“Tell me, where were you born?”
In her liar's palace, a door opened to show her the answer. “Ginine,” she said, “north of Port Legann in Tortall. Didn't want to work there. Too many sand lice, if you take my meaning. Then I come here. Sand lice, jungle lice, they're all the same.”
He asked the questions she expected. She answered all of them from her liar's palace. The girl who lived there was small and sordid, a petty servant and thief with a raisin for a heart.
“There is a way you may better yourself,” Topabaw explained softly. “One that might grant you revenge on those who show you so little respect. If you will perform a small service for me, I will do one for you. Her Highness is always in search of pure-blood luarin girls for her household.”
Aly sat up straight, her eyes blazing. “You'd take me from that pen of mongrels?” she asked eagerly.
“You must remain a while longer,” Topabaw said, leaning forward to hold her with his eyes. “We believe there is plotting afoot in that household. Our other spies there bring us stories that hardly seem likely. I believe those spies may be compromised, or worse, that they have betrayed me. I count on you to find out the truth.”
Distant Aly Saw that he lied about spies in the household. She also knew he wanted her to believe him, to keep her from lying to him.
“They'll cut me up if I'm caught,” Liar Aly pointed out. “That's a lot of risk for just a promise of ‘someday.'”
He smirked and reached into a pocket, drawing out an ordinary leather purse that clinked. “Will this make the risk more bearable?”
Aly seized it greedily and counted the coins—silver and copper, no gold, which might be suspicious if she was searched. There were listening spells on the lot of them. “This is all?” she asked.
Topabaw slammed his fist down onto the table. She jumped. “You overstep!” he barked.
Aly cringed. “Forgive me, Your Grace—I don't know why I'm so loose-tongued,” she told him, kneeling on the floor. “Normally I keep my own counsel. I didn't mean any disrespect, I swear. Forgive me, Your Grace!” Distant Aly thought, You ham-handed brute.
Topabaw smiled and sat back. “Mind your place,” he ordered. “You will report every third day to Master Grosbeak on Gigit Lane. Depending on what you bring to him, you will receive some manner of payment. And don't try to lie to me, wench,” he said coldly, pointing a bony finger at her. “My other spies in your household will be truthful about your actions, if about nothing else! Get out.”
Aly got out, bowing over and over until she was out of that room, then fled down the hall, bolting past the chained captives on her way to the door. Outside she raced down the path to a clump of trees. She collapsed against one, out of sight, and relaxed, feeling the last traces of the spell vanish from her body. Most such spells were short-lived, so that the person they were used on could return quickly to normal. “Homewood, homewood, homewood I go,” she whispered, listening to the shriek of distant Stormwings and the calls of distant crows. Slowly her real self rose from the liar's palace, freeing her mind and concentration.
Waiting, breathing, identifying the scents that met her nose—cumin, roses, jasmine, horse urine, rust—she reassembled herself. Only when that was done did she begin to turn over the interview in her mind. He hadn't made her swear in blood. She assumed Kyprioth would protect her from the penalities for those who broke that magical oath, but Topabaw's omitting it before he'd dismissed her made her even more contemptuous of him than she'd already been.
Ham-handed and lazy, she thought with disgust while she stared at the leaves overhead. And sloppy. Maybe he was something once, but no longer.
With a sigh Aly got to her feet, startling a marmoset clan into flight among the trees. “Sorry,” she called, and walked down the flagstone path to Golden Road. She ambled down to the Robing Pavilion, sidestepping peacocks and crowned pigeons.
She heard a boisterous call overhead. The three crows who had followed her, seeing through the magical veil over Aly and her captors, were leaving now that she was free and unharmed. She watched as they flew toward a Stormwing that soared overhead, calling insults. The Stormwing jinked in midair, then—with no other Stormwings nearby to watch his back against the crows—fled.
4
THE PAVILION OF
DELIGHTFUL PLEASURES
When Aly looked into the Throne Hall, it was empty. The maids at the Robing Pavilion told her that her ladies and their maids had gone to the Pavilion of Delightful Pleasures. Aly nodded as she tucked Topabaw's purse among their boxes, grateful the Balitang party was still here. She could put off the inevitable questions about where she'd been until tonight. Casually she crossed the Golden Road to the pavilion that lay beside the Throne Hall. Aly knew better than to enter through the porch that opened onto the Golden Road. That was a stage, designed to display the court while important guests presented themselves. With the palace map in her mind's eye, she found a small bridge spanning the creek that cupped the pavilion. A well-trodden path led her to the servants' entrance. As she passed into the building, she walked into an invisible cloud of scent: lotus, rose, sandalwood, and lily as well as cherries, mangoes, and cooked chicken.
Servants pointed Aly to a gallery at the end of a long, narrow hall. Everywhere Aly saw spells for listening and seeing, but their gleam was faint. When was the last time they were renewed? she wondered, seeing glimmers of the spells. Don't they know you have to renew spells every few years? Or are they so sure their spies among the servants will report what is said that they don't bother?
In the servants' gallery the carved screen that served as one of the walls allowed servants to see the nobles beyond. They also allowed the nobles to see their own people, in case they needed something the pavilion did not provide.
Aly took the entire gallery in a second time. The mages of the Chain had been at work here. Pembery, Boulaj, and some other raka servants stood in one corner, talking. Aly heard nothing and could not read their lips. An entire corner of the servants' area was marked out with spells to counter the Crown's magic. These spells were so carefully hidden under other spells that Crown mages might not detect them. The edge of the silent corner was marked out on the floor by a line of boards held in place by a pair of pegs at each end. On this line only, the pegs were perceptibly lighter than the wood in which they were set, the only boards in the floor to show such a marking. It was subtle but effective. Aly approved. It was always nice to see a well-done piece of spy work.
It was also a powerful illustration of how the raka used their magic after the luarin conquest. Raka magic was shaped by subtlety, crafted by mages who spent their lives hiding things from other mages. To those who wielded their Gift as the mages of the Eastern and Southern Lands had been taught, raka magic seemed weak, good only for simple tasks. Its symbols were different, its spells far quieter, shaped for that effect over three hundred years of practice and development, with death for the raka mage who drew a luarin mage's attention.
As she eyed her surroundings, the other servants turned to look at her. Boulaj waved Aly over to the protected corner. As soon as Aly stepped past those marked boards, she could hear Boulaj speak clearly, when her words had been indistinct outside them. “This is Aly, Lady Dovasary's new maid. She is one of us.”
The woman next to Boulaj frowned. “A luarin? She can never be one of us.”
“That you must ask the god, if you dare,” Boulaj informed her pleasantly. “In our household, we do as he bids us. He chose to make Aly his messenger.” To Aly Boulaj said, “This is Vereyu. She represents our folk in the palace.” When Vereyu protested the use of her real name and position, Boulaj said, “Ask the god about Aly's faithfulness, if you won't believe me. Go on, ask him.”
Aly looked at Vereyu and raised an eyebrow. Most people of sense preferred not to call on specific gods unless matters were dire. There was always the chance the god might not care for the summons.
It seemed Vereyu was a woman of sense. She tighte
ned her broad mouth but did not open it to call on Kyprioth. A stocky part-blood raka, Vereyu looked both intelligent and hard. Her clothing was unremarkable, but her hair drew Aly's eye. The long copper pins that secured her black hair in its coil at the back of her head housed lethally sharp miniature knives.
“You don't go near the throne with those, do you?” she asked, gently tapping one of the pins' copper knobs. “Surely the weapon alarm spells would detect them.”
Vereyu swung around almost casually, reaching for the arm Aly had just used, ready to grip it and twist it up behind Aly's back. As Vereyu moved, Aly took just one step to the side, letting Vereyu's hands slide uselessly past. When Vereyu moved straight into another attack, Aly took a second step just out of range, guessing that Vereyu would lunge at her. As Vereyu did, Aly gripped a part of her collarbone that would hurt exquisitely if pressed. Vereyu went still.
“Play nicely, if you please,” she murmured in Vereyu's ear. “I'm sorry I'm not to your taste. Do you want everyone to see that we know unarmed combat? Only think of how they would gossip at such undovelike behavior on the part of servants.”
Vereyu considered her next move. Aly glanced at Boulaj, who was covering a smile with her hand.
Suddenly Vereyu nodded. Aly waited for a moment, alert for a trick, then let her go.
“If they knew real doves, they'd stop telling us servingwomen should act like them,” Vereyu said, her voice very dry. “What is it the god uses you for, anyway?”
Aly batted her eyes at the woman. “To guard the ladies,” she replied. There was no reason anyone should know her real place in the rebellion if they did not already know. “And a bit of this and that.”
Vereyu snorted. “You're the god's, all right,” she muttered. “You're just his sort.”
Why, thank you, Kyprioth said. The sound of his voice made all the servants in the corner jump, though no one else in the gallery appeared to have heard.
Establishing my credentials with the palace raka? she asked Kyprioth silently as the servants who'd heard him bowed their heads briefly. I was doing well enough on my own.
I just wanted to remove any lingering doubts, he said, apparently to her alone. Better safe than sorry.
Aly giggled at the thought of the Trickster's ever caring about safety. When she felt his presence fade, she looked around. “I'm famished,” she remarked. “Do you people ever feed a girl?”
Vereyu raised a hand and beckoned. A maid came over to them with a tray of fried dumplings and fruit. As Aly ate, she looked around the room. Servants flirted in corners, sat on cushions and chairs and gossiped, or watched their masters in the room beyond. Once she'd cleaned her hands, Aly drifted over to the screen to have a look at the nobility.
Vereyu followed her. “They are not so smug as they were last autumn,” she murmured in a voice that dripped venom and satisfaction. “They have lost too many tax collectors and couriers. There have been five riots in the Downwind District of Rajmuat since Midwinter, three of them coming when the Crown sent troops to take raka mages and leaders captive. The Crown's armies have gone without pay for three months.”
“I assume this means you take the god's word for me,” Aly whispered in return. She had already positioned herself, and thus Vereyu, out of range of two faded listening spells. “How do you know I'm not one of his jokes?”
“Because he needs us too much to joke,” replied Vereyu. “Because he needs all the victories we can win for him if he is to retake the Isles. We were great, once.” She nodded toward the sprawling chamber on the other side of the screen. “All this splendor was built by our people. The world came to these pavilions to discover the true meaning of beauty, when our queens ruled here.”
Aly looked into the gallery. Vereyu was right. The Pavilion of Delightful Pleasures was extraordinary. The walls were fashioned of pale marble and lined with arched windows that extended to the floor, the windows magically spelled to keep animals and insects at bay. A tribe of golden lion tamarins sat on the rail of the outer walkway and watched mournfully as servants passed the windows carrying fruit.
Inside, there was a raised dais at the center of the room, but Aly saw no thrones. Instead the young king sat on a cushion and directed playmates as four boys of his own age, including Elsren, moved toy soldiers and immortals into position all around an intricately carved fortress. Petranne sat beside the king and watched as Dunevon moved the castle's defenders and their weapons along its stone battlements.
Princess Imajane sat in a backless chair in front of the dais, talking to Lady Nuritin. Between them was a small table laden with food and drinks. The ladies chatted, sipped, and nibbled while raka slaves waited on them. Aly read both women's lips: they were talking of Winnamine's “magical transformation” from country lady to noble courtier. The duchess herself sat across the room, talking with other noble mothers as she watched Sarai mingle with a bright cluster of young men and women.
Aly felt Vereyu shift position. “Watch yourself,” the raka whispered to Aly, and moved off. Aly could tell that someone else had come up behind her: someone large, because she felt his body heat to the top of her skull. He smelled of soap lightly scented with sandalwood and cinnamon. She pretended she did not notice him, though she kept her ears sharp for any movement that he would make, and continued to survey the large room.
She found Dove near the far rear corner, seated between two older luarin noblemen and engaged in a conversation that was every bit as animated as the ones Sarai was holding. The man on Dove's right had to be in his seventies, bald, the white hair on the sides of his head and of his beard clipped neatly short. His eyes were set in fans of wrinkles. Despite the day's warmth, he was dressed in velvet and wool. Around his neck he wore a heavy chain with a pendant that was half a golden sun face and half a white gold moon face.
“Baron Qovold Engan,” a light voice said in Aly's ear. She gasped, jumped, and spun, as if she had not heard the man come over to speak to her. She stared up into the face of Taybur Sibigat, captain of the King's Guard. He was as tall as her adopted uncle Numair, who stood six feet five inches in his stocking feet. Unlike her uncle, Taybur had a solid build without any of Numair's angular gawkiness. He wore his chain mail as easily as other men wore cloth, despite the growing heat. “He's the royal astronomer, and your young mistress's former tutor in cartography and astronomy. At the moment, he's not the regents' favorite person. He's told them that there will be two lunar eclipses and a solar eclipse this summer, which some people might see as ill omens. That other fellow, next to Lady Dovasary? That's Duke Vurquan Nomru. Old Iron Bum was his nickname when he commanded the army. He was one of your lady's favorite chess partners before she was exiled. They tell me that for a girl of twelve, she played as well as any adult.”
Aly could see how Dove's other companion might earn such a nickname. His nose was an eagle's beak set under two sharp brown eyes, his sensuous mouth set in a firm line. His clothing was simple bronze cotton and silk. Like the other male nobles, he wore no sword or dagger in the royal presence, but there were dents in his belt where they normally hung. For a Kyprin noble he showed uncommon restraint in his jewelry, keeping it to a single gold earring, a chain, and gold rings on his index fingers and thumbs.
“Excuse me, my lord, but why do you say such things to me?” Aly inquired, bobbing as much of a curtsy as anyone in a sarong could manage. “I'm just a maid.”
“And I am just a friendly fellow,” he replied. “I'm Taybur Sibigat, captain of the King's Guard.” He smiled at Aly, revealing small, pearly teeth. “I wanted to compliment you on your inspection of the Throne Hall,” he added. “You spotted each man I had there, including the ones on the roof beams, where no one else ever looks. And you found every exit.” When Aly took a step back, frowning, he shrugged. “Spells around the dais help us to see clearly throughout the hall.”
Aly gave him a trembling smile. “I've no idea what you're talking about, my lord,” she said nervously, though inwardly she was fascinat
ed. It sounded as if he'd guessed she was a spy of some kind.
“Of course you don't know what I'm talking about,” he said agreeably. He was chubby cheeked like a boy. He wore his dark, curly hair cut short over his high forehead. His eyes were brown and observant, and his mouth had smile curves tucked into the corners. “Call me Taybur. We'll see a lot of each other if Their Highnesses have their way.”
Aly continued to play the part of the not-very-bright country girl. “I don't know how you can say as much, my lord,” she replied, deliberately neglecting to use his name. “My mistress is here today because the whole family was summoned, but she's not of an age to be going to court things. And whyever would a great man like yourself take an interest in a poor little maid like me?”
Taybur's smile lit his face and eyes. “That's very good,” he remarked with approval. “I couldn't have done it better myself. Now, if I were being a nice man, one who'd let you believe I'm not suspicious of you, I would say that I like to meet all the very pretty girls who come my way. It would even be true. I'm quite fond of very pretty girls. But we both know that there is far more to you than that.”
Aly looked down, the picture of the demure servant. He does suspect me, she thought. He's been trained. “My lord, you talk in riddles, I swear!”
“Very well,” he said agreeably, leaning against a corner post. “You look like a girl who knows her riddles. I understand your name is Aly Homewood, and I know you were once a slave.” He pointed to the faint scar around Aly's neck, the mark of a slave collar. “Today you're Lady Dovasary Balitang's maid. Your accent . . .” He cocked his head, studying her with interest. “Tortall, southeastern coast.”
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