by M. J. Scott
Likewise the throne stood empty. Where was the emperor, then? Mingling with the court? She doubted it. There would be far more guards in the room if that were the case. Was he still behind the scenes, hidden away in an audience chamber somewhere attending to urgent business? Or waiting to make a grand entrance?
That seemed more feasible. Unless of course, he was the type to try to slip in to a room.
The palace itself didn’t raise her confidence in the likelihood of that possibility. It was designed to awe and overwhelm, to display the wealth and power of its occupant to the very best effect.
And to remind everyone of their place firmly beneath the feet of the emperor.
She would wager that the man did very little that would not serve to reinforce that message but she would have to wait until she met him to find out if she was right about that.
“Should we dance?” Cameron asked Henri. “Sophie and I?”
Henri pursed his lips. They’d moved forward at the end of the staircase, slowly moving through the crowd rather than deliberately aiming toward either the dance floor or the assembled throngs of gossiping nobles.
“I’m not sure,” he said finally. “It is unusual for the emperor to be absent from his ballroom.”
“So it would be bad form?”
“Not exactly. As you can see, many people are dancing. I just feel it might be prudent to await the emperor’s arrival. You don’t want him to be kept waiting if he decides to summon you.” Henri’s eyes went absent for a moment, the pale blue almost shimmering in the lights reflecting off every surface. For a moment Sophie thought there was an echoing shimmer across the black of his suit, but then it vanished.
“Perhaps we should wait,” Sophie said. There was something to be said for blending in to the crowd of dancers at the other end of the room, but there was no point trying to camouflage themselves if being extracted would only draw attention.
Cameron nodded in assent, looking enquiringly at Henri. “Maistre, we are in your hands.”
As he spoke, a liveried servant came up to them and offered a tray of drinks in tall stemmed glasses. The liquid fizzed slightly, its pale green color unlike any wine Sophie was familiar with. Henri reached for a glass
“Campenois,” he said. “From Partha.” He sipped. “Try it, it is delicious.”
Sophie reached for a glass, more to be polite than for any desire for alcohol. She touched it to her lips. The flavor was herbal and faintly sweet, the bubbles fizzing gently over her tongue. The maistre was correct. It was delicious. And would be far too easy to consume quickly. She lowered the glass and turned her attention back to the room as Henri slowly moved through the crowd, angling toward the area where the dais stood.
She was about to ask Henri to tell her who some of the people in the crowd were when a woman in a brilliant blue gown stepped into his path.
“Maistre Matin, how delightful.” She dipped her head. The weight of the sapphires and diamonds looped around her neck and wrists and hanging from her ears would have possibly sunk a small boat. Henri bowed deeply in response to her greeting. Who was this woman? Someone of high rank, surely, to earn that bow?
“Venable du Laq,” Henri said. “It is always a pleasure.”
She was a mage?
Sophie covered her surprise by offering a curtsy as well.
“Venable, may I present Lord and Lady Scardale?” Henri said as Sophie rose.
“Indeed you may,” she replied in a tone that made Sophie think that her crossing their paths hadn’t been an accident.
Her face in a carefully pleasant expression, she studied the woman. She was taller than Sophie, though not by much, her hair a mass of black and brown and red streaks. A combination Sophie hadn’t seen since the last time she’d seen Chloe de Montesse. Earth witch. Water mage. Maybe other powers. Venable du Laq was not one to be underestimated. Her face was sharply beautiful, eyes the color of sapphires studying Sophie just as intently as Sophie studied her. It was also carefully painted, making it hard to judge her age. Not old, certainly. Definitely older than Sophie herself though, to hold the rank of Venable. Perhaps more toward Chloe’s age.
“Lord and Lady Scardale, this is Venable Imogene du Laq, wife of the Duq du Laq,” Henri said.
“Your Grace,” Sophie murmured as Cameron bowed. Venable du Laq, Henri had said. Not Her Grace, or Lady—she was forgetting just now what the correct title for the wife of a duq was. Interesting. Did her rank as a venable take precedence?
“Her Grace works for the emperor,” Henri continued. “As one of the corps de sages. They are part of the Imperial Guard.”
Imperial mages? She knew they existed. But for some reason she’d assumed they would be battle mages, like the Red Guard. Was Venable du Laq also a blood mage, then? Sophie shot Henri a sideways glance. It seemed this battlefield contained more potential dangers than she had thought. “That sounds fascinating,” she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. “I would love to hear more.”
Venable du Laq’s red-painted lips smiled broadly. Though it was a court-mannered smile if ever Sophie had seen one, hiding whatever true emotion she may have been feeling. The cascading diamonds and sapphires at her ears sparkled under the lights as she tilted her head slightly. “Well, aren’t you a bright one?” She gave Sophie a curiously intent look. “I should be glad to tell you of my work. Perhaps in return, you can share some knowledge of your homeland with me. One hears such curious things.”
“Oh, we’re not so interesting,” Cameron said. “I’m sure there are far odder places in the empire.” His voice was as polite as the venable’s.
“Perhaps, but those are all places I could go if I chose,” the venable returned. “Though perhaps your presence here may herald the beginning of better things between Anglion and Illvya.”
Did she know something about the emperor’s intentions toward them? Aristides seemed to have kept his views—along with his reasons for summoning Sophie and Cameron—close. Close enough to keep them from Henri’s spies at least, but this woman worked for Aristides. For his mage corps. It was hard for a ruler to keep secrets from his own guards for too long. Though Eloisa had certainly managed to hide her affair with Cameron from hers. And he’d been one of them. She’d even kept that secret from her ladies-in-waiting. Or from Sophie, at least.
Sophie cut that line of thought off before it distracted her. Cameron was hers now. Eloisa was far away. She needed to keep her attention on more immediate dangers. Like the woman in front of her. Her gut said that Imogene was not to be trifled with. And not to be trusted. But perhaps she could be useful. “I would be delighted to talk to you sometime,” she said. “I have only met some of the venables who work and study at the Academe so far. I would like to know more of you.”
The venable’s smile turned more sincerely pleased. “Excellent.” She turned her gaze to Henri. “But I think I have taken up enough of your time. The maistre is looking impatient with me.”
“With you? Never?”
Venable du Laq tilted her head. “That is kind of you to say, Maistre.”
For an instant, Sophie thought her eyes looked sad.
“And did these charming Anglions bring you any news, Maistre?” Her voice had lost a little of the polished edge it held.
Henri’s lips pressed together. Sophie thought perhaps he wasn’t going to answer the question, but then he said, “Only that she is well, Imogene.”
She? Chloe? Had this woman known her?
Had they perhaps been friends? If that had been the case, wouldn’t Henri be offering more information than merely that Chloe was well? Most likely. The only conclusion then was that he didn’t want her to know. Noted.
Before Venable du Laq could ask anything more, the servant who’d escorted them earlier pushed through the group standing nearest to them and stopped next to Henri, looking intent.
At the sight of him, the venable’s expression turned to a court mask again, that glimpse of something more human locked away. “Lou
is,” she said politely. “What brings you into the throng?”
The servant smiled tightly at her. “Duquesse, Maistre, good evening,” Louis said. “Lord and Lady Scardale, my Imperial Master requests your company.”
One of Venable du Laq’s dark eyebrows flickered upward briefly.
“You, too, Maistre Matin.” Louis smiled politely at Imogene. “I’m sure Her Grace will excuse you all.”
“I serve at the pleasure of the emperor,” Imogene said. “I’m sure my husband must be wondering where I have gotten to.”
Sophie almost snorted at that. From what she’d seen of the woman in this brief time, it would be a brave man who expected her to dance attendance on him as his wife. Which meant, perhaps, that they should take the man who did command her loyalty and attention even more seriously.
The venable bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Maistre. Lord and Lady Scardale. I hope we meet again.” She didn’t say anything to Louis as she turned and began to move away from them.
Headed on a path that would take her toward the area where the dais stood, Sophie noted. Imogene clearly did not intend on missing out on anything important that might be about to happen. There was also clearly not a lot of love lost between her and Louis. But that was not so uncommon. Senior servants often had to perform whatever unpleasant tasks their masters set them. In a court like this, the more unpleasant tasks would include denying access or information to the nobles and courtiers. A loyal and unbribable servant was valuable but often not well liked by those who couldn’t get around them.
This particular loyal—and presumably unbribable—servant was starting to look impatient.
“Lead on, Louis,” Henri said, and the three of them followed him as he walked through the crowd. It was somewhat easier than their earlier progress had been. The people tended to fall away, clearing a path for Louis and for the three of them following in his wake. It only confirmed Sophie’s suspicions of just how senior Louis might be amongst the emperor’s functionaries.
They walked past the dais. Sophie had half expected to see the emperor sitting there, but apparently whatever he wanted now was not business to be conducted in public. They followed Louis beyond the dais to the far end of the room where he opened a door and led them into a corridor beyond.
There were guards standing by the door on the corridor side. It seemed likely that wherever they were now within the palace was off-limits to anyone not invited.
They moved briskly down the corridor, passing several more sets of guards, which only reinforced her theory. So where exactly were they going? She tightened her fingers around Cameron’s arm. He reached over with his free hand to rest it on hers. A brief touch of reassurance. Whatever was happening, they were there together.
It was a comfort, if a small one, as her nerves, forgotten while talking to Venable du Laq, returned and multiplied with each step along the plush silk carpets.
Their final destination became clear when they reached a larger set of doors shielded by not two but six black-clad guards standing at either side of it, like a rank of well-armed ravens. Two of them moved in unison to open the doors.
The room beyond was less formal than the previous audience chamber. It was decorated in shades of pale blue and green and lacked anything resembling a throne. Which was a relief. But it also wasn’t empty. A tall, dark-haired man stood near the center of the room.
“Maistre Matin, Lord Scardale, Lady Scardale, Eleivé,” their guide intoned with a bow even deeper than that he had greeted them with at the carriage.
The man waved impatiently. “Very good, Louis. Leave us now.”
There was unmistakable command in that voice. Which left her in little doubt as to who this man was. She followed Maistre Matin’s example and curtsied as low as she could in the dress as the maistre bowed.
“Well, Henri, what have you brought me this evening?” The voice was a rich low baritone.
“Your Imperial Majesty, may I present Lord and Lady Scardale.” Henri bowed again, straightened, and then gestured Sophie and Cameron forward.
Aristides Delmar de Lucien was dressed in layers of gold-embroidered white satin, lace, and jewels, his dark hair bound back with more jewels and his hands glittering with rings. But the finery was not what commanded attention. No, that came from the sheer certain command in his clear gray eyes. Here was a man used to having his every wish fulfilled, his will obeyed, his world ordered perfectly according to his needs and wants.
And what Sophie suddenly understood as that gray gaze met hers was that, when it came to herself and Cameron, he was not yet decided what those wants and needs may be.
“Lord and Lady Scardale. Welcome. I am glad you could accept my invitation to attend tonight,” the emperor said.
His tone was pleasant, as though they had indeed had some choice in the matter, instead of being compelled by his request.
Sophie curtsied again. “Your Imperial Majesty is too kind. We had not looked for such an honor.”
“Indeed. That makes two of us. I find myself wondering what I have done to deserve the arrival of such distinguished . . . . guests on my shores,” the emperor replied.
That was a question with no immediate easy answer. Sophie rose from her curtsy and stayed silent.
“We did not intend to cause Your Imperial Majesty any trouble,” Cameron said.
Aristides tilted his head at that. A jewel swung from his ear. A single enormous black pearl, she realized with a start. She had not thought that Illvyans wore pearls.
Was this why Martius had not accompanied them into the palace? Had he remained in the carriage? Sanctii weren’t always visible, after all. She couldn’t feel the chill in the air that would have told her one was close, so she had no idea.
“Regardless of intentions, I thought we should deal in person,” the emperor said. “To keep matters simple.”
“Simple, Your Imperial Majesty?” Henri asked. Was that a slight note of alarm in his voice?
“To lay matters out,” came the cool response. “These two are not the only Anglions seeking our shores lately.”
Sophie clamped her lips together to stop the gasp that rose in her throat but the emperor must have heard something. His gaze swung back to her.
“Indeed, Lady Scardale. An unexpected honor. We received a request for a diplomatic party to be admitted to Lumia not two days after your arrival. Several days ago, that envoy—envoys—arrived. They are very concerned with your well-being, it seems.”
They? Who? Her mind was reeling. Anglion had sent people to Illvya. To . . . retrieve Cameron and her? To what end? To bear them home to safety? Or to finish the job started at the palace? She clasped her hands, worried they might start to shake.
“I have reassured them that you are unharmed,” the emperor said. “But they seemed insistent on seeing for themselves.” He smiled a little.
It wasn’t a pleasant expression. Anglion was in no position to insist that the Emperor of Illvya do anything. In fact, the country spent a good deal of its time, money, and resources on ensuring that the emperor had no influence in Anglion at all. Some limited trade occurred between the empire and the island nation, but other than that relations were cool.
The might of the empire should be able to crush Anglion, but as the Illvyan imperial forces traditionally used water magic and sanctii to quickly subdue nations they wished to conquer, they had, so far, not been successful. Anglion remained protected by the breadth of ocean between its shores and the mainland. By the vast depths of salt water the sanctii could not cross.
And yet, she was to understand that they had sent people seeking her in the face of the knowledge that all that such a mission could possibly do was focus the attention of the empire back on Anglion?
“May I ask who these envoys are, Your Imperial Majesty?” Cameron said carefully.
“As to that—”
The doors behind them were suddenly flung open. “Father!” a voice cried. “Our guests grow impatient.”
She couldn’t resist looking, though it was a breach of protocol to do so. Luckily she didn’t have to turn away from the emperor for long because the young—though perhaps not quite so young as the petulant tone suggested—man ignored the three of them completely to join his father. Crown Prince Alain, it seemed, didn’t care much for protocol either. Or to notice lesser mortals than himself.
“Alain, I asked you to wait,” Aristides said, sounding displeased.
“They are very insistent,” the prince said casually, as though he didn’t hear the rebuke clear in his father’s voice. He looked very like his father, though his eyes were a dark and impenetrable shade of brown rather than gray. But they shared the dark hair, the rangy build, and the angles of cheek and jaw and nose that framed their faces like blades.
“You are the Crown Prince of Illvya. It doesn’t matter how insistent they are,” Aristides said, his tone quelling. “But perhaps you and I will discuss that later. Shall I present you to our other guests?”
Sophie had the feeling that the crown prince knew very well who they were. And that he’d forced himself into this discussion prematurely. But if the emperor wished to behave as though this was all perfectly normal, then they had to follow his example.
“Of course,” Alain said. “I would be delighted.”
His gaze was firmly on Sophie, and she found herself suddenly wishing for a neckline that had been constructed a little less daringly as his expression warmed.
She didn’t dare look at Cameron. Punching the crown prince was not an action that would be to their advantage.
So she channeled a version of Madame Simsa’s—or maybe it was Domina Skey’s—imperious stare. The one that said you are an insect beneath my shoe and I could crush you if I was so inclined. She didn’t sense any hint of magic rising from the prince. The room, though, was well warded, making even the deep throb of the ley line that still ran beneath their feet feel muted.
