by Sharon Shinn
“Why did you agree to come here in the first place?”
Melissande appeared to debate her answer. “My mother thought it would be a good idea for me to be somewhere other than Cozique for a quintile or two.”
Corene couldn’t help smiling. “A scandal, then.”
“A very small one. Though my mother did not see it that way.”
“If you don’t marry here, will she take you back?”
There was the briefest pause before Melissande laughed and said airily, “Oh, I am sure she would! I could go home at any time.”
Corene had the sense that Melissande was lying, but she merely nodded and said, “So the stakes aren’t as high for you as they could be.”
“No. How high are they for you?”
It was the first direct question Melissande had posed, and she asked it so lightly that it would be easy to think she didn’t care about the answer. But Corene was pretty sure the other girl was burning with curiosity.
She didn’t have anything to hide, so she answered honestly. “As high as I want them to be, I think,” she said. “I was raised knowing I might very well take the throne, so it’s been something of a shock to be pushed out of the running. I like the idea of being empress in Malinqua—though not if I don’t like Malinqua.”
“And you? Could you go home?”
“I could,” she said. “I don’t know that I want to.” No one would prevent me from returning, but maybe they’re just as glad that I’m gone.
“And how did your parents present to you this grand opportunity of sailing away to a foreign court to try to win favor with its heirs?”
Corene laughed soundlessly. “Filomara told my father she wanted a blood alliance, and he flatly refused to let me go. So I stowed away on her ship without his permission.”
Melissande sat up in her chair, practically bouncing with excitement. “A runaway princess! Oh, that is so much better than an obedient daughter! Your mother? Was she also reluctant to see you go?”
For the life of her, Corene couldn’t prevent her bitter expression. “My mother—is only interested in what advantage I can bring to her. I assume she was delighted to hear what I’d done.” She lifted her eyes to meet Melissande’s. “My parents are not married, you understand. My father was an advisor to the old king, and my mother was one of the queens who needed help to conceive. Now that Vernon is dead, my father has been chosen to be the next king, and he is already siring his own line of heirs. He has a new wife and a new daughter, and everyone loves them all.”
“Ah,” Melissande said. She nodded, clearly familiar enough with court dynamics to fill in all the details to that story. “Yes. I, too, would have run away at the first opportunity! What woman of spirit would not?”
That made Corene grin, banishing the bitterness. “Exactly! So there are the two of us—”
“The rebellious ones,” Melissande supplied.
“There is also the silent but valuable Alette, and the well-behaved, well-liked Liramelli. Very clear choices for the nephews, I would imagine. Is there anyone else who might be competing with us?”
“Any of the high-born women of Malinqua would be suitable brides, so in theory the possibilities are infinite,” Melissande replied. “Until recently, Sarona was considered a top contender to marry Greggorio, but lucky for us, she is gone now.”
“Gone where?”
Melissande spread her hands. “I cannot be certain! Some people say she ran away with a lover because she did not really care about Greggorio and she could not bear to pretend any longer. Some people believe Filomara paid her parents to send her away because she wasn’t good enough to be a royal bride. It is most mysterious.”
Melissande spoke lightly, but Corene felt an uneasy chill gather between her shoulder blades. “Mysterious indeed,” Corene said slowly. “Girls from well-connected families don’t usually just vanish overnight.”
For a moment, Melissande’s expression was deadly serious; in that instant, Corene read on her face stark knowledge about all the ways and all the reasons a young woman might disappear from court. “They do not,” she agreed.
“Should we worry that someone might find us unsuitable candidates for the Malinquese throne?” Corene asked bluntly.
Melissande opened her blue eyes in an expression of exaggerated shock. “If I were to disappear under suspicious circumstances, my mother’s navy would burn Palminera to the ground!” she exclaimed. “Welce might not have the same military might, but surely your disappearance would also invite reprisals. Filomara is looking to form alliances, not gain enemies. I am certain we are quite safe. No matter what happened to Sarona.”
Corene shrugged her shoulders, managing to dislodge the chill. “You’re probably right.”
Melissande offered her bright smile again. “And all that matters is that Sarona has left the field clear for us,” she said. “It will be interesting to see if either of us snares a royal husband.”
FOUR
The first dinner at the palace in Malinqua was every bit as uncomfortable as the worst state dinner Corene had ever sat through in Chialto, despite Filomara’s boast about how simply she maintained her court.
Corene followed Melissande’s advice and wore one of her plainer outfits, though it was still very fine—an off-white tunic and matching pants in a loose, flowing fabric, every hem and border heavily ornamented with ivory beads and raised stitching. But most of the Malinquese contingent seemed to be competing with each other to see who could put together the most severe ensemble. Almost everyone wore either unrelieved black or white; the short, close-fitting jackets hid physical flaws as well as assets, while the plain trousers didn’t flatter anyone.
“Looks like I could have worn my work clothes and fit right in,” Steff muttered to Corene as they stepped from a small anteroom into the larger dining room. You certainly couldn’t call his blue tunic or black trousers very fancy, but in this group, any splash of color was as dramatic as a scream. Melissande, who was there before them, looked just as vivid in her own indigo dress.
No servants bothered to announce them, so they stood in the doorway for a moment and looked around. It was a pretty enough space, not too big, with more of that plain but well-made wood furniture softened by a thick rug and fluttering drapes. All in all, it looked like the casual dining room at some nobleman’s hunting lodge in the far provinces, Corene thought—comfortable but hardly elegant. Not what she would have expected from anyone with taste or money.
There were probably twenty people in the room, grouped together in casual conversation. After Melissande’s detailed descriptions, Corene found it easy to pick out the three nephews who were vying for a place on the throne. The remaining individuals were probably council members, the prefect and his wife, and one or two other high-ranking officials. She was delighted to note that Sattisi and Bartolo were nowhere in sight. Not important enough to join this elite group—or perhaps so sick of Corene that they begged off this particular meal. Both possibilities made her smile.
Corene caught a few surreptitious glances thrown their way, but no one actually addressed them until Filomara came over to greet them. “Here you are,” she said. “I hope you’re all settled in?”
“Yes, thank you,” Corene said, and Steff merely nodded.
“Let me introduce you around,” the empress said.
Everyone else gave up pretending to talk to each other and faced the door, motionless and curious. Filomara went around the room, simply pointing at people and giving their names. The acknowledgments were shallow bows or polite nods, depending on how high the individuals ranked, and Corene copied their responses. Steff copied her.
Garameno was the last to be introduced, and he pushed his wheelchair closer to them as soon as his name was sounded. “Welcome to Malinqua,” he said. Corene thought he looked too much like the empress to be handsome—square-jawed and somewhat
craggy—but he had a slightly friendlier aspect. His dark brown eyes were alert and intelligent, and he looked inquiringly from Steff’s face to Corene’s.
“This is Princess Corene, daughter of the third wife of King Vernon, late of the country of Welce,” Filomara said. “She’ll be staying with us awhile.” She glanced at Steff. “And this is Steffanolo Adova, an interesting young man I met in my travels through that country.”
She doesn’t want to identify him until his blood’s been tested, Corene realized. It left Steff in a somewhat awkward position—but not as awkward as it would be if he’d been introduced as her grandson then proved to be a fraud.
“What makes him so interesting?” Garameno asked.
“Perhaps just the fact that I like him,” Filomara said, which elicited a ripple of laughter.
“That makes him rare and special indeed,” Garameno said, and again the others laughed lightly. Garameno lifted a hand from his armrest and gestured at Steff. “Come sit by me at dinner and tell me how you entertained my aunt on the long journey from Welce.”
Steff cast a swift despairing look at Corene, then followed Garameno. There were twenty place settings at the table but only nineteen chairs; Garameno rolled up to that open spot, and Steff took the seat beside him.
“I’m not that entertaining,” Steff said. “So I hope you’re not expecting much.”
“I’m sure you’re more fascinating than you realize,” Garameno replied.
If possible, Steff looked even more alarmed at that, but Corene’s gaze narrowed as she studied Garameno. He knows about Steff, she thought. Despite the empress’s extraordinary efforts to keep Steff’s existence a secret, somebody had learned the truth.
Jiramondi stepped up to Corene. “Perhaps the princess from Welce would be willing to sit by me?” he said. “I won’t expect you to be entertaining. I know you’ve had a long journey.”
“Of course,” Corene said, and followed him to the table.
Within moments, the others had seated themselves as well, picking chairs and dinner partners apparently at random. Corene couldn’t tell if there was some secret protocol they were all following; at the palace in Chialto, the matter of who would sit where at a state dinner might take days to determine. The informality here would be refreshing except for the high level of tension.
Once they were all in place, servants appeared and began serving. Most of the food items looked familiar enough that Corene could identify the meats and vegetables, but the sauces and spices were decidedly foreign. She cautiously tasted a strip of baked fish and felt the seasoning burn so hot against her tongue that she hastily reached for her water glass.
“Oh—someone should have warned you about the zeezin,” Jiramondi said sympathetically. “If you’re not used to it, it can flay the roof of your mouth.”
“Anything else that I ought to know about?” she asked, willing herself not to cough.
“Take a bite of the strained fruit—it’s always paired with a zeezin dish to negate the burn,” he recommended.
She did as he instructed and her mouth instantly cooled. “Thank you. That helped.”
He nodded toward someone sitting across the table and several places down—a dark-skinned girl wearing brightly colored clothing that in no way matched the funereal expression on her face. She concentrated on her plate and did not look up, even when she was addressed by the young man sitting beside her.
“Alette won’t touch zeezin,” Jiramondi said. “The cooks make up special dishes for her so it doesn’t contaminate anything she eats.”
“Does it make her sick?”
Jiramondi shook his head. “I think it’s just a—cultural bias, you might say? She comes from Dhonsho, where zeezin is used in rituals for the dead. So to taste it is practically a desecration of the living body.”
“Well, I don’t have a cultural bias against it, but I do think it desecrated my body,” Corene said.
Jiramondi laughed. “And maybe don’t have any of the brown gravy—it’s an acquired taste even for locals. But everything else should be safe.”
“Thanks,” she said again, giving him a grin. He smiled back. As Melissande had said, he was a handsome man. The family resemblance was there in the strong features and dark eyes, but the proportions of his nose and chin and cheekbones were more pleasing. And his amiable expression instantly made him more attractive than his aunt.
“Let me know how you would like to proceed,” he said. “I can prattle on about the beauties of Malinqua, if you’re in the mood to listen. Or I can inquire about the wonders of Welce, if you’d rather talk.”
“First, I’d like to thank you for speaking Coziquela,” she said. Filomara had introduced them in Malinquese, and Corene had figured dinner conversation would be painstaking at best. From what she could overhear of the discussions around them, everyone else was employing the native tongue. “Someone must have told you how badly I speak Malinquese.”
His smile widened. “Sattisi, in fact. She still seems offended that it is not the language you have used since birth.”
“I did try to learn it,” Corene said. “But Sattisi—well, I guess I wasn’t a very good pupil.”
“I can’t imagine Sattisi was a very good teacher,” he said. “She is not—mmm—an easy person to be around. I have known her my whole life, of course, since Bartolo is my father’s cousin, and I can’t say I’ve ever had a conversation with her that I would have labeled as pleasant.”
That made Corene laugh. “Well, now I feel much better about the whole journey,” she said.
“And you’ll be happy to know they’re rarely at court, so you might never lay eyes on either of them again,” he added.
She affected dismay. “Then how will I continue my language lessons?”
“I’m sure we can find you a more congenial tutor,” Jiramondi answered. “In fact, I’ll take up the role, if you’re willing to learn from me.”
Corene took another sip of water and smiled. “What an excellent idea,” she said. “I’m supposed to be getting to know all of Filomara’s nephews, and this seems like a good way to start.”
“Indeed it does. And once we’re tired of language lessons, I can give you tours of the city. Though you probably saw some of its grandest sights on the way in from the harbor.”
“We certainly noticed the towers, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m biased, I admit, but I think they’re spectacular.”
“They are,” she agreed. “And the palace, with its red half and its white half. And the houses. And the streets. Is there anything in the city that isn’t split in two that way?”
“Once you get outside of the inner walls, the distinction is not so pronounced,” Jiramondi said. “But inside it’s precisely organized for that perfect balance of flame and smoke.”
He sipped from his wineglass before continuing. “In fact, you probably couldn’t tell it from the carriage, but the streets inside the walls are laid out like two halves of a labyrinth, though each half leads to the center, which is not how most labyrinths are constructed. When the palace was first built—centuries ago, of course—everything inside the walls was part of the royal grounds, and two winding pathways led from the gate to the courtyard. The north one was constructed all of white rock, the south one of crushed granite. These immensely high hedges lined every loop, so you couldn’t just cut across the roads and get straight to the palace. According to convention, carriages arrived from the southern side and departed on the northern route. They say that, when traffic was heavy, it could take half a day to make it from the gate to the doorway.”
Corene tilted her head as she listened. “I like the theory,” she said. “But it seems impractical for daily living.”
“You’re right, of course, and Filomara’s great-grandmother eventually razed all the hedges and invited the wealthier families to begin building hom
es closer to the palace. At that point, new roads were constructed over some of the old ones to make it easier to cross from one side of the city to the other. But there are still districts where you have to follow the old loops and bends for a couple of miles before you intersect with one of the straight roads.”
“And the city is still very much split in two, with its red houses and white houses,” Corene pointed out. “Is one color perceived as better than the other?”
“Certainly, but not by the same people,” Jiramondi said. “There are families who have lived in the southern city for generations who would never move to the north—they won’t even let their sons and daughters marry across the dividing line.”
“So then do people align themselves with the towers as well? Do they identify themselves that way—as smoke or fire? Dark or light?”
“Broadly speaking, yes,” he answered. “Folk of flame think of themselves as people of action, and those of shadow consider themselves more thoughtful. If you claim fire as your symbol, you are likely to talk a great deal and be open about what you’re feeling. If you prefer smoke, you are more likely to listen and to keep your own counsel.”
“It seems very limiting,” Corene commented. “And somewhat extreme.”
“Ah, but part of our philosophy is the understanding that people are neither all one thing or all the other—no matter what their general tendencies, they are almost always leavened by the other. An outspoken man might have a very good reason to keep a secret, whereas a quiet woman might someday wail with grief or sing with joy. No matter what you are, you are also the opposite. No one is ever wholly one thing or the other.”
“So what are you?” Corene asked casually. “Flame or smoke?”
He spread his hands as if to indicate his whole body as well as the soul inside. “Flame, of course! In fifteen minutes of conversation, you couldn’t tell?”