by Callie Bates
Either way, if I go with him, I can see these people at work. I’ll know who’s against me, and what they’re planning. I’ll know whether I stand a chance of keeping my crown.
I open the door a fraction. The guards look around with a flap of their brilliant cloaks, light-haired Kenna swallowing down a heavy cough. “Are you well?” I ask, worried.
“Yes, my lady.” She straightens with a brisk smile, though her eyes are a bit red.
I decide not to press the issue. “Lord Philippe and I have some work to do,” I tell them. “Please see that we’re undisturbed.”
They both nod, and I close the door. On second thought, I bolt it.
Philippe is still pulling at books, rather unsuccessfully. I pace over to him, drawing the hood of the cloak low over my head. It’s difficult to see around it, but if I can’t see out, hopefully no one will see my face. “How do you know about these passages?”
“Rumors, mostly. King Antoine used to be quite paranoid of spies—and assassins—and there were always stories about the passages he’d place guards on.” His mouth crooks. “They used to joke that an assailant could always get into the palace through the king’s study, since he never once used it.”
I utter a hollow laugh. Naturally, no one has ever told me about such rumors—not even the oh-so-helpful Lord Devalle and his guards, who know perfectly well how much time I’ve been spending here lately. Philippe glances at me, but just then he must have grabbed the right books. There’s a faint clicking noise. We both lean closer. He tugs at the books, and with a low groan a section of bookcase shifts slowly forward.
Cool air breathes out from the opening. I pick up a candle from the desk and lead us into a narrow passageway, pausing on the threshold to examine the floor. It’s dusty, unmarked. Either no one knows how to access this passage, or they haven’t deemed me worthy of spying on, at least not in my study. I feel strangely disappointed.
I slip into the passage, with Philippe following. It’s straight and narrow, and it quickly becomes apparent that the study is merely the last in a series of secret doors. We pass three on the left and four on the right, some cobwebbed, some not. Here, footsteps have clearly disturbed the dust. My skin tightens. What if we meet someone? I whisper to Philippe, “Do you know where we are?”
He hesitates, then admits, “I think we’re passing the state bedchambers. Yours. The ki—the Caveadear’s.”
A chilly hand seems to run up my spine. So Philippe still instinctively refers to Elanna’s chambers as the king’s; they were once Antoine Eyrlai’s. And mine, which I claimed from Loyce, are also accessed by this secret corridor. I shiver.
I have no idea where the secret door is in my bedchamber. Perhaps I had better find out.
The thought spooks me, and I hurry. At the end of the passage, a cramped staircase winds down. I follow its spiral, stiffening every time a noise echoes through the walls. But we meet no one, and the stair ends at a narrow door. I open it cautiously and find myself facing a small hedge. On the other side is the promenade that runs the length of the palace grounds, and a gate leading into the city. I blow out the candle and tuck it into safety under the hedge—and freeze. It appears to be a popular hiding spot. A lantern also huddles beneath the greenery. Someone must have left it for future use, and not long ago, either. The glass is shiny and unblemished.
“I wonder if Lady Elanna used this passage,” Philippe is saying, “when she escaped from Loyce’s guards.”
“Perhaps.” I rise, shaken. Clearly someone has used this lantern much more recently than that. He’s gazing around thoughtfully; he doesn’t seem to have noticed the lantern. I take his arm, and he starts in surprise. I smile at him, as much to distract myself from the thought of unknown persons wandering the secret passage as anything else. We might as well play the part of the courting couple.
We emerge through the gate onto the grand avenue. “Did you know Elanna?” I ask, curious. “Before?”
“Not well. She…” He pauses as if searching for a diplomatic word. It strikes me, for the first time, that even though El grew up here, not everyone might have liked her. “She kept to herself. Very interested in her botanical studies. Of course, Loyce treated her cruelly, and the king doted on her…”
“And you?” I ask. We cross the street, and the fresh spring wind blows, catching the edge of my hood. I grip it quickly to keep it in place, though no one appears to give me a second glance. It’s strange to emerge into the city unrecognized. Coaches and pedestrians throng past, oblivious to the two of us, the press of traffic blocking the long rows of white houses from view.
“Me, what?”
“Were you close to the king, or Loyce?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his head bowed. “Not as close as my mother wished me to be,” he says at last. “Come this way.”
We turn down an alley that darts between the gleaming white row houses, and in the mix of Ereni voices I find myself missing Caeris more than ever. I miss the mossy oaks at Cerid Aven, and the quiet. This is not my city. Why did I ever think these people would accept me easily? If it had happened the other way, I’d feel the same way they do. Yet I still feel guilt, as if thinking this makes me disloyal to Ruadan.
The alley leads us to another street, and another tall alley. We’re between the grand houses of the nobility now, and Philippe seems to be counting the back gates. At last, he stops at one with a fence ornamented with wrought-iron birds, and lets us through. I smell winter roses; the gate is cunningly placed to hide the house from view, except for the high slant of its gray roof. Philippe draws me to a stop beneath a small tree—a pear, I think—its branches tipped with red buds.
He gestures at my face. “Your mask.”
I pull it out, tying it neatly under the deep hood. My heart is thumping. I look at Philippe, with his fine, precise features, his neatly groomed hair. So respectable. Not like Alistar at all. Something flips in my stomach. At first I think it’s the baby, but then I realize it’s me.
Then Philippe covers his face with his own mask, and the moment passes.
The gate creaks behind us—there’s a whisper of conversation—and he takes my hand. Quickly, we tramp along the garden path. A butler is waiting at the back door, wearing a mask, too.
“The true king,” Philippe murmurs, and the man lets us in.
The true king? I feel my gaze narrow.
Philippe hooks his arm through mine. “Relax,” he murmurs in my ear. “You look like any other wealthy girl pretending an interest in rebellion.”
“As long as I don’t open my mouth,” I mutter.
He holds me closer. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it, if I marry him.
The house is as wealthy as I expected, with high coffered ceilings and expensive carpets and paintings by Paladisan masters. The murmur of voices draws us toward a pair of double doors, flanked by two footmen. Their uniforms are carefully neutral. They let us through.
People crowd the room beyond—a ballroom, to judge by the size. There are women in wide silk gowns with rouged lips, and men in jeweled coats. They all wear masks.
A man’s voice rises over the crowd, and suspicion tightens my chest. I turn to Philippe. “Whose house is this?”
His eyes are unreadable behind his mask. “It belongs to Lord Devalle.”
And what, I wonder, have I ever done to Devalle? Of course—I curse under my breath—his damned merchant ships. So much for his claim that he wanted to help us reinstitute trading; it seems he’s decided to bypass me for a better patron.
Two women pass us, their silk skirts swishing. “A little bird told me the Bastard isn’t much longer for her throne—unless the people are willing to have a queen who can’t keep her skirts down.”
The other gasps. “She’s with child?”
“So the mice in the walls say. And by that filthy Dog person, too.”
>
Someone must have been listening through the walls—when I talked to either Teofila or Alistar. Or both. There’s a ringing in my ears. I will—
Philippe nudges my arm. He’s snagged two glasses of punch. I grab mine and take a hasty swallow. He gives no indication that he heard the ladies gossiping, though he’s not deaf and they made no effort to be quiet. Perhaps, I think darkly, it’s old news. Maybe the entire kingdom knows.
But—the Bastard? Is that all I am to them? I suppose it is. My defining feature is that my mother didn’t marry my father. And that, according to some of the more pointed slurs I’ve heard, I stole the throne from him. Even some Caerisians think so.
Philippe nudges me again. “There,” he murmurs, nodding his chin.
I look. Over by the windows, identifiable despite his mask, is Lord Devalle, sleek in a gray silk suit. Standing beside him is another man, his face bare. He wears his dark hair long, gathered back in an old-fashioned queue, though he’s not old—forty, perhaps, at most. He dresses simply in a black coat and trousers, but there’s an expensive sheen to the fabric. His eyes are a pale blue, the skin around them creased, as if he has spent a lifetime being mildly amused.
The women who passed us earlier flurry over to the two men. “Your Grace!” one of them coos.
So this is him—Aristide Rambaud, the Duke of Essez. The man who wants to remove me from my throne. He’s so comfortable—so assured of his own safety—that he doesn’t even trouble to hide his face. His cheekbones are high and aristocratic, and he smiles as the two women curtsy. I feel for the sound of him. It’s bright and fine as cut glass.
I edge closer, pressing between the clusters of chatting nobles. The ranks of windows have deep bays and heavy curtains; it’s easy enough to drift into one, sipping my punch and staring out at the lawn. Listening. Philippe arrives at my elbow, huffing an exasperated breath. He starts to speak but I nudge him silent.
“…your time in Tinan?” one of the women is asking. “Did you see the former queen?”
“Alas, yes.” Rambaud’s voice is deep, and bright with irony. The women are already laughing, and so is Devalle. “King Alfred has assigned her a home in the country—as a hint, you know—but since her husband is his cousin, he can’t forcibly remove her from court. She lives a shadowy approximation of her former style.”
“No doubt Alfred refuses to pay for her whims,” one of the women says.
“Have you spoken to her?” the other asks, still giggling.
“I have been given a cold shoulder each time we inhabit the same room.” Drily, he says, “I gather she blames me for not coming to her rescue when the Caerisians claimed Laon.”
In spite of myself, I wince. I never pitied Loyce Eyrlai before, but now I realize how much it must sting, not only to be removed from one’s throne, but to discover that one has no supporters. Even those who want to get rid of me don’t want Loyce back.
“I confess to missing Queen Loyce, on occasion,” Lord Devalle is saying. “Though she had markedly less intelligence, she was more malleable than the Bastard.”
Philippe makes a soft noise, but I ignore him. I want to hear this.
“Yes, Rambaud,” one of the women says, and though she’s teasing, there’s an edge to her voice, “you might have kept the Caerisians out of Laon. They’re a cursed inconvenience, bumbling about court, inciting all our neighboring lands to war!”
“We’ve had to ration the food on our estate,” the other woman remarks. “You wouldn’t believe how much the peasants complain we’re starving them, and talk on and on of their rights! Why, they’ve even threatened to vote us out of politics. Yet a noblewoman’s duty is to be mother to the people on her lands.”
I suppress a snort. I wonder if it’s ever occurred to her that the people don’t want to be mothered—not by her, anyway. Of course, I have been known to call myself the mother of the people as well. Perhaps we’re both deluding ourselves as to what the people really want. It’s a gloomy thought.
“You shan’t have to endure much longer,” Rambaud says soothingly. “King Alfred and I are in agreement, and the true king will be here soon enough.”
The true king? He can’t mean our true king. Can he? I stare over my shoulder. My movement catches Rambaud’s eye; he looks at me with that faint amusement.
I toast him with my punch glass. Why would Aristide Rambaud have anything to do with Euan Dromahair? Unless he’s simply using the same catchphrase as a mockery of all things Caerisian.
“I do look forward to that,” the high-voiced woman remarks, “but do you have a plan to remove the Caerisians? I fear you don’t understand, since you’ve been gone so long. They cling like barnacles. Barnacles. And the people support them!”
“Naturally, we have a plan for all these matters.” Rambaud is still watching me, one eyebrow lifted. “You’ll find the people realize they love the Caerisians less than they think.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” the woman replies frostily; there’s a warning in her voice.
Interesting. Clearly, despite Rambaud’s protestations, no one actually trusts him to keep his promises.
He’s still got an eye on me, so I turn to Philippe. My punch glass is empty, and I’m feeling a bit light-headed. “Oh, darling,” I coo in my best, perhaps slightly exaggerated, Ereni accent. I swing against him, and instinctively his arm comes around my back. I lean into his warmth and bat my eyelashes at him. “More punch, please?”
“You’re getting soused,” he mutters. “We should go.”
I look at him. With a sigh, he takes the glass.
When he’s gone, it’s easier to turn to face the room, pretending to wait for his return. I listen, hoping for more discussion of this true king, but Rambaud’s conversation has turned toward family matters.
“Is Hermine still in Tinan?” one of the women is asking. “How does she fare?”
“My dear wife is enduring her exile as best she can,” Rambaud says, still with such an ironic slant I can’t decide whether he means it or not, or whether he even likes his wife. “Veronique Manceau is keeping her company. I receive communiqués almost daily praying for their swift return to Laon.”
Philippe’s mother. I tug in a breath; it’s a good thing he’s still at the punch bowl, distracted by another lord.
“And the children?” the woman presses. “How is darling Claudette? I still cherish the memory of her dancing for us last summer!”
Rambaud hesitates. “Claudette has been unwell, alas. I’ve kept her in Eren, but in the country.”
“Oh, the poor child!”
Both women are exclaiming, and so is Lord Devalle. Rambaud smiles reflexively, but his gaze has wandered across the room. I’ve probably gleaned as much as I can from this conversation. Philippe is still at the punch bowl, both his hands occupied with glasses, stuck there while the other lord gestures at him. I smirk. I start to edge forward to rescue him—
“I don’t think we’ve met, madam.”
I startle. Rambaud is at my elbow, having seemingly abandoned his other companions. One of the women glances after us, a frown puckering the skin above her mask.
I curtsy, trying to think fast. Philippe was right—my mind is fuzzy with punch, and I know I can’t fake an Ereni accent well enough to fool Aristide Rambaud. So I say, as winsomely as I can, “I grew up in Caeris, alas. We have not met.”
“A Caerisian, indeed?” He looks rather pleased. “You are most welcome here. I take it you didn’t arrive with your fellow dissenters.”
He gestures across the room to a knot of men and women on the other side of the fireplace. A stone seems to sink in my stomach. One of them is speaking loudly, her Caerisian accent cutting through the din of Ereni accents.
Even my own people?
“I didn’t think I had any fellow countrypeople here,” I say, rather stupidly.
“I imagine you’ve come for the same reason,” Rambaud says, but there’s a question in his voice.
“The—ah—” I think quickly. “I can only imagine they’re angry that Queen Sophy stole the throne from her father. Like I am. They want a ruler who doesn’t throw us into war with the entire world.”
Rambaud’s shoulders ease. “It is a complaint I’ve heard, and in future days it will only grow louder. The true king—”
“Your Grace.” There’s a movement behind me, and then Philippe pushes into our circle, shoving a punch glass at me. He seems slightly out of breath. I glare at him; I could smack him for interrupting just when Rambaud was going to tell me about the true king. He ignores me. “Such a wonderful gathering you’ve organized.”
Rambaud brightens. “If it isn’t Philippe Manceau! You came after all.”
“How could I miss it?” Philippe is starting to sound more hostile than friendly. I take the punch glass and nudge him in the ribs, but he doesn’t seem to take much notice. “All of my dear colleagues in one room, scheming against the queen.”
I wince.
Rambaud’s eyebrow has hitched up. “How fortunate that we still enjoy your company, given such sentiments. But then I hear almost daily from your mother.”
“And I as well,” Philippe says darkly.
“She is eager to be quit of Tinan.”
“Actually, I think she’s in her element.” Philippe nods brusquely. “If you’ll excuse us, I meant to introduce my friend to—”
“My fellow Caerisians,” I supply, having taken a drink of punch.
Philippe looks at me, and I sense he’s suppressing a groan. “Yes.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” Rambaud says to me.
I just nod; Philippe is already maneuvering us away—past the Caerisians, to the door. I struggle against his grip. “We just got here!” I whisper at him. I need to see which Caerisians are in that group.
“You’re getting drunk,” he says flatly. “We came; you met him. We’re leaving.”
“I am not—”
But we’re already out in the corridor, and as I stumble over the carpet, I realize maybe I am. Not drunk, perhaps, but still the small amount of alcohol is making my head spin.