by Amy Raby
As they exchanged pleasantries, Marius’s eyes were on his cousin the emperor. Lucien appeared relaxed and happy, thoroughly in his element. Marius was glad to see it.
When Marius had met Rhianne for the first time, she’d spoken to him in confidence about Lucien. Despite his wealth and position, Lucien had not enjoyed a happy childhood. His mother, an unhappy, self-absorbed woman, had died in a riding accident that might have been a suicide. And his father, Florian, had rejected Lucien in favor of his two older brothers. When those older brothers were killed by assassins, Lucien became the heir, but that hadn’t made his father like him any better. Instead, it had intensified Florian’s dislike, as Florian tried desperately to mold Lucien into somebody else.
Lucien had forged only one happy childhood relationship, with his cousin Rhianne. But he yearned for a big, happy family—always had. Now that his parents and older brothers were gone, he was creating that family. He’d lost Rhianne when she’d married a foreign king, and for the good of the country he’d married his sister, Celeste, to a foreign prince. But he had Vitala and his children. In locating Marius and Laelia and bringing them to the imperial seat, Lucien was beginning to assemble the loving extended family he’d dreamed about.
“Don’t worry yourself that he had an ulterior motive in bringing you here,” Rhianne had told him. “He hurts inside because of his family troubles, and he’s trying to heal that hurt. I can’t say if it will work or not, but from your perspective it’s harmless. He has no desire to hurt you, and every desire to earn your trust, your presence, even your love.”
After almost five years in Riat, Marius believed it. Lucien had been wholly supportive toward him and Laelia. Now, glancing at the empress Vitala, he wondered about her family situation. He understood she’d had a worse childhood than her husband, but unlike Lucien, who now surrounded himself with family in an attempt to heal that wound, Vitala had isolated herself from her Riorcan family. She had not seen her father since she was two years old and apparently had no interest in finding him. Her half-siblings were probably still living, but she did not track them down. Her Riorcan mother, Treva, had sought Vitala out, only to be rejected. Treva now lived at the palace, having been granted a place there by Lucien. Marius had met her on two occasions, and he knew she had some contact with her grandsons. But Vitala would have nothing to do with her.
Marius felt that Lucien’s way of dealing with his childhood family trouble was healthier than Vitala’s. But who was he to judge? Vitala had been extraordinarily kind to him since he’d come to Riat, so much so that he felt she’d adopted Lucien’s extended family as her own.
“How goes the harbor project?” Marius asked Lucien.
Lucien grunted his displeasure. “Not as well as I’d like.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The imperial treasury is drained,” said Lucien. “So I’ve had to go looking for investors, and I don’t have a lot of takers yet.”
“Don’t the shipping companies want a better harbor?”
“Some of the larger companies don’t,” said Lucien. “Because it will also be a bigger harbor, and that means more room for competitors.”
“It will be more sheltered, though. Won’t it? Less risk of losing their ships to the next storm.”
“Yes, it will be more sheltered and more inland,” said Lucien. “But the big shipping companies seem willing to risk a few lost ships.”
“That’s unconscionable.” He remembered last year’s storm. It hadn’t been only ships that were lost. Hundreds of men had also lost their lives. For weeks afterward, their bodies had washed up on the shores of Riat.
“Never mind,” said Lucien. “I’ve turned my attention elsewhere. The smaller shippers, as well as shipping customers and potential competitors, have more to gain than they have to lose. Imagine, for a moment, that you import coffee from Mosar and sell it to general stores throughout Kjall. Won’t you benefit if there are more ships bringing coffee? More importers?”
“I would imagine.” He wished Isolda were here—she understood this business stuff.
“More importers means lower prices for you, and potentially more profit,” explained Lucien. “Even better, maybe you could buy a ship or two of your own and import the goods yourself. Cut out the middleman.”
“Of course.”
“So that’s who I’m going after,” said Lucien. “Smaller shipping companies looking to expand, and wealthy families who buy imported goods. I’m offering them a share of harbor profits plus exclusive berthing.”
“I would think they’d jump at that.” He hoped his comments sounded intelligent, given that he had no idea what he was talking about.
Lucien shrugged. “The harbor will take a decade to build, at least. That’s a long time to wait for a turnaround on one’s investment. But we’ll get there.”
“When you break ground, I imagine there will be a lot of new jobs in Riat.”
“Undoubtedly. But that won’t happen anytime soon.”
Marius didn’t fully understand the economics behind Lucien’s harbor project, but he was impressed. Lucien was thinking big, the way an emperor should. Kjall did need a world-class harbor, and Riat seemed the perfect place to locate it. Furthermore, the project would have a number of side benefits. A flood of new jobs in Riat might mean opportunities for many. Maybe even for Isolda and her people.
Chapter 12
Marius climbed wearily into his carriage with Drusus. The imperial party had retired for the night. It was late, and he was drowsy from dancing, conversation, and rich food. He rested his head on the back on the seat and closed his eyes. “What did you think of those Mosari women?”
“The ones you danced with?” asked Drusus.
“Yes.”
“They were beautiful.”
“I know that,” said Marius. “At imperial events, all the women are beautiful.”
“Then what are you asking?” said Drusus.
“Gods, I don’t know.”
“If you’re asking whether I think you should marry one of them,” said Drusus, “my answer is no. You need time to get to know a woman, and those Mosari women are only going to be here a few days. Better you should look for a Kjallan.”
“Do you have one in mind?”
“No.”
Marius sighed. He wasn’t in a hurry to get married, yet there was something about his visits to the palace that tugged at his soul. It wasn’t the lavish parties, and it certainly wasn’t the fancy clothes or food. It was the people. Lucien had surrounded himself with a loving family: his wife, his two boys, Rhianne and Jan-Torres, Laelia. And now Marius was heading home to his bachelor lifestyle in Riat. It seemed a stark comparison. Marius had never felt lonely, exactly, but he did feel that something was missing from his life. “What about a Sardossian?”
“You’d be inviting a great deal of trouble,” said Drusus. “Broken windows, pranks. You’d lose business at the surgery.”
“I don’t care,” said Marius.
Drusus was silent a moment before speaking again. “The Sardossian you are thinking of is considerably below your station, and she has a child already.”
“I like Rory, and I don’t care about her station,” said Marius. “What about you—are you going to marry when your contract ends?”
“Of course,” said Drusus.
Marius hated to think of it, but Drusus had only a year and a half left on his contract. Men in the Legaciatti served twenty years and were then granted a generous retirement stipend. Drusus had begun his work at the age of sixteen, so he’d be thirty-six when his contract ended. “You have anyone in mind?”
“Legaciatti aren’t allowed to fraternize.”
One reason the contracts for Legaciatti were relatively short was that they demanded so much of the men and women involved. It was a round-the-clock job, and while an occasional visit to a bawdy-house might be overlooked, romantic relationships were forbidden. “You must get lonely.”
“The work is hard
.” Drusus shrugged. “But the opportunities afforded a Legaciattus are extraordinary.”
Marius nodded. Drusus, like all Legaciatti, was an orphan, recruited in childhood so that his loyalty to the throne would be absolute. He had no family, no station, and if he had not joined the Legaciatti, his future would not have been bright. “You want children, when you retire?”
“Maybe.”
“You’d make a great father.” His thoughts turned to Isolda. Like Drusus, she had no family to support her, but in her case there was no retirement stipend coming her way. Her prospects were severely limited, and she seemed to know this, since she was concentrating all her energy on Rory. “Do you think the emperor and empress would approve of Isolda?”
“Of course not,” said Drusus. “She isn’t even legal.”
Marius sighed. Lucien and Vitala had given him so much, and he didn’t want to anger or disappoint them. Lucien wanted Marius to make a marriage that befitted his station—gods, that hated word again—and Marius granted that this wasn’t much for Lucien to ask. Lucien was building a family, and the woman Marius married would become part of that family. Isolda had little to recommend herself to the emperor. She wasn’t wealthy, or connected, or magical, or educated. As Drusus had pointed out, she wasn’t even legal. She had street smarts, business smarts. But what use was that in the imperial palace?
He supposed it made little difference what the emperor would think of her. She’d run away again, and he hadn’t the slightest idea where to find her.
∞
Isolda scooped Rory up from the storeroom floor before he could reach a stack of wrought-iron lanterns. He could now walk a few steps unassisted, but when he really wanted to get somewhere, he dropped to all fours. His crawl was so fast, and his curiosity so insatiable, that she had to keep a close eye on him all hours of the day.
“No lanterns for you,” she scolded, and carried him out into the general store. Tiwar, who was manning the counter, gave her a nod. The store had tripled in size since she’d first come here. Over the past year and change, Jauld’s General Store had earned a reputation for quality, variety, and fair prices. As a result, they’d begun to draw more business than they could handle. She and Jauld solved the problem by buying some of the adjoining property and building on additions. They’d also hired a couple of clerks. Now that Isolda had her hands full with Rory, it was impossible to keep up with the store on her own. “I’m heading home. Got to feed the little one.”
“See you in the morning, Miss Isolda.”
The walk home was two blocks along the dirt road, and the evening was fine. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the scents of clover and pine. Glancing at the side of the road, she spied a few bees hovering over the white flowers. Honey would be in season soon. She’d have to contact the local beekeepers tomorrow and make sure she got some in stock the moment it was available.
In her arms, Rory squirmed and fussed. He wanted to walk, probably to meander and look at the bees, but Isolda was dead on her feet and eager to get home.
Not that home life was enjoyable. Ever since that day in the shop when Jauld’s friends had insulted her, Jauld had become cool and distant. He wasn’t the loving husband she’d dreamed of. It was clear now that no matter how hard she tried, her husband was never going to warm to her. He wasn’t violent or cruel; just indifferent.
It was as she’d feared—she wasn’t pretty enough to be loved. And yet she could not help feeling angry at his scorn. She’d never tricked him. He’d known exactly what she was and made the marriage offer of his own volition. At the time, it seemed he’d liked her. Now, for some reason, he didn’t.
He ought to appreciate one thing about her: she was making him wealthy. She’d transformed his business from a dingy junk shop to a clean, modern store that customers traveled miles to visit. Through her efforts—Jauld seldom lifted a finger to help—his fortunes and hers had improved. They’d been able to make renovations to their house. She’d bought a nicer wardrobe and some face paint in hopes of appealing more to Jauld’s eye. It wasn’t working, as far as she could tell, but he did still come to her bed. She didn’t enjoy sleeping with him, but she was glad he did. It was the only way she’d have more children.
Rory was the one bright spot in her life. He wasn’t an easy baby—he was insatiably curious, always getting into trouble—but, even so, he was a delight. For years she had envied her sisters their fine marriages and fine children. Now she had a baby of her own, and little Rory had become the center of her world. It didn’t matter whether Jauld appreciated her improvements to the store. She wasn’t doing it for him. She was doing it for Rory, who would one day inherit the fruits of her labor.
Stepping inside the house, she shut the door behind her and set a squirming Rory on the floor. When she looked up, her eyes met those of a strange woman sitting at the kitchen table. Isolda froze. The stranger was little more than a girl, perhaps sixteen years old, or at the most eighteen. She didn’t look dangerous—her wide eyes suggested she was more scared of Isolda than Isolda was of her—but what was she doing here?
Isolda snatched Rory up from the ground. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?” Rory kicked and began to cry in frustration, but Isolda clung to him.
The girl’s mouth fell open, but she said nothing.
“Isolda, you’re home.” Jauld emerged from a back bedroom. “This is Chari. I’m sure you two will be like sisters before long.”
Isolda trembled. This could not be happening. Please, let this not be happening. “What is she doing here?”
“She lives here now,” said Jauld. “Chari is my new wife.”
Chapter 13
“You’re putting far too much effort into this.”
Marius ignored his bodyguard’s words. Yes, they’d been at it for a while, and his first idea, of going to the Riat City Guard to ask them for information about where the Sardossians hid, had failed. He’d tried to frame his inquiry in terms of public health: there was a fever going around in Sardossian circles, and he wanted to heal it before it got out of hand. A prefect named Caellus had ushered him into a back office and asked him a lot of questions, most of which Marius had to dodge so he wouldn’t get Isolda into trouble. And Caellus had given him no information in return.
After leaving the guardhouse empty-handed, he’d come up with a better idea. He knew that Rory worked at a fruit stand.
Isolda had not said which fruit stand, and of course there were many in a city the size of Riat. But the Sardossians were concentrated in the harbor district. That was where the gunpowder factory had blown up. So he began at the site of the old gunpowder factory and worked his way outward with Drusus in tow, checking every fruit stand they came to. No doubt this unaccustomed exercise was the root of Drusus’s ill temper—but at the fifth fruit stand, Marius’s persistence paid off.
From an observation point across the street, he watched a smiling Sardossian boy with an apple in one hand and an orange in the other dart out of the Chelani Corner Market into the crowd of passersby. He hopped up to potential customers one by one, presenting the fruits. Apparently the prejudice most Kjallans held toward Sardossians didn’t apply to children when they were smiling and cute—or perhaps the customers simply mistook Rory for a Riorcan. Either way, Rory managed to lure quite a few customers toward the fruit stand. “Knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?”
“A born hustler,” growled Drusus.
“He’s charming. A good salesman.”
“So you’ve found him,” said Drusus. “What now?”
What now, indeed? He couldn’t approach Rory. The boy had street smarts. He knew to conceal his and Isolda’s whereabouts. “We wait.”
“For what?”
“For his work shift to end,” said Marius. “Then we follow him to Isolda.”
∞
Isolda shoveled more saltpeter into the base of the mill with the other ingredients, handling her all-wooden tools with care. To throw a spark here could be fatal, not ju
st for her but for everyone in the factory. She stirred to spread the materials evenly in the well and took up the lead rope for the mule harnessed to the central shaft. She clucked and stepped forward, but the mule balked. He’d been working all afternoon, and he knew as well as she did that his shift was nearing its end. His mind was on his stall and his feedbox. “Get up,” she barked. “We’re almost done.” The mule gave a desultory toss of his head but leaned into the traces and began to pull. With a rumble, the great stone wheels of the mill began to turn, grinding to dust beneath them the raw materials of gunpowder.
Ten rotations around the mill, step by tedious step, and the grind was nearly finished. Her boss, old Twitchy Fingers, stood two mills away, talking to another worker. He was probably making the rounds to hand out the day’s pay. Nonetheless, her stomach knotted at the sight of him.
One or two more times around and she’d be finished. She led the mule slowly around the mill. The groaning of the wheels and the grating of the powder filled her ears. This was the music of gunpowder production. It wasn’t a pleasant tune, but by the end of the day, it produced one that she liked much better: the jingle of coins in her pocket.
Nearby, Twitchy Fingers said, “This batch is looking good.”
Isolda rounded the bend, and he came into view. The mule, who didn’t like Twitchy Fingers, flung up his head, yanking the lead rope. Isolda shook her rope-burned hand and clucked to send the mule forward again. The grind was nearly done, but if she let her mule decide when to stop, she’d never get him to work tomorrow. As they neared Twitchy Fingers, she murmured, “Whoa,” and the mule stopped.
Twitchy Fingers held out a few quintetrals. “Today’s payment.”
She reached for the coins, praying that he would just hand them over this time.
Twitchy Fingers grinned and yanked his hand away. “When you’ve unhitched that mule, meet me at the tavern next door. It’s a good day to unwind, don’t you think?”
