by K. Eason
So, while sharing a table and a pair of eclairs with Zhang, Rory slipped a tiny capsule from her sleeve and swallowed it, along with a bite of eclair, taking care to do so while the Tadeshi security pretended not to watch her every move (and were not, in fact, watching at that moment). Rory was certain that if they had been watching, it would not have helped. The capsule was small, and her movements natural, and only Zhang noticed, and that was because Zhang was sitting across from her, back to the Tadeshi, stabbing unhappily at the eclair as if reducing it to crumbs and custard would approximate actually eating it. Zhang paused in her assault on the pastry when she spied the capsule. She was not Thorsdottir, who would have asked about and possibly objected to its presence. But she frowned as thunderously as her partner, and pressed her lips together in a white line that said your Highness more clearly than words.
Rory ignored both the Thorsdottir in her mind, and the Zhang across her table, and chased the pill with an unPrincesslike gulp of coffee, which had the additional effect of scalding her throat as it washed the capsule down.
“A stimulant,” Rory murmured, “for mental clarity. Messer Rupert kept it,” she added, a little defensively, when Zhang continued to stare. “It doesn’t last long.”
“Princess,” said Zhang.
It wasn’t quite a your Highness, but it wasn’t a stirring endorsement, either. Rory took greater care with the second capsule, a precise ten minutes later, dropping it into the last forkful of eclair and conveying it to her mouth that way. Custard did not require much chewing, and the capsule slipped down easily. This time, Zhang pretended not to notice.
Then Rory finished her coffee, set her fork in the middle of her plate, and pushed the plate to the center of the table.
“Finished?” she asked.
Zhang put her own fork down with obvious relief. “Yes.”
Rory nodded, then raised her hand and crooked her fingers at the Tadeshi. It was the sort of gesture reserved for social inferiors by people who forget that servants and waitstaff can, and do, spit in the soup. The three security, having no access to food or revenge, simply grimaced and stood and came over.
“We’re ready,” she said. “You may escort me to the Regent, now.”
A precise twenty minutes later, Rory, Zhang, and the Regent’s security arrived at the Regent’s office. The doors opened as they approached, which could have been courtesy and was, more probably, an indicator of how very expected (and how very late) their arrival was.
Rory set her feet on a straight line toward the doorway, commended her forward progress to balance and momentum, and closed her eyes. The first of the capsules pulsed red across the back of her eyelids, in time with her somewhat accelerated heartbeat, which was itself an effect of both capsule and coffee. Her mind felt extraordinarily sharp. Clear. Unfogged by sleep or worry. Her pressing problems—Grytt, Ivar, the Regent—receded to the edges of her awareness. There, certainly, and no less dire; but absent the chest-tightening worry, and the knot in her belly, and the tendency of her breath to catch in a throat gone tight with panic. What remained: the problems themselves, laid out like equations, spiked with variables and constants, begging solution.
The Regent figured highest among those problems. The longest equation. The most variables. The one most in need of solving.
She had perhaps four steps to go, before the doors. Rory required three of them, and Zhang’s hand on her elbow (for balance, when her left toe discovered an imperfection in the deckplate unaccounted for in her initial calculations), to shape a false aura for herself. It was an elementary arithmantic ruse, but a good one, though its effectiveness was dependent on the skill of its creator. Messer Rupert had seen to it that she was very skilled indeed, but against the level of defense she expected from the Regent, she would need to sustain the hex, and adjust it as necessary. Thus, the second capsule, which enabled her to tap a deeper level of the aether, and anchor her hex to that. She should, if she’d done it right—and the doubt, that gnawing uncertainty, was banished to the same place as the worry-knot—seem perfectly normal, perfectly unthreatening, to any local defenses in the Regent’s office. A mantis-lion, fully camouflaged. The perfect leaf.
Rory found the Regent exactly as she’d hoped: visibly annoyed, his long fingers strangling each other, a tic beating in his jaw, his eyes glacially furious. A part of her noted the intensity of his displeasure, and the corresponding tension in Zhang. She would have been nervous herself, perhaps even unsettled, forty minutes ago. She would be again, in another forty, when the capsule wore off, so it was in her best interests to move, and speak, quickly.
Rory unfurled her haughtiest smile and struck first.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, my lord Regent. You are most generous.”
The Regent noted the difference in her, and disapproved of it: that was clear enough from the shifts in his posture and the manner in which his gaze traveled over her face and figure.
“Princess. How very kind of you to come. I had hoped to see you earlier. Perhaps my men did not explain the urgency of my request.”
where is your damned body-maid
Rory kept her smile firmly in place. “Your request? I’m sorry, Regent. I don’t understand. I asked to see you.”
His nostrils pinched, then flared. “Well.
the hell you did
You’re here now. Please. Sit.”
There was exactly one available chair in the room, not particularly well-padded or comfortable in appearance, turned precisely square and centered in front of the Regent’s desk. The other chairs had been drawn back to the room’s perimeter, making the office look a little bit like an interrogation chamber. The arrangement was intended to make Rory feel like a recalcitrant child or a frightened detainee. She considered, for an alchemically accelerated heartbeat, playing to the Regent’s expectations; but that was not the kind of leaf she was, today.
“Thank you,” she said, and took her time arranging herself in the chair. She dragged it a half meter back from the desk, and off-center, and tilted it forty-five degrees to the plane of the desk. She sat, and crossed her right knee over her left, and folded her hands neatly around it.
“My lord Regent, I came to ask you about Prince Ivar.”
“Prince Ivar.” The Regent, for one blank moment, stared at her. Then he recovered, clearing his throat and glancing at his turing. Looking for an aura report, Rory guessed. From his expression, she guessed her hex was working; or at least, the Regent did not blurt liar at her.
“Yes, my lord.” Rory frowned. “I received a message from him. A very strange message.”
The Regent sat up straight, as if someone had poked him unexpectedly with a pin. “You. Received a message.”
“I did. Last night. Midway through third shift.” Rory paused. Her heart kicked at the confines of her ribs and chest. She willed it to calm down, and took slow breaths to drive the point home. An unexpected side effect of the alchemical enhancements, perhaps, which would be tolerable so long as the capsules worked.
The Regent interpreted her momentary silence for hesitation. His lip curled. It was, Rory thought, supposed to be a reassuring smile. It failed rather spectacularly.
“Are you certain it was from Prince Ivar? I ask, Princess, because the Prince is currently on Beo—as you know—and his opportunities for communications with Urse are limited by his duties there. There is also the matter of the electromagnetic storms, which render ordinary messages quite impossible.”
“I am aware.” Rory permitted her own imposter smile to appear. It had teeth, and a half-life just long enough to ensure the Regent noticed it. “But that’s the curious thing, my lord. The message did not originate on Beo. It came from Urse.”
“That’s simply not possible. I’m afraid someone must be playing a prank on you, Princess. May I, ah, inquire about the contents of the message?”
Rory shook her head, feigning embarrassment.
“You mean, was it a love letter? No, my lord. That’s why I’m here. It was . . .” She winced, and not entirely for dramatic purposes. Her heartbeat had given up its kicking, and had begun galloping in earnest, leaving precious little space in her chest for her lungs. Her skull had evidently shrunk two sizes as well. “Disturbing. The letter said that he wished to dissolve our engagement. That he was being forced into the marriage, and did not desire it, and wished my collusion in finding a solution to our, oh, how did he say it, mutual problem.”
The Regent shook his head. He offered a thin, tepid smile. “That does not sound like Prince Ivar. It’s likely a prank, Princess. A poor joke.”
damn you Jaed
The fairy gift had not caught Rory entirely off guard since her adolescence. She had almost forgotten the sensation, which had inspired many unfortunate incidents before she had learned to control her reaction. Even so, the sensation was so unexpected, here and now, that she was grateful for the sturdiness of the chair. She had expected the Regent to be unsettled, even alarmed by her mendacity. She had not expected him to believe in its feasibility, and she had not, would not ever, have predicted that he would blame Jaed so easily and automatically. It was as if he’d expected Jaed to send such a letter, which was absurd, unless—
Her brain pushed against the confines of her shrinking skull. She pressed her fingers hard into each other, grounding her focus in that discomfort, and stared at her bloodless fingertips.
“A prank played by whom, my lord? And for what purpose?”
The Regent heaved up a sigh that was entirely sincere in its exasperation. “A romantic fool,
Jaed
who, having seen the public spectacle you and my son have been making with each other, wishes to see it made real.”
“But to work to dissolve our engagement would be treason, my lord.”
“Indeed, your Highness. Highest treason.”
Rory had rehearsed the expression of offended innocence a dozen times, and it still felt odd from the inside. “Jaed and I are not laboring under any illusions, my lord. I assure you. Our liaison is honorable.”
“And yet, Princess, you
know very well
can see how the behavior might look to
my stupid son
individuals who are not aware of the intricacies of diplomacy.” The Regent tried on a smile two sizes too small. His teeth winked through the thin stretch of his lips like bone in deep cut. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, your Highness. If you could forward the message to me, I will have my security ascertain who sent it, and
might be too soon to arrest him
deal with him accordingly.”
Rory nodded, and knowing she failed to conceal her distress, hoped the Regent misinterpreted its cause. She wanted to leave now, retreat to her apartment, and consider this new knowledge. She needed to see Jaed, and talk to him, and determine his culpability.
Then she recalled that any discussion of the Regent or Jaed would take place only among her, Zhang, and Thorsdottir, which reminded her what the true purpose of her visit was. Baiting the Regent had been the excuse, and it had yielded more information than she’d anticipated, but that couldn’t distract her.
Rory remembered to breathe, and did so. Her skin felt hot. All of it, except the palms of her hands, which felt like half-melted ice. She turned the palms flat on her trousers and rubbed them surreptitiously.
“But that brings me to the second reason for my visit. I would like to see the Vizier. It has been several weeks, my lord. I have received no official advisement of his arrest, or his prosecution, or an order for deportation. So unless you are counting him a prisoner of war—which would be curious, since the Free Worlds and the Consortium are at peace, and my presence here is proof of that—I have a right to see him, my lord Regent. I am his sovereign representative.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
he’s missing
Well. That was interesting. Rory made her eyes wide as eggs. She suspected the expression fooled no one, exaggerated as it was; but the fog on the borders of her vision was drawing closer and more insistent, and she needed all the light she could get. “I must insist, my lord.”
“I’ve explained my position. The man is suspected of crimes against the Free Worlds of Tadesh.”
“You have, my lord. But now I’ve explained my position, so perhaps we can negotiate.”
A smile flickered across Moss’s lips like oil over water.
the hell
“I would be happy to
marry you off sooner than later
consider your request, Princess, except I fear there may be greater violations of treaty to consider.”
“My lord?”
“Your body-maid. Grytt.”
She let herself hesitate. Her false aura should, at this point, be turning an anemic shade of puce.
The Regent steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. It was a credible imitation of thoughtful consideration, laced with pity. “I feel I should remind you, Princess, that you are responsible for your staff. No, wait, let me finish. I also understand how one might be deceived by individuals in whom one places one’s trust. There is a great difference between a failure in judgment—and the treason of a close associate—and a deliberate act of sabotage. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, my lord. Though I do not understand your implication.”
“I don’t believe that is true. Your loyalty to your people is commendable, but I must insist, for the security of Urse, on an honest answer to this question. Do you know where your body-maid is, at present?”
“No, my lord.” Rory shifted in her chair, taking the position the Regent had first intended for her: hands white on the arms, knees together, exposed as both supplicant and accused. “She’s been missing since last night. I fear something has happened.”
The Regent spent a long, deliberate moment staring at his turing. The lines around his eyes deepened. Whatever he saw there, it did not please him.
“Something has,” he said. “It pains me to be the one to tell you, Princess, but I believe your body-maid is part of a conspiracy to rekindle the war between our people.”
“Impossible,” said Rory, too loudly. She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake. We have
nothing
extensive video records. Grytt attempted to
abscond with my prisoner
steal a shuttle during third shift. When confronted, she responded with violence. She
killed three of my men
did not survive.”
Rory put both hands over her mouth. She hoped the portion of her face which remained visible approximated shock and horror sufficiently. She did not quite trust her lips, which were not sure if they should smile—Grytt had rescued Messer Rupert—or scowl—why hadn’t Grytt told her she was mounting a rescue?—or smirk—because the Regent had lost that battle entirely.
Then she remembered that he was lying to her and attempting to provoke a reaction, and that she needed to produce an appropriate response. She bit her disobedient lip, and made fists and pressed her knuckles against her cheeks.
“Are you telling me that Grytt is dead?”
“I
wish
am. You understand,” the Regent added with poisonous gentleness, “why I am reluctant to return the Vizier to you, or to permit a conversation. I believe you are a victim, Princess, of terrible advisors. It is only fortunate that you don’t know anything about their machinations, or suspicion would fall upon you. And that really would jeopardize
your usefulness to me
the treaty between the Free Worlds and the Consortium.”
The fairy gift did not include au
dio accompaniment, but the flavor and tenor of its report suggested diabolical laughter.
Rory forgot, for a moment, just how awful she felt. She forgot she was sitting in a chair, unarmed, in front of a man who had murdered his King, his Queen, and very probably his Prince, and that any action she took against him would be both ineffective and counterproductive. She very nearly forgot to be a leaf.
“Princess?” The Regent leaned forward. His brow creased in a new pattern. “Are you all right? You’re flushed.”
Which was when she realized that the first of her alchemical advantages had expired, which meant the second would fail soon, too. Without her hex, her aura would be visible to him, and while reading an aura would not reveal the same level of detail as her fairy gift—she knew, having compared their effects with great rigor—it would reveal clues about her emotional state. She needed to terminate the interview, and quickly.
An ideal leaf would, at this point, burst into tears while protesting her innocence. Rory feared she would choke if she tried to speak. Instead she covered her face completely, and let her shoulders round. She sniffled loudly, amplified by her palms, and scrubbed her hands hard across her cheeks. And she was entirely surprised when she lifted her face out of her hands and found her palms smeared with blood.
Nosebleeds are a common side-effect of arithmancy taken too far. Messer Rupert had warned her of that, by example. Rory considered, for a horrified heartbeat, whether or not the Regent would know that, too, or whether she should attempt to conceal the seepage. Foolishness, she realized a moment later. The Regent could not help but notice. He would draw whatever conclusions he drew. At the moment, she had the element of surprise and a desire to end the interview. Time to end her leafiness, and become the mantis-lion—running away from a bird, rather than devouring a beetle, but still.