“Lady Ressid,” Kiem said, with a seated bow.
Lady Ressid’s eyes were almost the image of Jainan’s in the photo, but there was something harder in them. “Prince Kiem,” she said stiffly, and curtsied.
“An honor to hear from you,” Kiem said. He kept a wary eye on the projected caption to the side of Ressid’s image where Bel was pointedly displaying proud to continue the alliance in memory of my revered cousin. But Ressid didn’t immediately congratulate him. There was a split-second pause, and Kiem suddenly realized that the crease at the corner of her mouth was a sign of strain.
“I am calling to formally request access to my brother,” she said. The words came out clipped and hard, like a hail of small stones. “If Your Highness is pleased to grant it.”
That was a weird way of announcing a visit. “Well, of course,” Kiem said. “Glad to have you to stay. When?” The call was coming from Thea: the flight took a few days each way. “I thought we usually got these requests through your Foreign Affairs Bureau—wait, we’re going to be in Thean space next month for Unification Day. I think it’s on your orbital station. Aren’t you going to be there?”
“I didn’t mean that,” Ressid said. “I meant access to call Jainan.” The line of strain hadn’t moved.
Kiem stared at her, nonplussed. He was completely at sea with Thean formalities. “That’s got nothing to do with me.” Wait, it must be a ceremonial thing. Only ingrained training in royal manners stopped him from casting an agonized look at Bel off-screen, but she was apparently just as confused, because the screen caption flickered and changed to??? instead of a script. “Um, forgive me. Is there some kind of formal response?”
The line at the corner of Ressid’s mouth creased, deepened, and then disappeared as she forcibly smoothed out her expression. “It is a practical matter.”
“Oh. Then—wait, is this about him moving living quarters?” The realization was a relief, because now he had some clue about what was going on. “That won’t be a problem. He’s only moving within the palace, his ID should work fine. The palace systems will route his calls here.” Jainan should know that; Kiem had no idea why Ressid was asking him. But maybe Jainan hadn’t paid much attention to the palace systems. “And he’d have his wristband anyway.”
Ressid drew a short, sharp breath, and Kiem couldn’t figure out why. He looked hopefully at the caption, but Bel didn’t have any helpful background information for him. “Your Highness,” Ressid said. “I would like an undertaking that I will receive a call from Jainan within the next two weeks.”
Alarm bells started ringing in Kiem’s head. So Jainan wasn’t in contact with her. Apparently he was bringing his own family problems to the marriage. Kiem could imagine how he would take it if he turned up and Kiem had already sided with his sister in their family feud—that would be a great start to a life partnership. “I can’t give you that.”
Ressid recoiled, only fractionally, but Kiem could sense her anger even through the projection. There was a silence. Kiem, probably because he was what Bel called an inveterate people pleaser, tried to fill it. “I’ll tell him you called, though,” he said. No—shit—that would just be pressuring Jainan if he really had cut off contact. Jainan must have a reason for not wanting to hear from his sister. “Uh, if he asks.”
For a moment he thought Ressid was going to shout at him. He sat up straight and set his shoulders; he didn’t like shouting, but the quickest way out was usually to let people get it off their chests. But even the slight movement seemed to give Ressid pause. She gave him a look that was barely short of a glare, then wiped all expression from her face and said, “Allow me to offer you my congratulations, Your Highness.”
“Thank—” Kiem said automatically, but before he’d even finished, Ressid’s projection disappeared. She’d cut the call.
He got up uneasily from the vidchair. “What was that about?” he said. There was something there that he’d accidentally put his foot in. He’d have to see if Jainan raised it. Kiem wasn’t the poster boy for great family relations, however hard he tried, but he’d never been involved in an actual family feud.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Bel said, finally picking up her coffee. “You really have to stop now. Jainan’s due in three minutes.” Even as she spoke, the chime sounded at the door. Bel checked the feed. “That’s him.”
“Oh, shit,” Kiem said, tugging at the jacket of his ceremonial uniform frantically. “Is this thing creased? Do I have time to change? Have we got drinks?”
“No, no, and drinks are in the cabinet as usual,” Bel said. “Just let him get the occasional word in edgewise and you’ll be fine.” She took her coffee into the study and hit the door release on the way past, leaving Kiem to hurry over and receive Jainan.
CHAPTER 3
Jainan nav Adessari was standing by himself outside the door. Kiem had expected a small crowd of aides and assistants, not a single, preternaturally calm person with the assurance of a negotiator in a war zone.
Kiem had the photo in his head, but it was still a shock to see that grave stare right in front of him. Jainan’s dark eyes gave a hidden spark of electricity to an expression that was otherwise entirely proper and neutral. His clothes were Thean, a half-sleeved tunic with a blunter, looser cut than Iskat styles, in a muted blue that split the difference between a formal outfit and mourning grays.
Jainan cut his eyes away and bowed. It was a formal bow, a shade more correct than what was required from a count to a prince. Kiem realized with a spike of embarrassment that it was probably a polite way of telling him he was staring.
He snapped himself out of his frozen moment and stepped back, bowing formally himself. “Welcome! Glad you could make it, my name’s Kiem, nice to meet you. I mean, properly. I know we’ve sort of seen each other in the distance at functions. Thanks for, um, agreeing to all this. Come in, come in.”
Jainan rose from his bow and looked at Kiem thoughtfully. Kiem wasn’t given to blushing, but he almost felt his face heat as he heard his own voice sounding even more inane than usual. My name’s Kiem, like Jainan wasn’t aware whose room he had visited. And thanks for agreeing to all this? Jainan knew as well as Kiem that it wasn’t as if either of them had a choice.
But all Jainan said was, “Jainan. A pleasure, Your Highness. It is more than an honor to be invited.” As he stepped over the threshold, he took in the tall windows and the gardens outside with a quick dart of his eyes. He moved gracefully, almost soundlessly, and Kiem suddenly felt clumsy and awkward in comparison. Even more so as he lumbered back out of Jainan’s way and Jainan’s eyes went to him briefly, then cut away again.
“Sit down, please,” Kiem said hastily, when he realized Jainan was politely hovering. He waved to one of the chairs clustered around his coffee service, a samovar with an old collection of cups that he had always ignored in favor of the dispenser, but it was traditional to have it for guests. Jainan sat on the edge of a chair, highly composed. The blue-gray of his uniform drew the color out of his face but didn’t take away from the smart shape it cut around his shoulders—Kiem stopped staring. “I, uh. I hope you didn’t have to interrupt anything to come?”
“No,” Jainan said, soft and measured. “My last appointment was the one-month Mourning for Prince Taam, which finished yesterday.”
Wrong question, wrong question. “Ah. I didn’t realize that had already happened.”
“I apologize,” Jainan said. “I should have sent you a reminder.”
Kiem winced. He’d gone to the public first-day and ten-day Mournings, but protocol said he wasn’t close enough to Taam to still be going to memorials a month later—he couldn’t remember speaking to him in years. That was before he was engaged to marry Taam’s ex-partner, though. He should probably have badgered someone for an invitation after yesterday’s bombshell. “Right. Yes. Um. Would you like a drink?”
“If you’re having one,” Jainan said politely.
Kiem was very much planning to have
one, more so with every word this conversation progressed. He got to his feet. It seemed wrong to have anything ordinary, so he poured a glass of pale spirits from an ornate bottle half-full of preserved berries. “Silverberry wine? Coffee? What would you like?”
Jainan glanced at the second glass Kiem was holding. “Water…?”
Kiem decided he was imagining the disapproval there and brought a chilled bottle of water to the table with a glass. There was an awkward moment when Jainan attempted to rise to take the drink and Kiem wasn’t expecting it, but they got through it with no more than a minor splash on the table. Jainan stared at the spill like it was a tragedy. Kiem winced again. He was apparently going to have to be much neater from now on. “Don’t worry, I’ll get something for it later.”
“I’m sorry,” Jainan said.
“Uh, no, don’t be sorry.” Kiem said. He felt the stifling layer of politeness lying over them like velvet. He sat down and put his head in his hands. “All right,” he said. “Can we speak plainly? Sorry. I’m not great at tiptoeing around things.”
What went across Jainan’s face wasn’t exactly a change of expression. It was more like looking at the surface of the water down at the harbor and sensing that something had just moved underneath. His back straightened and he placed his hands on his knees. “Please,” he said. “Go ahead.”
Kiem took a deep breath. Right. They were going to clear the air. “I think we’ll have a better chance of making this work if we’re open with each other,” he said. “I know you’re not going to be over the moon about this. To be honest, I don’t know what the Emperor was thinking.” It was probably a measure of the stress they were under that neither of them even bothered to look over their shoulder.
“The treaty,” Jainan said. His expression was entirely neutral again.
“The treaty,” Kiem agreed. “But look, this wasn’t your first choice. I wasn’t expecting it either, but we’re stuck with it. Can we at least agree we’ll try and make it work? I know you’ll need space to—to grieve. We can just act the bare minimum to sell the marriage to the palace, and drop it when we’re in private.”
Jainan smiled. It was an odd, distant smile and didn’t seem to be particularly happy, but it was a smile. “It’s funny,” he said.
“What is?” That didn’t sound good.
“Prince Taam—we had this conversation. One very much like it.”
Taam and Jainan had started off their marriage like this? Kiem felt obscurely heartened, although the circumstances weren’t exactly the same. “So … we’re okay? I promise I’m not an axe murderer.”
“That part he didn’t say,” Jainan said.
It took a moment for Kiem to realize that was a deadpan joke, and he grinned. “Maybe he was. I mean, you have to be explicit.”
Jainan’s expression shuttered completely, and he put the water down.
“No—I—oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t mean—” The door chime rang again. Kiem only just stopped himself throwing up his hands in frustration. There should be some kind of law against him opening his stupid mouth. “Well, it wasn’t as if we were doing anything important. Come in!” he added, raising a hand to gesture the door open.
It was the head steward with two attendants. He bowed punctiliously. “Your Highness, the contract is prepared for signing in the West Solarium. Are you and Count Jainan ready?”
Kiem felt mutinous. “Are we?” he said, casting a glance at Jainan, who was probably about as unwilling as he was. But Jainan was already standing, which shamed Kiem into pushing himself to his feet. He offered Jainan his arm.
The moment he’d done it, he froze and wished he could take it back. He hadn’t meant to put Jainan on the spot. But before he could turn the movement into anything else, Jainan was moving over to him and slipping a hand through the crook of his arm. His touch rested lightly and securely. Was he forcing himself? Kiem couldn’t tell. The skin beneath Kiem’s uniform jacket felt hotter than it should.
“Your Highness,” the steward said again.
“We should go,” Jainan said, quietly enough to reach only Kiem’s ears. He was looking ahead.
Kiem forced his eyes away from Jainan. “Yes, right,” he said. “Look at us, punctual from the start. Oh, hey, Hren.”
The chief press officer nodded at him. “Memorized your press statement yet?”
“I thought I’d just improvise,” Kiem said cheerfully, to make Hren twitch. But Hren only glared at him, and for some reason Jainan’s grip shifted on his arm. “I mean, yes,” Kiem said. “Know it back to front.” He stopped trying to make conversation.
The walk up to the solarium was enveloped in a silence that felt almost funereal. Kiem would usually have tried joking with the attendants, but it would be rude to start talking to anyone who wasn’t Jainan. But whenever he thought of something to say to Jainan, he remembered that Jainan was being walked into a forced marriage with the only person in the palace who could possibly be tactless enough to call his late partner an axe murderer, and Kiem bit his tongue. He experimented silently with several phrases but couldn’t find one that might fix things. At the top of the sweeping marble stairs, just before the last corner, he gave up and muttered, “Sorry.”
“For what?” Jainan said. The door slid open, and Kiem lost the chance to reply in the flash of lenses.
He squinted through the first couple before automatically raising his free hand. “Hi, good morning—” There was a barely noticeable increase of pressure on his arm. Jainan had stopped. Surprised, Kiem tried to pause as well, but now Jainan was moving again, and Kiem wondered if he’d imagined it.
The initial flurry of flashes died down. When Kiem moved his arm a fraction, Jainan removed his hand immediately and stepped a little away. Apparently he’d been steeling himself to be near Kiem. Kiem tried not to show he’d noticed.
“Your Highness! How’s it feel to be married?”
Journalists. Kiem relaxed—journalists seemed like the least difficult thing to deal with right now. He grinned and shook a couple of hands. “‘Morning. I’m not, yet. Hi, Hani—any tips? You got married last year, didn’t you? Your partner took that shot of me falling in the canal a couple of days ago.”
“Yes, which is why she didn’t get credentials for this, isn’t it?” The polished woman with silver eye implants tilted her head. “How long have you known Count Jainan?”
Kiem spread his hands disarmingly. “I don’t make the press lists. And we’ve met a few times—we’re, uh, getting to know each other.”
“How does he feel about your lifestyle?”
“Hey, aren’t you guys supposed to be the sympathetic part of the press corps?” Kiem protested. “I don’t do that anymore. I’m responsible now.” He was almost starting to enjoy himself by the time he glanced over at Jainan.
Jainan was holding himself stiffly; a reporter stood in front of him about half a pace too close. Jainan shook his head and said something. He wasn’t moving away, though, so Kiem was about to turn back to the others when he heard the reporter say, “—Prince Taam—”
All right, that was enough. “Oi, Dak, who let you in here?” Kiem said, cutting across Jainan. “Weren’t you behind that piece on the Emperor’s brother needing plastic surgery?”
“What?” Dak said, turning without batting an eyelid. He was a solidly built, middle-aged journalist who worked for one of the larger aggregators. “That’s quite an accusation there, Your Highness. I had nothing to do with that.”
“Yeah, well, it was your phrasing,” Kiem said, by no means sure about that. “So you’re on thin ice. Show some bloody respect for the deceased. Taam’s off the record, as is this conversation. Jainan, I think we’re starting?”
Jainan gave him a look that was no less blank than the one he’d directed at the reporter. “Of course,” he said. “Excuse me.” He gave Dak a polite bow of his head and bypassed him. Kiem put himself on the side next to the reporters and blocked any more questions with a friendly wave, strolling up to th
e antique desk they’d dug out for the signing.
The West Solarium was a large, hexagonal room, filled with pale light from the windows set into its dome-like ceiling. The metal ribs of the dome were brushed with pale, butter-yellow highlights, so it was one of the more cheerful rooms in the palace. Kiem took that as a good omen.
The ceremony was sparsely attended. Guests stood around in loose groups; not many of Kiem’s relatives were there, given the short notice, but he saw a couple of his cousins and waved. Many of the guests were minor Iskat dignitaries in high-collared, richly colored tunics. There was a scattering of people in formal Thean tunics or robes, with jewels embroidered into the fabric rather than set into Iskat-style belts. There were fewer Theans than Kiem would have expected; fewer, in fact, than the military officers in dress uniforms, who stood talking in their own groups without so much as glancing at the other guests. They must have come for Jainan’s sake, since he and Taam would have moved in military circles. Kiem felt a moment’s guilt that he didn’t recognize any of them. Bel was sitting at the side next to a minor steward, wearing a pristine formal tunic and a poker face; Kiem caught her eye and felt fractionally better about the whole thing.
The head steward was in top form. “Ah, good. Your Highness, over here, please—and Count Jainan, this side…”
“Was that all right?” Kiem muttered to Jainan, just before they parted. “You looked like you didn’t want to be in that conversation. I—uh—there’ll be a chance to talk to the press after, if you want.”
“No,” Jainan said. “Thank you.” An aide bobbed up like a tugboat and piloted him to a pile of documents.
Kiem reluctantly turned to his own separate pile. There was a goose-feather quill beside it and a pot of red ink. Kiem eyed them with misgivings. Handscribing was bad enough at the best of times, and adding pots of ink into the equation wasn’t going to make it any better.
A small knot of people at the back parted for a purple-robed judge and the Thean Ambassador beside her. The Ambassador bowed to Jainan. Jainan gave him a startled glance and then looked down at the documents, not responding.
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