Rafi stopped and faced his uncle. “Inimigo’s coming.”
“What?” Fernando said, sharp as a stiletto.
“Belem said he’ll be here the day after tomorrow.”
The older man’s hand dropped to the sword at his belt. “Good. I’ll finally have a chance to fulfill that promise.”
“The treaty has held for years. Any action you take against Inimigo—”
“The treaty was political. Between me and Inimigo, that’s personal.” Fernando’s dark eyes had gone hard, his jaw was set.
“It was personal for my father, too,” Rafi reminded him.
“Inimigo’s troops killed my son, Rafi.” His hand clenched his weapon’s hilt. “I know it was war. I know Diogo was a trained swordsman, but he was a boy—no older than you are now.”
Rafi choked back the rush of memories brought on by his cousin’s name. As a child he worshipped Diogo, following the older boy like a shadow.
“No promise, no piece of paper, no words will stop me from seeking out retribution for that man’s crimes,” Fernando continued. “I will bring down war upon all of us if I see Inimigo’s face.” He spun on his heel and headed back to the barn. “Tell your mother I’m sorry.”
Fernando called to the retainers milling about the yard. They looked at one another with confused faces but made their way toward their lord.
“You’ll leave before you’ve even seen her?” Rafi yelled at Fernando’s retreating back. “Stay the night at least! You can be halfway to the border before Inimigo sets foot in Santiago.”
Fernando stopped.
“Please. Stay the night.” Rafi jogged across the space that separated him from his uncle. “Your horses have earned one night’s rest, don’t you think?”
Fernando turned slowly, an unwilling smirk on his lips. “They do deserve one night off the road I suppose. And you deserve to be duke for turning my words on me like that.”
Chapter 45
Johanna
The maids took one look at Johanna and dropped everything—an empty tray in Brynn’s case—and rushed to her aid.
“We’ve been worried sick about you, and it looks like we were right to worry.” Brynn grabbed Johanna’s hand and dragged her toward the main hall and the room she’d used to dress the night before.
Johanna explained the situation, as Brynn poured buckets of not-quite-warm water over her head.
“Don’t you worry one bit about Joshua and Michael,” Brynn said as she helped Johanna step into her layered skirt. “We’ll all keep an eye on them.”
The door to the bedroom swung open, and a rather pale Lady DeSilva stepped into the room. Brynn’s fingers froze as she laced up the back of Johanna’s dress.
“L-lady, we—”
“I heard,” she said, not unkindly. “Cook needs you in the kitchen. I’ll take care of Johanna.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brynn marched away, leaving the ribbons from Johanna’s bodice hanging loose.
Johanna steeled herself for the reprimand she deserved. She’d been late to arrive, brought her two younger brothers with her, and her attitude toward Rafi bordered on unprofessional.
He did come to your rescue today, Jo. You don’t have to like him, but you don’t have to be rude, either.
“Thank you, my lady.” Johanna found her manners. “I can manage the rest myself. ”
“Nonsense. We have hungry guests who are looking forward to a skilled Storyspinner.” She urged Johanna toward the silk-covered stool in front of the dressing table. “Sit. Let me do your hair. I never had a daughter to practice on.”
Johanna dropped onto the stool without an argument and spread her skirts wide, trying not to wrinkle them.
“To be honest, I have a few things I need to speak with you about.” Lady DeSilva’s eyes were solemn as they met Johanna’s in the mirror. “I must start with the hardest part first. I fear that if I held this till the end of the night, you’d assume I was more concerned with your performance than your well-being.”
Johanna didn’t know what to say, so she nodded, pulling a strand of hair out of the duchess’s hands.
“Your mother was arrested this afternoon.”
“What?” The word was more air than sound as it leaked out of Johanna’s mouth.
“She left her job at the pub—”
“There must be some mistake, my lady. My mother works for a seamstress,” Johanna said, ignoring the tight ball of dread in her stomach. “She’s an excellent tailor and embroiderer. She made this dress.”
The lady’s hands stopped fussing with Johanna’s short hair and settled on her shoulders. “The seamstress let her go last week. She caught your mother drinking at work and fired her after she spilled some alcohol on a pile of valuable fabric.”
Johanna’s eyes dropped to the tabletop, studying a knot in the oak surface. It seemed to go around and around in an oblong whorl. She wished it were a magical whirlpool that would open up and swallow her whole. Maybe it could whisk her back to the day before her father died, when the bottles in the cupboard above his bed had always been full.
“One of Captain Alouette’s men realized who she was and brought me the news.” Lady DeSilva resumed her pinning. “Marin is being escorted to your wagon right now. The man she accosted, some outrider for a merchant camp, isn’t seeking retribution of any sort.”
Oh, Mama. What were you thinking?
Johanna allowed herself ten seconds of self-pity and sadness before putting on her Performer’s face. This job was more important than ever.
“Thank you for the information and your help with my hair.” Johanna spread the contents of her satchel over the dressing table. She needed rouge for cheeks. They were much too pale after the run and—
She cut off the thought and applied the color to her cheeks with a soft rabbit’s-foot brush.
The lady finished her hair while Johanna coated her lashes in a coal and aloe mixture. She only wore it when she was Storyspinning, so that her audience could better make out her expressions.
Johanna heard a quick intake of breath and caught Lady DeSilva’s stare in the mirror.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head and gave a little half laugh. “You reminded me of someone else with your eyes made up like that.”
Performers got that all the time. “You said you had a few things you wanted to talk to me about? Besides . . .” Johanna bit her bottom lip to stop its trembling, then picked up a tub of color like she intended to apply it. “Besides that incident with my mother?”
Lady DeSilva’s face blanked for a moment. “Yes. We’re going on a picnic tomorrow afternoon. Rafi and I hoped you’d be willing to do a bit of singing for the group. We’d, of course, pay you for an additional show.”
“I’d love to, but I care for my brothers during the day.” While my mother lies about where she’s been. The sadness and embarrassment she’d been feeling ignited in a flash of anger, like a match struck in a dark room.
“That’ll be no problem. We can put them up for the night, and I know some of the maids would love to have a change from their normal duties.”
“I couldn’t possibly ask you to . . .” But we really need the money.
“Johanna, I’ve got a house full of guests that need entertaining.” She offered a gentle smile. “You’d be doing us a favor.”
“If you’re certain it wouldn’t be an imposition. My brothers can be—”
“Have you met my sons? This house and staff are accustomed to rough-and-tumble boys.”
“I’ll only accept half of my regular fee to cover the cost of their care.”
“We’ll see.” Lady DeSilva patted Johanna’s cheek with motherly affection, and Johanna felt the anger at her own mother grow from a flicker to a searing flame.
Chapter 46
Leão
Four men, armed with sho
rt swords, blocked off the main trail into Performers’ Camp. They were all thinly muscled, their arms bared by multihued vests, but not malnourished.
“State your business.” The speaker was a bit taller than his companions. He wore a bright red strip of cloth tied around his brow and another around his bicep like a band of office.
The Keepers’ Elite Guard wore the braided cadarço to signify an advanced level of training. Leão cringed inwardly, hoping the similarity was a fluke, and not proof of Jacaré’s story. “We’re looking for someone,” he said, signaling to Pira, Tex, and Jacaré, a few horse lengths away.
“Got a name?”
“No, but I can describe her.”
The men on either side of the leader shifted, hands edging toward the weapons slung through the wide sashes at their hips.
“Son,” the leader said, stepping closer to Leão’s horse. “You wouldn’t be the first man to lose his heart to a Performer girl, but don’t claim she stole your coin purse. We Performers are flighty by nature, and as you don’t know her name, she certainly won’t remember yours. I’m sorry for your long journey, but you and your”—he studied the approaching group, eyes lingering on Pira’s face—“people need to move on. We don’t allow strangers into Performers’ Camp.”
Leão’s cheeks flushed red. “This isn’t about hearts or purses, this is about—”
“A debt unfulfilled,” Jacaré said. “A Performer once saved my life, and I heard that he was recently killed in a fall. We rode from Impreza to offer a boon to his wife.”
“He must be talking about Arlo.” One of the younger guards elbowed the man next to him.
The leader wasn’t so easily taken in. “That’s a long ride to offer a boon to a Performer. Why not wait till the next time a troupe made it to your town?”
“There was no guarantee that she’d be with them, and I don’t know her name. But I’d recognize her face if I saw it and would know my debt was fulfilled.”
“Are you sure you’re not from Santiago?” The leader said with an arrogant smirk. “I didn’t know men from Impreza were so committed to honor.”
“Arlo saved my life. Don’t I owe his family a personal visit?”
The leader shrugged. “You can give me the boon and I’ll be happy to pass it along.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, friend,” Jacaré said, sounding decidedly unfriendly. “But fifty gold pieces is a lot of money to put into the hands of the wrong person.”
“Fifty gold,” the youngest guard whispered, eyes wide with awe. “That is a lot—” His words cut off when the leader smacked him on the back of the head.
“I’ll talk to our Council and see what they make of your claims.” He pointed to a narrow trail, branching off into some pine trees. “Head that way and make camp. I’ll send someone back with word on the Council’s decision by dawn.”
“Thank you for your assistance. Can you give me a name to call you by?”
The leader turned, walking backward down the rocky trail without a stumble. “I’m Benton, the Firesword. These lads are members of my troupe. They’ll stay nearby if you need anything.”
“We don’t need anything except to see Arlo’s widow.”
Benton offered a self-confident smile. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Chapter 47
Rafi
Lady DeSilva held tight to her brother’s arm as he escorted her into the dining hall. To Rafi, it looked like she was gripping too tightly, hoping to hold Fernando in Santiago by her fingernails alone.
She’d been ecstatic to see her brother—slipping into a fishwife patter and begging all the details of her native state—and angry that he planned to leave before Rafi’s official naming ceremony. She called him a fish-swiving fool and several other curse phrases that made Rafi’s ears burn. Ladies did not speak like that, especially his lady mother.
Fernando took it all in stride, waiting for her tirade to end, before saying simply, “Inimigo killed my son.”
That one simple statement ended the argument abruptly, though Rafi could tell from the calculating look on his mother’s face that their discussion was far from over.
The serving staff set an extra plate, between Rafi and his mother, so they wouldn’t have to ask the Duke of Belem to move down a chair. Lady DeSilva fretted a moment that her brother would feel slighted to sit on his nephew’s left-hand side rather than his right.
“Good glory, woman!” Fernando said as he dropped into the chair. “Living in Santiago has made you soft. If it’s going to make you blue in the face with worry, I’ll sit on the floor with the dogs.”
“You certainly are filthy enough,” she said, much to the amusement of everyone within hearing distance. “We could have waited till you had time to change.”
“No need to hold dinner for me.”
“Hear! Hear!” Belem said, waving a greasy chicken leg above his head. “My stomach couldn’t wait a moment longer, and the Duke of Impreza can impress us with his fine southern silk tomorrow.”
Rafi exchanged a look with his uncle, letting the older man determine whether or not to address his planned departure.
“I’ll be leaving in the morning, Belem.” Fernando sliced a piece of chicken into small precise bites. “I have matters to address at home.”
Despite having already swilled three glasses of wine, Belem wasn’t drunk enough to believe that excuse. He nodded a few times and wiped his oily fingers on the linen he’d tucked into his collar. “Heard Inimigo’s coming, eh?”
Heads at the lower tables turned with interest to the dukes’ conversation.
“Among other things,” Fernando said, eyeing his sister sharply.
Rafi guessed his mother had kicked Fernando under the table. Rafi had been the recipient of bruised shins and crushed toes when his mother wanted him to change the topic or hurry along a conversation.
Fernando cleared his throat. “We’ve had some pirate attacks along our coast. I came with only a small guard so we could travel light and fast, as not to diminish our troops at my southern port.”
“That’s most unfortunate,” Belem said, reaching for the pudding that had been set in front of him. “The girl they’ve hired to sing for us is exquisite, and I’m not talking about her voice. She’s a petite thing, and young, but there’s something about her mouth that makes me forget I’m a married man.”
Rafi’s hand tightened around his cutlery till the metal grip bit into his palm. “It doesn’t take much.”
Belem laughed, slamming Rafi across the shoulders with a meaty hand. “Too true!”
While they ate, Lady DeSilva carried the conversation and carefully sidestepped all of Belem’s crass comments. She handled them smoothly and with a skill Rafi knew he lacked.
She should be duchess in more than name, he thought as he scooped fried yucca into his mouth. Maybe a few more years with her as regent would do all of Santiago well.
“As the first round of desserts has been served, why don’t you announce our entertainment?” Lady DeSilva gave her son a wide-eyed look in warning.
Rafi wiped the frustration off his face and pushed away from the table.
The kitchen was a flutter of activity as always, but most of it seemed centered around the two little boys sitting at the kneading table. Someone had washed them both up, though Michael’s hair stood up straight in the back, and his mouth was circled with powdered sugar.
Johanna clucked at them, every bit the mother hen. She wiped her youngest brother’s face and placed a kiss on his forehead, leaving a smear of lip stain.
“Ew, Jo!” Michael rubbed at the spot, making it worse and earning a smile from his sister.
She does have a pretty mouth, Rafi realized as she applied a matching kiss to Joshua’s forehead. He bore it with more patience than Michael, ignoring her attentions and popping a pastry into his mouth
in one bite.
“Chew, Joshua.” She pulled the basket away from him. “It’s not going to disappear. No one is going to steal them from you.”
On impulse Rafi snatched the basket from under her arm and pushed it back in front of the boy. “I don’t know if I’d believe that. Have you met Dom and seen all his pockets?”
Both boys nodded, eyes wide with interest.
“Where do you think he gets the food he fills them with?”
Joshua hugged the basket to his chest as if he expected Dom to appear and steal all the remaining rolls away. Michael’s little hand wedged under his brother’s arm and grabbed as many rolls as he could hold.
Cook smacked Rafi on the shoulder with her wooden spoon. “Don’t you listen to him. There’s plenty. You eat your fill and then eat some more.”
Rafi grinned at the murderous look on Cook’s face, but his smile faltered when he realized Johanna was also giving him the evil eye.
Her neck had turned red and her pretty mouth was pressed flat.
I’m always stepping in it with her. She gets so blasted angry when I’m around. Though she probably had good reason to dislike him. He had beaten her to a bloody pulp.
“Dessert has been served. Are you prepared to Storyspin, Miss Johanna?” He offered her his arm.
Johanna reached for the long cloak that hung on Michael’s chair. She tied the cloak’s thread across her throat and tossed the sides behind her shoulders, leaving the majority of her green gown exposed. It looked heavy and uncomfortable, but Rafi had seen many Storyspinners and knew their capes were much like Dom’s pockets: full of surprises.
“The question is, are you ready, my lord?” she asked with a smirk that spoke of a secret.
They repeated their walk into the dining hall as protocol dictated: the welcome, the announcement of the performance, the curtsy—and then Rafi had to kiss her hand.
He hesitated a moment, the intensity of her gaze a lash across his bowed neck.
She hates me.
Rather than offend her further, his lips barely grazed her knuckles. An actual kiss from him, even on her hand, would not have been welcome.
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