by Sharon Shinn
Josetta shared a look with Corene. They’d been born at the palace and lived there every day until the shocking truth of their parentage was revealed. They’d learned how to navigate the treacherous currents of court life, all right, but the personal costs had been high. Josetta had always been envious of Odelia—and glad for her, too—because she got to spend the majority of her life somewhere less poisonous. Maybe that meant she’d grow up with a clean soul and a whole heart.
“So I assume something happened to make Romelle uneasy about bringing Odelia here,” Mirti said. “What was it?”
“She was at a reception. One of the endless events that you insist on holding whenever she’s in Chialto. And she was in conversation with some well-dressed woman whom she didn’t recognize. And the woman smiled and said, ‘Don’t you ever worry about what might happen to your daughter if someone didn’t want her to take the throne?’ At first Romelle wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. She said, ‘What do you mean?’ And the woman said, ‘If certain people set themselves against little Princess Odelia. If they wanted to get her out of the way.’ And she handed Romelle a packet and walked off.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Darien exploded. “If someone made a threat like that—she should have come for me immediately! She should have called for a guard! If we’d stopped that woman—”
“What was in the packet?” asked Nelson, who had been uncharacteristically silent up to this point.
“She didn’t look right away,” Taro said. “First she ran up to her rooms, terrified, but Odelia was sleeping in her bed and the maids said no one had come in. Nothing at all was amiss. Only then did she open the packet and find—a lock of hair.”
“Odelia’s?” Darien said sharply.
Taro nodded. “She wasn’t sure, of course, until she came to find me. She handed me the packet and asked if I knew who the hair belonged to. When I answered, ‘You’ve cut off one of Odelia’s curls,’ I thought she would faint from fright.”
“Let me say it again,” Darien said, even more grimly. “This news should have been brought to me instantly. I would have found the woman—or at the very least I would have doubled the number of guards at the palace—”
“I’m not sure any measures you could have taken would have been enough to reassure Romelle,” Taro said. “But she feels safe when she is on my property. She knows that I could call a boulder to crush a man if I had any reason to do so—not that I ever have. She believes Odelia is safe there, and it will take a powerful inducement to convince her to put Odelia in danger. No matter how many guards you whistle up.”
Mirti, who always saw through all the clamor and clutter straight to the heart of matters, summed it up. “Then we have two serious problems. One is that someone has made a threat against Odelia’s life. And the other is that Odelia cannot—cannot, Taro, and you know it—live her whole life sequestered away from the palace and still be considered a candidate for the crown.”
“In both cases, the answer is heightened security,” Darien said. “And despite your ability to—to—kill men with random rocks, I hope you have fortified your property while Romelle lives with you.”
“I have.”
“And I will investigate this threat as thoroughly as I can, but—a trail that is more than a year old? It will not be easy to track.”
“Look at it from the other direction,” suggested Nelson. Naturally, it was a sweela man who approached the problem as an intellectual puzzle. “Who might want Odelia dead? Who might benefit?”
Darien spread his hands. “Anyone who sponsors a different candidate for the throne. Hardly a short list!”
“And yet, Odelia was essentially unharmed,” Zoe observed in a considering voice. “If a mysterious woman cut Odelia’s hair off, she could certainly have smothered the child in her crib.” When everyone cried out at that, she added impatiently, “Well, she could have. But she didn’t. She just wanted to frighten Romelle. Maybe she just wanted to keep her out of the city. Undermine her position with the primes and the regent and the governing council.”
Now they were all staring fixedly at Zoe.
“Are you saying—” Mirti began, then stopped, appalled.
Zoe shrugged. “Who doesn’t have nearly as much power now as she used to? Who is not only vengeful and ambitious, but has access to the private corridors of the palace? Who would do something like this?”
“My mother,” Corene said.
Darien’s hands were clenched. “I’ll murder her.”
“You don’t have a shred of proof,” Mirti said. “Just because you hate her doesn’t mean she’s guilty of every crime in the city.”
Zoe opened her eyes wide. “There wasn’t a crime. There’s nothing to prosecute, because no harm was done. There was just intimidation and suggestion. Who’s skilled with those particular weapons?”
This time nobody answered, but Josetta knew everyone was thinking the same thing.
“I’ll look into it,” Darien said. “I’ll have another conversation with Alys and see where it leads. I wouldn’t have thought any meeting could be worse than our last one, but I see I was wrong.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” asked the always practical Mirti. “Allow Romelle to pretend that the false princess is the true one? Allow her to hide Odelia on some isolated farm away from all society and sophistication?”
“It’s not as remote as you make it sound,” Taro drawled. “We even have gaslight. And elaymotives.”
Darien pressed a hand to his temple. And I’m sure he thought his life would get easier once Vernon died, Josetta thought, feeling a little sorry for him. Darien had kept all of the king’s dreadful secrets and never let them break him, but she had to think even a hunti man would wear down after a while.
“I don’t know what we do next,” Darien admitted. “But I think first we need to let Romelle know that we’re aware of the substitution. We understand why she thinks it’s necessary, but we can’t allow the situation to continue indefinitely. And we must assure her that we can keep the true princess safe.”
Taro sighed heavily and hauled himself to his feet. The rest of them more slowly followed suit. “I’ll go tell her,” he said. “No doubt Zoe’s visit has left her in a frenzy anyway.”
As soon as he was out the door, Mirti wiped a hand across her face. “I’m so tired I could lie down here on the floor and fall straight to sleep,” she said. She maintained quarters in the palace, so she didn’t have far to go before she could seek her bed. “Go home, all of you! We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Hold on a moment,” Nelson said, catching at Darien’s arm to keep him in place.
“What is it?”
Nelson waited until the sounds of Taro’s footsteps had faded away. “People like to say the sweela primes can read minds, which we can’t,” he said. “But we can tell when people aren’t speaking the truth.”
Darien just stared at him mutely, waiting for the blow to fall.
“I don’t know why, and I’m not sure about exactly what, but Taro was lying.”
TEN
Rafe was a little surprised and a little relieved to learn that Samson hadn’t given his room away while he’d been missing.
“Thought you’d be back,” Samson greeted him when he showed up at the tavern six days after he’d been there last. He inspected Rafe’s lingering cuts and bruises. Rafe had dispensed with the head bandage days ago, making sure his hair covered the half-healed ear, but his appearance was still a little rough. “Looks like you’ve been mixing it up with a few folks,” Samson observed. “Becko and his ugly boys?”
Rafe shook his head. “Strangers, if you can believe it.”
“Any of them look as bad as you do?”
Rafe laughed ruefully. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re too soft,” Samson said. “And you owe me a nineday’s rent.”
/> Rafe handed over the money, bought a loaf of bread and some fruit a day away from rotten, and headed up to his room, thinking over Samson’s comments. He’d always considered himself as hard as he needed to be—a reasonably good fighter, a shrewd thinker, a man who could take care of himself. He’d always been good at sizing up opponents, whether on the street or across the card table, measuring his strengths against another man’s weaknesses, and exploiting those weaknesses when he had to.
But he’d never been ruthless. He’d never been brutal. He’d seen those traits on display plenty of times in other men, and he’d deliberately turned away. Did that make him soft? Or did that make him a better man than the people he saw around him every day?
Did that make him a better man than his circumstances had led him to believe?
He let himself into his room and made one slow, thorough inspection. Yes, there were a few careless souvenirs of an imperfect search made by Samson or one of his lackeys; he wouldn’t have expected any differently. Samson had to know what kind of valuables might be lying around upstairs, didn’t he, in case the absent tenant never returned, in case city guards came calling with news of a crime? Only a few things were missing—some loose coins he kept in a bottom drawer, a woman’s ring he’d won a few ninedays ago and never bothered to sell. Small items he’d never miss or at least not bother to argue over.
He sat at the small table by the unlit fire and made a brief, not particularly satisfying meal.
If he was too soft, how could he toughen up?
If he was too good for the life he was currently leading, how did he find his way into a better one?
How good would he have to be to return to Josetta on something closer to equal terms?
The last question made his lips twist in a wry smile. He might claw his way out of the slums through some combination of luck and hard work, but he would never be fit to approach a princess as an equal. Insanity to think so.
He finished his abbreviated meal and touched his pocket just to make sure his cards were there. But his fingers felt forgotten shapes through the thin fabric, and he pulled out the three coins he had drawn from the barrel in Josetta’s temple.
Synthesis. Time. Triumph.
A man with those three blessings might do anything. If a blessing possessed any power, any magic at all.
• • •
Rafe slipped back into his ordinary life as if he had not been knocked completely askew by the events of the past nineday. He played cards most of the night, slept most of the day, won more than he lost, and spent every last quint-copper he brought home. He was restless, though, and that was new. He’d always been able to endure the dullest conversation, the slowest night, with natural equanimity. But now boredom was his constant companion, sitting beside him as he shuffled the deck, waiting for the next game to start, matching him stride for stride when he strolled down the streets. He was jumpy, he was impatient, and he only managed to hide his tension because he was very good at concealing his thoughts.
He knew, though, what was putting him on edge. It was the countdown of the days, one gone, then two, then suddenly seven. Two more and it would be firstday again, and he had promised to take dinner with Josetta at the shelter.
He was sure she remembered the invitation. He was sure she remembered the kiss. He was certain she expected him to show up anyway. He knew that only his own death would prevent him.
On the eighth day, he gambled hard and won big, a pile of silvers and quint-golds that any reasonable man would carry right over to a bank the following morning. But Rafe headed instead to the Plaza of Women with its endless booths and vendors. He couldn’t return to Josetta empty-handed. But what kind of present did you buy for an elay woman? He wasn’t used to shopping for anyone. He had no idea what kind of gift would be appropriate.
He wandered for at least an hour, bewildered by the unending variety of merchandise, from severely practical hand tools to purely ornamental glass figurines. He stood for a long time in front of a booth lined with small mesh cages, each filled with a live fluttering prism of butterflies in all colors and sizes. Butterflies were elay, weren’t they? Would Josetta be delighted by their delicate, powdery wings and jewel-bright colors? Maybe—but she was just as likely to be horrified at their captivity and set them all free. Rafe moved on.
He tried for a while to find gifts that would match her own particular blessings—beauty, grace, and joy—but he couldn’t think how to translate them into concrete objects. In the end, he selected items that were more about him than they were about her, but they had a sense of rightness to them.
In a musician’s stall he found a tiny toy flute, the size of his little finger, made of chased silver and set with topaz stones. “It’s not meant to be played, though it will produce a few notes,” the vendor told him. “It’s just supposed to be pretty.”
“It is that,” Rafe agreed, handing over his coins.
Fish were easy to come by—almost too easy—he didn’t find one he actually liked until he spotted a jeweler who’d laid out rows of bracelets. One was hung with dozens of fish-shaped charms, some carved from onyx or carnelian, others cast from silver or gold. When he lifted the bracelet from its velvet cushion, the charms all chimed together with a happy sound.
“I want this one,” he said.
He was taken by a wreath of red silk roses, small enough to set on a woman’s head like a crown, and he couldn’t resist a whimsical reproduction of the royal palace constructed from miniature horseshoes and leather cord. He’d doubted he would find a skull that was a suitable present for a gently bred young woman, but Quinnahunti changeday was just around the corner, and there were skeletons everywhere. The skull he finally selected had been carved from some gorgeously veined piece of hardwood and burnished to a high shine; its blank face somehow possessed an expression of contentment, as if it had looked on a lifetime of failures and successes and had finally won through to peace. Rafe held it in his hand a long time, just because he liked the feel of the wood, and he was smiling when he finally made his purchase.
Unusual courting gifts, maybe, but they suited him. He hoped they would suit Josetta as well.
• • •
There had to be thirty people crowded into the main room of the shelter on the evening of firstday, and more of them were arriving every minute. Rafe headed straight back to the kitchen and offered his services to Callie.
“I’d be grateful,” she said. “Can you carry that pot in? Then come back for the bread.”
When Josetta showed up a half hour later, Rafe was hustling between the kitchen and the dining tables, wearing one of Callie’s aprons, and holding a pan full of dirty dishes. There’s a nice, romantic picture for you, he thought ruefully, nodding at her across the tables. But she looked pleased, or so it seemed. Glad to see him working for the common cause. Or maybe just glad to see him. Five minutes later she had joined Callie and the girls in the endless exchange of full and empty platters, clean and dirty plates. Bo stood at the sink washing dishes as fast as he could, while Foley tended items in the oven. Of Caze and Sorbin there was no sign.
“Is it always this crazy on firstday?” Rafe demanded when there was a brief lull.
“It’s because changeday is almost here,” Josetta explained. “More people come into the city for the holiday.”
“And because it’s warm weather,” Callie put in. “More people living on the streets. In the cold weather, a lot of them find places to stay, even with relatives they hate. In the summer, they work up the courage to leave.”
It was another hour before things really settled down—most of the tables empty, most of the food eaten. Josetta took off an apron she’d tied over her tunic and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Hungry?” she asked Rafe.
“Starving, actually. If there’s anything left to eat.”
Callie pointed to a covered roasting pan sitting on t
he edge of the stove. “I always hold a little in reserve for us. We can’t care for others if we don’t take care of ourselves.”
Josetta and Rafe filled their plates and carried them out to the dining area, choosing spots at a table where no one else was sitting. Under his arm Rafe carried a wrapped bundle full of Josetta’s gifts, which he’d stored in the kitchen while they worked. Full dark had fallen by now, so the big room was lit with flickering candlelight that softened the hard edges of the utilitarian space and painted dancing shadows on Josetta’s face.
She smiled and toasted him with her water glass. “I’m so glad to see you again,” she said.
“You didn’t think I’d come, did you?” he challenged. “Even after I promised.”
She moved her head in an equivocal motion. “I thought you might show up at midnight and stay a half hour. I didn’t expect you to roll up your sleeves and start working.”
“Trying to impress you.”
“Good job.” She took a small bite before asking, “How have you been feeling? Are your wounds healing up all right?”
He moved his shoulders in an experimental shrug. “The one in my side still bothers me, especially if I get too tired. But it’s not infected or anything. I think my ear’s fine.”
“Maybe Callie can take a look at them. Since you’re here.”
“Since I’m here,” he echoed. “What about you? How’s your nineday been?”
She looked for a moment as if she were reviewing recent catastrophes. “Full of unexpected and not always pleasant events.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he said, “Princessy stuff, I guess.”
“And sister stuff.”
“Is everything better now?”
“Not really.”
“Can I—I mean, it seems unlikely, but can I do anything to help?”
Her face softened into a smile. “If I think of anything, I’ll keep the offer in mind.”
“How’s Corene?”
She looked worried again. “I’m not sure. Lately we’ve learned some things about her mother that have . . . well. She always knew Alys was selfish and manipulative, but she always thought Alys cared for her. Now she’s not so sure. And I think it’s really hurting her. Not that she’d ever say so.”