Perhaps if this mission failed, Wenda would look after Yarro for her. She tried to remember if Wenda had any brothers, but Wenda said surprisingly little about herself. For all her seeming openness, she was actually something of a mystery to Orya.
"What is taking so long?" Orya snapped.
"You clearly commissioned this dress from someone here." Wenda's voice was unruffled. Her needle slid into the fabric and tugged again. "Any of our own dressmakers would have designed a proper ball gown instead of this restrictive prison of cloth."
"You ought to know how it's done. Give a dressmaker the opportunity to work with your fabric in exchange for a lovely addition to your own wardrobe." Orya paused. "Oh, of course. You probably have little use for ball gowns in your life."
She felt the sting of the needle against her calf before she could think of calling the words back. She stifled her yelp, knowing it was what Wenda wanted. In an odd way, though it felt good. At least now she knew Wenda had feelings to be pricked, and the self-worth to prick back when it was warranted.
"I have been to a ball or two in my time." Nothing in Wenda's voice indicated she had just deliberately stabbed her, but Orya knew better. "Just because I do not dance, you must not think I dislike music."
"That isn't at all what I meant," Orya said. She didn't bother trying to inject any feeling into her voice. They both knew it had been exactly what she meant.
"Don't underestimate me, cousin. I am not one of the foundlings or throwbacks, to have our family's true business hidden from me. I may not be fit for your line of work, but I am well suited as a helper to you." Wenda's stitches had resumed. "I've already deduced from the alterations you need that you will be carrying a brace of daggers and poison darts in the hem I am mending."
"It is--"
"Against the rules, I know. But can you not think for yourself?" Wenda's voice took on an edge of teasing. "Have we not grown to be friends on this trip, Orya? Tell me what you are planning."
It was against the rules. But Orya was uncertain enough that she wished to have an alternate plan for Yarro's safety. Her allies at home had sworn they would watch over him, and if anything looked amiss, they would steal him away from the patriarch's oversight. But there was always the chance Orya might fail at her assignment and the word not reach Tamnen until it was too late. It was unthinkable, but that did not make it impossible.
"You will have me punished for disobedience to the patriarch yet, won't you," she grumbled. "Very well, you are correct. My secondary plan involves carrying daggers under my dress and poison darts in my hem. I have rings with sleep dust in them."
Her jewelry was nearly all deadly. Her earrings had tiny claws on the backs that were sharp enough to puncture the skin; they could easily be coated in poison. The necklace she would wear was actually a braid of wire strong enough to suspend her weight or tie up a captive, if necessary. And her bracelet was an ornate but serviceable garrote.
But Wenda didn't need to know all that.
"Sleep dust?" There was a final tug and Wenda lurched to her feet. "There, the hem is finished. Turn so I can see where you want the pockets."
Orya turned obediently. "The sleep dust will put a grown man down with just a breath of it, and no ill effects afterwards. This mixture has Mindease blended with it to make him forget what he was doing before he slept. I don't mean to use it, but it's good to have in case I need it."
Wenda made a noise to show she was listening. "Put your hands down at your sides. No, not where you'd normally belt a dagger. Lower, where it's natural. You can't wear daggers on your hips, not under this dress. They'll need to be strapped to your thighs."
Orya glared down at her. "If I have to bend down to draw them--"
"No, not that low. But if you wear them too high, they'll create an unflattering silhouette. Everyone knows you have a slender waist and lovely hips. Extra bulk would make people suspicious."
She shouldn't feel so pleased at the casual compliment. "You act as though I've never done this before."
Wenda shrugged. "Have you?" When she looked up, her eyes were wide.
"You don't need to know that." Orya made her voice curt. She had actually killed three times before at fancy balls. One of her victims had been fatally poisoned by Orya's perfume, a toxic mist that settled into the victim's lungs and killed over the course of several hours. She had painted a coat of poison across her lips to deal with one of the others, and drawn back in shock and horror when he began convulsing mere minutes after stealing a kiss during their dance. Poison was so much easier when one had to kill quietly in public.
The first ball, though... She held very still as a shiver tried to crawl down her spine. The first ball had been her very costly failure. There had been daggers involved, which was why she preferred, to this day, to use poison whenever possible. When poison was impossible, she preferred crossbows. It wasn't the idea of personal contact with her victims that she minded. It was the smell of their blood as it washed across her hands.
She swallowed hard and pushed the feeling away. "You'll need to stay in our rooms all evening tomorrow. I might as well make good use of you, since you are so insistent on being a part of my plans."
"Of course! What do you need?"
Orya glanced down at her. "A witness. I have been the princess' friend on the voyage to Ranarr. Though she has been very busy since we arrived, it is still well known that I dine with her on occasion. I must be highly visible at the ball. I will dance as much as possible. With the prince, if I can manage it, and certainly with Destar Thorne and that Amethirian general. I want everyone to see me at the ball and know how very happy I am for my dear friend, Azmei."
Wenda nodded in time with her scissors as she snipped a slit into the side hem of Orya's skirt. "Of course, everyone knows how much you like the princess."
Orya caught her breath. Had Wenda realized just how true that was? "That was rather the point of my befriending her before leaving home," she said, trying to make her voice condescending.
"Oh, yes." Wenda fell silent. The cloth of Orya's skirt rustled as Wenda rolled it up, seeking the exact part of the underskirt that needed to be cut.
"I will spend as much time as possible talking to the princess, and at the height of the ball, I will dose myself with just enough redleaf to make me seem ill."
"Redleaf? What does that do?"
Her lips parted to answer, Orya caught herself. "Make me seem ill." It would raise her pulse and make her skin pale and clammy. She would have to feign a swoon as soon as she felt it taking effect; if she waited too long, she would swoon for real, and then she would have to take an antidote and rest before recovering. There was no way to treat herself ahead of time, though; the only antidote to redleaf was sunder, and if sunder was in the system, redleaf was harmless and wouldn't give her the illness she needed.
It was a shame Orya had no herbalist to brag to. She would have to remember to tell the story far and wide in the training hall when she returned home. She looked down at Wenda's bowed head and hesitated. Then she shook her head. She couldn't tell Wenda.
"This is the point where it's very important you be waiting up for me in our rooms," she said instead. "I'll need you to open the door when I come back. Someone will escort me from the ball, of course. If nothing else, the Diplomats are too blazing polite to let me return back to our rooms alone when I'm obviously ill."
Wenda nodded. "Those Diplomats are weird. I'm glad I've only had to deal with them once or twice. How do they go about their lives with no expressions at all? Is it a drug they take to freeze their faces?"
"I hadn't thought about it. I suppose it's just training." Orya grimaced. It was inconvenient, certainly. She was extra careful around the Diplomats; she suspected one of them could observe her make an outright assassination attempt and show no reaction at all. She wouldn't realize she'd been spotted until they arrested her. Diplomats, she assumed, were no big fans of assassination. Disturbed the peace and whatnot.
"In any e
vent," she said, shaking her head, "I'll need you to be seen here when I arrive. Then on the off chance there are any questions about my whereabouts the rest of the evening, you can vouch that I was lying in bed with a cold cloth over my face, when I wasn't heaving into the chamber pot." She smiled down at Wenda, who giggled as she was supposed to.
"And instead you'll sneak out and wait for your moment to strike," Wenda said.
Orya hummed noncommittally. "Anderlin's threats are well-known by now. No one will be surprised to hear of a Strid agent attacking her."
"What did he say?" Wenda asked. She rocked back on her heels and lowered her hands.
"You didn't hear?" Orya shook her head. "He'd have been better off saying nothing but acting in silence. But it makes my work easier." She smirked. "He demanded the Kreyden as bride-price for the princess, and said if she rejected his offer, all of Tamnen would weep in mourning."
Wenda's eyes widened. "He all but admitted he planned to kill her?"
"It will make everyone think he decided to kill her and be done with it." Orya shrugged. "He's a fool, but a useful one."
"Mm." Wenda pursed her lips, her brows drawing together. Then her face twisted and she jerked to one side. She fell clumsily onto her backside, one hand clutching at her crippled foot.
Orya held out a hand. "Did you hurt yourself?"
Instead of answering, Wenda shook her head, ignoring the hand. Orya sighed and leaned over. "Let me help you up."
"I'm fine. I just forgot I can't sit like that for long." Wenda's voice was tight.
Orya decided to ignore it. If Wenda was going to pretend everything was all right, so would she. "If all goes well, in two days' time, we'll be ready to return home."
"You will, at least." Wenda sighed. "I'm to stay and establish our custom, remember?"
Orya hadn't forgotten exactly, but she hadn't thought about it either way. "I envy you, actually," she confessed. "I like it here. It's so hot and sunny."
Wenda's smile was lopsided. "It is nice, but my friends are all at home. Once you complete your assignment, you'll be free to go." She studied Orya's face. "Though...I'm not at all certain you really want to complete your assignment and return home."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Orya snapped as a thrill of fear rushed through her. Of course she wanted to complete her assignment! Yarro needed her! She would never abandon him.
"Why do you even have to kill the princess? Why this contract?" Wenda must have seen the gathering anger on her face, but she pressed on. "Doesn't the patriarch want peace?"
"Peace is bad for business," Orya said tightly. "Not for us, no, but for those who profit on war contracts and army supplies. War can be profitable enough for some folk that they're willing to pay us to prolong that war."
"Even if it isn't necessary," Wenda persisted. Orya glared at her and Wenda flinched but said, "You like the princess, don't you?"
"And what does that matter?"
"You don't want to do it. You don't want to kill her." There was a glitter of something stronger than curiosity in Wenda's eyes.
"It doesn't matter if I want to do it or not." Orya stepped down from the stool and began stripping off her dress. She was finished with this conversation. "I have no choice in the matter."
She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, but she must have failed. Damn Wenda for disarming her so! Orya managed to get untangled from her skirt and stepped out of it. Wenda, eyes big, placed a hand on Orya's shoulder. It wasn't a steadying hand. She rested it there and squeezed, just tightly enough that Orya knew Wenda was trying to be sympathetic.
Orya jerked away. "I've broken enough rules for an entire lifetime. Take the skirt and finish making the alterations I need. The ball won't wait for your sewing."
She turned away quickly, but not quickly enough to miss the tiny flash of hurt and resentment in her cousin's eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Someone must have taught the Diplomats something in the past month about how to throw a party. They were in the same ballroom that had held the welcome ball the month before, but the music was lively with complex rhythms and shaded harmonies. Perhaps it was because this was a betrothal party and therefore celebrated peace between Tamnen and Amethir. Azmei looked around as she paused in the huge double doors.
The crowd was large, billowing and shifting like a body that moved and breathed. She recognized some of those in attendance. Several Diplomats in their sober brown robes were gathered around a table of refreshments. There were two score Ranarri citizens, all important for one reason or another, congregating near the punch. That short, fat woman was the head of the bankers guild, and the tall, spare man talking to her was apparently a revered councilman--the closest the Ranarri got to nobility. Azmei recognized several other faces, though she couldn't put a name or occupation to them.
Prince Vistaren's party had already arrived, though she didn't currently see the prince. She did see Lozarr, resplendent in his uniform, complete with a scarlet sash from shoulder to waist. And beside him--she did a double take--was Arama, looking absolutely nothing like a pirate captain in the sea-blue silk gown she wore.
"I didn't realize the Storm Petrel knew how to wear a dress," remarked a mischievous voice behind her. Azmei glanced over her shoulder. Orya. She should have known. She liked the cloth merchant a great deal, but the woman had a sharp tongue, and she spared no one.
They had mended their friendship after the argument last week, but Azmei had chosen to take a more formal air with her since then. She didn't think Orya was deliberately hateful, but she could be casually cruel, and it grew tiresome.
"I expect long skirts would get caught in the rigging," Azmei said now. "It would be impractical for her to wear skirts most of the time."
"Most of the time, certainly. But she's been on dry land with the rest of us for a month now. It's about time she adapted."
"You've certainly adapted well to the high life," Azmei said, knowing the words were unkind and speaking them anyway.
The dress Orya wore was beautiful, there was no doubt. Made of a deep red silk, it highlighted Orya's dark beauty, contrasting with her black hair and matching her red lips.
Orya's dark eyes were wounded as she gazed at Azmei. "Surely you understand how a cloth merchant can ill afford to dress in anything but the best," she said. "I took a bolt of this silk to one of the cloth merchants I wished to win over, then promised if her design pleased me, I would wear the dress she made of it to one of the balls."
Azmei sighed. She shouldn't have tweaked the other woman. "Of course, you're right. I suppose I'm in a foul mood because I would rather be tucked into a cozy seat reading. I apologize."
Orya's gaze softened. "Truly, you have no reason to apologize to me, princess. I forget that, whatever pressure I am under to gain new custom here in Ranarr, the pressure you are under is far greater, and with far-reaching consequences."
Azmei could have done without the reminder. She grimaced and looked back out at the ball room. "I see the general and the captain, but I don't see Vistaren. Do you see him anywhere?"
"I don't. He isn't at the food table, nor at the drinks." Orya injected just enough surprise into her tone that Azmei could not reprimand her, but nor could she miss the meaning. "Perhaps he fainted from the shock of seeing the Storm Petrel in a dress." She giggled.
"Enough," Azmei said, striving to keep her tone friendly. "I am not in the mood for jests tonight, Orya. Let us simply have pleasant conversation of no importance."
Orya gave her a sympathetic look. "Are you nervous about the betrothal?"
Azmei lifted a hand to rub her eyes, but she fortunately remembered her makeup in time. She patted her hair and dropped her hand again. "Not nervous, really, but..." She flicked her fan open and fluttered it in front of her face. "I just wish everything was over and done. It's this dreadful feeling of being half-swallowed."
Orya laughed. "Half-swallowed?"
"You know, when you start to eat a pimmin vine that
turns out to be longer than you expected," Azmei said. "And so you've swallowed half of it, and the rest is stuck in your throat. I feel like that pimmin vine. Why can't Amethir just swallow me whole and have done?"
"You think too much. You're the most beautiful woman at the ball, you're marrying a prince, and everyone is looking at you with admiration in their eyes." Orya shrugged. "Relax and enjoy it."
Azmei smiled, though it felt thin and strained. "Thank you, my friend." She reached out a hand, which Orya gripped. "You have proven faithful and true through this trying time. I am grateful."
Orya lowered her gaze, her lips curving demurely. "I am grateful to have had the chance to serve, even if only with my friendship."
Azmei squeezed her hand and dropped it. She turned her head, scanning the room again. Where was Vistaren? He wasn't avoiding her, was he? Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with Anderlin's slurs against his betrothed. But surely Vistaren would be aware that the insult was aimed at him as well as Azmei. Wouldn't he want to discuss it with her, at the very least?
Her gaze skipped across brown and black heads, seeking out the particular blue sheen bestowed by the Crelin blood. She found none. Even Arama and Lozarr had disappeared. Then her eyes settled on the big double doors and her heart thumped. There. She felt her lips curving up, almost involuntarily.
"Ah, there he is," Orya said. She had followed Azmei's gaze. "He looks quite elegant, doesn't he? I wonder where he found such fine silk." Her tone was just smug enough that Azmei darted her an amused glance but said nothing. "Go on, then," Orya prompted. "He'll want to see you. You look magnificent."
Azmei gathered her skirts and crossed the room. Vistaren almost looked as though he had dressed to match her, though his colors were bolder. Azmei's dress was made of pale green silk, with a daring amount of throat and shoulders showing. Vistaren wore white silk trousers and a rich blue shirt with a deep green tunic flowing down to his knees. With his dark complexion and the blue sheen of his hair, it was a striking look. Azmei caught her breath.
Stormshadow (Storms in Amethir Book 2) Page 12
