Royal Airs

by Sharon Shinn

  As soon as she spotted Rafe, she broke into a wide smile and came limping over with her hands outstretched. He stood up and moved away from the table to shield her, just a little, from the stares of his fellow gamblers.

  “I thought maybe I was so tired I didn’t remember your face right, but you are just as cute as I thought you were,” she greeted him. That made him laugh and almost made him blush at the same time. “My father says we have to go right now, but I had to say thank you so much. I think I was very lucky to find you last night.”

  “Take care of yourself from now on,” he said, though he had to figure she wouldn’t need to. Darien Serlast was poised to watch over her, and that meant she was safer than the gold locked in the palace vaults. “No more roaming around the slums in the middle of the night.”

  She stretched up to whisper something, and he bent his head to hear. “We left you a bag of money on the table upstairs,” she said. “Let me know if it’s not enough! I’ll make my father send you more.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure it will be more than I deserve for what little I did.”

  She was still whispering. “I left you a present, too.” When he lifted his eyebrows in silent inquiry, she leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Corene!” came Darien Serlast’s impatient voice. Corene giggled and hobbled away. Rafe involuntarily put his hand to his cheek and watched her go—watched all of them. Josetta met his eyes for a long, cool moment, then turned to follow the others out the door. Darien Serlast never bothered to look back.

  Rafe figured it wasn’t entirely his fault if he was a little unstable on his feet as he lurched back to his table of squabbling opponents. “Are you finally ready to play a few hands without jumping up every five minutes?” one of the sweela men demanded.

  “Yes—absolutely—at your service,” Rafe answered, willing his brain to clear and his nerves to steady. “No more distractions, I promise. Whose turn is it to deal?”

  They played another two hours, fortunes changing hands a few times before Rafe finally swept up the final pot, glittering with silvers and quint-golds. The coru woman gave him an ugly look from under her heavy eyelashes; she had been so sure she would win the final hand that she had bet every last coin she’d won over the course of the night. That was what he’d been counting on, her confidence and her bravado. He took more satisfaction out of beating her than he did out of scooping up the money.

  “Well, that’s it for me,” said one of the men, tossing his cards to the table in a show of bad temper. “Come on! It’s late enough. Let’s get out of here.”

  The three of them surged to their feet and instantly started bickering. Rafe paid no attention, simply pocketing the coins to count later. A yawn cracked his face open before he could look around and assess if any other likely opponents had strolled in while he was waiting.

  He was so tired. It was hardly past dinnertime, but he could feel the weariness in his bones, in his brain. He’d almost lost that final hand with one careless discard. He’d better go to his room and sleep for a few hours, or he’d lose everything he’d won so far tonight.

  Besides. There was some kind of reward waiting for him upstairs. He’d tried to pretend he wasn’t curious about how much money Darien Serlast considered sufficient to pay for the rescue and safe-keeping of his daughter. But in truth, he was burning to know. He gulped the last of his beer, finished off a crust of bread, then pushed away from the table and headed upstairs.

  His room had been tidied and his bed had been made—Josetta’s thoughtfulness, he would guess, since Corene didn’t seem like the neat-and-organized type. On the table by the fireplace someone had left a black velvet bag next to the stacked dishes and the three scraps of blank paper. Rafe hefted it, impressed by its weight. If it was filled with quint-golds, this was quite a haul. Two or three ninedays’ worth of winnings.

  He opened the drawstring and poured the bounty on the table in a clattering, glittering stream, then stood there staring. Not quint-golds, oh no—whole gold coins, each one enough to cover his expenses for a couple of quintiles. He could change his life with this kind of money. Put a downpayment on a building in a decent part of town. Invest in his own business. Buy shares in a merchant ship plying the waters to Cozique or Berringey. It wasn’t enough to make him rich, but it was enough to put him on the path to making his own fortune.

  Rafe had been casually kind a number of times in his life, but it had never paid off so handsomely. It was enough to make a man believe in the goodness of his fellow man. Enough to turn him elay.

  Elay. Like the quirky blond princess. Whom he would never see again.

  He shook his head and dropped the coins back in the pouch, one by one, listening with a sense of astonishment to each individual clink. It wouldn’t be wise to leave the money in this room; it wouldn’t be wise to carry it around with him. He had a small account with a banker situated up by the Plaza of Men. He would have to make a trip there tomorrow morning and deposit this incredible windfall while he pondered the best way to use it.

  Not until he gave up the notion of staying awake any longer and headed toward bed did he remember that Corene had promised him her own gift of thanks. Bemused, rocking slightly with exhaustion, Rafe stood for five minutes, staring down at his pillow. Corene had left him her three rings of copper, silver, and gold, carved with the glyphs of imagination, courage, and intelligence.

  Rafe could no longer say he didn’t have any blessings of his own.

  FOUR

  Josetta had known that Corene’s escapade would have serious consequences, she just hadn’t expected that they would fall on her as well. Of course, that was often the way with Corene’s adventures. Their effects rippled and swelled until they engulfed everyone in the vicinity.

  “I don’t want you going back there,” Darien told Josetta the morning after he had swooped down to the southside bar to rescue Corene. The two of them were having breakfast alone in the pretty sun-filled dining room of Darien’s house on the north edge of Chialto. Corene was never an early riser, and Zoe was sleeping late because she had been awake half the night with the baby. Josetta usually found it a rare treat to be alone with Darien, but she had forgotten how peremptory he could be. He was used to running the world, or at least Welce. It made him think he should run everybody else’s life, too.

  She stirred some crushed fruit into her water and asked mildly, “Don’t want me going back where?”

  “The slums. They’re too dangerous.”

  “I’ve been working there for more than a year now, and I’ve never had any trouble.”

  “Yes, you have,” he instantly disagreed. “The place has been robbed four times. You were assaulted on the streets just a nineday ago—”

  “I wasn’t assaulted. A beggar grabbed for my purse. Foley was right there to keep him away from me. I gave him a silver coin anyway,” she added. “He was obviously starving.”

  Darien shook his head at such stupidity. “It is a mystery to me that you haven’t been murdered twenty times over.”

  Josetta sipped from her glass and watched him over the rim, not allowing herself to show irritation. From the time she had been very young, she had known how to keep her temper. Navigating the shifting currents of palace intrigue had required a clear head and absolute concentration, and she had always been afraid of putting a foot wrong. “I think I was in far more danger when I lived at court and people were trying to kill me,” she said softly.

  He didn’t take the bait. “Yes, and any princess might be the target of an assassination attempt at any time, but this is a different kind of danger,” he said. “It’s random and violent and comes from every direction. You’ve been lucky, but luck has a way of abruptly running out. You’re not going back.”

  She smiled at him. “Darien. I appreciate your concern. But it’s not your place to tell me what to do. As long as my mother isn’t worried abo
ut me—”

  “Your mother doesn’t display enough good judgment on her own behalf to make her qualified to care for anyone else.”

  She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “And Zoe isn’t worried about me—”

  “Zoe,” Darien interrupted, “has no sense of propriety whatsoever. Keeping her in check is more exhausting than watching over you.”

  Which was so true that Josetta couldn’t help laughing. Although Zoe was the product of two of the Five Families of Welce—the Ardelays and the Lalindars—she didn’t care a thing for societal rules. Maybe because she had been raised in obscurity while her father endured a long exile. Maybe because she was coru prime, and a woman of blood and water was contrary and difficult to contain. Maybe because she was Zoe.

  “My point is that my blood relatives don’t mind that I spend part of my time in the slums,” Josetta said. “So I don’t think it should be any of your concern.”

  He was silent for a moment, watching her out of those narrowed gray eyes. He wouldn’t curse or shout; Darien, too, knew how to rein in his temper. That was one of the reasons she’d been so surprised, back there in the bar, to see the fury on his face when he was talking to Rafe Adova. She still wondered what the gambler had said to him.

  “I would hate to think,” he said, “that your little shelter would be closed or torn down for some kind of legal infraction.”

  She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, meeting his hard expression with a determined one of her own. Her mother was hunti; Josetta knew how to be as unmovable as stone. “Darien. If you shut down my shelter, I’ll just go back to the slums and minister on the street corners. That’s what I did before. I’ll bring food, I’ll hand out coins and clothing—I’ll go with anyone who asks me to visit a sick girl or a hurt man. Do you think that’s safer?”

  His mouth tightened and he leaned back in his chair, still regarding her with a speculative expression. “I don’t think you realize,” he said, “how very valuable you are. Neither you nor Corene should be roaming around dangerous districts just waiting to be abducted.”

  “Foley is always with me.”

  “One man isn’t enough. If you had three soldiers with you every time you stepped off the Cinque—” He paused and considered for a while, frowning.

  It was difficult enough always including Foley in her calculations; operating with three guards would be cumbersome in the extreme. But she said in a conciliating voice, “Maybe we could talk about this some other time.”

  He nodded. “Very well. But I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Stay here a few days instead of going to your mother’s. Make sure Corene doesn’t suffer any ill effects from this dreadful incident. She’s more likely to talk to you than she is to either of us.”

  “Although I’m sure she doesn’t tell me everything. But if you think it will do any good, I’ll be happy to stay for a while.” She loved her room in this house: It was a place filled with wind chimes and painted birds and soft white-and-yellow patterns. A peaceful elay room, crafted by a turbulent coru prime. Sometimes she felt guilty for liking this house so much more than her mother’s.

  Darien was still talking. “There will be more excitement in the next quintile or two. You might know that I have been negotiating treaties with various foreign nations, and I expect the prince of Berringey and the empress of Malinqua to each come visiting over the summer. Your presence will be essential while they’re here. But even sooner than that—within the next nineday or two—Romelle is bringing Odelia to court. Naturally, I want you and Corene to attend all the dinners and receptions.”

  She was less thrilled with this part of his request, but, of course, she replied in the affirmative. Despite boasting to Rafe Adova that she ran her life to suit herself these days, she still couldn’t imagine shirking her responsibilities as princess.

  “Is Romelle really bringing Odelia this time, or will it be Mally?”

  Darien smiled a bit sardonically. “Isn’t that the point? That we don’t know?”

  “I thought you would know. If it’s the real princess instead of the decoy, won’t you want to marshal more guards?”

  His smile grew wider. “But if I only bring out the palace guards when the real princess is present, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of having a substitute in the first place?”

  She laughed. “Of course! Then I’ll expect to see the castle overrun with soldiers all looking very grim and attentive.”

  “I think they plan a stay of only three or four days. Mirti and the other primes have all agreed to attend—even Kayle is coming up from the coast, under heavy protest, I might add. So it will be quite the gala.”

  She couldn’t help a small groan. “I hate these sorts of things.”

  “So does Zoe. So does everyone.” He smiled. “But consider it an excuse to buy new clothes. Take Corene and go shopping.”

  She favored him with a mock scowl. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  “Whatever works to get what I want.”

  • • •

  Corene was much happier than Josetta was at the prospect of shopping for new clothes—and attending events where she could show them off. So, shortly after she was up and dressed, the two princesses headed off toward the Plaza of Women. They would buy their formal tunics at one of the upscale emporiums in the shop district, but it was always fun to dig through the merchandise at the big open-air booths in the Plaza, looking for exotic accessories at bargain prices.

  Foley accompanied them, of course; Foley always accompanied Josetta. A strongly muscled and mostly taciturn torz man somewhere in his mid-twenties, he had become her principal bodyguard when she was thirteen, and he had seen her through some of her most difficult years. She was used to him hovering behind her like a somewhat willful shadow, always keeping pace with her, always keeping her safe. He worked next to her in the southside shelter, traveled beside her in carriages and elaymotives; he never refused any commission she gave him. And yet there were days he was more a mystery to her than a hooded stranger she might pass on the street.

  “Did Darien give you money? Because I have about three silvers left in my pockets, and that won’t buy much,” Corene said as they set out. They were riding in the smallest of Darien’s many elaymotives, and the driver was carefully negotiating the heavy traffic of the Cinque. Foley sat up front with the driver, and two additional guards clung to perilous perches on the back.

  “Yes, a couple of quint-golds for each of us,” Josetta said. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  They talked fashion for the rest of the short ride. Although she had tightly wrapped her ankle and rather ostentatiously brandished a cane one of the servants had found for her, Corene didn’t seem to be suffering too many ill effects from her disastrous outing, Josetta thought. Still, with Corene, it was always hard to tell. Like her mother, Corene had delicate features and porcelain skin; her compact body looked both graceful and frail. But Alys was as tough as cured leather, and Corene was indomitable, or at least she pretended to be. Josetta had seen her cry when she thought no one was looking. And then grow furious if someone tried to offer her comfort.

  Once they arrived at the Plaza of Women, they alighted and strolled around slowly enough to accommodate Corene’s ankle. It was a big open space—or would have been, if it hadn’t been densely packed with covered booths, unshaded tables, carts and stands and noisy peddlers, all hawking a sumptuous variety of merchandise. It was a perfect day in late Quinncoru, sunny, warm, and somehow playful. Everyone—the merchants, the shoppers, the children darting through the crowds and chased by exasperated mothers—seemed to be in a cheerful mood.

  “It’ll be Quinnahunti soon. We should buy jewelry for changeday,” said Corene, glancing up at Josetta. Corene had always been the small, pretty one, Josetta the tall, ungainly one. Though Josetta h
ad come to like her height and the impression of strength it gave her. “Did you see what Keeli wore last year on changeday? A necklace hung with tiny little skulls and bones! It was creepy but—I kind of liked it.”

  “Over there,” Josetta said. “Someone selling jewelry.”

  They tossed through piles of cheap rings and bracelets, then moved on to a booth where a vendor fresh from the western provinces was selling polished wooden boxes with hidden compartments. “A nice gift for a hunti man,” Josetta observed, though neither of them made a purchase. But at a neighboring stall she was won over by a coin-sized metal disk stamped with the image of a towering, flowering tree. Another hunti symbol. She bought it for her mother to add to Seterre’s collection of charms.

  Corene wandered away while Josetta was paying the vendor, but when Josetta caught up to her, she wasn’t picking through scarves or fabrics at another booth. She was standing quite still, staring thoughtfully at the large raised dais where the blind sisters sat, listening to secrets.

  Josetta glanced between Corene and the seers, three large, soft women who operated here in the Plaza every day, trading in knowledge. They knew everything about everybody; you could buy information with a coin or with information of your own, depending on which was more valuable.

  Josetta had never had occasion to visit them herself, though she knew Zoe had. And probably half the residents of Chialto. If you wanted to find out if a man was honest, if you wanted to find out if a lover was faithful, you came to the blind sisters. If you wanted to spread the word that a merchant had cheated you or a banker had lied to you or your long-lost son had been recovered—

  “Corene?” Josetta said uncertainly.

  Corene was wearing a small smile of satisfaction. “I think I’m going to make a visit to the blind sisters,” she said. “Would you like to come hear what I tell them?”