Still, the boy made a pitiful spectacle. He stood off by a palm, looking obscurely troubled and painfully out of place. An imp had brought him a drink—he was here by Lady Sylva’s invitation after all—but he dared not take a sip. Eventually, he set the glass down and reverted from awkward guest back to servant. Perhaps it was a relief; he no longer had to be clever.
Isabel appeared at Hazel’s side after having spent twenty minutes nodding at whatever the viscount’s wife had to say. She massaged her neck. “I see Violet’s smitten,” she muttered. “How much longer do you think we have to stay?”
Hazel shrugged. It was past midnight, but that meant nothing. They would leave when Violet was ready and not before.
“Where’s Sigga?” asked Isabel, gazing about the room. Her own bodyguard and Violet’s were standing by the doorway.
“No idea,” said Hazel. She watched a refreshed Lady Bethunia enter the parlor and harangue her footman, whom she blamed for letting her nap right through dinner. The servant knew better than to argue. Weathering the abuse, he led the confused duchess to a chaise while a maid fetched another sherbet.
“Have Sigga fired,” said Isabel testily. “What kind of bodyguard doesn’t show up? She’s got to be the worst agent in Impyrium.”
Hazel nodded absently. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed—Sigga Fenn had been one of her heroes. She wondered if Rascha would seek to have her replaced.
She turned to ask, but discovered her tutor had slipped away to speak with the servant boy. The vye loomed above him, dark and feral, a grizzled wolf in crimson robes. It was clear the boy had spent little time with vyes, but he appeared to be holding his own. As the leading expert on Rascha’s body language, Hazel could tell her tutor was not displeased.
Isabel yawned again. “Enough. I’m dragging our dear sister away. I have fencing at six.”
Ever fearless, Isabel knifed through the ladies and laid an arm on Violet’s shoulder. Quiet words were exchanged, accompanied by tight, unblinking smiles. Their hostess discreetly excused herself, leaving the sisters to continue their chat behind an ornamental screen.
Dàme Rascha pounced. Abandoning the boy midsentence, she intercepted their hostess before she could join another group. Lady Sylva looked somewhat surprised, but smiled pleasantly until she realized Dàme Rascha’s intentions. Then the smile faded. Still, there was nothing she could do. Dàme Rascha spoke on behalf of the royal family. If a Faeregine expressed interest in one her servants, Lady Sylva was obliged to surrender him. The only issue to negotiate was compensation.
The practice wasn’t very nice, but Hazel consoled herself that Lady Sylva had herself poached the boy out of spite, while she was doing it for a noble cause. Vile as the baron was, he would never harm a Faeregine servant. The muir would be safe in the palace, peeling potatoes or doing whatever the butlers found for him to do. It was better than being dead.
Isabel emerged from behind the screen and told a servant to fetch their things. Coats were fetched, along with a photographer who took a final picture of Lady Sylva and Her Impyrial Highness. Twenty minutes later, the girls were bundled into their coach while the stallianas stamped their fiery hoofs on the gravel.
Kicking off her shoes, Violet glared at Isabel. “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again.”
Isabel’s lids were already closing. “Come off it, Vi. It’s late.”
There was a knock on the window. Hazel pulled back the curtain and was shocked to see Sigga Fenn holding Hazel’s clutch.
“You left this in the dining room,” said the agent.
Opening the door, Hazel snatched her purse. “Where have you been?” she hissed. “You’re supposed to be my bodyguard. I didn’t see you all evening!”
“That may be, but you haven’t left my sight. For the record, I do not find sherbet ‘astonishing.’”
Hazel’s jaw dropped. “Lady Bethunia?”
The Grislander bowed. “Good night, Your Highness.”
Shutting the coach door, Sigga Fenn ordered the driver to depart. As the stallianas raced up the drive, Isabel yawned and settled deeper in her furs.
“That woman’s the best agent in Impyrium.”
CHAPTER 7
IN THE HOUSE OF GOD
Promptness and an intelligent mind are essential to a page.
If a lad also has a good address, a pleasing figure, and a correct manner of speaking, he is destined to rise in his calling.
—manual on servant etiquette
Late the next morning, Hob sat across from Mr. Burke and Ms. Marlowe in the latter’s office.
“Well,” said Mr. Burke, “last night certainly exceeded my expectations. Masterful planning, Ms. Marlowe.”
She inclined her head. “The boy deserves praise. Our sources were most complimentary.”
“Thank you,” said Hob, trying not to yawn as he declined one of the petite cakes on Ms. Marlowe’s tray. He’d returned to Impyria shortly after dawn on the pretense of retrieving some belongings.
“Tell us about your conversation with Dàme Rascha,” said Ms. Marlowe.
Hob recalled his interview with the vye, his apprehension at her size and intensity. “She wanted to know about my background and education. Asked if I could read, if I knew much geography. She she wants someone to teach Hazel Faeregine about the Muirlands. Apparently, she doesn’t know much about them.”
“Why do you think the vye picked you?” said Mr. Burke.
“Maybe she thinks Her Highness would prefer learning about the Muirlands from someone who’s lived there or from someone her own age. Maybe the vye just wanted to get me away from Baron Palantine. He’d insulted her too.”
“I hear he played his part well,” said Mr. Burke. “Public men with private debts are most useful.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Hob.
The baron might have acted on cue, but Hob did not doubt the man’s loathing for vyes and Muirlanders. One couldn’t fake the hatred in those bloodshot eyes. Perhaps that’s why they chose him.
Hob was still amazed by the planning that had gone into last night’s affair. The riddle, the baron’s wager, his drunken insults had all been a carefully orchestrated performance. Nothing was by chance: not Lady Sylva addressing Hazel Faeregine, her casual reference to servant poaching, or even Hob’s placement just past the hostess’s shoulder, precisely where the princess might chance to look at him. Countless little details and manipulations, all designed to bait a subtle hook.
And it had worked.
“We’re in uncharted waters,” Mr. Burke reflected. “We’ve never assigned a new recruit to such a plum. You’ve barely learned how to be a proper servant, much less a proper spy. Are you up to this, Hob? Be honest.”
“It depends on what my duties are.”
“You will do whatever it is Dàme Rascha wishes,” said Ms. Marlowe simply. “Did she elaborate?”
“I’m to spend a few hours a week talking about my life in the Northwest,” said Hob. “The palace underbutlers will assign the rest of my duties. She did say that my lessons with Her Highness are to be kept secret.”
“Good,” said Mr. Burke. “The more private your interactions, the greater the chance to win her trust.”
“So, you want me to become Her Highness’s friend,” said Hob.
“No,” said Ms. Marlowe firmly. “Mehrùn, much less Faeregines, do not socialize with servants. If you are familiar or—gods forbid—flirtatious, you will be removed. Patience and professionalism will earn you greater access. We are particularly interested in the princess’s magical abilities.”
“Really?” said Hob. “What about her sisters? They seem far more—”
Mr. Burke cut him off. “Your focus is Hazel Faeregine. We know little about her. We do not think it’s by accident.”
“Very well,” said Hob. “How should I send my reports?”
“We’ve considered that,” said Ms. Marlowe. “You haven’t been here long enough to learn sufficient encryption, so we
have to entrust you with this.”
She held up an Impyrial handbook that contained a sterilized history of the empire, the Great Houses, and biographies of their more famous members, past and present.
“Every servant on the Sacred Isle possesses one of these,” she continued. “This copy contains an embedded sheet of spypaper, which you will use to communicate with us. It works . . .”
Using her fingernail, Ms. Marlowe traced a message on the inside of the book’s back cover. As she did so, Mr. Burke held up a separate sheet of yellowed parchment. Two words appeared on its surface as though penned by invisible hands:
Like this.
Hob grinned. “That’s amazing.”
“Indeed,” said Ms. Marlowe. “Spypaper is exceedingly rare and unspeakably valuable. You will not lose this book.”
Hob listened closely as they discussed further details regarding communication protocol.
“This brings us to our last point,” said Ms. Marlowe. “Safety. Yours and ours.”
“Each of the Faeregine girls is protected by a member of the Red Branch,” said Mr. Burke. “The one assigned to Hazel Faeregine is Sigga Fenn. She’s the order’s newest member, but she’s also a native Grislander who’s been killing since she was six. If she thinks—even for a moment—that you’re a threat to Her Highness, she’ll snuff you like a candle.”
Hob studied the photograph Mr. Burke held up. It showed a tall, wiry woman with a shaved head and cold, feline eyes.
“I didn’t see her at the dinner,” said Hob.
Mr. Burke slipped the photo into a file. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. Red Branch aren’t soldiers, they’re the empress’s handpicked assassins. Sigga Fenn has mastered arts so dark and insidious they’d turn your stomach. Never break character, not even when you think you’re alone.”
Hob looked from one to the other. “That’s . . . a little terrifying.”
Ms. Marlowe sipped her tea. “Sigga Fenn’s not a monster; she’s a professional assigned to protect the princess. Remember, you are not a threat; you are merely a servant that the Faeregines decided to poach from Lady Sylva. Do your job and you have nothing to fear.”
Mr. Burke rose. “And to ensure the Fellowship has nothing to fear, allow us to introduce Brother Jakob.”
The person who entered the office looked like some kind of monk or beggar. He was a bald, elderly man in a threadbare robe, and his mottled brown skin was covered in witchlike tattoos. One eye was missing, as were the tips of thumbs and several fingers. Despite his unsettling appearance, the smile he offered was kind and reassuring.
“I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”
Hob nodded. “Yours too. Er, what is this about?”
“Brother Jakob is an expert on psychnosis,” explained Mr. Burke. “It’s an ancient technique to plant restraints in your mind. If you’re discovered, you won’t be able to give us away. Standard precaution.”
Hob was wary. “I don’t want to be some kind of zombie.”
Brother Jakob chuckled and eased himself down on a couch. “A zombie would make a very poor spy. Psychnosis will not change you. It merely prevents you from divulging anything about the Fellowship. Surely you see the wisdom. Please sit beside me.”
Hob did so. Brother Jakob smelled like tallow and incense. The man chuckled at Hob’s anxiety. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m just going to talk to you. Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Deep and slow, like a sleepy elephant. That’s it.”
Brother Jakob began to hum in a low, lilting murmur. He encouraged Hob to relax, to let his consciousness soften like a sponge. Doing so would protect his new brothers and sisters, wall them off from the wicked Faeregines and the unholy forces at their command. Brother Jakob could sense Hob had a noble heart, had always protected those he loved. He wanted Hob to picture those people, wade through his earliest memories . . .
Hob felt like a feather skimming on a breeze through time. Memories surfaced: snow blowing off Sentries peaks; the face of a dead miner he’d found in a tunnel; winds howling about the cottage while he and Anja slept, furs tucked under their chins. Sweet little Anja. Hob saw her on cottage floor, playing with a doll while their mother sorted laundry. His mother, kind but careworn, her black hair streaked with gray, hands boiled to leather in washing tubs.
But now she was younger, even beautiful. He gazed up at her from a box. No, a crib. She was cooing and holding out a pinkie for him to squeeze. Someone was beside her, a tall man in a red coat. Hob knew him from his photograph. He smiled down at Hob, not with his mouth but with his eyes. He turned suddenly. A figure had appeared in the doorway. Hob could not make out a face, but it was also wearing a red coat. Hob’s father was called away . . .
“He’s coming out of it.”
Hob opened his eyes at Ms. Marlowe’s voice. A damp cloth lay on his forehead and his legs had been propped on the coffee table. He was not entirely certain when he had moved to the couch. Mr. Burke and Ms. Marlowe sat in nearby chairs watching him attentively.
“How do you feel?” said Mr. Burke.
“Okay,” said Hob. Dreamlike scenes were receding, settling like silt on a riverbed. What had just happened?
“You remember what we discussed?” said Ms. Marlowe.
Hob nodded. That was all clear as day, everything until the moment someone entered the room. Had someone entered the room?
Mr. Burke extended his hand. “Ready to do your duty?”
“I am,” said Hob, taking the hand and rising. Despite a sleepless night, he felt refreshed and energized, eager for the task at hand. All his life, he’d wanted to matter, to make a difference in the world. Now he was going to get that chance.
Ms. Marlowe handed him an envelope. “Run along to the Dragon Pier. Don’t be late.”
Thirty minutes later, Hob emerged from an apartment in the Market District. He walked briskly, suitcase in hand and Lady Sylva’s letter—a signed transfer of his services—tucked into the inner pocket of his greatcoat.
The Market District drew all sorts: merchants and mystics, servants and bodyguards, schoolchildren and pickpockets lurking in doorways looking for marks. Skirting a phalanx of magistrates, Hob stopped at a food stall and bought some dumplings plucked from the sizzling oil. He sank his teeth into one, wiped his chin, and tossed his change into a beggar’s cup.
A bell sounded behind him. Turning, Hob saw the crowds parting for a streetcar. As it trundled past, he swung aboard. Two dumplings and a cheerful hello were enough to satisfy the driver, who made room for Hob’s suitcase by the hand brake.
For twelve chilly blocks, Hob clutched a leather strap and gazed down at the harbor through gaps in the buildings. The day was overcast and the sky promised snow, but nothing was going to dampen his spirits.
He hopped off the streetcar at the Grand Temple. Hundreds of beggars dozed upon its steps, ignoring a dozen or so Caterwauls who were scourging their own flesh and wailing about corruption in the faith. Hob had little patience for them. It was hard enough to get along in this life, much less worry about the next.
Hefting his suitcase, he descended the Wyrm’s Way, a steep avenue that zigzagged from the Grand Temple down to the harbor. Legend held that when Mina I was very old and in the midst of addressing her worshippers, her dragon, Ember the Golden, suddenly snatched her in his jaws and made for the sea. Thousands witnessed the event, which Mina II commemorated by having the dragon’s trail designated a holy place. No new buildings had ever replaced those that were demolished; Ember’s path was immortalized so that pilgrims could commune with the first Faeregine. According to official histories, the empress’s demise had not been death by dragon but something glorious, a final testament to her godhood.
Hob found this fairly convenient. He imagined other ways one might reinterpret life’s little challenges. Mismatched socks? Divine creativity. Untimely belch? The gods have spoken! Running late . . . ?
Bells rang across the ancient city. Cursing, Hob tossed away the rest of his
dumplings and hurried down the steps. He was due at the Dragon Pier by noon. It was straight ahead, a golden dome flying the Faeregine flag. Hob wove swiftly between tourists and pilgrims, palanquins and soldiers.
When he reached the pier, a panting Hob handed a guard captain his letter and identification documents. The man turned them over to a small, bat-winged homunculus who inspected them while he consulted a list.
“Here you are. Hobson Smythe to enter service with the royal family. If you’re carrying any weapons or contraband, I advise you to leave them here. Mystics search you on the other side. If they find anything amiss, your day won’t end well.”
Hob thought of the spypaper embedded in his handbook. Would a mystic detect it? The captain returned his documents.
“Skiff’s at the end of the pier. Give this to the boatman.” He handed Hob a copper coin.
“Boatman?” said Hob. “I thought I’d be going across in that.” He pointed to a yacht moored nearby, the one he’d taken back from last night’s dinner party.
The captain shook his head. “You’re going to the Faeregine side of the isle. Can’t enter without navigating the maze. Can’t navigate the maze without a boatman. Get along now.”
Hob proceeded past several soldiers to where a pair of stone dragons flanked a ramp down to the water. A lone black skiff was moored there, bobbing slowly on the blue-gray swell. Clutching the coin, Hob addressed the hunched and hooded figure at its prow.
“Hello. I’m going to the palace.”
The figure held out a black-gloved hand. When Hob dropped the copper in its palm, it pointed at a little seat in the prow. Hob stepped uneasily aboard as the boatman untied the skiff and took up the oars.
Hob had discovered he did not care much for the sea. He’d grown up among mountains; open water was a stranger. Gradually, his unease turned to dread.
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