There they went, talking around me. I jumped in before Kral could speak, so I wouldn’t have to compound my brashness by interrupting him.
“Your Imperial Majesty, the people of the Thirteen Kingdoms are many and varied.” That ripple of reaction again, just audible, murmuring of shocked surprise—until Hestar glanced up and the room went utterly silent again and I soldiered bravely onward. “Depending on the region they hail from, their skin may be much darker than mine or as fair as the ladies of this court. But the Nahanauns have only recently become known to us. If they are related to our people, we have not yet uncovered the connection. Her Majesty High Queen Ursula will be most interested in any information the Dasnarian Empire might provide on the topic.”
Especially since part, maybe most, of the archipelago belonged to her now. Probably not something to mention in our first meeting.
Anger stirred in Hestar’s expression, muted behind neutrality, but recognizable as like Kral’s. “You dress as a woman, Ambassador, but you do not behave or speak as one. Are you truly a man who comes to me in the guise of a woman, a wolf taking the fleece of the sheep he hopes to stalk?”
Very much too close to the truth there. Only I was a spy in diplomatic clothing.
“Your Imper—” Kral started.
“Silence. I’m asking her. This . . . person you brought into my court from a place no one cares about.” Something canny in his eyes, however, made me think he knew more than he let on.
“I am a woman, Your Imperial Majesty, a woman of my people, which means how I behave and speak comes from who I am, not the shape of my body. His Imperial Highness Prince Kral has been gracious in guiding and advising me. I come before you in the garb of Dasnarian people as a gesture of goodwill, to demonstrate, ah, that we are all . . . brothers and sisters.”
Okay, most of that had been pretty good. I kind of lost the thread there at the end. From the corner of my eye, I caught the crooked line around his mouth that Kral got when he wanted to throttle me.
Hestar leaned his chin on a fist. “Your people are peculiar indeed to send one such as you as ambassador to the great Dasnarian Empire. Should I perceive this as an insult?”
The room couldn’t have gone more silent, but it seemed to. Not even a rustle of clothing. Did these people even breathe quietly?
“A strange question to ask, Your Imperial Majesty, unless your intent is to pay insult to me.” Not diplomatic, perhaps, but I’d been insulted plenty of times. Calling a person on it usually elicited an apology from the right-minded who’d done it accidentally, and letting it go only encouraged the bullies to keep going. Which would Hestar be?
“In Dasnaria,” the Emperor replied slowly—thoughtfully?—while stroking his beard, “a woman cannot be given insult because she cannot challenge to defend her honor.” His gaze flicked past me, to his sisters—I would put money on it. “What say you, Inga?”
A rustle of silk, the chime of bells, and one of the blond women stepped up beside me, eyes cast down. Her scent swirled with the settling of the many folds and drapes of her klút, sweet as full-summer flowers in bloom. That was the thing about women. I generally preferred the hardness of a man, but a woman brought all that soft, redolent delicacy to sex. I hadn’t been with a woman in a while and, given my luck with men lately, perhaps I should see if I couldn’t be satisfied by sticking with women.
A bunch of women stuck in a seraglio together might be a great place to start. Fuck Kral and his rules.
Head in the fight, Bryn.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Inga spoke in a voice like a gentle rain, “it seems a woman may feel insult, but in the softness of her heart and spirit, she forgives. Thus, she cannot be injured by such.”
Really? She had her hands folded over her belly, her eyes glimmering aqua blue behind thick gold lashes, as she peeked at me sideways. Her lush mouth curved slightly at the corners. Amused, then. Wielding her own blades, only invisible ones of wit disguised as agreeableness.
“As I thought.” Hestar sounded satisfied. “A true woman cannot take insult; therefore, if you have taken insult, Ambassador, logically you are no woman. Yet you dress as such. For a man to dress as a woman or a woman to dress as a man goes against the will of Sól. As I channel his eyes, I cannot see such anathema. Go, Ambassador, and do not seek my audience again, until you decide which you are. And take heed: Should you be the incorrect person, I shall have to remove the offense you present from the world of the living.”
Okay, so . . . which did he want me to be? “Your—”
“I cannot hear the voice of a non-person.” Hestar looked through me, then turned to Kral. “Stay and observe court, Brother. You have missed a great deal. Later, you and I shall discuss your adventures in private.”
I wasn’t sure what to do. Retrace my steps to the platform and go wander about? Ooh, or I could simply leave. Find my way out of this prison of a palace filled with crazy people, send a message to Ursula to . . . what? Hope these people elected to stay on their side of the world. Depend on the barrier to keep them out as Annfwn had so neatly done to us for so long.
But no, I had explicit instructions. Keep it simple. Do the job. Come home. Don’t be a hero.
Inga’s hand brushed mine, her gaze snagging mine sideways. So, when she backed up into her previous row, I went with her, instead of following Kral. Two gray-robed servants—females by the slender shapes, though I couldn’t see past their cowls—scuttled through the people ranked behind the princesses, bowed to me, and moved a few steps, then stopped, as if they expected me to follow.
“Go,” Inga murmured to the floor. “We shall talk.”
I almost would have thought she spoke to someone else, but she flicked a glinting sideways glance at me. Her sister edged her profile just past, adding her gaze, surprisingly penetrating for being from the corner of her deep brown eye.
Danu, I hope you’re keeping watch on this enterprise.
15
I followed the two servants out another route, this one descending through a trapdoor in the floor I hadn’t been able to see before, due to the people crowding it. Again, nothing to stop the unwary from falling over the sides, should court become unruly and press someone too near the edge. Indeed, the courtiers ringing the hole portrayed the nerves of people on the political downside of the reigning power circles.
Not good to be the one standing next to the servants’ stair. Check.
We descended yet another very steep flight of stairs, though made of the same stone as the walls and not so likely to slip up the careless foot. Well-armed guards waited at the bottom. They tipped back the cowls on the servant girls, whose hair turned out to be shorn to the scalp, looked them and me over carefully, then unlocked the door via several strong bolts and let us through into a narrow, poorly lit passageway.
Hestar likely intended this as a fresh insult, sending me out the servants’ way. I’d note it, keeping a mental accounting simply because he didn’t expect me to, but this hardly bothered me. The status of hire-swords varied from kingdom to kingdom and among households. In most, the guard staff counted as servant class. During peacetime, the fighters typically doubled as workers, supplementing in various capacities according to skill—whether it be chopping wood for fires, digging latrines, hunting, helping in kitchens, what have you. Ursula always insisted her Hawks learn something of all those skills, and anyone with too much pride to do them didn’t last long. We served as her elite guard, yes, but also in whatever other tasks needed doing. Growing up with a small nomadic tribe had been much the same, so I’d adapted to that ethic just fine.
Because I’d been injured, I’d been too weak to help with burning the undead, though many of the Hawks took on that horrible task when so many of the Ordnung servants simply couldn’t cope. We’d had the advantage of being out of the castle, so none of the living dead were our own, unlike for most denizens of Ordnung. Even so, the Hawks who did speak of it called the experience the worst of their lives.
Suffice to say, moving
in the world of servants comforted more than insulted. Totally missed with that strike, Hestar.
The passageway twisted, branched, and took sharp angles, all of which I noted as I would any rambling trail, mentally matching my position with the formal halls above. Buildings follow patterns, just as mountain ridges and washes do. The landscape below reflects the one above because they’re part of the same whole. Understanding those relationships was the key to always finding your way.
Baerr Lars met us finally at a point below the first of the audience waiting chambers. No bow this time, but neither did he treat me as a servant.
“Ambassador,” he greeted me with a neutral form of the word. “This way, if you please.”
I followed him, the servant women falling in behind me. A little parade of subservience—how ridiculous. Still, I took advantage of the opportunity to study my surroundings, adding to my mental map of the endless palace. We took an offshoot hall that led to an entirely different wing. Added on later than the central section, judging by the abrupt demarcation from darker, worn stone to lighter and rougher. How did they haul it from Bjarg and how were workers vetted? Could be a portal of lesser security to explore. Especially given the more lax standards for the servants and the associated entrances and exits.
Not that my job was to plan an assault on the Imperial Palace. Keep it simple. Do the job. Come home. Don’t be a hero. Still, it never hurt to file the information away, should I survive and should tensions between the realms come to that.
Rising in elevation, if not in the Emperor’s good graces, I climbed several sets of increasingly grander stairways, following Baerr Lars through seven guarded and locked doors. Finally, he stopped before an unattended door and one of the servant women slipped around him to open it, the other following her through. One busied herself with lighting sconces, while the other set flame to a prelaid fire in a hearth inlaid with lovely jade-green tiles. Warmth would be good.
“As your status remains . . . undetermined, Ambassador,” Lars said, actually clearing his throat over the words, as if they left a bad taste in his mouth, “I have placed you in the women’s wing of the palace, but not in the main seraglio or any of the private ones. Hopefully you will not be frightened.”
I paused on my way to the fireplace, glancing over my shoulder, then around the generously proportioned set of rooms. Plenty of space to work out—excellent, as I might be spending a fair amount of time locked in here, if I didn’t miss my guess. At least during daylight hours. At night I’d find a way to do a bit of skulking about. “Frightened?”
He inclined his head and smiled, not unkindly. “Being isolated from other women can be unsettling, I understand. I’d prefer to house you as befits a woman, but the . . . uncertainty regarding you bars that happy solution. I do hope you’ll understand and not fault the hospitality of the Imperial Palace.”
Very interesting. So, not willing to completely antagonize me, should I turn out to be important, but also not willing to risk me with the fragile hothouse flowers of the Dasnarian Empire. As it seemed I’d lucked into at least one less set of walls, that worked for me.
“I do understand, Baerr Lars. These chambers suit my current position quite nicely. Thank you for your consideration.”
Some tension left him then, his smile one of relieved warmth. “I’ll leave you, then. Should you need anything at all, simply request it of Sunniva or Runa here. Her Imperial Highness Inga has assigned these rekjabrel to you for the duration of your stay. If they cannot immediately satisfy your request, they will come to me and I will do my best, so please don’t hesitate to ask, no matter what you may wish for.”
Even more interesting.
He left with an even more courteous bow, one I recognized as that of a servant—no matter how highly ranked—who lives and dies by the whim of those he serves.
Sunniva and Runa continued freshening the room, behaving as if they’d heard none of the conversation, though I knew better than that. Servants always heard the best gossip, because good ones faded into the furnishings and people forgot about them. In this place, female servants would be that much more so. Sunniva and Runa were about to become my new best friends, only they didn’t know it yet.
I wandered the room, staying considerately out of the way of their freshening tasks, getting the feel of the place and considering the best approach with them. I had us figured for similar stations in life—close to the royals, though not of them—but they’d see me as much higher in life. A suspicious character, with this whole bizarre gender-confusion thing, real or constructed to make my life difficult. And a foreigner, with strange ways. Hmm.
To my surprise, the room boasted two windows. I rambled past those first. Narrow and glazed, then covered with thick tapestry curtains, they were still big enough for a person my size to pass through if I shattered the glass. The drop, naturally, yawned below with alarming distance. No ledges on this face, either. I was a good enough climber to find hand- and footholds in the joins. If not, a stone courtyard far below would be happy to dash my skull to smithereens. At least I’d die fast. A fall from this height wouldn’t leave me simply disabled.
Still, someone who could fly could get in and out, which it seemed the Dasnarians had not considered. And, hey, I just happened to know some people. Not anyone usefully in the area, but all options are good options. Beat zero options by leagues.
Twitching the tapestry back into place, I resumed my explorations. One wall had no openings, being solid stone between me and the neighboring room—or so it appeared. I’d check for secret openings or passageways once alone, particularly as the big, heavy headboard of the bed abutted it. I’d learned that much about Dasnarian design from Kral’s cabinets on the Hákyrling. The second wall seemed to contain only the door we’d entered through, while the third, the one with the fireplace, had two doors, one leading to a closet and the other to a bathing chamber with actual drains for waste.
Runa hastily followed me in and poured water into a basin for me, cringing away as she did. “Apologies, Ambassador, that it is not yet warm.”
My first opportunity. I smiled at her, keeping my expression kind—easy to do, as I felt for any person clearly so cowed. “That’s all right. I know my arrival was unexpected. You and Sunniva may be unafraid, as you’ll find that my needs are few and simply fulfilled.” The Dasnarian language made my little speech stiff. It was much easier to phrase commands than reassurances, but I seemed to get my point across, as she nodded and smiled tentatively, still not meeting my eyes, however.
“Would you like hot water for a bath, Ambassador?” She indicated a dry, deep stone basin. Sized for someone even like Kral.
“Yes, please, if it’s no trouble.”
She glanced sideways at me, a flash of curiosity before she damped it. “Ambassador, you can be no trouble. We have no other duties but to see to your happiness—in every way.”
Something about that last remark worked under my skin. Along with one of Kral’s references when we argued about Nakoa abducting Dafne, when he said that it wasn’t any different than what any dignitary might claim. I had my fun playing handmaiden, and I wouldn’t turn down anyone who wanted to play sex-slave to me—but for a night maybe and only for games. The possible reality lay slick and heavy in my gut. Baerr Lars had called them rekjabrel. I rated my own bed slaves, apparently.
“Hot water, food, and some wine—or mjed?—would be most welcome. Thank you.”
She slipped out again, a ghost of a woman, and I shut the door behind her. Privacy to answer the call of nature, positively luxurious to do indoors, though most prison cells boasted that capability, and also to examine the drains. The bathing chamber shared a wall with the fireplace. Presumably the flue for the smoke went up and the drains likely paralleled that going down. Smoke one direction, shit the other—and a tight fit either way—but still a possible escape option.
Probably I’d end up with shit, as that would lead to the lake, and being on the roof with the smoke wouldn
’t do me any good.
When I emerged, Sunniva and Runa had already manifested buckets of water from nowhere, heating them on a brace over the fire. My things from the Hákyrling had also arrived, such as they were, and I entertained the whimsical notion that their journey had been as laborious as mine, with all the stop and go of entering the palace. The whimsy transformed quickly into annoyance as I noted everything had been searched, and not neatly either. And Danu take it! My big knife had gone missing. Bastards. I’d have worn it if there’d been a place for it in the klút. Or made one, if it had occurred to me that they’d take it. Kral could have thrice-damned warned me. I’d have given it to him to keep for me.
“Is all well, Ambassador?” Sunniva asked, drawing edgily near and wringing her hands, face hidden in the cowl.
“Fine.” I kept most of the snarl out of my voice. It wasn’t their fault. I’d take it up with Kral.
“Shall I put your things away?” she asked with such hesitation that I ground my annoyance down, finding a smile for her. I wanted their trust, not their obedient fear.
“Yes, thank you.” Deliberately walking away from my bags, I demonstrated to myself how I’d let go of the issue. Only things. The knife wasn’t my mother, and regaining it wouldn’t bring her back. A carafe of mjed sat on a table by the fire, promising comfort, so I poured a healthy portion into the single cup provided. I savored it, standing and staring into the fire, letting all my roiling thoughts and emotions pass through me and settle out. Danu taught that a muddied mind could not see clearly.
Had my mother felt this way? Cut off from the tribe, from me, from even her true self, masquerading undercover as a spy. Though her shieldmate had told me the story, several times, until I could say it back and reassure him that I’d always remember my mother’s legacy, I’d never quite considered what it must have been like for her. At least I didn’t have a daughter back home waiting for me to return. I’d feel a particular kind of despair over facing my death inside enemy territory, knowing I’d be letting her down by never going back to see her safely to maturity.
The Edge of the Blade Page 19
