by K. Eason
“Would you surrender?”
“No,” said Thorsdottir. “Unless, same thing, our surrender would serve your interests.”
“So Grytt obviously knew something,” said Rory. “And she acted on it. In my interests. And if she knew about Ivar, then she might’ve gone to Beo. This makes me more worried than ever about Messer Rupert. If Grytt’s gone and done something violent. We need to get him out. But we can’t just fight our way into detention. And even if we did, then what? We can’t just bring him back here. Can anyone fly a shuttle?”
Zhang frowned. “Franko is a pilot.”
Thorsdottir wrinkled her forehead. “So’re you.”
Zhang peered down her nose at Thorsdottir, which was no trivial accomplishment, given their vertical disparity.
“I have a provisional license.”
Thorsdottir made a very Grytt-like noise in the back of her throat and rolled her eyes. “And top rank in your class.”
Rory held up a hand. “So you can fly.”
Zhang sighed, and favored Thorsdottir with a look that suggested, were will the only criteria, flames could, in fact, shoot out of her eyes. “Yes. For atmospheric craft only. I am not at all trained for voidships.”
“We are not stealing a shuttle,” Thorsdottir said firmly. And then, less firmly, “Are we?”
“No. Maybe. Not yet.” Rory closed her eyes. The insides felt gritty and hot. Grytt would act without orders, certainly—but she acted in defense of Rory, always. So the knowledge Rory needed, more than anything, was what threat had prompted Grytt’s actions and whether that was related to the three bodies in the morgue. If Grytt was responsible, then relations between Thorne and the Free Worlds of Tadesh might be in jeopardy. Rory was certain that the Regent did not want another war; but he could use an incident that resulted in shots fired and dead Tadeshi citizens as leverage. Her marriage to Ivar was supposed to wait until she was eighteen, but under certain circumstances—say, the death of Tadeshi personnel caused by her own Kreshti body-maid—that rule could be waived, with permission from the Thorne sovereign. Samur wouldn’t like it, but she’d probably agree: Samur didn’t want a war, either, and she would be furious at Grytt for putting her and Rory and all of Thorne in a vulnerable political position.
So this action could result in a faster marriage to a cloned Ivar, with even less time to maneuver and formulate a new plan that would not involve marrying anyone. It was, by all appearances, a foolish, even treasonous, thing that Grytt had done. Except Grytt wasn’t a fool or a traitor.
The only thing Rory did know, already and for certain, was what Grytt would say to plans of absconding with a shuttle and flying to Beo to rescue Ivar with no guarantee that he was alive, and it would be heavily punctuated with your Highness to remind her that she was being an idiot.
“No,” Rory said. “Definitely. No. No stealing shuttles. We’ll have to manage this some other way. First, we have to figure out where Grytt is.”
Thorsdottir made a face reminiscent of someone who has a mouthful of slivered glass and vinegar. “The Regent might know.”
“The Regent might. I don’t want to ask him yet, though. I need to see Jaed—”
At that moment, the turing flashed a warning. In the very next, both Thorsdottir’s and Zhang’s comms buzzed.
Zhang answered. Frowned. And said, before Rory could ask: “That was Stary. We’ve got three station-security inbound.”
“Well,” Rory murmured. “I guess we’ll be asking him soon.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Perfect Leaf
Much conversation, both literal and literary, has been expended on the economic and temporal investment made by individuals before they present themselves in public. Whole industries depend on it, from cosmetics and clothiers, who recognize a lucrative opportunity when they see it and attempt to cultivate that market, to comedians and pundits and religious figures (often difficult to distinguish from one another), who find their own profit in mockery of individuals who expend their time and effort in what are often called vain pursuits. The irony in this phrase is the assumption that such pursuits are vain—which is to say, that they are wasted effort.
A princess knows better, though it is only the wiser princesses who understand that clothing and presentation are as much a weapon as an expression of conformity to public expectation. Messer Rupert and her mother had, over the years of her adolescence, impressed upon Rory the need to present an appropriate face and figure, not for social conformity, but for camouflage.
You must control their focus, Messer Rupert had said. Show them what you want them to see.
Grytt had said, Be like a mantis-lion. Match the foliage. People want to see a leaf, let them see a leaf. Surprise is your ally.
That latter advice had, in Rory’s childhood, led to an attempt to wear nothing but green for a fortnight and long hours spent in the gardens, leaping out of the foliage at inopportune moments and startling the groundskeepers. It was shortly after that incident that Messer Rupert explained metaphor. But the lesson had stuck.
Today, she needed to be a mantis-lion. The Regent needed to believe she was Rory-the-leaf, until she ate his head. Well. Perhaps not that, exactly: until she demonstrated, through nonviolent means, that she was an ally whose goodwill he needed, as much as—no, more than—he needed her mother’s.
She also needed to be able to lie today, because although Messer Rupert had taught her that personal honesty was a virtue, he had also said political dishonesty was a necessity.
So before she got dressed, Rory took a guilty detour into Messer Rupert’s quarters. He had not brought much in the way of personal items. A Kreshti fern. A small embroidered pillow. And a small personal trunk which was fortunately not hexed, so that she needn’t feel even more wretched for breaking into it.
Messer Rupert was both an arithmancer and a historian by training; but he was a politician’s advisor by profession, and as such, Rory knew he kept odd hours and, on occasion, resorted to alchemy to maintain his alertness. She was not the slightest bit surprised to find a small packet of stimulant capsules in the corner of the trunk, wedged beside an innocuous bottle of painkillers and an unopened bottle of aftershave.
Having acquired—she refused to think of it as stolen—the capsules, Rory retreated to her own quarters, to the mirror, and assessed her condition. She currently looked like someone who had not slept more than three hours in the past twenty-four. She needed to look like a fully-rested someone unconcerned with the absence of her two closest advisors.
There were not enough cosmetics in the world for that, though a Winter Nights mask might suffice, if seasons mattered on a void-station, if the Free Worlds bothered with such things.
Rory chose dark items from her wardrobe, strategically close-fitting in some places and draping in others. She coiled her usual braid into a knot on the back of her neck, as Kreshti women do when they’ve achieved majority. She wore an elaborately embroidered vest and a wide belt, and blacked the rims of her eyes and turned the dull smudged exhaustion into grey-painted shadows.
The Vizier, had he been present, would have caught his breath, seeing Samur in her daughter. Grytt, had she been there, would have raised her remaining eyebrow and nodded approval, for the same reason. Rory, having only a mirror and her own perception, thought she made an excellent leaf.
* * *
• • •
The three black-clad security were waiting at the end of the tiny corridor that led to the official Thorne compound on Urse. It was three blonds, this time, strong-featured and long-limbed and conspicuously armed. They had clearly been waiting awhile; they were looking everywhere but down the corridor, shifting from one foot to another, heads tilted together in a private conversation. Stary and Franko had emerged from their quarters and stood just inside of the corridor, armed and armored and, from the shade of red on the back of Franko’s neck, v
ery angry.
“Hell,” said Zhang.
Thorsdottir said something more scatological.
Rory said nothing. Her first impulse was to go right back inside, which of course she could not do, because she was no longer five and the Tadeshi would not go away if she pretended they were not there.
“Thorsdottir,” she said. “Back inside. Now. Wait until we’re gone, and they’re gone. Then go find Jaed, and tell him what’s happened.”
Thorsdottir did not look at all surprised, which indicated she had either expected something like this, or she was becoming accustomed to Rory’s improvisations. “And then?”
“I may need a rescue,” said Rory. “Use your judgment.”
“Princess,” said Thorsdottir, and ducked back into the flat.
Rory took a breath deep enough to feel, and thus reassure herself, that the tiny Kreshti knife was where it belonged, tucked in the band of her undergarments, where the wires inherent in the garment’s structure would (according to Thorsdottir and Zhang) conceal the extra metal. Its placement also rendered it ineffective for urgent defense; but Rory did not expect violence from Tadeshi security in a public area, not against the Princess of Thorne, darling of the social networks.
Which meant she needed to get herself out into a public area, and quickly.
“Follow me. Stay behind,” she said to Zhang.
Rory plastered a very practiced, public smile across her lips. “Good morning, messers,” she sang out, and increased her pace.
The Tadeshi turned their heads as if controlled by the same puppeteer. The foremost—who seemed the most relentlessly medium of the three, adorned with the two-pip insignia that marked his superior rank—opened his mouth to possibly return the greeting, and more likely issue a command. When he realized that the Princess was coming at him at ramming speed his mouth remained open and empty. Whatever plans he’d had for this encounter, a royal charge was not among them.
He locked eyes with Rory, holding her gaze for a heartbeat before turning his head and issuing orders to his own men. They yielded ground and backed up into the main thoroughfare, so that the midmorning traffic broke and eddied around them, leaving a small area unoccupied and demarked by a triangle of black uniforms.
“The Regent requests your presence at once,” Two-Pips said. His vowels were stiff, his tone condescending and, worse, utterly confident of compliance.
Rory tilted her head. Her smile hardened a fraction. “You’re mistaken, messer. I requested his presence, to which you are here to escort me. But you have arrived unexpectedly early, and so I will need to stop along the way, to procure breakfast.”
The three looked at each other. Evidently the care and feeding of the Princess had not been part of their briefing. Nor, evidently, had they been briefed to expect a princess who was less than accommodating and gracious. They had likely been told to fetch her, escort her, expect no difficulty—because Rory had not, in her tenure on Urse, shown that tendency.
Rory tossed her head back and took a step forward—conservatively, this time, in case the Tadeshi were done with retreat for the morning.
They were. Rory found herself an uncomfortable half arm’s length from a uniformed chest. She suffered a sharp, irrational stab of annoyance that the Tadeshi were, as a general rule, taller than average, even at their most medium.
“I’m sorry, Princess, but we must insist,” said the chest’s owner. “The Regent’s command was very specific. We are to deliver you to his office at once.”
As if she were an order of take-out. Rory stared at a speck of lint on the unbroken black and wished for laser beams in her eyes. She knew she should acquiesce. Leaves did not argue, and after all, the Regent’s office was her intended destination as well, and she had been concerned he would refuse to see her. But her nerves were raw and her temper threadbare and she disliked Two-Pips’ tone.
She lifted her chin and stared past the tip of her nose, dismissing her smile. “You forget your place, messer, and mine. I take no one’s commands. If you wish to drag me, bodily, to the administrative offices, then you are of course free to try. But you will attract attention. And you will likely find it more costly than you are prepared to pay.”
Zhang inhaled, sharp and quiet as a knife. Perversely, it was a comfort.
Rory’s smile returned, sudden and false as sunlight during a rainstorm. “So I recommend that you wait until I procure my breakfast, at which point you may escort me to the Regent, or we will create an incident in which you will not appear sympathetic. Clear?”
Two-Pips looked as if all his breath had been stolen out of his lungs. Red crawled up from his collar, staining his neck and cheeks, creeping across his forehead. He clamped his teeth together as if he meant to crack them. “Yes, Princess.”
Zhang let her breath go.
Rory raised a hand, flicking her fingers as if at a persistent insect. The Tadeshi uniforms parted like curtains. She walked between them briskly, to better conceal the fledgling tremor in her knees. There was a pastry vendor nearby, who sold passable crêpes. She pointed herself that direction and hoped her stomach would cooperate.
The Tadeshi remained where she had left them, talking amongst themselves in low voices. Probably with the Regent, too, over comms.
“They will either arrest us forthwith,” muttered Rory, “or we will be permitted to carry on as if nothing at all is amiss. So. What would you like for breakfast?”
Zhang looked as if she had a mouthful of observations. She swallowed them. “Princess.” Another breath. “They’re coming.”
“So they’re not looking at the apartment anymore.”
The corner of Zhang’s mouth lifted, just a little. “No.”
“Then let’s keep their eyes on us, shall we? Because I suddenly don’t feel like crêpes. But there’s an excellent patisserie two sections up-ring from here. What do you think?”
“I think the Regent is going to be annoyed.”
“Tragic.”
Zhang chuckled, and matched Rory’s pace.
* * *
• • •
Thorsdottir felt a bit like a child, holding the door propped a crack, using a mirror to peer down the corridor, as if she were playing hunt-and-hide with her brothers, dreaming of the day when she would join the Royal Guard and acquire all manner of exciting equipment. Bolt slingers. Hex-casters. Spybots. Some of which she had, and others of which Stary and Franko did, in their much smaller apartment (which would now be much less crowded, once she and Zhang had officially relocated to Rory’s flat). They had the best Thorne could provide, within treaty, and a little without, because Grytt had proven herself an able smuggler, with a false-bottomed trunk in her room that housed several pieces of wartime equipment. And still, here Thorsdottir was, crouched in the doorway so as to leave no silhouette, with Rory’s silver hand mirror.
Sometimes the simplest tools worked best. She watched Rory and Zhang step through the security escort, heading toward the refreshment vendors. She watched the security escort huddle together for a moment before they moved, in formation, to follow. And it was following, rather than pursuit, because they weren’t moving fast. No urgency.
Thorsdottir let her breath go. She eased back into the apartment. The Princess had said, use your judgment. Thorsdottir knew her judgment was exactly why she was here—both on Urse, and on the Princess’s personal guard detail. Grytt had told her as much. But judgment was easier to define when it was a matter of detecting threats and managing the Princess’s personal space out in public. This version of use your judgment involved mental muscles Thorsdottir hadn’t used since her hunt-and-hide days.
A soldier learns, during her basic training, to robe and disrobe with great haste and efficiency. Thorsdottir was out of her uniform and into a pair of unremarkable trousers and a dark sweater of Lanscottar wool in the same time it took most people to open a drawer.
The sweater had been intended for her brother, back on Thorne, and as such, was too large for her, which made it perfect for concealing the very small, very illegal ’slinger, taken from Grytt’s stash of contraband, muzzle down at the small of her back. Its cartridges were unmarked, which was worrisome; if she was forced to use it, she and her opponents would both be surprised at the force and content of the charge.
She checked the corridor again before exiting the flat. No Tadeshi security team. She took her time getting up that corridor, staying close to the bulkhead, observing the crowds for any sign of alarm or unusual distraction. Nothing. She was not entirely surprised, when she poked her head into the main thoroughfare, to see no sign of Rory, Zhang, or the Regent’s men. She only hoped their absence was due to the Princess’s plan—whatever it was—and not the Regent’s impatience.
I might need a rescue.
Thorsdottir hoped not, if that rescue somehow involved Jaed Moss. She didn’t like her Princess’s apparent trust in him. He was Tadeshi. He was a Moss. And he was, unfortunately, the closest thing to an ally Rory had on Urse, outside of her own dwindling household.
Thorsdottir set her worry aside. Her mother had said there was little sense in borrowing trouble before it arrived at your door. Her mother had also said, when Thorsdottir enlisted, that there was even less sense in looking for it. But that was the point of hunt-and-hide, wasn’t it? Looking for trouble, or trouble looking for you, depending which side of the game you were on.
Thorsdottir stopped at a public terminal four intersections down-ring of the Thorne quarters. She keyed in Rory’s pass-string, which Rory had insisted she and Zhang memorize (“Grytt knows it. So should you.”). Then she typed a text message into the keypad, one finger at a time. She’d participated in the crafting and sending of several such missives, over the course of Rory’s alliance with Jaed. She thought it sounded authentic.