Dreaming Death

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Jannika began their conversation by bemoaning the state of her feet. Since she’d just come off duty, Mikael didn’t blame her. Every sentry complained, just as he had back in Lee Province. And while he hadn’t stood sentry duty since then, the previous year he’d been sent to investigate a violation of the treaty in Jannsen Province. The Jannsen Family had refused to provide guards for the Anvarrid House ruling there, and as part of his intervention, Mikael had served as a guard while the House and Family involved worked out their problems.

  Jannika set down her spoon and leaned closer. “So what happened in your office today? Iselin said the prince slipped rather spectacularly. A big explosion of fury, she called it. She was on Two Above directly over the Daujom’s offices, so she felt it.”

  Iselin said. Mikael sighed inwardly, suspecting that Iselin blamed him for that incident. But it did save him time fishing about for a tactful way to insert his desired topic into the conversation. “You know I can’t discuss that with you.”

  Jannika sat back in her chair and actually smiled at him. “And?”

  Lucas girls didn’t smile much. It was one of the things he missed from Lee; people there smiled more. The Lucas Family took itself far too seriously, even when not on duty.

  As if to belie that thought, the occupants of the long table nearest them broke up in sudden laughter, the volume about them rising sharply before it settled again to normal.

  “Well, it wasn’t my fault,” Mikael said to Jannika with relative surety. “I can tell you that much.”

  There was a limit to what he could say about Dahar without feeling disloyal. He didn’t have many sources of information among the Lucas Family, though. Deborah wouldn’t discuss her nephew with him. Mikael wouldn’t go to Elisabet, either. Asking her to share what she knew might put her in an uncomfortable spot since she was both Kai’s guard and under Deborah’s sponsorship. Eli was far too straightlaced to gossip. No, Jannika was his best bet for rooting out what he wanted to know.

  So when she continued to smile at him, he added, “He had an argument with Kai, and that set him off.”

  The sentries in the hallways would have noticed Dahar’s stalking out of the office shortly after Kai’s exit, so Mikael wasn’t giving away anything that wasn’t common knowledge.

  Jannika shook her head and picked up her spoon again. “The chaplains should lock them up.”

  Mikael choked on his tea. It was an old tactic, to take a pair of complainants and lock them in a room together until they worked out their differences. He could only imagine how poorly that would work out. Dahar would not take well to being told what to do and would rant about the elders overstepping the bounds of their authority. Kai would sit down in a corner and furiously ignore his father. “That’s an interesting image,” Mikael managed after a moment. “I do think Kai’s upset about something.”

  Now, that was walking the line.

  Jannika took a bite of her soup. “Kai’s difficult. That’s what I heard from Demas.”

  Ah yes, Demas was the man in the twenty-fives for whom she’d broken off their relationship. And while Mikael didn’t care about Demas’ opinion one way or another, Demas was in Elisabet’s yeargroup. Elisabet was Kai’s primary guard and would never gossip, but Tova and Peder filled in for her when she had other commitments. Surely one of them let something slip. “Did he ever stand in for Elisabet?”

  Jannika shook her head. “No. The others just talked about Kai a great deal. I would have tea with them in the evenings back then. You should come visit the twenty-twos.”

  Mikael nearly dropped his teacup, but ruthlessly tamped down his surprise at that offer. He’d believed that Jannika wasn’t after a contract, but he might have to change that assessment. An invitation to join a yeargroup for an evening was tantamount to courtship. Each yeargroup had a delicate balance of togetherness, their own particular way of acting that kept the yeargroup comfortable and happy—the sensitives in particular. Introducing a new person into the group was a delicate proposition, rarely undertaken lightly.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said quickly, which let him know she hadn’t missed his reaction. “I only think you should socialize with the yeargroups more, get to know some of us.”

  He’d never been asked. Never, not even when he’d been involved with Jannika the year before. The twenty-threes, who were his own age, had never made any friendly overtures, and the twenty-fours were Kai’s group. Kai was definitely not welcoming. “I don’t know how the elders would feel about that.”

  Jannika shrugged, her braids slipping back over her black-clad shoulder. “If I took off my boot, would you rub my foot?”

  How can I say no to that? “Of course.”

  She pried off one boot with her other foot, revealing a grayed sock—everything eventually turned gray in the laundry—and set the foot on the edge of his chair. Mikael obligingly rubbed the arch of her foot, provoking another smile from her.

  “You’re not serious about this, are you?” she asked, her head tilting slightly.

  She meant a potential relationship, he decided. He stopped rubbing, startled, until her eyebrows rose. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted.

  Jannika was simple, one of the things he liked about her. She was easy to talk with. She had siblings and parents who were on good terms, pleasant friends—save for Iselin—and she didn’t have grand designs for her life. Or his, for that matter. He wasn’t sure whether she even knew about the Anvarrid side of his parentage and all the complications that came with that. They certainly hadn’t discussed his father. Or, more to the point, his grandfather.

  There were reasons he’d never worried about finding a wife. He was only twenty-three. Plenty of Family men his age weren’t married. There was the niggling issue of Dahar’s wanting him to marry his daughter too. But most of all, Mikael wasn’t entirely certain he would live through his next dream. That would be a miserable thing to wish on any woman. Until his dreams were under control, he couldn’t see himself taking a wife.

  He rubbed her foot with one hand and lifted his teacup with the other. “I’m not averse.”

  She leaned farther back in her chair and set her foot on his thigh, allowing him to rub her ankle. The familiarity, which would have caused rebuke at any other time of day, was permissible at this hour in the mess, since there wouldn’t be any children around. This was a time slot reserved for adults.

  He could feel an anklet under her sock, a fine chain. Sentries weren’t allowed any jewelry that would show, but if they could hide it under their uniforms, it was permitted. He’d have to remember that if he decided to buy her a present. Had the one she wore now come from Demas?

  “This wasn’t an advance,” she said, “so why are we having dinner? Or tea, in your case.”

  Another thing he liked about Jannika—her directness. She’d assumed his asking to join her had been a prelude to courtship on his part. “I was hoping to find out if you’ve heard any rumors.”

  “About?”

  “Kai.”

  “Most of them are common knowledge,” she said with half a shrug. “He’s obsessed with Elisabet but he’s not bedding her, or rather she doesn’t let him. On the other hand, Tova is more than willing to take Elisabet’s place, although she’s not as good as Elisabet.”

  Jannika meant, he suspected, that Elisabet was a better choice as guard, not a reference to any romantic advantages Tova—Elisabet’s Second among the female contingent of the twenty-fives—might or might not have. Mikael had heard all of that before, although never stated as bluntly. “That’s old news.”

  “True.” She contemplated as she ate a bit more of her soup. “He’s been especially short-tempered lately. I have heard that.”

  Again, nothing he didn’t know.

  “There was some nasty gossip about him that came out a few weeks ago, but I don’t know what it was. The twenty-five
s all shushed the person who hinted at it, like they’d spoken of poison.”

  Mikael rubbed the tendon at the back of her ankle and rolled her foot around. A few weeks ago—that might be around the right time.

  “That’s what you’re after, right?” Jannika asked before he had to ask.

  “I wouldn’t know until I heard it.”

  “And what do you intend to do with it?”

  “Again, I won’t know until I know what it is.”

  “Hmm.” She regarded him, eyes narrowed. “I could ask around.”

  “Without getting into trouble?”

  She shrugged. “Would you make it worth my time?”

  “That depends on how much of your time I’m repaying you.”

  “Never a straight answer from you,” she complained halfheartedly.

  He gave her his brightest smile, wishing very delicately for her to trust him. Her brows rose again, but he suspected he’d won. He unfolded his legs so he could get a better grasp on her foot.

  “Now, that I do remember,” she said, eyes closing with pleasure. “Strong hands. Can’t you come down this evening?”

  He sighed, actually regretting that he couldn’t. He probably could have talked her into rubbing his feet in return, and while his feet didn’t hurt, he hadn’t been this close to a woman in months. Not in any capacity other than professional. He missed simple exchanges like this. “I’m sorry. I have to meet a writer for dinner to pry out some information.”

  Her eyes opened halfway. “A woman writer?”

  Was she going to be jealous over him? That would be a novel experience, one he might enjoy. “A writer for one of the Larossan newspapers, so no.”

  “Ah. That’s fine, then,” she said. “Do you have time to do the other foot, at least?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mama’s room smelled of vanilla and sandalwood. Shironne breathed it in as her mother brushed out her hair, her mother’s bracelet tinkling with every movement. The little bells were soothing. Her mother brushed out her hair every night, and the ritual gave structure to their evening, a chance to talk privately while the governess made certain her two younger sisters bathed adequately.

  Unlike her mother’s smooth hair, Shironne’s curled wildly and cracked with static in the winter as the house grew drier from the fires. Her hair picked up things from the air, touches of smoke and pollen and dust carried on the wind. Ash and soot from the fireplaces. Her mother brushed it out nightly, rubbing it with a damp towel first to remove some of the impurities and tame the curls.

  Her mother’s sleeve grazed the side of Shironne’s neck, a startling touch. Even her nightdress was of undyed cotton, another sign of mourning. Her mother insisted on strictly following the mourning customs, so she hadn’t been out to any gathering since her husband’s death, nor had she gone to the temple. Honestly, Shironne suspected it was an excuse to stay at home. Her mother had always hated attention, a trait grown out of weathering the scandals that surrounded her own mother. The death of Shironne’s father in disreputable circumstances had only fed her mother’s determination to behave the way the most stringent members of Larossan society expected.

  Savelle Anjir had other options. Shironne knew that, even if her younger sisters didn’t.

  Her mother had been born of an affair with the previous king, making the current king her half brother. He and his younger brother had secretly corresponded with her in the past, offering to acknowledge her as their sister and a member of their House. Even though the former king had never admitted fathering Savelle Anjir, Anvarrid Houses apparently allowed for members to be adopted, given that a large enough percentage of the House agreed.

  It sounded almost like an election to Shironne, probably carried out in some dark hall where the members of that House wore robes covered with at least a year’s worth of embroidery work and grumbled about the cold. Colonel Cerradine had once joked that all Anvarrid were required to complain about the cold winters, even though they’d lived in Larossa for centuries now. Shironne laughed softly at that thought.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” her mother asked.

  Her mother was prickly about the subject of adoption. Instead of accepting her brothers’ offer, Mama preferred to hide the scandal that surrounded her birth. If that became common knowledge, it might hurt Perrin’s chance of finding a proper Larossan husband. Shironne had tried to keep her own work with the army quiet for the same reason, knowing that such an unconventional choice for a young woman could reflect badly on her younger sisters, although being blind meant she was given some leeway. Most families with a blind daughter would simply ship her off to some relative in the countryside or to an asylum. Shironne was grateful that her mother loved her enough to keep her close despite the potential for outrage should it get out what she actually did for the army.

  But Perrin dreamed of finding a wealthy suitor, a goal that Shironne had always found perplexing, given the example of their own father. When he’d asked for her mother’s hand, he’d appeared wealthy and charming. It hadn’t taken long for those perceptions to prove false. Among his other sins, he had been a terrible spendthrift, going through Mama’s dowry and then selling off most of the properties she’d inherited. Perrin was convinced that she would choose the perfect husband, despite her young age, and Mama was determined to give Perrin that opportunity. Shironne hoped that when it came time to accept an offer, Mama carefully vetted Perrin’s choices. She wasn’t convinced that Perrin would pick wisely on her own.

  The fact that the Royal House was wealthy simply made the choice more difficult for her mother. Adoption might ease all their financial woes. But her mother had been raised with very Larossan sensibilities, and therefore the idea of becoming an Anvarrid citizen and stepping into the ruling class seemed wrong to her.

  Knowing her mother wouldn’t want to talk about that topic, Shironne said, “The colonel was asking after you today.”

  The brush paused in its motion. “Was he? What did he want?”

  “I suspect he wanted to know how you’re faring, but he actually asked if you’d received any letters sent to my father after his death.” Hearing the first part of that sentence had made her mother feel warm, as if she’d flushed. The second part of that sentence left her cold.

  Her mother sighed. “I will write to our business manager,” she said. “He’s not brought anything to my attention, but he likely doesn’t wish to disturb my mourning with something that I cannot change.”

  The business manager had been hired recently, after Shironne’s father’s death, in an effort to retrieve any funds possible from her father’s legal business ventures, and to sever ties to any ventures that weren’t legal. Fortunately, Cerradine had recommended the man, which meant they could trust him. The man’s wife accompanied him on his visits for propriety’s sake, so he’d been able to speak with her mother directly about the situation. His findings had not been favorable so far, though, and coming up with the money to present Perrin to society was stretching the family’s already limited budget.

  “The colonel thinks that there might be some relationship between Father’s past business ventures and the dream I had.” After giving the request some thought, Shironne had mentally dismissed that as a pretext on the colonel’s part, but she did her best to make her words sound sincere.

  Her mother laughed softly. “Well, it won’t hurt me to ask, will it?”

  “No, Mama. And when you do hear back, I could take a note to the colonel from you.”

  “I shall consider that,” she replied, still amused.

  Having carried out the colonel’s request, Shironne’s mind turned back to the conversation she’d had with Kassannan. “Mama, when the angel dreams, do you feel like he’s talking to you?”

  Her mother didn’t seem surprised by the change of topic. “If he is,” she said in her velvety voice, “he’s not doing a particularl
y good job.”

  “I feel like he is,” Shironne said, and went on to relate most of what she and Kassannan had discussed that morning.

  “I see.” Her mother tucked that away in her mind, perhaps to worry over later. Her mother did that, stewing over things for days before she acted. It was one of the ways they were different—Shironne simply lacked her patience. There were times when Shironne regretted her rashness, but her mother’s lack of impulsiveness sometimes irritated her as well.

  Then again, she hadn’t had her mother’s life. Her mother had secrets, things that she never wanted to come to light. Shironne need only touch her mother’s skin to access her thoughts, fluttering around like butterflies. If she waited long enough, she could find all her mother’s secrets, but she didn’t want to do that. She wanted to keep her mother’s trust, so she didn’t pry. Instead they talked about her mother’s upcoming trip to the countryside to begin the process of selling the fine country estate where Savelle Anjir had lived as a child. Her mother hoped the excursion would produce enough funds that they wouldn’t be forced to let any of the servants go.

  The sound of feet in the hallway and the tinkle of a differently pitched bracelet warned Shironne that Melanna had finally escaped her bath. She suspected her youngest sister would forgo baths altogether if allowed. A moment later, Melanna, smelling of soap and damp skin, bounded into the bedroom and pounced onto Mama’s bed.

  Perrin followed more sedately, her slippered feet nearly silent. She’d worked hard to attain a graceful walk, but her bracelet gave her away.

  Shironne gave over her position on her mother’s bed so that her mother could comb out Perrin’s less troublesome hair, and the conversation naturally turned to Perrin’s new clothing and jewelry and music lessons. Unlike the rest of them, Perrin had no powers, and thus never could sense any undercurrent of emotion in the room. While Shironne sat on the bench near the wall, braiding her own hair for the night, Melanna curled up next to her and thought aggravated thoughts about what she perceived as their sister’s silly obsessions.