by Sharon Shinn
“Isn’t this the top floor?” Corene asked. “I would have thought it would hold the servants’ quarters.”
“It is,” Liramelli said. “And it used to. But now they’re all on the fifth floor.”
“Which doesn’t connect between the two halves. That seems inconvenient.”
Liramelli gave her a swift, unhappy glance. “Jiramondi says he told you about the poisonings. Filomara moved all the servants down a level after her brothers died. She thought if she restricted access between the two wings, maybe everyone would be safer.”
That actually makes sense, Corene thought. Before she could say so, there was a sound from behind one of the closed doors—a noise that was half moan, half rattle. Corene spun around to stare, actually pressing her hand to her heart in momentary fright. “What was that?”
“Wind in the casement. Greggorio and I would shriek and go running every time we heard it.” Sensing that Corene wasn’t entirely convinced, she asked, “Do you want to look inside and make sure everything’s all right?”
“No,” Corene answered instantly, then added, “I don’t want to be late for dinner.” She glanced down at her tunic. “And I don’t want to get dust all over my clothes.”
Liramelli nodded, then loosed a sigh. “Everyone keeps talking about what they’ll wear to the celebration,” she said. “It’s making me feel panicked.”
“Why? It should be fun.”
“Because I always look like a dull and quiet mouse, and that night won’t be any different, but I wish it would be,” Liramelli said in a rush. Before Corene could recover from the surprise of that, the other girl added, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me dress for the gala, would you?”
“Of course I would! I’d love to. But, you know, Melissande is much more fashionable than I am. She’s really the one you should ask.”
Liramelli was quiet as they passed a few more of those ominous doors. “I don’t think Melissande likes me,” she said at last.
“What? Of course she does. Melissande likes everybody.” Or nobody, Corene thought. At any rate, the Coziquela girl treated everyone with equal warmth, whether or not it was genuine. Even Alette.
“I just feel awkward and unsophisticated around her,” Liramelli said. “I would much rather spend that time with you.”
Corene was having a hard time remembering the last time someone had preferred her company over anybody else’s. She was usually the one whose sharp tongue and abrupt manners made people hastily seek out more congenial company. “Well, I’ll be happy to help you dress the night of the celebration—and go shopping with you beforehand, too! But you have to promise you won’t mind if I’m very honest about what looks good and what doesn’t. It’s one of the things people tend not to like about me.”
Liramelli gave her a shy smile. “It’s one of the things I do like about you,” she said. “You and Steff. You don’t play the same kinds of games everyone else does.”
“Steff doesn’t, but sometimes I do,” Corene admitted. “Don’t forget, I’ve been at court most of my life.”
Liramelli cast her one keen sideways look. “Don’t forget, I have, too.”
Was that a warning, Corene wondered, or just a reminder that Liramelli wasn’t quite the fumbling innocent she appeared to be? “So when would you like to go shopping?” she asked.
“Let’s get through dinner first.”
In another few paces they passed the broad archway that led to the majestic stairwell that served the white wing of the palace. Six stories below them they could hear voices and footsteps, the clatter of everyday court life. It sounded very far away.
A few yards beyond the stairwell an ironwork door blocked the entrance to the red wing of the palace. In the corridor where Corene’s rooms were, the corresponding space was a solid wall guarded by a slim bronze statue of a boyish soldier wielding a thin silver blade. It hadn’t occurred to Corene before that the soldier was literally forbidding her passage.
The door opened with a groan of disuse, and they passed into a corridor that was even gloomier and more unwelcoming than its twin. Corene was happy beyond measure when they made it to the grand stairwell that served the southern wing, and followed it down to the third floor. Here, the hallway was brightly lit and buzzing with conversation that seeped out past the closed doors.
“Well! It’s already been an adventure,” she observed. “I hardly think the dinner itself can compare.”
• • •
But the meal was more enjoyable than she’d expected. For one thing, the prefect and his family were housed in an expansive suite that was probably almost the size of the empress’s own quarters, and they didn’t share Filomara’s minimalist tastes. The colors were warm, the furniture was plush, and the whole atmosphere was much homier than any other rooms Corene had been in at the palace.
For another, her hosts had made an effort to please her by preparing Welchin foods with Welchin spices. They had even placed glasses of fruited water on the table, a touch of elegance Corene had missed at all of the formal dinners. And finally, they exerted themselves to be gracious.
“We’re delighted you could join us for dinner, Princess Corene,” the prefect’s wife greeted her. Like her daughter, she was fair-haired, plain-featured, and not very tall; it would be easy to pass her on the street without noticing her. But her smile was wide and her eyes seemed kind. She looked, Corene thought, like someone who had seen a great deal of life and watched it with compassion.
“Oh, please! Just call me Corene.”
“And you must call me Mariana. I suppose you must use titles when you’re in the empress’s presence, but here”—she gestured at her husband—“he is simply Harlo.”
The prefect came close enough to take her hand, but he didn’t. Malinqua might be less formal than Welce, but even here, no one casually reached out to touch royalty. Harlo was a big man, probably in his late forties or fifties, and powerful-looking. Corene often thought he should be out striding through fields or breaking horses instead of trying to hold a delicate china cup in the empress’s dining room.
“Indeed, we are glad you could join us,” he said. He had an attractive voice, low and resonant. It was one of the things Corene had found to like about him in their rare interactions so far. “It’s hard to get to know anyone when Filomara and her whole family are watching.”
“Yes, I’ve started to dread dinner every night,” Corene replied. “I’m used to either very grand meals where you don’t expect to enjoy yourself, or very small ones where just a few family members are sitting around the table. And that’s not always fun, either, particularly if the baby is crying, but it feels more real.”
“Baby?” Liramelli repeated.
“My father and his wife have a little girl named Celia. When I left, she wasn’t talking yet, but she was pretty good at crying.”
“That’s the way of babies,” Mariana said, shepherding them past a large formal dining room and into a much more intimate space. They took their places at a small, square table where they could sit so close their knees almost touched. It reminded Corene of dinners with Darien and Zoe, and for a moment she was so homesick she almost couldn’t catch her breath.
“So your father remarried and you have a half sister,” Liramelli said. “Do you like them? Your stepmother and the little girl?”
“Darling,” Mariana said in a reproving voice.
But Corene appreciated the question. She would have asked it herself. “I love Zoe—my father’s wife,” she said honestly. “She’s so much nicer than my own mother. Celia—I don’t know. I’m not very good with babies. And sometimes it’s hard to watch Darien playing with her, because I know she has so much more of his attention than I ever had.”
Servants had stepped into the room and began serving the food. Fish and fruit and bread, and not a flake of zeezin in the whole meal.
&
nbsp; “You didn’t grow up with your father?” Harlo asked.
Corene sampled the fish. Perfect. “It’s complicated,” she said. “This tastes wonderful.”
“I always thought you were the king’s daughter,” said Liramelli.
Corene grinned. “It’s really complicated.”
“And you certainly don’t have to discuss your family with us,” said Mariana.
“Oh, I don’t mind talking about it. I just don’t want to bore you.”
Mariana leaned across the table. “I love hearing about other people’s odd families. It makes me feel so much better about my own.”
“Well. My mother was one of four wives that King Vernon had.”
“Four!” Harlo boomed. “Isn’t one challenging enough for any man?” Mariana frowned at him, and he laughed.
“It turned out he couldn’t sire children, which alarmed his advisors, so they found ways to—I don’t know how to put this delicately—”
“They bred his wives to other men,” said the prefect.
“Harlo,” Mariana exclaimed.
“I’m an old farmer. I know how these things are done.”
“And he’s right. That’s what they did,” Corene said. She could tell that her easygoing response to Harlo’s earthiness made Mariana relax a little. “So between them, his wives had four daughters—though the youngest baby, it turns out, was really his. But after Vernon got sick, everyone found out the truth, and I learned that Darien was my father.”
“And was that a good day or a bad day?” Mariana asked.
No one had put the question to her in such a way before. Corene toyed with the stem of her water glass and thought it over. Well, so much else had been happening then. She’d almost been sold off to Soeche-Tas, and Zoe had saved her. And Josetta—after years of being the fretful older sister Corene had been taught to despise—Josetta had turned out to be her staunchest ally and truest friend. The things she’d thought she could always depend on had been yanked out from under her, and supports she had never known existed had loomed up out of nowhere to serve as bulwarks against chaos. But it had taken her a while to come to terms with the idea that Darien was her father—and planned to take that role seriously.
“I’d known him my whole life, of course. He was Vernon’s most trusted advisor, so he’d always been at court. But he’d never been part of my life before. It was strange at first. Darien is very strong-willed. Very used to getting his own way. And he didn’t approve of everything my mother did to raise me. So—there were some tense moments.” She sipped at her fruited water. “But, on balance, I liked my life a lot better once Darien and Zoe were part of it.”
Mariana signaled one of the servants, who noiselessly approached to refill Corene’s glass. “So if I’m understanding you correctly, your mother and father were never married and perhaps they don’t get along very well now.”
Corene laughed. “They hate each other. But to be fair, most people hate my mother.”
Liramelli looked shocked. “Even you?”
Yes, except on the days I’m afraid I’m just like her. Except on the days I wish she would love me—or maybe I hate her even more on those days. She didn’t answer the question directly. “I suppose you must have people here in Palminera who never stop scheming. Who are always three steps ahead of everyone, trying to guess what the next power play will be.” She saw Harlo and Mariana exchange rueful glances, apparently recognizing an acquaintance in that description. “That’s my mother. So she’s hard to love.”
“Well, now I think I understand a little better,” Liramelli said, taking another helping of the fruit compote. “I thought it would be difficult for you to be so far away from home, but maybe it’s the kind of home you want to get away from.”
And that, Corene realized, was the best reason she’d heard yet to explain why she had run away from Welce in Filomara’s company. “So tell me more about your family,” she invited.
Mariana lifted her water glass. “Where to even start!” she exclaimed. But she launched into a colorful recital that involved multiple marriages, mysterious disappearances, an uncle who turned out to be an aunt, and the occasional illegitimate child conveniently adopted by a wealthy cousin. “I honestly couldn’t believe Harlo had the nerve to propose to me, given my family’s eccentric past,” Mariana said. “Whereas there has not been a single scandal attached to Harlo’s ancestors going back for a hundred generations.”
He nodded. “It’s true. An unbroken line of the dullest, most insipid men and women you could ever want to hear about. I married Mariana hoping she’d stir up a little controversy, but so far she’s been a complete disappointment on that front.”
He said it with such palpable fondness that it was clear he was joking—was maybe even relieved, Corene thought. She said, “Maybe Liramelli will cause some turmoil for you.”
All three of them laughed, and Mariana reached over to pat Liramelli’s wrist. “She has been the best daughter anyone could have. I think she’ll have to marry badly before we have any hope for scandal on her part.”
“Of course, if she marries one of Filomara’s nephews, she’s ruined that plan,” Corene pointed out.
Liramelli groaned. “Can we just have one meal where we’re not talking about the succession and who might marry whom?”
Corene laughed. “And we’d done so well up to this point! Forget I even mentioned Filomara’s heirs.”
Harlo was shaking his head. “I’ve said it many times. I’d be happy to see my girl paired with Greggorio, but the other two? I’d rather she married a country farmer and lived the rest of her life outside of Palminera than wed one of them.”
“Harlo,” Mariana said.
“Garameno’s broken and Jiramondi’s unnatural, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise,” Harlo said. “In fact, Jiramondi’s the worst of the lot by far. There are days I have trouble looking at that boy, knowing what he’s like.”
Liramelli cast Corene an agonized look, but Corene knew better than to challenge a man in his own house. She merely took another bite and waited for someone else to turn the subject.
Mariana obliged. “I do like the new heir—Steffanolo,” she said. “He’s so polite and thoughtful. As you might imagine, he and Harlo could talk land management and crop rotation for hours.”
Corene’s face must have showed her surprise, because Liramelli quickly explained. “We’ve had Steff to dinner a couple of times because my father wanted to get to know him better. And to let the rest of the family meet him, too.”
Which was when Corene finally put it together. “Of course! Filomara’s husband was Harlo’s—uncle?”
“That’s right,” Harlo said.
“So Steff is your second cousin, or something like that.”
“I know some people make fun of him for being a farmer’s son, but that’s why my father’s relatives liked him so much,” Liramelli said.
“He’s unpretentious,” said Mariana. “That’s the word I was looking for.”
“He is that,” Corene agreed. “It’s one of the reason he’s so likable—but might be one of the reasons Filomara decides not to name him her heir.”
“We’re not talking about that tonight, remember?” Liramelli demanded.
“Do you think he’ll stay?” Harlo asked. “If Filomara doesn’t choose him?”
“I don’t know,” Corene said. “It might be hard to go back to being an ordinary man in Welce after being a prince in Malinqua.”
“I don’t think he’d actually be ordinary,” Harlo said. “My uncle—Filomara’s husband—had assets that have been kept in trust since his death but will now devolve on Steffanolo, since he has been declared legitimately to be Subriella’s son. He will be a man of some wealth, and I imagine he could be an ambassador of sorts between our nations, if nothing else.” Harlo sipped from his glass. “Relations
have generally been good between our countries, but things could always be better,” he went on. “In the area of commerce, for instance. I imagine there are a lot of possibilities there.”
Corene sat up straighter in her chair. This, then, was the real reason she’d been invited to the meal. “Well, as my father says, there are three types of goods that countries exchange,” she said. “Living things, mechanical things, and knowledge. You and Steff have already talked about livestock and crops, but mechanical things might be where the money is. Surely Filomara has told you about our smoker cars and flying machines?”
“Flying machines?” Mariana repeated. “Oh, just the words sound dangerous!”
“They’re pretty scary,” Corene admitted. “Steff’s brother is a pilot. We watched him fly once, and I was sure he was going to crash and die.”
“I understand they’re still experimental,” Harlo said. “But those smoker cars sounded intriguing.”
“I have no idea what ‘smoker cars’ are,” Liramelli said.
“Vehicles that run on compressed gasses,” Corene explained. “So you don’t need horses. They were invented by the elay prime, so they’re also known as elaymotives.”
“I think the Malinquese people would definitely embrace elaymotives,” Harlo said. “What do you think the Welchin folk would like in return?”
“I met someone the other day—Renalto?” When Harlo nodded, Corene went on. “He talked about biological science and some of the advances you’ve made in medicine. I’m sure there are researchers in Chialto who would love a chance to learn from him.”
“If some of your scientific leaders wanted to come here to study, I’m confident that could be arranged.”
They talked for another twenty minutes about the items their own countries might be willing to export, might be looking to import, and which individuals at which end might make those exchanges happen. Corene would have said she was the last person in Welce who could talk knowledgably about trade, so she was somewhat surprised that she was able to answer most of Harlo’s questions, at least in general terms. Maybe she had absorbed more than she realized during those afternoons spent in Darien’s study. Maybe she was smarter about finance and economics than she, or anyone else, had ever realized. She fingered the blessing rings hanging from her silver necklace, separating them out by feel until she located the one she wanted. Clarity. Maybe it meant something different than she had thought all along.