The Defiant Heir

by Melissa Caruso

  Dinner with my mother had once been an uncommon occasion. She often stayed at the Imperial Palace late, coming home past midnight to find the artful meal our chef had prepared for her cold on the dining table under a silver cover. Or she’d eat while hosting some assorted handful of the most powerful people in the Serene Empire, making life-and-death decisions between bites of crab risotto or roast pheasant stuffed with mushrooms and herbs. Since I’d taken on more responsibility as her heir after last autumn’s incident in Ardence, however, La Contessa had made dinner our near-daily information and strategy meeting, though it sometimes meant I had to eat at strange hours or join her at the Imperial Palace.

  “So has he given you any useful information?” I tried to make my question casual, as if I didn’t care what my mother thought of how I’d handled him.

  “Some.” She sipped her wine. “I am curious as to why you chose not to inform Lord Caulin that you had identified a Vaskandran assassin at the dinner party.”

  I supposed it had been too much to hope that she could have simply said, Yes, you did well.

  “I didn’t want to betray his identity to Marcello and Zaira. It wouldn’t make any sense to bring in the doge’s legal adviser.” I hadn’t actually thought of that until after the party, but there was no need to mention that. “Besides,” I added, with more honesty, “I remembered what you said, about people tending to turn up dead when Lord Caulin involves himself in a matter.”

  “That’s true.” My mother set her glass down and regarded me across the table. “And in this case, I don’t fault you for leaving him out of it. But you can’t avoid getting blood on your hands, Amalia. Not once you join the Council of Nine.”

  “I know.” I dropped my eyes to my plate so she wouldn’t see my instinctive rejection of the idea. “I’d just like to put it off until it’s necessary.”

  “Hmm. Well, Ambassador Varnir has at least agreed to set up meetings with some influential Vaskandrans who might be swayed against war during the Festival of Beauty next week.” She sighed. “I’ll take it. We don’t get much intelligence out of Vaskandar.”

  I swallowed a bite of polenta. “Why not? I know we trade with them.”

  “And I assure you that a full third of Raverran merchants in Vaskandar are spies,” La Contessa said. “But the Witch Lords have little use for those without magic, save as serfs toiling in their fields. Our people can’t get close to the centers of power.”

  “What about actual Vaskandrans who are already in place? Can’t you bribe existing servants for information, put pressure on nobles and advisers, that sort of thing?”

  “You’re learning.” My mother lifted her glass to me. I fiddled with my fork to try to hide my flush of irrational pride. “But few fish in the Vaskandran pond will rise to such bait. Everyone is too afraid of the Witch Lords. Their power is absolute, and their whims are capricious and frequently cruel.”

  I remembered Ruven using his vivomancy to push a knife through his own guard’s wrist as if it were butter, while the man stood paralyzed and silently screaming, and shivered. I could understand why Vaskandran servants wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of their mage-marked masters.

  I speared a piece of pauldronfish, thinking. “This upcoming Conclave Varnir mentioned …”

  “I’ve been trying to get a spy into a Conclave since before you were born.” My mother ran a finger along the edge of her glass. “What they decide there could determine whether this war lasts three weeks or three decades, and whether a hundred people die or a hundred thousand. We need to use every Vaskandran connection we have to influence its outcome.”

  Her voice had sharpened slightly on the word every. I lowered my fork.

  “Surely you don’t mean Prince Ruven.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “He did give you a standing invitation to visit him.”

  “During our last interaction, we threatened each other with death,” I pointed out.

  “Nonetheless, he seems to hold you in high regard.” My mother’s mouth quirked. “I’m not saying you should drop in on him for tea. But your association is a card you have in hand; whether you play it or not, it must factor into your strategy for the game.”

  “Fair enough.” I had no desire to come near Ruven again, with his razor-edged smiles and magic that could melt bones or stop hearts with a touch. But that was doubtless no excuse, in my mother’s eyes. If the good of the Empire required me to dance with him at the doge’s birthday gala, she would expect me to pick out a dress that would look fashionable with long gloves and practice my minuet.

  “Especially,” my mother added, her eyes narrowing, “because Prince Ruven and his father, the Wolf Lord, appear to be the primary allies of the Lady of Thorns.”

  I nearly sprayed my mouthful of wine across the table. “What?!”

  “The Wolf Lord and the Lady of Thorns rule neighboring domains. Their relations were uneasy back when I was courting your father, near their borders.” She mentioned their famous courtship as casually as if he had been a country farmer rather than a prince, and their marriage a mere personal milestone instead of a historical event that brought the nation of Callamorne into the Serene Empire as a client state. “But in the past few years, thanks to your old friend Ruven’s efforts, the two Witch Lords appear to be working together quite closely.”

  I stabbed my polenta with needless vigor. “If that snake is involved in this scheme, we’d best unravel it quickly.”

  He’d made more than one reference, when our paths had crossed last month, to not being ready for war with the Empire—yet. Perhaps after the Conclave, he would be.

  “Indeed,” my mother agreed. “And thus, caution in your dealings with him, for certain. Especially with your name on the list his closest ally gave her assassin.”

  I felt my way into a question that had been bothering me. “Mamma, every other person on that list is a Falcon.” No other Falconers. No political or military targets. Just twenty or so carefully chosen mage-marked, and me. “I don’t fit. Why is my name on there?”

  For three ticks of the mantel clock, four, five, she said nothing. Old Anzo came and cleared away our dishes, then brought out a main course of tender beef medallions in blue cheese and tartgrass sauce, a dish my mother had developed a taste for during her time in Callamorne. Our plates sat gleaming and untouched between us, and still she stared at me, her expression gone pensive and brooding.

  “Mamma?”

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “And I don’t like that at all.”

  Chapter Four

  The grand ball celebrating the Festival of Beauty took place at the Imperial Palace the following week, and no mere threat of Vaskandran assassins could keep a Cornaro from one of the main social events of the season—even if the Cornaro in question would have preferred to curl up in the library researching Vaskandran history and politics. My mother had doubled the guards at the palace doors and stationed around the ballrooms, however, and for security reasons the heralds eschewed formal announcements of each guest arriving at the palace.

  This might have allowed me to avoid attention and lurk peacefully in a corner, if I hadn’t been glowing.

  My gown of deep midnight blue shone with hundreds of tiny lights like stars: miniature luminary crystals enchanted to last the evening. More cascaded down from my hair. In case anyone might still somehow miss me due to a complete deficiency of eyesight, my maid Rica had also given me a symphonic shell pendant, so my own soft cloud of music surrounded me wherever I went.

  It was an extravagant and nearly ridiculous gown, but then, this was the grand imperial ball; dressmakers and tailors worked all year to create the most outlandishly creative outfits possible for the occasion, just as artists, musicians, poets, and more competed to create lavish works in order to attract patrons, win prizes, and honor the Grace of Beauty on the last day of her festival.

  And I was conservatively dressed compared to some. One lady had a cage of live finches braided into her hair, which seeme
d like a terrible idea to me on a number of levels. Another wore panniers so wide you could have seated eight people around them. I saw several truly unspeakable codpieces, stuffed to an aggressive size and complete with bells and ribbons, and one gentleman’s collar could have plated a roast boar.

  “Amalia,” came Marcello’s voice behind me. “You look …”

  I turned from gawking around at my fellow guests to find him staring at me with a bemused expression. He wore only his new captain’s dress uniform, with a rapier and flintlock pistol at his side, but he cut a far finer figure than any of the lords in rainbow-hued wigs or jeweled waistcoats.

  “Ridiculous?” I suggested, my hand going to the crystals in my hair. “Absurd?”

  “Amazing,” he finished.

  I was glad Zaira had disappeared into the thick of the party, so she wasn’t here to tease me. My face warmed. “You’re only being polite, but thank you.”

  “If I were being polite, I’d say nothing, and leave you to your business.” His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “That’s probably what I should do, if I knew what was good for me.”

  “Of course not! You’re my friend. You can always talk to me.” My voice came out high and false, and I hated it. Marcello was the one person I’d never needed to pretend for. But here I was, left with no idea how to respond to a simple compliment because I had decided, for reasons that slid from my mind when he smiled that wistful smile of his, not to court him.

  “Everything is complicated, now.” A shadow flickered in his eyes. “I’m trying to follow the rules, but I don’t know what they are anymore.”

  “I’m sure there’s some book of etiquette for precisely this situation.” I dropped my voice nearly to a whisper, relaxing it with relief into something more frustrated and true. “But I never read that kind of book. I can tell you how to repair a broken courier lamp, or what Queen Belianne of Loreice said when she ordered her third husband beheaded during the War of the Handkerchief, but not how to …” I trailed off.

  How not to hurt a friend. How not to kiss a friend. How not to hurt a friend while not kissing him.

  “What did she say?” Marcello asked, lightening his tone. “To her third husband?”

  I winced. “That it was nothing personal; she simply had no use for him anymore.”

  Marcello blinked.

  “It was perhaps a bad example.” My cheeks burned as if Zaira’s flames coursed through them. “And I hasten to assure you, it has nothing to do with our present circumstances. Quite the opposite.”

  Marcello’s dimples emerged as he struggled not to laugh at me. “So, it was personal? Or you still have a use for me?”

  “I should have stayed home tonight,” I groaned. “I’ve been in the door fifteen minutes, and I’m already doing everything wrong.”

  “May I suggest a way to make it all right again?” Marcello extended a hand to me, tilting his head toward the dance floor.

  All the mad acres of silk and giddy laughter overflowing the ballroom faded. His warm green eyes, the clean line of his jaw, and his leather-and-gunpowder scent filled my senses, far more solid and real than the fanciful sartorial illusions swirling around us.

  “A lady can dance with a man she’s not courting. Can’t she?” An uncertain hope lit his features, like muffled sunlight behind passing clouds.

  My heart beat firm as a chaperone’s knock on a broom closet door. Half the Raverran court packed the room, pressing close around us, greeting each other and plucking wine and crostini from passing trays. No one seemed to be watching us, but I had little doubt our prolonged proximity to each other had caught the corners of a few eyes already.

  “You know I’d love to,” I whispered. “But, Marcello—”

  “Just one dance,” he said. “After you’ve done your duty taking turns with half the bachelor princes in Eruvia. To celebrate my promotion, so at least one good thing can come of it.”

  One dance couldn’t hurt, surely, if it was one of many. And Marcello was such a splendid dancer. “All right. If I can make it through the other dances first without breaking an ankle.”

  He grinned in return, and saluted. “The palace security appears to be well in order, my lady,” he said more loudly. “You and Zaira should be well protected here tonight.”

  I gave him a grave nod. “Carry on, then, Captain.”

  I watched him move away through the crowd until a wall of feathers and brocade and sparkling jewels flowed between us.

  Time to get to work. As my mother had reminded me while our boat brought us to the palace, for a Cornaro this sort of occasion wasn’t an entertainment—it was an opportunity. I garnered a wineglass from a passing tray and, holding it before me as my weapon, set off with determination to win myself more backers for my Falcon reform law.

  It quickly became clear to me, once again, that I was not my mother.

  I didn’t know how to do this. I smiled at people, complimented their outlandish costumes, nodded politely to their return greetings, and then had no idea how to steer the conversation to a useful topic. Hells, beneath all the makeup and towering hair, I barely recognized anyone.

  “Lady Amalia?” a gruff voice greeted me.

  I turned to find a retired army colonel I knew, dressed in a doublet of gray velvet tailored to look like old-fashioned plate armor. “Hello,” I greeted him vaguely, realizing with a twinge of panic that I had forgotten his name.

  “Wanted to let you know I’ve heard what you’re working on. That Falcon act.” He nodded stiffly. “Been telling them for years to put a stop to the mandatory conscription. Terrible idea.”

  “Really?” I tried not to sound too surprised.

  “Of course.” He blew a breath through his copious steel-gray mustache. “Last thing you need in battle is to wonder whether the mage holding your flank is going to break and run because they don’t want to be there. Keep up the good work. I’ll be voting for it.”

  He clinked his glass off mine, emptied it, and headed toward the nearest wine table.

  Hope caught my heart in a sudden updraft. If support for Falcon reform extended into the military, that greatly enhanced my chances of passing this law.

  Then I spied something less welcome: a crowd of hopeful fortune hunters preparing to converge on me, lured by the gleam of unwed Cornaro gold. It was time to move on.

  I took a brisk tour of the seven rooms set aside for the ball, at a quick pace designed to shake off my would-be suitors. Different strains of music greeted me in each room, from lively minuets for dancing to the soothing strains of a trio sonata. In one, a pair of poets up on a low stage strutted in an epigram duel, circling each other with words sharp as swords. My footsteps slowed as a roar of laughter rose from the crowd at the end of one couplet, but I didn’t dare stop and listen.

  New paintings hung on every inch of space on the walls, and statues created for the occasion graced every tabletop and corner; the artists’ names appeared on small cards next to them, so that discerning nobles could offer patronage to their favorites. Tables of food lined the walls, little bites I sampled as I passed; all the recipes were new, too, developed in fierce competition in dozens of the finest kitchens in Raverra. It was all to honor the Grace of Beauty, whose gift to humanity was art.

  I couldn’t force myself to keep my pace up, with so many wondrous things around me. A strange sculpture, if one could call it that, caught my attention, and I stopped to examine it closer. A wooden platter displayed what resembled a pile of bones or twigs done in jewel-colored glass. Was it a work of art after all? Or perhaps a dessert?

  “It’s a game.”

  It was a tenor voice, loose and careless, but with a certain husky catch to it. I looked up, startled, and found myself facing a young man who frowned down in contemplation at the strange display from the other side of its little table.

  He wore a black cloak with a feathered mantle, thrown back over a pale gray tunic of cloud-soft leather. Silver and black embroidery in the Vaskandran style
edged his hem and sleeves, all asymmetrical angles. At first I thought he’d finished the outfit with some kind of feathered or furry headpiece, but then I realized it was his own unruly mane, pale enough blond to be nearly white, with the tips dyed black. I had to admit his monochromatic style was striking, if not what the Raverran elites would call fashionable.

  “You take turns stacking the pieces, I think.” He placed a bright green twist of branching glass on top of a red one, nestling it in place.

  I had to admit that he and the game both intrigued me. But he was Vaskandran. I glanced around and saw several guards quite near, at least one of them watching us, and the room was full of witnesses.

  All right, then. It couldn’t hurt to play.

  “What, like this?” I snagged a four-pronged blue piece and settled it on top of the other two.

  He gave a pleased nod. “Yes. It’s a balancing game. If you work together, you can build it higher than if you use your moves to fight each other.”

  I gave him a sharp look, but his eyes stayed fixed on the bits of glass. He selected a gleaming black piece like a miniature coral branch and fitted it onto the growing tower. “Don’t you agree, Lady Amalia Cornaro?”

  My pulse quickened, humming in my veins. “I do prefer building things to breaking them. And I am a great proponent of cooperation.”

  He chuckled. “I’m frequently willing to cooperate with people who’ll play games with me. Especially when we can unite against mutual opponents.”

  Grace of Wisdom help me. This was my mother’s sort of dance, not mine. He had to be talking about Vaskandar; and if he was here, at the imperial ball, he must have rank enough to negotiate with. I couldn’t ruin this chance.

  “We in Raverra do see opponents lining up across the board,” I said. “We’d welcome more players on our team.”

  “Hmm. I’m not the type to join someone else’s team. And besides, the balance is too delicate. We have to maintain a certain amount of tension.”