“Thank you, moi soverenyi,” said Adrik, bowing so low I thought he might tip over.
I was already regretting my decision. “Get him back to classes.”
I watched them walk up the hill toward the lake, then dusted myself off and made my way to one of the smaller training rooms, where I found Mal sparring with Pavel. Mal had been at the Little Palace less and less lately. The invitations had started arriving the afternoon he returned from Balakirev—hunts, house parties, trout fishing, card games. Every nobleman and officer seemed to want Mal at his next event.
Sometimes he was just gone for an afternoon, sometimes for a few days. It reminded me of being back at Keramzin, when I would watch him ride away and then wait each day at the kitchen window for him to return. But if I was honest with myself, the days when he was gone were almost easier. When he was at the Little Palace, I felt guilty for not being able to spend more time with him, and I hated the way the Grisha ignored him or talked down to him like a servant. As much as I missed him, I encouraged him to go.
It’s better this way, I told myself. Before he’d deserted to help me, Mal had been a tracker with a bright future, surrounded by friends and admirers. He didn’t belong standing guard in doorways or lurking at the edges of rooms, playing the role of my dutiful shadow as I went from one meeting to the next.
“I could watch him all day,” said a voice behind me. I stiffened. Zoya was standing there. Even in the heat, she never seemed to sweat.
“You don’t think he stinks of Keramzin?” I asked, remembering the vicious words she had once spoken to me.
“I find the lower classes have a certain rough appeal. You will let me know when you’re through with him, won’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, did I misunderstand? You two seem so … close. But I’m sure you’re setting your sights higher these days.”
I turned on her. “What are you doing here, Zoya?”
“I came for a training session.”
“You know what I mean. What are you doing at the Little Palace?”
“I’m a soldier of the Second Army. This is where I belong.”
I folded my arms. It was time Zoya and I had this out. “You don’t like me, and you’ve never missed an opportunity to let me know it. Why follow me now?”
“What choice do I have?”
“I’m sure the Darkling would gladly welcome you back at his side.”
“Are you ordering me to leave?” She was striving for her usual haughty tone, but I could tell she was scared. It gave me a guilty little thrill.
“I want to know why you’re so determined to stay.”
“Because I don’t want to live in darkness,” she said. “Because you’re our best chance.”
I shook my head. “Too easy.”
She flushed. “Am I supposed to beg?”
Would she? I found I didn’t mind the idea. “You’re vain. You’re ambitious. You would have done anything for the Darkling’s attention. What changed?”
“What changed?” she choked out. Her lips thinned, and her fists clenched at her sides. “I had an aunt who lived in Novokribirsk. A niece. The Darkling could have told me what he meant to do. If I could have warned them—” Her voice broke, and I was instantly ashamed of the pleasure I’d felt at watching her squirm.
Baghra’s voice echoed in my ears: You’re taking to power well.… As it grows, it will hunger for more. And yet, did I believe Zoya? Was the sheen in her eyes real or pretense? She blinked her tears back and glared at me. “I still don’t like you, Starkov. I never will. You’re common and clumsy, and I don’t know why you were born with such power. But you’re the Sun Summoner, and if you can keep Ravka free, then I’ll fight for you.”
I watched her, considering, noting the two bright spots of color that flamed high on her cheeks, the trembling of her lip.
“Well?” she said, and I could see how much it cost her to ask. “Are you sending me away?”
I waited a moment longer. “You can stay,” I said. “For now.”
“Is everything all right?” Mal asked. We hadn’t even noticed that he’d left off sparring.
In an instant, Zoya’s uncertainty was gone. She gave him a dazzling smile. “I hear you’re quite the marvel with a bow and arrow. I thought you might offer me a lesson.”
Mal glanced from Zoya back to me. “Maybe later.”
“I look forward to it,” she said, and swept away in a soft rustle of silk.
“What was that about?” he asked as we began the walk up the hill to the Little Palace.
“I don’t trust her.”
For a long minute he said nothing. “Alina,” Mal began uneasily, “what happened in Kribirsk—”
I cut him off quickly. I didn’t want to know what he might have done with Zoya back at the Grisha camp. And that was hardly the point. “She was one of the Darkling’s favorites, and she’s always hated me.”
“She was probably jealous of you.”
“She broke two of my ribs.”
“She what?”
“It was an accident. Sort of.” I’d never told Mal exactly how bad it had been for me before I’d learned to use my power, the endless, lonely days of failure. “I just can’t be sure where her real allegiance lies.” I rubbed the back of my neck where the muscles had started to bunch. “I can’t be sure of anyone. Not the Grisha. Not the servants. Any of them could be working for the Darkling.”
Mal looked around. For once, nobody seemed to be watching. Impulsively, he seized hold of my hand. “Gritzki’s throwing a fortune-telling party in the upper town two days from now. Come with me.”
“Gritzki?”
“His father is Stepan Gritzki, the pickle king. New money,” Mal said in a very good imitation of a smug noble. “But his family has a palace down by the canal.”
“I can’t,” I said, thinking of the meetings, David’s mirrored dishes, the evacuation of the school. It just felt wrong to go to a party when we could be at war in a matter of days or weeks.
“You can,” said Mal. “Just for an hour or two.”
It was so tempting—to steal a few moments with Mal away from the pressures of the Little Palace.
He must have sensed that I was wavering. “We’ll dress you up as one of the performers,” he said. “No one will even know the Sun Summoner is there.”
A party, late in the evening, after the day’s work was done. I’d miss one night of futile searching through the library. What was the harm in that?
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”
His face broke into a grin that left me breathless. I didn’t know if I’d ever get used to the idea that a smile like that might actually be for me.
“Tolya and Tamar won’t like it,” he warned.
“They’re my guards. They follow my orders.”
Mal snapped to attention and swept me an elaborate bow. “Da, moi soverenyi,” he pronounced in somber tones. “We live to serve.”
I rolled my eyes, but as I hurried to the Materialki workrooms, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
CHAPTER
18
THE GRITSKI MANSION was in the canal district, considered the least fashionable part of the upper town because of its proximity to the bridge and the rabble across it. It was a lavish little building, bordered by a war memorial on one side and the gardens of the Convent of Sankta Lizabeta on the other.
Mal had managed to secure a borrowed coach for the evening, and we were tucked inside its narrow confines with a very cranky Tamar. She and Tolya had grumbled long and loudly about the party, but I’d made it clear that I wasn’t going to budge. I also swore them to secrecy; I didn’t want word of my little excursion beyond the palace gates to reach Nikolai.
We were all dressed in the style of Suli fortune-tellers, in vibrant orange silk cloaks and red lacquered masks carved to resemble jackals. Tolya had remained behind. Even covered head to toe, his size would draw too much attention.
Mal
squeezed my hand, and I felt a surge of giddy excitement. My cloak was uncomfortably warm, and my face was already starting to itch beneath the mask, but I didn’t care. I felt like we were back at Keramzin, casting off our chores and braving the threat of the switch just to sneak away to our meadow. We would lie in the cool grass and listen to the hum of the insects, watch the clouds break apart overhead. That kind of peace seemed so far away now.
The street leading to the pickle king’s mansion was clogged with carriages. We turned onto an alley near the convent so that we’d be better able to mix in with the performers at the servants’ entrance.
Tamar carefully shifted her cloak as we descended from the coach. She and Mal were both carrying hidden pistols, and I knew that beneath all the orange silk, she had her twin axes strapped to each thigh.
“What if someone actually wants his fortune told?” I asked, tightening the laces of my mask and pulling my hood up.
“Just feed him the usual drivel,” said Mal. “Beautiful women, unexpected wealth. Beware of the number eight.”
The servants’ entrance led past a steam-filled kitchen and into the house’s back rooms. But as soon as we stepped inside, a man dressed in what must have been the Gritzki livery seized my arm.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he said, giving me a shake. I saw Tamar’s hand go to her hip.
“I—”
“You three should already be circulating.” He shoved us toward the main rooms of the house. “Don’t spend too long with any single guest. And don’t let me catch you drinking!”
I nodded, trying to get my heart to stop hammering, and we hurried into the ballroom. The pickle king had spared no expense. The mansion had been decorated to look like the most decadent Suli camp imaginable. The ceiling was hung with a thousand star-shaped lanterns. Silk-covered wagons were parked around the edges of the room in a glittering caravan, and fake bonfires glowed with dancing colored light. The terrace doors had been thrown open, and the night air hummed with the rhythmic clang of finger cymbals and the wail of violins.
I saw the real Suli fortune-tellers scattered throughout the crowd and realized what an eerie sight we must make in our jackal masks, but the guests didn’t seem to mind. Most of them were already well in their cups, laughing and shouting to one another in boisterous groups, gawking at the acrobats twirling from silk swings overhead. Some sat swaying in their chairs, having their fortunes told over golden urns of coffee. Others ate at the long table that had been set up on the terrace, gorging on stuffed figs and bowls of pomegranate seeds, clapping along with the music.
Mal snuck me a little glass of kvas, and we found a bench in a shadowy corner of the terrace while Tamar took up her post a discreet distance away. I rested my head against Mal’s shoulder, happy just to be sitting beside him, listening to the thump and jangle of the music. The air was heavy with the scent of some night-blooming flower and, beneath that, the tang of lemons. I breathed deeply, feeling some of the exhaustion and fear of the last few weeks ease away. I wriggled my foot from my slipper and let my toes dig into the cool gravel.
Mal adjusted his hood to better hide his face and tipped up his mask, then reached forward and did the same with mine. He leaned in. Our jackal masks bumped snouts.
I started to laugh.
“Next time, different costumes,” he grumbled.
“Bigger hats?”
“Maybe we could just wear baskets over our heads.”
Two girls came swaying up to us. Tamar was by my side in an instant. We pushed our masks back into place.
“Tell our fortunes!” the taller girl demanded, practically toppling over her friend.
Tamar shook her head, but Mal gestured to one of the little tables laid with blue enamel cups and a golden urn.
The girl squealed and poured out a tiny amount of sludge-like coffee. The Suli told fortunes by reading the dregs at the bottom of the cup. She downed the coffee and grimaced.
I elbowed Mal in the side. Now what?
He rose and walked to the table.
“Hmmm,” he said, peering into the cup. “Hmmm.”
The girl seized his arm. “What is it?”
He waved me over. I gritted my teeth and bent over the cup.
“Is it bad?” the girl moaned.
“Eeet eeees … goooood,” said Mal in the most outrageous Suli accent I’d ever heard.
The girl sighed in relief.
“You weeel meet a handsome stranger.”
The girls giggled and clapped their hands. I couldn’t resist.
“He weeel be very wicked man,” I interjected. My accent was even worse than Mal’s. If any real Suli overheard me, I’d probably end up with a black eye. “You must run from theees man.”
“Oh,” the girls sighed in disappointment.
“You must marry ugly man,” I said. “Very fet.” I held my arms out in front of me, indicating a giant belly. “He weeel make you heppy.”
I heard Mal snort beneath his mask.
The girl sniffed. “I don’t like this fortune,” she said. “Let’s go try another one.” As they flounced away, two rather tipsy noblemen took their place.
One had a beaky nose and wobbly jowls. The other threw back his coffee like he was gulping kvas and slammed the cup down on the table. “Now,” he slurred, twitching his bristly red mustache. “What’ve I got in store? And make it good.”
Mal pretended to study the cup. “You weeel come into a great fortune.”
“Already have a great fortune. What else?”
“Uh…” Mal hedged. “Your wife weeel bear you three handsome sons.”
His beak-nosed companion burst out laughing. “Then you’ll know they aren’t yours!” he bellowed.
I thought the other nobleman would take offense, but instead he just guffawed, his red face turning even redder.
“Have to congratulate the footman!” he roared.
“I hear all the best families have bastards,” chortled his friend.
“We all have dogs, too. But we don’t let them sit at the table!”
I grimaced beneath my mask. I had a sneaking suspicion they were talking about Nikolai.
“Oh dear,” I said, yanking the cup from Mal’s hand. “Oh dear, so sad.”
“What’s that?” said the nobleman, still laughing.
“You weeel go bald,” I said. “Very bald.”
He stopped laughing, and his meaty hand strayed to his already thinning red hair.
“And you,” I said, pointing at his friend. Mal gave my foot a warning nudge, but I ignored him. “You weeel catch the korpa.”
“The what?”
“The korpa!” I declared in dire tones. “Your private parts weeel shrink to nothink!”
He paled. His throat worked. “But—”
At that moment there was shouting from inside the ballroom and a loud crash as someone upended a table. I saw two men shoving each other.
“I think it’s time to leave,” said Tamar, edging us away from the commotion.
I was about to protest when the fight broke out in earnest. People started pushing and shoving, crowding the doors to the terrace. The music had stopped, and it looked like some of the fortune-tellers had gotten into the scramble too. Over the crowd, I saw one of the silken wagons collapse. Someone came hurtling toward us and crashed into the noblemen. The coffee urn toppled off the table, and the little blue cups followed.
“Let’s go,” said Mal, reaching for his pistol. “Out the back.”
Tamar led the way, axes already in hand. I followed her down the stairs, but as we stepped off the terrace, I heard another horrible crash and a woman screaming. She was pinned beneath the banquet table.
Mal holstered his pistol. “Get her to the carriage,” he shouted to Tamar. “I’ll catch up.”
“Mal—”
“Go! I’ll be right behind you.” He pushed into the crowd, toward the trapped woman.
Tamar tugged me down the garden stairs and up a path that
led back along the side of the mansion, to the street. It was dark away from the glowing lanterns of the party. I let a soft light blossom to guide our steps.
“Don’t,” said Tamar. “This could be a distraction. You’ll give away our location.”
I let the light fade, and a second later, I heard a scuffle, a loud oof, and then—silence.
“Tamar?”
I looked back toward the party, hoping I would hear Mal’s approach.
My heart started to pound. I raised my hands. Forget giving away our location, I wasn’t going to just stand around in the dark. Then I heard a gate creak, and strong hands took hold of me. I was yanked through the hedge.
I sent light searing out in a hot flare. I was in a stone courtyard off the main garden, bordered on all sides by yew hedges, and I was not alone.
I smelled him before I saw him—turned earth, incense, mildew. The smell of a grave. I raised my hands as the Apparat stepped out of the shadows. The priest was just as I remembered him, the same wiry black beard and relentless gaze. He still wore the brown robes of his station, but the King’s double eagle was gone from his chest, replaced by a sunburst wrought in gold thread.
“Stay where you are,” I warned.
He bowed low. “Alina Starkov, Sol Koroleva. I mean you no harm.”
“Where’s Tamar? If she’s been hurt—”
“Your guards will not be harmed, but I beg you to listen.”
“What do you want? How did you know I would be here?”
“The faithful are everywhere, Sol Koroleva.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Every day your holy army grows, drawn by the promise of your light. They wait only for you to lead them.”
“My army? I’ve seen the pilgrims camped outside the city walls—poor, weak, hungry, all desperate for the scraps of hope you feed them.”
“There are others. Soldiers.”
“More people who think I’m a Saint because you’ve sold them a lie?”
“It is no lie, Alina Starkov. You are Daughter of Keramzin, Reborn of the Fold.”
“I didn’t die!” I said furiously. “I survived because I escaped the Darkling, and I murdered an entire skiff of soldiers and Grisha to do it. Do you tell your followers that?”
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