale and hard to grasp, blurred by all that had happened between us.
The clothes I had worn the previous night were not conducive to slipping quietly through the streets, but Kristos just laughed as I picked up the sunset-hued petticoat. “The Mistress left this for you,” he said, handing me a pale pink Serafan sulta, cut simply and decorated only with white embroidery along the collar. “It will do for a short surrey ride. Take the evening clothing with you, you’ll need it tonight.”
“I need to change,” I said, pointedly.
“By all means,” Kristos answered, showing himself and Sianh to the door with an exaggerated flourish. When I opened the door, Kristos was gone.
I dutifully followed Sianh through the maze of hallways to the service entrance. There was little activity here now, the servants having cleared the remnants of last night’s party and one bored scullery maid left in charge of preparing a light midday meal for the house’s owners. I was ravenous; I hadn’t eaten since Mairti’s stuffed tomatoes the day before, but I didn’t dare interrupt Sianh’s purposeful stride.
“It is not impossible we could be followed. I will see to protection. And it’s highly unusual for a patron to… accompany her hire after the evening has ended. But the Mistress will see to discretion.”
“How much did my brother pay her to help me?” I said, the question coarser than I had intended.
“I don’t know, but it must be a goodly sum.” The surrey was waiting outside the gate. “Or perhaps she took no payment at all. As I said, it’s like an opera. The Mistress likes the romance and intrigue of the stage; you would surely see it in the Warren if you knew your operas. It is sometimes, for people like her, worth a bit of risk and inconvenience to feel themselves a part of the stage, the story, a thing bigger than themselves.”
“And for you?”
He stiffened. “I have been too much a part of the theater of the world’s operas already. I’ve been promised a payment, and I’ve my orders.”
The horses trotted merrily through the upper-class Serafan neighborhood, past villas and walled gardens, and though the sun brightened the cleanly manicured vistas to brilliant hues, I couldn’t throw off shadows.
We descended from the hills and into the city’s gridded streets, and came to a stop in a quarter I recognized—the university. The back of the great library stood in front of us, its sandstone edifice nearly glowing in the height of the sunlight. “Inside,” Sianh said, offering me a perfunctory hand. “We are to entertain our guests this evening in the music archive. The curator is a particularly good client.”
Beneath broad rooms hosting lines of shelves like the ones I had used alongside Corvin were archives, repositories for even more books and scrolls and, in this case, reams and reams of sheet music. It was after midday already, and space had been cleared in the long, narrow room for tables and chairs and a low platform where a Serafan harp stood ready. Cold rushed to my stomach; could there be a casting planned? Could this be a trap? Sianh ushered me from the main room to an antechamber stacked high with thick-bound books; I couldn’t read a single one, as they were all Kvys liturgical music.
I changed into the evening clothes Sianh had given me, and had resigned myself for a very long, very dull wait when Corvin appeared in the doorway. “I thought you might appreciate some company,” he said. “And some flatbread.”
I accepted the food eagerly. “I certainly won’t be doing any reading,” I replied.
“Even if you could read Kvys, it would still be dull. ‘O magnanimous Creator, the world is the will of your pinky finger.’” He flicked one of the texts with a satisfying thunk. “Very repetitive. But, I will allow, the polyphony of the sung versions is quite beautiful.”
I cracked a smile. “I can’t imagine Pellian charm-casting theory is any more exciting, but you were keen to read enough of it for me.”
“I’ve already admitted I was planted,” Corvin said, holding up his hands. “And yes, Pellian casting is more exciting than ‘Bountiful Loins of the Creator.’”
“That is not a real song,” I laughed between bites.
“Ask Alba.” He hesitated. “Tell me, did you find what you were looking for? In the research we did? I sensed it might be more than mere curiosity.”
“I did,” I said, measured. How much to admit, and to whom? It was a game I was growing weary of playing. “I came in with questions about my own casting. It had grown… blurred. I understand now what happened,” I said, clipped, unwilling to examine grief with a man who was still too close to a stranger. “And my second set of inquiries… I admit those were of a more pressing nature.”
“Serafan casting,” Corvin guessed. “You believe it’s real?”
I nodded. He waited. I didn’t reveal anything beyond that. He drummed his fingers on the book next to him. “I wonder…” He paused. “I always was given to understand that the Pellians weren’t invited to the summit solely because it is intended for the largest countries, but even Fen has sent unofficial delegates.” He breathed through his nose. “Too many charm casters. They must have tried very hard to keep you away from the truth.”
I didn’t want to tell him too much; if knowing about the casting had been enough to warrant killing me, I didn’t want to drag anyone else down alongside me. “It seems that the interests of the Serafans and those of the Galatine nobility align.”
Voices and the constant hum of activity from the main archive room had increased as we’d talked. Sianh returned for me. “It would be best if the other guests did not see you arrive from a dusty book bin. Please, join me.”
“Wait,” I said. I dug into my pocket, the large bag still holding my personal effects despite multiple wardrobe changes. Including Corvin’s kerchief. “This is yours,” I said.
“It should bring luck?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Luck, calm, success in your studies.”
“If it offers luck, perhaps you should keep it,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “I made it for you, and it is yours. Thank you,” I added, hoping he knew I meant to thank him for the many hours with the Pellian books as well as his help more recently. He bowed slightly and left.
Sianh had reserved a table for us, half-hidden by one of the arches that ran from floor to high, peaked ceiling. We didn’t speak much, instead watching the arrival of other guests joining courtesans at tables and in knots of chairs. I watched with curiosity, drinking in the ri
ot of color and personality as Serafan scholars and patrons flooded the dim archive with silk robes and laughter and conversation. Oil lamps bobbed and blazed above us, and candles floated in shallow dishes on each table. I glanced at Sianh. He wasn’t watching with idle curiosity, but intense calculation. He would see to protection, he had said, and he took his charge faithfully.
Courtesans greeted the guests who arrived, ushering them to seats already prepared for them. Riotous laughter and loud greetings gave way to quieter conversation and flirtations around the room. Courtesans passed bottles of wine, filling glasses and raising them in quiet toasts with their patrons.
A woman took the stage and, without an announcement or introduction, began to sing. I swallowed—could this be a Serafan trick of casting? I let that concern fall quickly; no threads of gold or dark appeared around her, and I found myself, instead, in awe of the music itself. I wasn’t sure that I liked it, precisely; the sound filled the space and echoed from the arches, but I couldn’t understand the words, and the pitch and flow of dynamics seemed to matter more than the delicate melodies of Galatine ballads and chamber music. I could tell that the song was rife with emotional resonance, however, a piece about love and loss and, perhaps, grief.
“This is Serafan opera,” Sianh whispered as the singer’s voice crescendoed into the ceiling. “A famous aria from The Goldenberry Tree.” The other patrons seemed well aware of this, anticipating the trickle and fall of the melody before it shot into soaring high notes. She concluded the piece to polite applause, and began another selection, this time more lighthearted. Something comedic, I guessed, confirmed with the laughter of the patrons at certain rhymes and intonations.
Everyone was so intent on the vocalist that few noticed the Equatorial woman sweep into the room in a long mantelet of dusky charcoal silk, but I did. She threw the drab cloak to an attendant, revealing an open robe of scarlet silk, and sailed toward me. Dira.
She settled at our table, draping her arms languidly over the back of her chair and greeting Sianh with a minute nod. No one turned to us or noticed as she spoke, in low tones, to me. “You’ve left quite a mess back at the summit.”
“I couldn’t precisely help it,” I replied crisply.
“Not you, in all fairness. But the Galatine delegation was like the proverbial cat trapped in the china cupboard.” She glanced at Sianh, assessing his presence, and then continued. “Word reached the rest of the summit about what you’ve known about for some time—open civil war in Galitha?”
“We weren’t aware one could call it open,” I hedged.
Dira’s smile was cold. “In any case. Shall we say that the situation has deteriorated to an untenable point? Merhaven left, your crown prince has spent the remaining hours of yesterday and today in answering a hundred questions about the decline of Galitha, so the summit is, in effect, hung. To our advantage, at least—the Open Seas Arrangement was not finalized—and it was turning toward West Serafan interests, not ours.”
The singer had finished the piece and retired from stage; the quiet hum of conversation around us masked our discussion well enough, but I felt exposed, a hunted deer caught in the open. “Then the summit is concluded and a war is begun.”
Dira nodded. “And you should know that Merhaven and Ainir Rhuina have come to certain agreements about an alliance between West Serafe and the nobles on one side of your conflict.”
“Alliance?” I felt cold, seeing again Lady Merhaven and Ainira Rhuina assessing me, dismissive and aloof. It hadn’t merely been the frosty reception of an outsider, but of allied factions facing their enemy.
“West Serafan martial support for those you and your prince oppose in your civil war.”
My civil war. I nodded. Perhaps martial support inclusive, I grew curious as I thought about it, of some form of Serafan casting. Invisible, influential, and clandestine. “That can’t have been an official item on the summit agenda.”
“Much that is discussed is never on any agenda.” Dira leaned forward. “Economics dictates the interests of the Allied States. We are not large. Our resources are not unlimited. But there is power in retaining some control over import and export and trade routes.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you understand?”
“The Open Seas Arrangement.”
“Your Galatine chaos was to our benefit. I came here to protect the interests of Equatorial trade against West Serafan machinations, on behalf of my country and of my family. Nia’s family,” she added.
I inhaled without meaning to, sharp and painful.
“I have my assumptions about her death. That it was not happenstance. She wrote to me of the unrest in the city, of helping a charm caster of whom she was quite fond, and of her tutor. She did not name him, or you, but how many charm-casting seamstresses, and how many Kvys scholars of Pellian are there?”
“Then you know who Pyord was. In the revolt.”
“I do. I know she must have discovered something about his workings that he didn’t want known. And I know who you were in the revolt.” Her eyes were inescapable—had she discovered my part in the plot? Did she blame me for it? She could easily lure me to my own not-quite-happenstance death if she so chose. “You helped stop him from achieving his aims. So I owed you some debt.”
Tears spiked behind my eyes. “You owe me nothing.” I couldn’t admit to my part in Nia’s death, as much as the remorse bit into me, carving away the edges of my resolve.
“Whether I do or do not, I consider it paid. And this disorder, your Galatine war dividing the loyalties of the nations at the summit, it benefited my own mission here, so. Do not feel overly sentimental over it. He knows where you are,” Dira added casually, snatching a crystal tumbler of something dosed liberally with mint and lemon rind. “Theodor.”
I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “He’s here?”
“Not here,” Dira said, breaking into a terse smile. “He’s still at the compound. You may be a wanted woman, but even the highest Ainirs wouldn’t dare threaten the crown prince of Galitha. No, but he knows you’re here, and that you’re safe, and you’re to leave together. Tonight.”
44
DIRA LED US OUT OF THE ARCHIVE. “DO NOT CONCERN YOURSELF,” she said. “This, too, was planned well—the library lacks the proper… facilities for what many patrons partake of at the Warren, so they will be scattering to finer inns and bathhouses with their hirelings.” She glanced at Sianh. “Am I not correct?”
“Quite right,” he said, clipped. He kept a hand on his hip as we walked down the wide avenue in front of the library—over a hidden knife, I knew.
“And here is your transportation,” Dira said. “Mine is waiting elsewhere.” She nodded to me, a slight but deliberate gesture of farewell, the most I was going to get from her.
Kristos waited with a hired surrey. “Against my better judgment,” Kristos said as we settled next to him, out of earshot of the driver, “I had Dira tell him where to meet us. I figured you would need to see him. Would insist on it. I didn’t feel like picking you up kicking and screaming the way Mother did that one time at the fruit seller’s.”
“Honestly, you’re bringing that up now?” I shook my head.
“Seemed appropriate.” Kristos shrugged. “Now. Silence is better until we reach our destination. Streets have ears.”
We had approached the outskirts of the city by now, and the first faint gray light of morning was shading the horizon. Kristos led us to a low building—a stables, I saw, or, rather, smelled. The honest scent of horses and leather and manure was oddly reassuring in its familiarity.
And inside, between a few stalls and sitting on a disintegrating bale of hay, Theodor waited for me.
“Sophie!” He caught me in his arms. Kristos and Sianh both turned away, whether embarrassed or honoring some intuited need for privacy, I couldn’t say. “I was so worried—I can’t even begin to explain.”
I nodded, my face pressed into his coat. My cheek was damp with sweat and the fine
wool fibers stuck to it. “I didn’t want to leave you.”
“I know.” He stroked my hair, an increasingly tangled mess of dark curls under the Serafan wrap. “We’re together now. I won’t leave your side.”
“But what now?”
“What we already intended. We return to Galitha. Somehow. Merhaven—that bastard left us stranded here. The Gyrfalcon left port, most likely with my brother along under some well-placed lies, and he’s not one to disobey orders without good reason.” Theodor began to plan, out loud, fairly ignoring Kristos and Sianh as though they were of no more import than the horses. “We’ll return to Galitha by sea, to Galitha City, and shore up our support.”
Kristos held up his hand. “Hold on, Niko has been fighting in the city already.”
“Niko! Niko Otni?” Theodor started.
“One and the same,” Kristos said with a lopsided grin. “He’s kept the home fires burning, so to speak, so that if anything went awry with your attempt at peaceful reform, the people would be ready again, and quickly.”
“How long have you been laying your plans?” Theodor snapped.
“Clearly it was a wise choice,” Kristos returned fire.
“Enough,” I said. “Niko did what he could to keep the people mollified, waiting on reform. He didn’t undermine us. Right?” I said with a pointed look at my brother.
“Precisely correct. He didn’t believe reform could happen, but he waited to try it your way. He doesn’t want bloodshed; he just recognizes it’s inevitable at this point,” Kristos said.
“Not all of the nobles will be against us,” Theodor mused, pacing between stalls as the horses chewed their alfalfa. “I’m not sure how much of the army we can count on, but surely not all of them will remain loyal to their noble officers. And if we can organize the common people who are willing to fight, we’ll have a large force to work with.”
“You’re forgetting one piece on the board, perhaps the most important one. The king.” Kristos faced Theodor with crossed arms. “Is he for us or against us?”
Fray Page 28
