Stormshadow (Storms in Amethir Book 2)

by Stephanie A. Cain

  They laughed together and lingered over dessert, talking of how different Ranarr was from Tamnen. Orya wasn't as steadying as Razem, nor as comforting as Guira, but she was entertaining and acerbic, and Azmei offered a silent thanks to the gods for providing her with a friend here. That made her wonder what gods the Amethirians revered, and when she asked, Orya didn't know.

  "I don't think much about the gods." Orya's tone was careless. "If they wanted us to regard them highly, perhaps they shouldn't have turned their backs on us. Whatever gods the Amethirians worship, they can't be any worse--or better--than ours."

  Azmei just hummed and took a sip of her wine. She would have to ask Vistaren. It would give them something to talk about while they were gaining one another's trust.

  The next morning, Azmei and Guira called on Eustra the Dressmaker, where Azmei used all the royal airs she could summon to persuade Eustra to take on the challenge of sewing traditional Ranarri garb from silk. The feel of the cloth was pleasing, Eustra allowed, but she complained of the extravagant cost. Azmei shrugged off the argument, carelessly declaring she would pay whatever price necessary to have something more appropriate to wear in "this beastly heat". Royalty--and gold--prevailed, as Azmei had known they would. Eustra promised two gowns by the end of the week, one in pale gold and the other in white and rose. Azmei had held a violent hatred for pink since her babyhood, but she couldn't argue when Eustra said it went well with her complexion, even with Guira smirking at her from behind the dressmaker's back.

  They returned to the University in time for Azmei to prepare for her first intimate lunch with Prince Vistaren. Intimate lunch, she thought, because there would only be two servants and four retainers. But she and Vistaren would have their own table, well apart from the others, so no one could eavesdrop. She was both looking forward to and dreading the meal.

  She knew Guira noticed that she protested less than usual about all the fussing over her appearance. Guira, may all the gods bless her, was wise enough to keep her mouth shut. Azmei was too old for tantrums, but she was fairly certain she would have shouted if anyone commented on her sudden eagerness to impress the prince.

  When she was almost ready, someone tapped on the door to her suite. Guira bustled off to open it and returned a few minutes later, bearing an armful of flowers. They had long, naked stems and wide white blooms with deep pink spots in the middle. Azmei had never seen anything like them before, but they reminded her of the fuchsia blossoms they'd seen at the park down in the city.

  "Well, they don't match your dress, but they're close enough to the ribbons," Guira said, holding one next to Azmei's face and studying it with a critical eye. "I'd be happier if you were in the rose silk already, but I don't think you allowed me to bring anything that shade."

  "Pink," Azmei said.

  "No, of course you didn't." Guira's voice was serene. "Very well, we shall make do with what we have." She snapped the stem halfway down and tucked the flower into Azmei's hair. "Actually, I believe the balance is perfect. You look pure and innocent."

  "How dreadful--" Guira glared and Azmei amended what she was going to say. "--ly boring for him." Guira sniffed and let it pass.

  Captain Dzornaea opened the door to the prince's apartments. Vistaren was standing at the balcony with General Lozarr. When Vistaren saw Azmei, he smiled. "Do you like the flowers? They only grow here on Ranarr. They're called peaceblossoms."

  Azmei told herself it didn't matter that Vistaren wasn't struck dumb with her beauty, as Rona was when he met Aevver. It didn't matter that she felt no leaping of her heart within her, as Aevver had felt when meeting Rona. This wasn't a hero tale, it was true life.

  "They are very pink," she said before thinking. "Beautiful, I mean," she added. "They have a lovely shape."

  Vistaren looked rueful. "You hate pink," he said. "I should have known."

  "No, of course not!" she protested. Then she thought about how she had promised herself she wouldn't lie to him again. "Well...yes. It's such a soft color."

  Vistaren nodded, almost to himself. "And you are not a soft person. That much I did know."

  "I'm sorry," she said, suddenly miserable at how utterly she had failed to be gracious about his gift. "I am grateful that you thought of me. Your gift is very appreciated."

  General Lozarr looked like he was choking on swallowed laughter. Vistaren glowered at him and took Azmei's arm, curling their fingers together as he led her away from Lozarr. "I hate yellow, if you want to know," he said, his voice low. "It makes me feel like I'm going to purge."

  She shook her head. "I think you would look very handsome in yellow. Why do you hate it?"

  "I don't look handsome. I look like a big puff-skin. Do you have those? They live in tide pools, and they're absolutely worthless. They taste dreadful, their barbs are poison if they pierce your skin, and they eat sea-diamonds, which are possibly the most delicious food we have in Amethir."

  Azmei couldn't stop the giggle that spilled out of her. "I've never heard of puff-skins, but we don't have sea-diamonds either. I've heard of them. Are they really that wonderful?"

  "They're amazing. Possibly more blissful than se--" He stumbled. "--several of our other delicacies all wrapped into one."

  She smiled. "So really you just object to puff-skins because they compete with you for your favorite food."

  "No." His voice was sharp for a moment, but before she could react, he softened it. "I object to the color yellow because no one wants to look like a puff-skin, and I do when I'm wearing it." He gestured at himself.

  Azmei wondered if he were being self-deprecating about his weight. He was plump, but that didn't necessarily mean he was soft. And what if he was? Destar Thorne had already told her Vistaren didn't care for war, but Destar seemed to think well enough of Vistaren despite that. Azmei had had her fill of war, even at a distance.

  "Well, when I wear pink, I look like I'm perpetually embarrassed," she said. "And people expect me to be silly and sentimental and embroider perfectly."

  Vistaren feigned a look of shock. "You mean you don't embroider perfectly?"

  "No indeed. The only thing I pierce with my needle is skin."

  "I didn't realize embroidery was a matter of state," Vistaren remarked.

  "Precisely what I've been telling Guira all these years," Azmei agreed. "No crisis was ever solved by embroidery."

  "Ah, but have you read all of the tales about Aevver? How do you know she didn't embroider a secret message in code to someone who prevented an uprising as a result?" Vistaren's left cheek dimpled, though he was valiantly trying not to smile.

  "There are more tales about Aevver? I want to read them all!" In Azmei's opinion, there should be more hero tales about women. For that matter, Azmei's love of reading probably had something to do with why she had grown up so unwomanly; there weren't enough stories that glamorized embroidery and painting and dancing.

  Vistaren was chuckling. "There are floods of stories about Aevver and her sisters. Did you know she had sisters? Three of them, and each of them almost as brave and clever and beautiful as Aevver." He glanced sideways at her. "One of them was a spymaster disguised in her life of silk and perfume and embroidery. One of them was a scholar who discovered the secrets to healing the human body. One of them was a bard whose voice could charm the most savage of enemies and tame the most fractious of beasts. And, of course, one was Aevver."

  "You'd better not be lying to me." Azmei glared at him. "If you're making this up--"

  "I wouldn't be brave enough to lie to you again," he replied. "I'll find a copy of The Four Daughters of the Storm for you. It might have been a better gift than the letter-writing set."

  She stopped walking. "Oh, no. The gift was perfect. Just--perfect."

  Vistaren beamed at her. There was no other word for it. His face lit up, his eyes sparkled, and his dimples dimpled at her. It struck her suddenly just how young he was. She kept forgetting he was only twenty. "I'm glad," he said. "It was my idea, and my mother t
hought it a good one. Lo thought it was too boring, but Arama looked at the knife and said it would serve."

  "Arama knew exactly why I would like it," Azmei said. "I hope I shall get to know her. She's so brave and exciting."

  "Aye, I think you'd like her." Vistaren looked over her shoulder and she turned to look as well. The pirate captain was standing with General Lozarr. They were talking, but she wasn't quite meeting his eyes. The general looked unaccountably sad.

  "Gods, I wish they'd just get on with it," Vistaren muttered. "It's the only thing I don't understand about her. Lo looks at her like she discovered seaglass, and she knows it, but she won't--won't accept it." He scowled. "I know she loves him too."

  Oh. Oh. Azmei tilted her head as she stared at them. Yes, she could see the awkwardness now that she knew to look for it. The way the general leaned in a bit too close, the way Arama seemed to be holding herself away. The tilt of her shoulders away from him--but her hips were turned toward Lozarr, her eyes brushing his cheek and jaw and the top of his head, but never quite meeting his.

  "She wants to," Azmei murmured. "Perhaps she's afraid of losing herself." She felt Vistaren go still beside her. Did he realize she had just confessed her own fear? "Maybe she's afraid of how hot his love burns. The hottest flames sometimes die soonest."

  "Not Lo." His voice was fervent. "They've known each other for years, and I think he's felt that way all that time."

  "Then she'll come to accept it eventually." What would it be like, she wondered, to have someone know you that long and still feel as though you were the brightest star in the sky? Would Vistaren ever feel that way about her?

  Vistaren's expression was somber. "I hope so." He sighed. Then he seemed to realize they were no longer laughing. "But enough of them. We're supposed to be talking about our own epic romance." He spoke the words lightly, his lips curving up again. Azmei couldn't tell if it was pleasure or humor. Did he relish the idea or mock it?

  She slanted a glance up at him. "I suspect we shall not have as long a courtship as your friends, anyway."

  He laughed, which she'd been hoping for, and she didn't think she was imagining the relief in his eyes. Perhaps he was as nervous about this as she was. Perhaps this might turn out well, after all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Orya tugged her hood tighter over her forehead and slipped into a narrow alley between houses. According to her observations, the dressmaker's shop was at the end of this alley. She should be pleased. True to her word, Princess Azmei had persuaded Eustra the Dressmaker to purchase Tamnese silk from Perslyn Textiles.

  Orya had been banking on the likelihood of Azmei's success. Eustrid was a vain woman. The same pride that had made her speak loudly about the inferiority of Tamnese silk had not allowed her to back down when the princess challenged her to create a thing of traditional Ranarri beauty; the fact that Eustra held the silk in such contempt only heightened the challenge.

  Dust and grit blew into the mouth of the alley, hissing against Orya's shoes. At the noise, she looked over her shoulder. No one there. She shrugged her shoulders and loosened her dagger in its sheath on her belt. Thunder growled, closer than it had been, like an angry dragon roused from slumber.

  Orya wanted to hurry along the alley to her goal, but she crept forward, pausing every few steps to listen and look around. There was little light in the alley. The moon had been barely a crescent when the clouds shrouded it. Orya had a lightbox with her, but she would only use them in extreme need. The textile shops on this block had all closed hours ago. If someone spotted a light down this alley, there would be trouble.

  As she inched forward, Orya found herself wondering what Yarro was doing at home right now. Would he be asleep? His Voices kept him awake late into the night far too often, but once he slipped into dreams, he slept soundly. He might be reading. He could read, despite the fractured concentration that made him such a trying companion.

  Something shifted underfoot. Orya flung out a hand, slapping it against the limestone wall beside her. It made no noise, but she froze, holding her breath. What had she stepped on? She leaned down to inspect it.

  Only a stone. But kneeling gave her a better angle from which to view Eustra's shop windows. On the second floor, which was supposedly only a storeroom, a light was burning behind closed shutters.

  "What?" she muttered, narrowing her eyes. It was a warm, flickering glow. Candles, then, or perhaps an unshuttered lantern. But who would be up there at this time of night? The first hour of the morning had come and gone. Eustra had a very nice home several streets from here. Could she still be awake and working on Azmei's dresses?

  The princess had told her over an early lunch this morning that Eustra had promised delivery today. Could the dressmaker have overcommitted herself?

  Orya shook her head. It didn't seem characteristic for a woman who took as much pride in her work as Eustra did. The flicker intensified as a shadow passed between the light source and the window. "Curse the Vigilant!" The woman must have a guard.

  Very well. Orya could deal with that. She had herbs that would set any guard to dreaming, and make him forget what he'd been doing when it took effect. As long as she was careful, she could arrange for the guard to fall asleep without piquing anyone's suspicion.

  She crept forward again, slipping to the side of the alley underneath the window. People looking out windows rarely looked straight down. She slipped one hand inside her belt pouch, touching small bags made of differently textured cloth until she found the one she needed by feel. It was a trick she'd learned from one of the shop cousins, a girl who was so nearsighted she had learned to identify cloth by texture alone.

  By the time she had reached the back entrance to the shop, she had coated a dart in the sleep dust. She would be able to take the guard down without even showing her face. Orya's lips curled up as she reached out a gloved hand to test the door.

  It was locked, which was to be expected. Orya went to one knee, slipping a pick into the lock. It took her longer than she had expected to get the door open. When she felt the tumblers click into place, she let the door swing ajar. She waited, listening, but nothing stirred.

  Orya took a few breaths and stepped into the back entry hall. No one raised the alarm. The entire first floor was dark. She waited in place until her eyes adjusted, then made her way to the showroom. It was always possible Eustra had been stupid enough to display the princess' dress for all her customers to see.

  But Eustra proved cannier than that. The showroom held cloth of all varieties along with a handful of dummies displaying samples of Eustra's work. That was all. Orya clicked her teeth together and headed for the stairs.

  This was trickier. While most of the buildings on Ranarr had limestone walls, the interior floors and staircases were often made of wood. Such was the case with Eustra's shop. Orya had to ease her weight onto each step while easing her weight off the step before. It was a painstaking process, but at last she reached the head of the stairs.

  The upstairs hall appeared to be straight. There were two doors on the left and one on the right. The furthest door on the left showed a thin line of light underneath. Orya smirked. Perhaps she could gain access to the dress without even risking an encounter with the guard.

  But the door on the right led into a sewing room strewn with scraps and half-finished dresses. None of them were silk, and none of them fancy enough to be under consideration for Azmei.

  Orya went to the next door. It was locked, but when she got inside, the room turned out to be Eustra's business office. A desk took up most of the inadequate floor space. A shelf behind the desk held ledgers and order books.

  Very well, the guard was in the room with the dress, then. Orya grudgingly revised her opinion of Eustra. The woman might have little experience sewing for royalty, since Ranarr had none, but she was canny enough. She must realize someone might wish the princess ill. Or perhaps she was merely afraid someone would sabotage her work for the prince
ss. Either way, Eustra had had the good sense to post a guard on the work intended for the princess. Orya had to admire her foresight, even though it made Orya's job more difficult.

  The problem was that the door to the lighted room was locked with the most difficult lock Orya had encountered on Ranarr. The city was remarkably trusting, which she found useful but incongruous, considering that Diplomats were said to trust few outside their company. Orya had had free reign of the city's buildings. Even inside the university, where she exhibited a great deal more caution to keep from destroying her assumed persona, she had little trouble entering any room she wished.

  The lock on Eustra's door outstripped all of them. It was more than unusual, it was unbelievable. What would a simple dressmaker need with such an expensive lock? When Orya knelt to inspect it, though, opening her lightbox to allow a faint glow from the ember within, she saw faint scarring in the wood around the lock. So the lock had been replaced, and recently. That made more sense.

  Unfortunately, it probably meant Destar Thorne was cleverer than Orya credited him. No one else would have been so thorough in protecting the princess.

  She breathed in slowly through her nose and took out a better set of lockpicks than she had been using. The pick slid in silently, but when she caught the first tumbler with it, the lock clicked loudly. Inside the room, wood scraped against wood, as if the guard had pushed his chair back. Orya jerked away and retreated to the shadowy end of the hall.

  Footsteps thumped inside the lighted room. The door swung inward and a strapping, bronze-skinned man peered out. Orya held her breath before remembering her training. The guard swept the hallway with his gaze, more thoroughly than Orya liked. She turned her face away. Only her dark clothing kept her hidden, and her skin, while not pale, was still more visible than her clothes.