Greystar

by C. L. Polk

  “You’re right; you don’t have time for this.” Father coughed and picked up a teacup, wetting his throat. “You don’t have time for a single mistake, but you made one anyway. What will you do about your blunder with the journalist?”

  “It’s not a blunder.”

  He gave me an exasperated look. “Grace. Think. When have I ever allowed a member of the press exclusive access? You owe the Jessup girl, and it’ll come back to bite you. End your association before it’s too late.”

  I held back the urge to say no, to argue my choices. I let my gaze drift to the tiny window, where a scarlet jay pecked at a handful of seeds. “I can handle it.”

  “You can’t fall into short-term thinking,” Father said. “It will ruin you. You should be cultivating your relationship with the Prince, securing your future as his Chancellor.”

  “He’s just as busy as I am, Father.”

  “You each have a part to play in this crisis, but you should learn how to handle him. He will be King, and it’s never too early to start managing a monarch’s expectations.”

  Did Father ever see anyone as a friend? “I’ll see what we can schedule. Next time you tell Severin you want to see me, give him the reason. And it had better be good.”

  I turned away from the bars, ignoring the Laneeri ghost who glowered uselessly at my back.

  I could have used this time in a hundred different ways, but what made heat race across my scalp was Father’s order to stop associating with Avia. It was out of the question. She had put too many pieces together, and I had to keep her close.

  I stalked past the Laneeri in their cells while a tiny voice intruded. Is that all there is to it? The ghost of her hands smoothed the lay of my tie and trailed along my lapels as I thundered down the halls. I couldn’t, I didn’t dare, but that didn’t stop me from imagining what it would be like if I did.

  I took the twisting route out of Kingsgrave, tangled in my thoughts. I had to keep Avia close. Which meant I needed to keep offering her stories while keeping her away from the secrets I needed to keep. I couldn’t use the trick of telling her what I intended for Parliament again. I had to give her something big.

  A parade of liveried servants blocked the corridor, carrying music stands from a storage room to the largest ballroom in the palace. They were preparing for the ball welcoming the Amaranthines to Aeland. A ball! The Queen was a fool if she thought the company of the titled elite and the Hundred Families would soften Aife’s disposition toward us. She wanted to know about the real Aeland, the Aeland of its people, its blemishes and virtues. She wanted the truth.

  I couldn’t get Aife access to ordinary Aelanders. I’d never get them past the guards. But I could invite a guest to accompany me to the ball. Avia would jump at the chance to speak to the Amaranthines. I hurried back to my office, already composing the invitation in my head. Dear Miss Jessup: I humbly request the pleasure of your company at a reception welcoming the Blessed Ones to Rosemount Palace—

  That would do. I hurried past Janet and took up a pen, crossing out the seal of the Chancellor at the top of my usual stationery and concentrating on the pressure of the downstrokes, the featherlight touch of curves and curls as I wrote. I was no scribe, but I did well enough. The invitation lay on my blotter, the ink drying in a gently heated dome of air to speed the process.

  I eyed the tray on my desk. New missives had arrived in the short time I was away from the office. I spied the soft cream-and-rose paper that signaled a personal note from the Queen on the top of the stack. Blast! I had forgotten. I picked it up and read a single line:

  Attend me immediately.

  Did immediately mean “after you’ve eaten, of course”? Probably not. I picked up a King Philip Pink from a bowl of apples and crunched into it. The invitation was still wet when I brought it to Janet.

  “Have a messenger take this to Avia Jessup at the Star and wait for a reply,” I said, and hurried out the door with a half-eaten apple in hand.

  TEN

  A Tangle of Hair

  No guard attended the Queen’s private library, a converted ballroom filled with a collection of books under ban in Aeland. Most of them were from foreign publishers, but there were plenty of dissidents with an argument and a press within our own borders. The distinctive yellow cloth spines of books published by The People’s Press dotted the shelves, concentrating to a solid yellow wall in a section I wagered was about witchcraft—a particular specialty of the underground press.

  Queen Constantina wasn’t here, though I spied a dead noblewoman with bleach-pale hair and the torturously shaped waistline and tiered skirt of a decade ago, fluttering an old-fashioned message with her handkerchief: I am listening.

  All the tall windows were uncovered to let in the light, and every one of the fireplaces blazed—too far away for real comfort, but the sight of a fire is a cheery one. A book lay on the Queen’s desk, and I ventured close enough to inspect a treatise on the unnatural and unpredictable nature of the weather in Aeland with detailed observational data, according to the hemp-bound cover.

  Poor fellow, trying to make sense of it all—but did it show a pattern? Did it show in its columns and data the thing that I feared: that the weather we struggled against was growing more severe?

  The book was heavier than it looked, the pages thin and crisp. I flipped past the bewildered ramblings of the scholar who tried in vain to discover what drove Aeland’s climate and into the tables, which were divided by region. Tiny print crammed three hundred and sixty days onto a page. I needed a magnifying glass, or reading spectacles—

  “Find something interesting?”

  I shut the book with a quick thump. “Your Majesty.” I took a knee on the spot, one hand over my heart.

  “Rise.” Queen Constantina was dressed in sporting wear, every stitch and pleat precise. Her son followed after, tortoiseshell glasses half down his nose, his arm tucked around an open document file. Severin smiled at me as I stood.

  She plucked the book from the desk and returned it to the shelf. Her hair was drawn into a smooth knot clasped by a circular comb topped with rows of pearls. “The Grand Duchess had a particular question about our weather, according to my son. Do you know why she was asking about general, long-term changes in the climate?”

  “I do not, ma’am. But after last night’s storm anyone would wonder exactly what we survive each year.”

  The Queen swept one arm toward the windows, and the sight of everything so covered in snow that the ornamental garden was hidden under soft humps. “And this was the best you could do?”

  That wasn’t a question. I kept silent.

  “Kingston lies under thirty-three inches of snow—thirty-three! It’s record breaking. Did you know that? There has never been a recorded overnight snowfall of such height. People had to dig themselves out of their homes. You said you could slow this storm. You said you could lessen its effects!”

  My right knee ached as I knelt. “Ma’am, every mage and Secondary in the Circle drained themselves so only thirty-three inches of snow fell.” But it was still a failure. We hadn’t protected Kingston, and it would be days before all the roads were cleared. People had died last night—and the counting of the dead wasn’t done.

  Queen Constantina shifted to stare out the windows, where everything was buried in white. “Only.”

  “We did everything we could. But we need more Storm-Singers. This storm will be the first of many. We need to prepare for that.”

  The Queen turned her head. “Severin. You’ve been quiet.”

  Prince Severin looked up from the document he’d been reading. “I’m reckoning. We should hire more people to operate tampers. We’ll have to haul excess snow to the river and the Ayers Inlet. We’ll have to hire a thousand people, easily. But if Grace had the First Ring—”

  The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “No. I will not buckle to their extortion.”

  Severin pushed his glasses up his nose. “What choice do we have?”

 
“I will not argue this with you, Severin. They remain exactly where I put them.”

  If not the First Ring, maybe there was another way. “Maybe there are Storm-Singers among the witches.” They turned to me, and I went on. “There are hundreds of witches in the asylums.”

  The Queen’s mouth thinned, her scarlet lipstick like a bloody line. “Impossible. They’re held there for the protection of the people.”

  “Majesty, it’s a lie,” I said. “Witches don’t run the risk of losing their reason any more than mages do. They’re no different from us. And soon, the subcommittee reviewing the original sessions and supplemental evidence will determine that too.”

  She didn’t seem impressed by my confession, dismissing it with a shake of her head. “If we parole the imprisoned witches, there’s nothing stopping them from telling the stories of their experience. And those stories will spread from mouth to ear until the whole country knows the truth. And that will be one failure, one betrayal too many.”

  She was right, but the witches had done nothing wrong, and had had so many wrongs visited on them. Leaving them inside the asylums was one more injustice. But if they started talking, and they would, it would be a national outrage. And the men and women locked in the Tower of Sighs wouldn’t be appeasement enough.

  “The Amaranthines wish it done,” I said. “That suggests to me that our choices are limited.”

  “They must be brought to reason,” the Queen said. “Speak to them. Explain how it cannot be done—”

  I fought to keep my expression calm. Had the Queen’s voice quavered? Did she clutch at her armrests, white-knuckled and tense? “I will answer their questions about storm-singing, but I doubt it will sway them from wishing freedom for the witches.”

  “They want too much,” Queen Constantina said. “We can’t possibly—they’ll upend the nation and shake every last coin from our pockets to pay Laneer—pay them! After they dared use necromancy within our borders. And you have one of them snug inside the suite meant for your convenience when you should be wringing answers from their lying mouths.”

  “My brother was a prisoner at Camp Paradise, ma’am, and he would never countenance torture. And we may not need to, as the subject we’re holding in the Chancellor’s suite is ready to tell us everything after a little diplomatic wrangling.”

  Queen Constantina tilted her head, skepticism scrawled across her mouth. “What does she want?”

  “Laneer’s independence.”

  The Queen scoffed. “Impossible.”

  “Mother,” Severin said. “The Amaranthines want freedom for Laneer, and reparations paid to them. If we can lay the proof of the necromancy plot before them, we may be able to get away with withdrawing our people and restoring Laneer’s independence.”

  Constantina pursed her mouth, her jaw tense. “I don’t like it. We’ll have to renegotiate our trade agreements, and that will raise costs.”

  When I was young, I had been awed by Constantina’s majesty. I saw the fine clothing, the deferential respect everyone paid her, the porcelain perfection of her demeanor. This wasn’t the first time she had shattered that girlhood impression with her stubbornness and greed. Gently, I pushed that button. “We have a chance of bargaining against paying reparations, which will cost us more than renegotiating trade.”

  She flicked her gaze toward me. She picked up a violet enameled pen and twisted it in her fingers, thinking. Thinking, and then a resigned sigh. “It’s better than nothing. Get me that proof.”

  I bowed my head. “Yes, ma’am. Your Highness, would you consent to a visit with the prisoner? I can collect Miles, so we have a translator.”

  Severin pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Now? I think that’s a fine idea. Mother? I can speak to you about expanding the Service Reserve later.”

  “Go.” Constantina waved one hand, shooing us like midges. “I expect to hear of your results with the Amaranthines.”

  I bowed and left with the Prince, who offered his arm to me as we walked together. The dead courtier drifted into the hallway and winked out of sight.

  Severin turned to glance at me. “Did you ever get that meal?”

  “I did not.” I shrugged. “It’s been busy.”

  “Let’s fix that.” Severin steered us toward one of the kitchens, where chefs and assistants dressed dozens of quail to roast. He waved off assistance from the chef with a smile.

  “We need something fast to eat, is all. No time to sit down.”

  The chef bowed and crossed the kitchen. He dug into a warming oven and pulled out a pair of pasty pies. We leaned against a counter and ate without making clever conversation, and I devoured spiced, shredded lamb and vegetables baked in a folded crescent of pie dough.

  “Another?” he asked, as I dusted the crumbs of the pasty off my hands.

  “That will keep me for a couple of hours.”

  “We can discuss the meeting with your Laneeri informant over tea and something more fortifying,” Severin said. We left the kitchen and headed for Miles’s suite, finding him out of his wheelchair and moving lengths of firewood from the maid’s cart to each hearth.

  “Should you be doing that?” I asked.

  Miles huffed at me, picking bits of bark off his shirt. “Activity speeds recovery— Oh, Your Highness. Good afternoon.”

  He bowed to Severin, who inclined his head in greeting. “We’ve come to ask your assistance. I wish to speak to the prisoner about her terms.”

  “All I had to do this afternoon was a bit of reading,” Miles said. He moved to his wheelchair, but instead of sitting in it, he pushed it to the door. “I’ll need it on the way back,” he explained, “but right now I feel fine.”

  “How much have you eaten?” I asked.

  He gave me an amused look. “Five marks says I’ve eaten more than you. Are you game for it?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve been running full-tilt all day. I had a pasty—”

  “Thanks to me,” Severin said.

  “Thanks to Severin,” I said. “But you’ve got to make those stairs. Shouldn’t you save your energy for that?”

  “Fine,” Miles said. “If you sit and eat where I can see you.”

  “Done.” I took Miles’s place behind the wheelchair and pushed. He climbed the stairs and waited for Severin to shove the wheelchair up the flight.

  “See? I’m much better,” Miles said.

  “You’re still too thin.”

  “It’ll come,” Miles said. “A few weeks, and I’ll be well on my way to recovered.”

  He wheeled himself to the guarded door and was first into the suite, calling for Sevitii as Severin and I arrived. Nothing stirred in response.

  I listened to the crackle of logs laid on the fire in an empty room. I held up a hand and crossed the sitting room to push open the door of the bedchamber. Light fell on the empty, rumpled bed, and I stepped inside.

  “Sevitii?”

  Pale sunlight glinted off a rippling tangle of hair spread across the carpet. I fell to my knees beside the sprawled body on the floor. Sevitii lay staring at the ceiling, her fingers caught on a snarl in her unbraided hair, the light in her striking green eyes gone dull against the lurid red of her sclera.

  I gathered a breath, and my throat tightened as I shouted. “Miles!”

  The hand brake creaked and two sets of footsteps hurried across the rug. Miles pushed me aside, his fingers at the soft, still column of her throat. He lifted one arm, inspecting the underside.

  “Flexible,” he said. “Hardly any lividity. Still warm … petechial hemorrhages.” He set her arm down and rose to his feet. He walked all around her body, careful of the long, flaxen strands scattered all around her. “The way her legs are bent, she crumpled from a standing position.”

  I pointed at an oiled wooden comb on the carpet, a few inches away from her fingers. “She was combing her hair. I can hear water dripping into the bathtub.”

  Severin excused himself to the bath chamber, and the dripping s
topped. He emerged. “The water’s still hot.”

  “Blast it,” Miles muttered. “That might have just destroyed evidence, Your Highness.”

  Severin looked back, and then at his hands. “Fingerprints?”

  “Possibly. I need my medical bag,” Miles grumbled. “I think it’s been less than an hour, but without her internal temperature, it’s just a guess. Whatever killed her, it was fast.”

  Severin stood well back from the body. “What could have done that?”

  “From the look of her eyes, she couldn’t breathe,” Miles said. “I won’t know until I’ve got her on the table.”

  “Does the palace even have a morgue?” I asked. I couldn’t stop looking at Sevitii: at her wide, staring eyes; at her mouth opened on an unspoken word. She’d been combing her hair, and then she was dead. “There is one, isn’t there?”

  “There is,” Severin said. “Do you mean to examine her, Sir Miles?”

  “I do,” Miles said. “We have to find out how this woman died.”

  Miles gently inspected Sevitii’s body, poring over her hands in particular. “Grace.”

  I pushed myself off the wall I had been leaning against. “What is it?”

  “She’s missing a piece of jewelry. Do you see a gold bangle anywhere with planetary symbols engraved on it?”

  I spotted some bangles on the side table next to her bed. “I see them.”

  “Good. Can you find it for me? I want to be sure to have it. They’re important to Laneeri. Her survivors will want to have it.”

  Severin shifted his weight. “This is a troubling diplomatic incident. Should you be concerned about a piece of jewelry?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Miles straightened his back and rolled his neck. “It’s of spiritual significance. They will want it. Grace?”