The Spy Princess

by Sherwood Smith

  We rolled through the village. As usual, some kids shied rocks. This time I recognized the boys and girl who made the crook-leg sign, yelling insults. I had played games with them the day before, but if I stepped outside the carriage they would hate me.

  Bren sent a worried glance at Peitar, who didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he was looking at the chalk drawings on one of the village fences. This seemed to worry Bren even more. Peitar glanced at Bren, then back at the fence. He gazed so intently that he turned his head, studying the drawings until they were out of sight.

  “There’s an artist in Riveredge, I see,” he finally said.

  When Bren’s face turned tomato red, I exclaimed, “You did those drawings?”

  Bren stared down at his hands. “Derek told you? I wish he hadn’t.”

  I was even more amazed when Peitar smiled. “It’s all right, Bren. My mirror has already told me what I look like.”

  “No, Lord Peitar,” Bren said to his lap. “It’s mean. Like Lilah said.”

  Peitar made a placating gesture. “I’ll live. The most important thing is your talent. After we get things resolved, you ought to be sent to one of the art guilds for training. As for my title, you can drop that in private. I agree wholeheartedly with Derek that titles, used to divide people from one another, are pernicious.”

  “Derek says art is for nobles,” Bren mumbled, and when Peitar went back to his letter, he stared out the window as if his life depended on watching the countryside.

  As the morning wore on, the flat fields and meadows gave way gradually to hills, farms, and dark green stretches of woodland. We changed horses twice and kept going at a fast pace. There were a few old castles, most dating back to the days when Sarendan was a lot of tiny duchies and princedoms all squabbling with one another.

  “Do you know who lives in that one?” Bren asked almost every time.

  “That castle has an exciting history, but boring people live there now,” I’d say, or, “They’re all a bunch of snobs, but their ancestors had great adventures.” Finally Bren turned on me. “Why is it you think everybody in history is interesting, but everyone now is boring?”

  “That’s because they are.”

  “That’s because we wear our masks yet,” Peitar murmured. “And only when time passes will the masks come off, in memoirs.”

  Peitar did not mean real masks, of course. Lasva the Wanderer had talked about the masks of falsity, the way we hid what we were really thinking as we displayed our good manners. Well, we had to, didn’t we? If we told our uncle what we really thought, there’d be trouble. I wasn’t sure what kind, but I could feel the tension in the adults if he was in a bad mood, and I saw the way they watched him for reactions.

  That was why the histories were interesting, because people did things. I’d just begun doing interesting things, but that was because of Derek. Now I’d be stuck at court.

  I kept brooding until Peitar set his letter down and said, “Shall we eat? It’s past midday.”

  “I’m supposed to serve you.” Bren knelt on the floor of the coach and reached into the shelf below our seat.

  “We can all help ourselves. And you eat, too,” Peitar said. “But if you’re ever with Father, remember to stand in the background, ready for orders.”

  Bren pulled out the hamper. The bread was still warm. I helped unpack fishcakes, four kinds of fruit tarts, cheese, bread and butter, and two jugs, one of water and one of Cook’s fruit punch that was tart, not sweet. Bren attacked the food with such enthusiasm it was fun to watch. Peitar toyed with his, as usual.

  Afterward, my brother said slowly, “Lilah. Bren, you too. In case the trouble that faces the kingdom gets too much to bear, you should know a secret. You may tell your cousin, Bren, but that’s all.”

  Bren looked up, surprised.

  Peitar turned his attention to me. “Have you heard of the Valley of Delfina? Mother used to go there after she’d been ill. When I was small she took me.”

  “It’s in a bunch of our histories,” I said. But that was all I knew.

  “It lies to the south, in the highest mountains. Only one way in, and that’s by magic.”

  “Magic!” Bren and I said it together.

  “Mother taught me the spell before she died. She said to use it as a retreat if I needed it, once I got old enough to travel on my own, and I was to choose the time to tell you. I think . . . that time might be now. See this?” He made a different complicated gesture with each hand, at the same time.

  “Yergh,” I said. “It looks like you’re making your fingers into knots.”

  “Practice. It’s not meant to be easy.”

  We practiced. Bren’s clever fingers got it much sooner than my clumsy ones. Peitar made us practice more, until we could do it without thinking. Then he taught us the words to say while we were doing the signs. They sounded like Old Sartoran.

  When he was sure we had it, he said, “This will only work if you reach a certain point in the mountains, though exactly where I don’t remember.” He smiled. “Once you’re high enough, you make the sign.” His smile flashed briefly into a grin. “You’ll figure out what to do. I’m going to leave it as a surprise, partly because you’ll enjoy it, and partly because it has to stay a secret. If ever you need to get away, that’s where you can go to be safe.” He looked at us intently, and we both nodded.

  “South?” I asked. “But—wait. Those mountains are behind Diannah Forest, and we all know it’s infested with criminals.”

  “You’ll be all right,” Peitar said.

  I glared at him. “How? I’ve heard Father talking about them, and even Uncle was complaining once that he sends warriors but the thieves always seem to know when they’re coming, and vanish—but reappear as soon as there’s a trade caravan. Or nobles. Like us.”

  Bren said, “Even I’ve heard bad things about Diannah Forest.”

  Peitar shook his head. “Just promise you’ll do as I say, will you?”

  “Yes. But I hate secrets that you won’t share for some stupid reason.”

  “And I hate the possession of secrets that are not mine to share.”

  My mind filled with questions, but Peitar’s brow was tense again, the faint pain-lines beside his mouth deeper. He returned to writing his letter—something he clearly was not enjoying—and said nothing more.

  Bren glanced my way and made a face. I suspected he wanted to discuss this as much as I did—but later, when we could be alone. He was intimidated by Peitar, though I couldn’t imagine why. Peitar was just Peitar, my gentle brother, and no threat to anyone.

  • • •

  AS THE DAY waned, the road took us through a close-growing pine wood, and then wound down toward the long, snaky lake called Tseos.

  “That’s beautiful,” Bren exclaimed.

  We let the window down, and then he almost fell out of the carriage looking at Miraleste, built along the hills over the lake. I’d read in several histories how beautiful everyone thought the city, but to me, it had always meant boredom—or worse, him. My uncle.

  “That side of the lake’s all built up,” Bren said, pointing. “Why not the other?”

  “It’s crown land,” Peitar said. “All private preserve. There are a few summer residences, but they are all hidden away.”

  “Supposedly everyone wants to stay at the lake palaces in the summer,” I added. “I don’t know why, since my uncle hates parties and boat races.”

  “The attraction of power overcomes a lot of social defects,” Peitar said, sitting back on his cushions. “They have the parties same as always, and Uncle Darian is the first one invited. Even if he never goes.” His sardonic expression brought our uncle to mind, and I shuddered.

  Bren poked me. “What’s wrong?”

  “He looked just like Uncle when he said
that.”

  “That’s probably the worst thing you’ve ever said to me, Lilah.”

  “Well, it’s true,” I began defensively, and then I realized Peitar was only teasing.

  Bren gazed round-eyed from Peitar to me. “You really don’t like the king, do you?”

  “Is that so hard to believe? You don’t, either!” I exclaimed.

  “Well, that’s different. I mean, he’s your uncle, and you’re nobles, and I guess I always believed all the nobles liked the king.”

  Peitar observed, “I’m afraid of him, and sometimes I’m afraid for him.” Bren’s eyebrows rose, but Peitar’s gaze had gone distant, and so Bren turned to me.

  I couldn’t resist. “He almost had me executed when I was little!”

  Bren’s mouth dropped open.

  I sneaked a peek at Peitar, whose thoughts weren’t so distant anymore. He gave me a funny look, and I amended, “Well, Father thought so, anyway.”

  “What happened?” Bren asked.

  “I don’t remember a lot of it,” I admitted. “It wasn’t long after Mother died. They made me dress up fancier than ever, so I couldn’t move. And Great-Aunt Tislah would tweak me and pinch me and mutter about how good and sweet my mother always was as a little girl, and how she never, ever mussed her gowns. Anyway, I guess Uncle missed Mother. . . .”

  “I think Mother was the only real friend he ever had,” Peitar said. “The only person he loved.”

  “I don’t think he loves anyone,” I cut in. “That’s why I hate him! See, Bren, the older relatives kept pushing me at him, telling me to smile, to be sweet.”

  “They were hoping you’d become a court favorite,” Peitar said, again with the smile I hated so much.

  “Well, I sure ended that! When Aunt Tislah put me on his lap, I shoved him away and said in as loud a voice as I could that he felt like a snail.”

  Bren nearly collapsed. “A s-snail! The king! A snail!” He hiccupped, and then said, “Why, is he all clammy and moist?”

  “No, not at all. But he’s so . . . so, oh, so cold. It was all I could think of. I was really little,” I added.

  “Snail. Hoola-loo! So you were gonna be executed for that?”

  “Father swept me away, that’s all I remember, and shoved me in the coach, and yelled at me the entire time. Then Uncle’s men came and made the coach turn around, and Father was screaming about how they’d kill us.” The memory sent chilly prickles along my arms.

  “And what happened when you got back to the palace?”

  “I was crying and apologized as best as I could, but Uncle Darian just laughed. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him laugh, but it wasn’t a nice laugh. Then he said, ‘Get her out of my sight,’ in that winter voice of his. Lizana is always telling me I have no tact, and I sure hadn’t then. Before we got out the door, I said, ‘You aren’t gonna . . . hexacute me?’ and he said, ‘No, you’re too small.’ He was joking.”

  Bren whistled. “That’s a joke?”

  “My uncle’s kind of joke. He’s pretty much ignored me ever since.”

  “So that ended Lilah’s political career,” Peitar said. “That is, until this visit.”

  Now Bren looked confused. “We’re going so I can get betrothed,” I moaned.

  “Well, that’s pretty disgusting,” he said, making a hideous face. “Marriage! And that’s another reason I’m glad I’m not a noble.”

  Peitar gave him a wry look. “I’m reliably told that most people, whatever their degree in life, eventually grow up, pair off, and have families.”

  “Maybe. But no one makes you when you’re a kid, just because of politics.”

  “There’s the city gate ahead.” Peitar gestured for us to get ready for our arrival.

  “Yes,” Bren said. “And a betrothal for Lilah!” He snickered all the way down the rest of the road, until we got there.

  nine

  The gates stood open. All along the walls paced armed guards. One saluted our drivers with a gauntleted fist; the blade of his spear gleamed red in the light of the sinking sun.

  The buildings on the south side were crowded together, and warriors patrolled in great numbers. Everything appeared orderly, but as we headed uphill to the west side, where the nobles lived, people stared, their faces closed. Twice someone threw things at our carriages. I jumped at a loud thok! against the door. The second time, there was a yell, “Soul-sucking noble! You’re all thieves! Go to Norsunder where you belong!”

  I stayed put, not wanting to see the angry face behind that voice—or what the warriors would do if they found the shouter.

  Many of the fine mansions along the west side were empty. Nobles preferred to stay on their country estates during the summer, where it was cooler, if they weren’t invited to the lake palaces.

  At long last we neared the royal palace, on the highest hill overlooking the lake. Bren peered intently at the slate roofs and ironwork rails until we were waved through the palace gates. Our carriages rolled past the great flagstone parade court, through the carefully tended gardens, and came to a stop in the secluded, tiled entrance to the family wing.

  “Once I’m out, take my desk,” Peitar said to Bren. “Keep it with you. It’s important. Don’t let any of the king’s or my father’s servants near it.”

  Bren nodded, then opened the door and went to let down the stairs.

  Father was just getting out of his coach, and his valet fluttered around him, making sure that the folds of the traveling coat draped properly over the jewel-chased sheath of the dress sword and twitching the side curls of Father’s wig into place. I could hear Father complaining as another handed him his ensorcelled handkerchief of pure lace.

  I followed my brother down the steps as a damp wind gusted off the lake, pulling at my hair and skirts. Bren, clutching Peitar’s lap desk tightly, sent me a last, nervous look.

  A steward bowed to Father. “You are requested to wait upon His Majesty at once, Your Highness, if that pleases you.”

  My father turned up his nose as he undid his baldric and handed his sword to his valet. “Well, then, I needn’t keep that.” No one went armed to private interviews with the king. He beckoned impatiently, and we took the wide, curving stair, our steps muffled by the thick violet and blue carpet until we reached Uncle Darian’s informal parlor. Old, gray-haired Steward Halbrek opened the door, his face blank as he bowed us in.

  Father swept a low courtly bow, for there was the king, standing by the window with its view of bleak sky and wind-ruffled lake. Everyone was supposed to dress formally, according to rank, but Uncle Darian wore a plain tunic and sash of dark violet with hints of gold—the Irad colors—long trousers, and riding boots.

  The light on the king’s face made him look very much like a grown version of Peitar, which was unsettling because I never really could think of him as an uncle, as family. At least Father did care for us in his way, despite his frowns and fusses. Uncle Darian was too remote, too cold, too dangerous in his moods—too much the king and never our uncle.

  He gave a careless wave toward the fine chairs.

  Father was, as usual, clearly disturbed by the king’s impatience with what he considered proper courtly manners. Or maybe it was because Uncle Darian was in a bad mood. Still, he sank into the chair with a grateful sigh and mopped his brow.

  The light then shifted on my uncle’s stern face; it was our turn. I dropped my best curtsey. “Good evening, Uncle Darian.” And I retreated to the farthest chair.

  Peitar bowed, also murmuring his greeting.

  Uncle Darian’s mouth tightened. “Put that thing in the fire,” he said, gesturing at Peitar’s crutch. “Leaning on it will never make you straight. You are not yet too old to learn strength of will.”

  Peitar’s expression did not change. He did as ordered. Then, as the crutc
h began to burn, he made his painful way to the chair next to mine.

  The king turned his attention back to Father. “Tasenja and his boy are here. You’ve explained?” I sat up straight as Father bowed his head in agreement. “Do you understand what’s expected of you, Lilah?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I bleated.

  His brows contracted in a slight frown. “The betrothal ceremony will take place next month, but you and the boy will meet now.”

  I knew what he meant: he wanted us to meet in private now, in case I made a fuss. Though my last mistake had been made when I was barely old enough to talk, he’d clearly never forgotten it. I couldn’t help but grimace.

  He almost laughed as he said, “Prospect of a betrothal turns your stomach?”

  “She’ll do what she’s told, Your Majesty,” Father said.

  “Yes, she will.” Uncle Darian pulled the cord for the steward. “Bid Lord Tasenja and his son join us.”

  Peitar caught my eye and lifted his chin: Courage, he was saying, plain as anything.

  Meeting this boy didn’t mean I was marrying him—now or ever. If Derek had his way, the choice would be never. Until then, I could play along. Wear a mask, as Peitar had said.

  Lord Tasenja was vaguely familiar—short and plump, with blond hair carefully curled at the sides and back.

  The son was also short, blond, and stocky. He strutted forward and tossed back his wrist-lace before bowing expertly before Uncle Darian, and then—in just the right degree—to my father. Two half-bows for Peitar and me, and then he stood, courtly nose in the air.

  At a look from my father, I rose and made my curtseys. Lord Tasenja surveyed me, from the hair bows trying to hold back curls that were already unraveling to my embroidered slippers, which had grown tight since our last visit here. He did not appear impressed.