by K. Eason
Truth and truth. Rory nodded. “Go on.”
Grytt sighed.
Regent Moss traded his greeting smile for a leaner, sharper model. “On Beo, as it happens. In your recent reading, surely you came across that name.”
Rory’s mouth, a few steps ahead of her wits, dried up. She swallowed. The fairies had not stinted her intellect or her cleverness. She knew a trap when she saw one. And she realized she had nearly stepped into it with both feet.
“Beo,” she repeated, trying the syllables like a new flavor of sweet. And then she did something she had never done before in her life: pretended to be stupider than she was. “Isn’t that one of the moons?”
To her ears, her lie sounded bright and false as sunlight before a storm. The Regent did not appear to notice.
“Yes, Princess, it is a moon,” he said, as if explaining that Svaro was round and yellow, and also, void is very cold. “Beo belongs to Bielo. It is a cold place. Toxic atmosphere. There are only certain times a pilot can reach the moon’s surface at all, with the gravitational vagaries of its neighbor moons and Bielo itself. And sometimes storms on the planet unsettle the radiation in the area, which makes flying even more hazardous. Your arrival coincided, unfortunately, with one of those storms. Prince Ivar
has no idea you’re here
does not want to risk a pilot, but he did not believe it was appropriate to keep you waiting any longer, lest you think us poor hosts. So he asked me to offer formal welcome.”
Rory swallowed past the thumping in her throat. “Oh. I—oh. It’s just, I was so looking forward to seeing him.”
Moss blinked and frowned, ever so slightly. Then he bowed exactly as far as was proper, one ruling Regent to a Princess who wasn’t the heir to her kingdom, and smiled. “I am certain you will see him soon, Highness. I will do everything in my power to make it so.”
CHAPTER NINE
In Which Appetites Are Both Whetted And Spoiled
A second, silver-scrolled invitation arrived that very next evening, just as Grytt was clearing away the remnants of supper. It should be noted that we say evening out of habit, a custom grown from the regular cycles of revolving planets and horizons and a distinctly dirtside perspective; but stations, of course, do not have proper days and nights. They have shifts, because a station never sleeps, and so station schedule divides the old homeworld more-or-less twenty-four hour day into three equal segments.
Rory, who was trying to accustom herself to Urse’s terminology and nomenclature, self-corrected evening in her head to early second shift.
Messer Rupert, already seated in the living area, studiously ignoring the panoramic darkness in favor of the contents of his teacup, raised both head and eyebrows and consulted the chronometer on the wall, staring at it as if it might reveal to him the motives behind such a late visit.
Grytt did not bother noting the time. She set the dish she was carrying down, carefully, on the narrow strip of synthetic wood that passed for a kitchen counter, and, drying her hands on her trousers, headed for the door. Although her ’slinger was back on the dining room table, a thin ceramic blade nevertheless managed to find its way into her hand in the short distance between kitchen and door.
“Rory,” said Grytt.
The Princess nodded. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Grytt did. Outside, in the corridor, stood another matched set of Tadeshi security. This pair was smaller, slimmer, and darker than the first, but still several orders of magnitude larger than the average human male. They looked at Grytt, and at the slim blade in her hand. Then the one on the left, distinguishable by a faint scar on his chin, said,
“Good evening.”
He pronounced the second word carefully, as if it were carved of jet and might cut his lips if he spoke too quickly.
“And a fine second shift to you,” Grytt snapped. She held out her unarmed, mecha hand. “I’ll take that metal tube you’re carrying.”
Someone other than Grytt might have been pleased to note a frown—very slight, but distinct—on the security man’s face, as an indication of shared circumstance: he, too, was just a person doing his job for superiors who ordered visits at unreasonable hours. Grytt, however, divided the world into My People and Those Others, and the first group was quite selective.
“It is for the Princess Rory,” said the second security guard, whose chin was quite perfect.
Grytt, who had been imperfectly featured even before the bomb, peeled her lips back in a warning smile. “And that’s who I’ll give it to.”
“We have orders,” said Imperfect Chin. An unripe irritation thickened his Tadeshi accent, corroding his polished consonants.
Grytt’s teeth gave up any pretense at friendly expression. “So do I. Anything you have for her Highness comes through me.”
Messer Rupert sighed, very faintly. Rory thought he muttered something about pissing contest and decided she must have misheard, since Messer Rupert did not swear. Then he threw her a look that said, clear as any speech, You’d better get involved.
Exactly, thought Rory. She came out of the kitchen and stood, just enough out of true with the door that the guards could see her shadow on the bulkhead, but not her actual person.
“Who is it, Grytt?” she said, loudly.
Grytt raised her own voice, but did not turn her head, so that she was half-shouting in the guards’ faces. “Messengers
lackeys
from the
bastard
Regent. They’ve got a message for you.”
“Well, take it, then,” Rory said. She was beginning to agree with Messer Rupert’s assessment of the situation. The mood at the door was getting ugly. And while she could admit an improper thrill at the thought of seeing Grytt beat the hell out of Tadeshi security, she knew that a diplomatic incident might lead to Moss expelling Grytt.
Fortunately, Tadeshi security did not appear inclined to force the issue, either, with the resident foreign princess having spoken. Perhaps Moss had given them orders, too. In any case, they withdrew without another word, leaving in Grytt’s mecha hand an open-ended metal tube with a roll of what looked like paper inside. She closed her fingers around the steel. Held it up to her blue eye and peered at it from all angles.
“Excessive precaution,” murmured Messer Rupert, who had not moved from his chair. “They’re hardly going to wire it with explosives.”
Grytt snorted. “And what you doing over there, then?”
“Necessary precaution,” said Messer Rupert. He had, in fact, been performing his own examination, eyes half-lidded, pretending disinterest while he whispered his hexes and examined the aura-prints on the steel. Moss had touched neither the paper nor the metal, though his presence slicked both items with a greasy rainbow shimmer. Having ascertained there were no spybots, he returned his attention to his tea. “Well, Rory. What does it say?”
The Princess considered that pissing contest might well apply to the dynamics of her household, as well. She tipped the tube and shook the message into her hand.
“It’s an invitation to a formal dinner for you and me, Messer Rupert. For tomorrow evening.”
He nodded serenely. “About time. Not unexpected.”
“Grytt’s not on the invitation.”
“One imagines Regent Moss wants his silverware used for its original purpose, rather than subverted into proxy solutions to the in situ weapons ban.”
“You ever seen a shrimp fork?” said Grytt. “Wicked tines. Pluck an eye out, neat as you please.”
“Except for the blood and viscera, I imagine, yes. Very neat.”
Rory settled against the narrow lip of the porthole and leaned her back against the polysteel. Cherno’s light made the creamy paper look rusty. Or bloodstained.
“I suppose I can’t refuse,” she murmured. She didn’t think Messer Rupert or Grytt would hear her, being eng
aged in their own conversation, and of course she already knew the answer. The invitation was polite summons, nothing more. She would have as much choice in attending this dinner as she ever had for one of her birthday celebrations.
“Course you can’t,” said Grytt, proving yet again that her mecha ear was more sensitive than the standard biological organ. And as Rory gathered up the wisps of breath to say yes, yes, she knew that, Grytt added, “You got to scare hell out of them, Princess. Kick ’em in their expectations.”
“Indeed,” Messer Rupert said soberly. “As much as it pains me to say this, Grytt is correct. Regent Moss imagines you to be a child, both in fact of age and of experience, an impression reinforced by your recent encounter.”
Rory sighed, winced, and braced herself for another one of Messer Rupert’s devastating disappointed looks. Instead, he produced the smallest, thinnest smile Rory had ever seen, razor-sharp with malice. “He believes himself to have the advantage. You must disabuse him of that notion.”
“Oh, he has an advantage over me. Really. He has the best cosmetic arithmancers I’ve ever seen.”
Grytt snorted. Messer Rupert’s smile warmed a few degrees. “And what other advantages does he have?”
“He’s very powerful, and he won’t give that up easily. Or at all, I think.” Rory thought she understood, suddenly, what must have happened to Ivar’s mother. She also understood why Messer Rupert was always pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing, and why he had the lines around his mouth, too, the ones that didn’t wrinkle up when he smiled. “Poor Ivar.”
“Indeed.” Messer Rupert nodded. “Poor Ivar. And yet here is your advantage: you and Ivar are both what he is not, and can never be. You are royalty. And if you marry Ivar, then someday, you will be his sovereign.”
Rory blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“He has.” Grytt snorted, and waved off Messer Rupert’s warning glare. “We’re assuming he’s going to let it get that far. Marrying Ivar.”
“He’s hardly going to assassinate me,” said Rory. She wished she sounded more confident in that declaration.
“Of course he isn’t,” said Grytt. “Not this close to the cease-fire. Nobody wants more war. But you could have accidents. And Ivar, hell, I’m surprised he’s made it this far.”
“Oh Grytt,” Messer Rupert murmured. “Shut up. Rory, listen. Regent Moss is a dangerous man, yes, and I do not believe there are many things which would give him pause, should he need to do them to get what he wants. Including, yes, your assassination, Ivar’s, mine, and Grytt’s. However, I do believe that your health is in his best interests.”
“At least until Ivar rejects me. And even if he doesn’t, I am only necessary if Moss thinks he can control me, too.”
“Oh no. You’re more precious than that. Regent Moss has two sons. Any hope he has of maintaining power here will need royal legitimacy, or he will face an internal rebellion. Urse may be cosmopolitan enough to imagine a life without sovereigns, but there are others in the Free Worlds who hold royalty to be divine.”
“Like . . . a god?”
“Like a god.”
Rory considered that. And said, for the first time, with real anticipation, “Then I suppose I should worry about what to wear.”
* * *
• • •
In the end, Grytt’s advice (“Wear battle armor. Carry a sword.”) lost to Messer Rupert’s more conservative counsel.
“Consider the effect you wish to achieve, Princess.” He weighted the title, both in volume and stress. “You are both a representative of your kingdom and the future Queen of this one.”
“Not officially. Not yet, anyway.”
“Not at all, if you appear dressed for war—shut up, Grytt—and whatever your feelings on the betrothal, Rory, the treaty rests on its realization.”
“I know.” Rory’s teeth creaked, clenched as they were against an argument that would serve no purpose except upsetting Messer Rupert. “But I’m not sure about wearing that.”
On Thorne, formal affairs were conducted in approximations of traditional (and archaic) homeworld garments, all dependent on an excess of fabric and extra hands to help stuff, prod, and arrange their wearers. The women’s garments were even more elaborate, having even more laces and alarmingly little fabric in some places, countered by even more alarming arrangements of skirts. Several examples had travelled with Rory, none of them of her choosing, all of them snuck into the baggage by maids undoubtedly following her mother’s orders.
Or, she thought, eyeing him suspiciously, Messer Rupert’s.
Which gave her an idea.
“I could go in a robe.”
“Ah,” said Messer Rupert. “No. A robe isn’t appropriate for a princess.”
“What he means is,” said Grytt, “only men with more brains than wits wear dresses. Armor,” she added, under her breath, “is far more sensible.”
“Learned men wear robes, yes,” said Messer Rupert, crisply. “Political officials. Arithmancers. Men who are not warriors. But not women, on Thorne.”
“Because you Thornes don’t want women smart or armed.”
“Grytt—”
“The whole point of a robe,” said Rory, “is that it isn’t a dress. I don’t mind the skirt part.” She flicked her fingers at the current offering, spilled along the length of the couch like wine from an upended goblet. “But I’m afraid to breathe in that thing. I’m afraid I’ll pop out. I know that’s the point—that the dress makes people—”
“A particular kind of person,” murmured Grytt.
“—imagine that, not that I actually will.”
Messer Rupert’s lips wrinkled a bit, as if he had bitten into something sour. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Quite.”
“I don’t think Moss would care if I walked in there naked. But his sons will be there, and—” Rory shuddered. “Do I want them to think about me like that?”
Grytt snorted. “They will anyway, unless their preferences lie elsewhere.”
“I have heard no rumors to that effect.” Messer Rupert tapped his fingers on the table in no particular pattern, which meant he was considering the merit of Rory’s objections. “It would be useful for the Regent’s sons to find you attractive.”
“She will be, unless you put a bag on her head.”
“Or put her in battle armor,” snapped Messer Rupert. “Which I believe was your suggestion. And a robe is going too far in the other direction. We don’t want her to appear sexless.” He caught Rory staring at him, and a red deeper and more dramatic than the dress crept up his neck and settled in two bright suns on his cheeks. “My apologies, Rory, I—”
“No, I understand.” Rory rubbed her forehead, kneading the skin in slow circles. “No one is interested in my education or my arithmancy. You advised me to remind Moss that I am not a child, and while I’m sure this particular choice of garment will affirm that I am past puberty, I think it will also raise a new set of reasons for him to dismiss me.”
“Battle armor,” Grytt said, under her breath. “Listen, Rupert. There is nothing says she has to wear traditional Thorne anything. What do they wear around the station, to formal events? Or have you even bothered to notice?”
“I haven’t been to any formal events,” Messer Rupert said, in a voice that could wither leaves on the branch or congeal fidgeting courtiers to stillness. Then he looked at Rory and sighed. “You’re right. Absolutely. I am sorry, Rory. I will do what I can to procure you formal wear that is both Ursan and more comfortable, if you wish, but I do not think we can do so before the dinner. One of these dresses will have to suffice. And consider this, too: I did not say you must disabuse the Regent of his preconceptions yet. It may be useful to have Moss underestimate you for a time.”
Rory waited for Grytt’s retort. Instead, the battlemaster-turned-body-maid grimaced as if whatever
sour thing Messer Rupert had sampled had found its way into her mouth, as well.
“Strategy in that,” she said, eyeing Rory. “Needs patience, though. Think you can manage that? Keep your mouth closed, maybe, this time?”
This time it was Rory’s cheeks that warmed. “Yes.”
“Then I say wear the black one. It’s got fewer skirts, and there’s a gather in the bodice for a little blade.”
“Absolutely not—” Messer Rupert stopped himself. Blinked at her. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I can’t hex, but I can sew. You know Samur always carries steel on her person, Rupert.”
Messer Rupert’s nostrils pinched white. He glared at Grytt.
“Yes.” It was the shortest, sharpest yes Rory had ever heard.
Grytt, unsurprisingly, ignored his discomfiture. “You didn’t think Samur got a palace seamstress to tailor her dresses, did you? You think the old King would’ve let that go?”
Messer Rupert’s mouth flexed a little. “I don’t think he had any idea, actually.”
“Right.” Grytt rolled her flesh eye. “Don’t you fret, Princess. I brought a knife that will fit, too.”
Rory set aside her worries about necklines, gravity, and the occasionally inconvenient necessity of drawing deep breaths while wearing a bodice. “My mother carries a knife?”
“Of course she does. A Kreshti soldier always carries a blade.”
Rory sat down, heedless of the audible wrinkles her bottom carved in the dress’s voluminous skirts. “My mother was a soldier?”
“Sure. Compulsory service.”
“I knew that. I thought she might’ve gotten out of it, or, you know. She never said anything about it.”
“Of course she didn’t. You’d’ve asked to be a soldier, too, and started a civil war. She gave me to you, instead. Personal trainer to the Princess.” Grytt chuckled.
“Rory cannot carry a weapon into the Regent’s presence. Or Ivar’s. You’ll cause an incident. There will be spybots all over the palace against weapons.”