The Smoke Thieves Series, Book 1

by Sally Green

  “Well, I was never much of a fighter.”

  “Or only with words.”

  “You can’t fight with words alone, Your Highness. Words without actions are like dancing—pretty but ineffectual.”

  “But both my words and actions have irritated Boris, and you are assisting me rather than holding me back. I think once I am married, you may be recalled to Brigant.”

  Sir Rowland nodded. “I had surmised as much. I’m wise enough to know that my use must always outweigh my cost. I’ve worked hard for Brigant all these years, but I’m under no illusions—the future is never certain when working for your father. But I do feel that we—if I may say “we’—have achieved something in just these few days, Your Highness, and the attitude of the Pitorian people toward Brigant is more positive.”

  Catherine had never imagined working, but now she felt like she had a role. In Brigant she was just a princess who did nothing, who was required to do nothing. The thought of going back to such an existence was depressing. She loved making plans and carrying them out, but much of the fun was doing it with someone else. “You’ve helped me so much, Sir Rowland. Both in what I’ve achieved and in taking my mind off other troubles.”

  “You’ve left most of your troubles behind, I hope, Your Highness.”

  Clearly Sir Rowland thought she meant her family, though she was thinking of Ambrose.

  “Alas, not all of them. But you are helping me recover. And, if my father does recall you, please don’t go. I would welcome you as my permanent adviser.”

  Sir Rowland bowed, and Catherine thought his eyes seemed moist. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  The conversation had reminded Catherine not only of Ambrose, but that she had thought little of the “message” that Lady Anne had tried to communicate to her. She felt that she’d been too absorbed in her dresses and procession, and was suddenly ashamed. In her last moments of life Lady Anne had been trying to communicate with Catherine, so she, Catherine, had a duty to do her best to understand that message. She asked Sir Rowland, “What can you tell me of demon smoke?”

  Sir Rowland looked surprised. “Well, it’s an expensive way to bring some relaxation. And an illegal way.” He leaned toward Catherine, saying, “No one will admit to using it, but I’m sure half the court have tried it at least once.”

  Catherine hesitated, then said, “I need to confide in you, Sir Rowland.” And she told him about Lady Anne’s execution.When she had finished, she asked, “Have you any idea why Lady Anne would be warning me about demon smoke?”

  Sir Rowland shook his head. “I wish I could help. But as far as I know, the smoke is no more than a pleasure drug. It sounds like she was implying your father had it.”

  “He does have it. I know he’s bought at least two hundred pounds’ worth of it. But he would never use it himself.”

  “No. I can’t imagine your father seeking pleasure that way.”

  “But Lady Anne made the signs on the scaffold. She was in pain, about to die. She wouldn’t use that moment to tell me something trivial. The smoke must be important.”

  “Let me make some inquiries.” Sir Rowland paused before saying, “While we’re discussing your father, I hope you take no offense when I say that he will use all ways and means to achieve his chief aim.”

  “That being the retaking of Calidor?”

  “Precisely. And . . . your marriage is a way for him to ensure Pitoria doesn’t aid Calidor in any future war.”

  “And increase his trading revenues to fight that war,” Catherine added.

  Sir Rowland smiled. “I see you are fully aware of the situation. But the demon smoke seems to add another dimension. As I said, let me make some inquiries.”

  * * *

  The final journey to the outskirts of Tornia was especially slow. The procession had grown so large that the trumpeters at the front were out of sight for Catherine, though she could hear them clearly enough. Ahead of them were the actors and musicians, who drew the crowds but who were not part of the official parade. Next came a guard from Pitoria of twenty men on black horses. Each man carried a long spear and wore a breastplate and cloak but no helmet so that everyone could see their short purple hair, the king’s color.

  Catherine rode her white mare, with a sprig of wissun pinned to her dazzling new white dress. She had been told it would be hard to have her new gowns made in time, but Catherine had found that if she spent Boris’s money liberally enough most difficulties could be overcome. This dress had even more crystals than her previous one, and was high-throated and slashed to reveal hints of glittering silver and gold cloth beneath. There was no doubt as to who was the star of the procession.

  Tanya, Jane, and Sarah came next, also in new, more elaborate dresses, and behind them were Boris and his fifty guards. And while the men didn’t have colored hair, their shining metal helmets had red plumes that matched the grandeur of the occasion.

  Behind them, at a much farther distance, were the caravans and horses of the numerous servants and camp followers who had attached themselves to the procession since Charron. It was almost a traveling village. Some of them had adopted white hair despite not having any official role to play, merely wanting to identify themselves as part of the princess’s entourage.

  Ahead, the greenish of meadows gave way to browns of timber-framed buildings cloaking the gentle hillside. And at the summit of the hill, above the houses and the gray stone wall of Tornia, was Zalyan Castle with its five famous turrets, each almost impossibly tall and elegant, surrounding the central pentagonal tower that seemed to shine like a beacon in the sunlight.

  Even to Catherine, raised a princess of a powerful kingdom, it was a breathtaking sight, and she felt a mix of admiration and apprehension sweep over her.

  As the procession approached, even the road seemed to smarten itself up, becoming straighter, wider, and pale gray like the color of the castle beyond. A bridge spanning the River Char was also of gray stone and strong, with three wide arches and a low wall along each side. People were standing here, cheering and shouting greetings of welcome. Hundreds of people—thousands!

  The procession continued through the outskirts of Tornia, past homes and shops, the buildings becoming smaller and closer together, even though the road remained wide, clean, and straight. The trumpeters blew loudly, and shouts and cheers came from all around. Catherine couldn’t help but smile and wave to the people hanging out of windows and calling greetings to her.

  The road became a little steeper and then bent to the right up a slope toward the castle walls and a huge open gate from which bright flags hung. More people were crammed along the road up to this point, but beyond the gates the crowd changed. An immense courtyard, so large that Catherine’s father’s whole castle might have sat within it, opened up around her. It was filled with an equally immense crowd of Pitorians. There seemed to be three groups: purple-haired foot soldiers standing to attention; an impressive array of mounted cavalry with blue hair; and, in the middle, a throng of men in tight trousers and jackets. At last the procession came to a halt, with Sir Rowland saying, “We must wait here, Your Highness. There is to be an official welcome.”

  Catherine felt her breath coming fast and shallow. The noise and the heat were overwhelming. She swayed for a moment in the saddle, and caught herself thinking how it would look if she fainted.

  Pull yourself together. Sit straight.

  And then the dancing began. Only in Pitoria would the official welcome open with a dance. But these dancers were clearly of a standard Catherine had not seen on her travels. The first pair vaulted impossibly high, passing each other and twisting in the air, even bouncing off each other. Others joined them until there were ten men, a dozen, whirling in a blinding dance. The speed was intense. The sun beat down and the ground seemed to throb with footsteps as still more men joined in until the whole courtyard seemed to be a mass of leaping
men. It ended in a synchronized twirling bow to each other. Then they turned as one and, their faces serious, they bowed to Catherine. As they rose, she noticed one man was smiling. Catherine smiled back and said to Sir Rowland, “Wonderful as always.”

  “Yes, Vario is one of the prince’s best dancers. It’s a great honor for him to lead the welcome.”

  “Of course,” said Catherine, though she was irritated with herself for forgetting that such intricate formal dances were led by a single man. She might have made an impression on its people, but she still had much to learn of this country.

  “We will now meet the king and Prince Tzsayn. I will go first with Prince Boris; you must follow with your ladies, Your Highness.”

  Boris dismounted stiffly, and as Sir Rowland made his way to the doors of the great keep Catherine turned to her maids and signed, Look happy. Dazzle!

  She set off slowly, purposely dropping farther behind the men. She was confident that King Arell would not be as impatient as her father, but she was also sure that a little waiting wouldn’t do him any harm. She might just be a pawn in this game, but a pawn still had some power.

  The sun was low in the sky behind her now, and Catherine’s dress shone golden in its light. She moved more and more slowly, letting Sir Rowland and Boris disappear inside, passing the men who had danced in her honor and who now lined the route. Catherine concentrated on keeping her back straight and swaying her dress so that the crystals caught the light and sparkled. She reached the doorway and stopped, aware that anyone looking out from within the keep would see her as a shining light.

  Dazzle, she told herself. Dazzle.

  Catherine took a breath and stepped into a huge marbled hall. Again she paused, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The room was lined with nobles, mostly men but many women too. At the far end was a dais and standing on it were two men. Sir Rowland and Boris stood to their right, their introductions seemingly over. Catherine was pleased she had taken her time. Now all eyes were on her.

  She walked on slowly, resisting the urge to look round and focusing ahead. King Arell wasn’t as old as she’d expected, or, rather, he was thin and wiry but stood strong and upright. He wore a purple velvet hat with a fur trim rather than a crown. Beside him . . .

  The prince was of a similar build to his father, his skin a dark golden brown color on the right side of his face, but his left, even from this distance, seemed strange. He stood gracefully, one hand on his hip, staring directly at her. His eyes seemed dark, almost black, but there was no expression there.

  Finally Catherine arrived at the foot of the dais, where she stopped and looked up at the king. This was the man who’d negotiated with her father for her to be delivered up to a man she barely knew. Her amusement at the dancing had left her, and she was reminded again that she was here to marry a man she’d never spoken to.

  Sir Rowland said, “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, may I introduce Her Royal Highness Princess Catherine of Brigant.”

  Slowly, deliberately, Catherine took a step back from the dais and sank into the Brigantine deep curtsy, her head below the knee of the king, as low as she could go, reminding all those present of where she stood in the hierarchy. She might have her fine dress and her own white-haired followers, but she was being given to a prince by a king, and she wanted these men—and everyone watching—to see it for what it was. It wasn’t a celebration of love; it was a deal. At best, the forging of an alliance; at worst, a sale.

  As she stood, Catherine met the king’s eyes for a moment and only then dared to look into the face of the man who was going to be her husband.

  Prince Tzsayn was not ugly; indeed, he might have been handsome if not for his strange complexion. The left side of his face was a lighter brown color than the right, and smooth, as if all lines and wrinkles had been melted away. He wore a fur-trimmed hat, below which his black wavy hair curled, and a high-necked jacket with sleeves so long they brushed his fingertips.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Princess Catherine. I hope your journey to us has been pleasant.” King Arell’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. My journey was interesting and enjoyable. Pitoria is beautiful, and its people have been most welcoming.”

  King Arell smiled. “I hear that you are winning them over.”

  “I think they have won me over, Your Majesty.”

  “Then I hope my son and I can do the same.”

  Catherine was so surprised she didn’t reply. The words were so unlike anything her father might have said that she didn’t know how to react.

  She glanced quickly at Tzsayn, but he still wore the same formal expression as he had on her first approach.

  King Arell continued, “I must now make my welcome speech, but let us talk more this evening.”

  Catherine was escorted to the side of the dais by Sir Rowland. From there she had a good view of Prince Tzsayn’s unscarred side. He was striking from this angle, with high cheekbones, dark brown eyes, and black hair curling to his jawline. This was to be her husband. He seemed cool, as her mother had said he was. Cold even. But what could she really tell just from looking at him? She wanted to talk to him, but King Arell was still speaking, and as soon as his father’s speech was over Tzsayn turned, bowed to her, and walked slowly from the hall.

  “This way, Your Highness,” murmured Sir Rowland. “I will show you to your rooms. You must be tired.”

  Catherine allowed him to guide her down from the dais and through a pair of elaborately carved wooden doors, though she was desperate to look back and see more of her future husband.

  * * *

  That evening Catherine was escorted by Boris to a banquet in her honor. She had not thought she would tire so quickly of such things. As she entered the great hall, Prince Tzsayn was standing across the room talking to two elderly lords. The prince was dressed immaculately and elaborately in fine pale blue leather trousers and a silk jacket that seemed to be made of plaited ribbon and decorated with tiny silver beads. The material of the right side of his jacket was slashed, exposing Tzsayn’s skin, which was painted a deeper blue. Catherine had thought her new dress with its short sleeves and low-cut bodice was daring, but she felt conventional in comparison to Tzsayn. The prince noticed her staring and turned and bowed to her. Catherine froze, then curtsied, blushing. She felt ridiculous, as if she’d been trying to attract his attention and charm him in some way, which she definitely was not trying to do.

  Boris muttered, “Hopefully they won’t keep us waiting long so we can eat and get out of here.” He glanced around, saying, “Each woman is more ludicrously dressed than the last, but I have to say your future husband excels in the attention he pays to his appearance. As if that’s going to fool anyone.”

  “Fool anyone?”

  “His scars cover his whole left side. We had a full description of his wounds—Father demanded it.”

  So that was why he wore his sleeves long and his collar high—to hide his skin.

  “I heard it was an accident in his childhood,” Catherine commented.

  “Running through the kitchens, and a cauldron of hot oil spilled on him. I assume the kitchen staff were boiled in oil themselves for that.”

  “And his illnesses?”

  “Oh, he’s a typical weakling. The thought of a hot day probably fills him with fear.” Boris chuckled. “Perhaps it reminds him too much of his skin being on fire. I suspect that’s why he didn’t come to meet us. Too soft, too used to having his every whim for silk and blue bloody body paint pandered to.”

  Before Catherine could ask more, they were guided to the table for the banquet.

  Catherine was seated to the left of King Arell. Prince Tzsayn was seated to the king’s right, with Boris on his other side. Catherine glanced at Tzsayn as he spoke with her brother, his voice too low for her to make out the words. From this position,
she saw his scarred side. She glimpsed his ear, which was small, as if most of it had shriveled away in the heat of the fire. His eye drooped and looked tired, though the prince’s upright posture showed no signs of fatigue.

  He is slightly unwell, Sir Rowland had said upon her arrival in Charron. He certainly didn’t look it now. Perhaps Boris was nearer the truth of it and Tzsayn simply couldn’t be bothered to make the ride to meet her. Catherine felt a stab of anger that even though she was to be Tzsayn’s future wife she was considered unimportant. However, she soon forgot those feelings and relaxed a little. King Arell was a good host, telling stories about his court and the history of Pitoria, but never dominating the conversation as her father would have done. Catherine responded with anecdotes from her books on Queen Valeria and comparisons of the fashions of Brigant and Pitoria.

  “And what are you hoping for, Catherine, from this match that your father and I have cooked up?”

  Catherine was shocked that the king would ask her opinion at this late stage, and replied formally.

  “My concern is to ensure I represent Brigant well.”

  “You do that, princess. Everyone is quite charmed by you.”

  Catherine smiled and glanced over at Prince Tzsayn, who hadn’t seemed to look her way all evening. Now he was describing something to Boris in great detail and with much florid hand-waving. Catherine strained to hear the conversation and caught enough to learn that he was describing the process of making the silk for his jacket. Boris’s face seemed a mix of revulsion and boredom, and Catherine smiled but then wondered if her own expression would be similar when she was married to the prince.

  The evening continued as had all the evenings before, with speeches and dancing. The prince did not dance, and Catherine had to stifle a yawn as nobleman after nobleman dedicated their dance to her. After that, Catherine was introduced to many more lords and ladies, smiling through the same conversations about her travels and Brigant and how lovely Pitoria was.