She retraced her steps, turning at the door to make sure the room looked exactly as it had been when she entered it. Praying to the Mother that the soldier she had met before was not still in the corridor, she almost ran to the hallway that led to the public section of the palace. The relief of closing the Shekayrin’s door behind her was so great Baku had to warn herself that the time to relax had not yet come. She could still be caught and returned to her rooms.
She had been through this part of the palace several times, either going to the audience room, or to the gardens of the larger interior courtyard, where the fruit trees were beginning to bud. The familiarity of the place almost made up for the strange feel of her clothing, and the way loose, unlacquered hair brushed against the skin of her face, and the way no one looked at her, and no one troubled to get out of her path. This last was almost her undoing. She stopped at the elbow of a man standing in front of a tapestry, apparently studying the stitching.
“May I help you?” he said. A Faraman citizen, his accent identical to that of Dern Firoxi.
She suddenly realized that she had stopped because she expected the man to get out of her way. “Your pardon, sir.” She croaked as if she had a sore throat, hoping that would disguise her own accent. “I thought you were someone else.” Ears burning, she stepped around him and headed toward the stairs at the far end of the corridor. She felt his eyes on her back as she went and hoped she imagined it.
She almost changed her mind when she reached the staircase. There were several people on it, moving up and down. She would not be able to hold the railing, as she had wanted to do. Her knees did not feel as if they would support her if she descended without that aid. Someone jostled her elbow and she jumped.
“Sorry,” said a bright voice. “But you are standing right in the way.” The words drifted back up to her as a boy a little shorter than she took the stairs downward. Before she could think about it anymore, Baku stepped down after him. If she fell, he would cushion her fall.
But she did not fall. She made it all the way down two flights of stairs, managing the broad landing without bumping anyone, or being bumped. When she reached the open, high-ceilinged entrance hall, she forced herself not to stop, but to head immediately across the flagstone floor inlaid with griffins to the wide opening of the front entrance. She was no more than a third of the way across when men in uniforms came in from the square outside, walking in a protective formation around a man she immediately recognized. The only man who could immediately recognize her. Dern Firoxi.
She lowered her eyes lest he should feel her gaze, but without moving her head. With luck no one would notice her at all. She was dressed as a commoner, a servant, someone who could have come in with a request or a message. Certainly, someone of no importance.
Jerek: Baku? Is something wrong? Are you all right?
Baku: It’s your father. If he looks this way, he may see me.
Jerek: But—
Baku: I cannot talk now, I must keep all my wits about me.
Jerek: As soon as you can, then.
And he was gone.
Do not look this way, she willed, directing her thoughts to the slim dark man surrounded by guards and attendants. If she had any magic at all left that had not been netted, let it be this. Let her be invisible and unnoticed. The press of bodies around her eased slightly, and then moved completely away. For a moment she froze in place, sure that this movement meant she had been spotted, and the next sound she would hear would be the command of the Shekayrin. Instead, a large woman careened into her, almost knocking both of them down.
“Clumsy brat.” The woman’s voice was stiff and rough with the fear of her near fall. She thrust Baku away from her as if she were hot. “Country bumpkins should stay out of the way of civilized people. What are you staring at, girl?”
Baku bit the inside of her lip hard enough that she tasted blood. No one had spoken to her in this tone since she was a small child and her brother was far from the throne. She swallowed past a lump in her throat.
“Nothing, my lady,” she whispered, just loud enough for the woman to hear. She gave one of the short bows, more than half a nod, that she had seen servants give. “Sorry, my lady.” The woman snorted and turned away. Her heart hammering in her ears, Baku let her get several paces away before following the woman’s stout back out the door.
The steps of the palace entrance were shallow and wide—wide enough that Baku required two paces for each step. She kept herself to a steady walk, though her pounding heart wanted her to run. She didn’t hesitate at the bottom but set off straight across the rough flagstones of the square outside. Straight across, Jerek had said, to the street marked by the statue of a soldier in crested helm and armor holding up an eagle on his left wrist. Or her wrist. The statue was too old, and too worn for anyone to be sure.
* * *
• • •
Narl Koven went through the clothes press she shared with Kvena and sorted out the clothing they would need, including a replacement veil for the one she’d given Bakura. She uncovered her small stash of money and distributed the coins into the pockets of the clothes she was wearing. Places where a body servant would normally keep a small sewing kit for hasty repairs, or a comb, or even, sometimes, a biscuit. She heard the door to the passage open and close, and an unfamiliar step cross the bare section of floor before the rugs began.
“Is anyone here? Attend me!” Dern Firoxi’s voice.
What was the man doing here at this time of day? Mother and Daughter, save me. He’d visited the princess numerous times in the last few weeks, but only in the evening. She dropped the hooded tunic she had in her hands, thankful she’d already put away the noisier coins. She slid her hand under the lowest shelf of the clothes press, reaching all the way to the back. Her fingertips finally found the two narrow leather straps she’d tacked to the bottom of the shelf. From this improvised sling she withdrew a short knife with a plain flat hilt and a blade as long as her hand.
She shut the clothes press and turned to face the door, slipping the knife up her sleeve as the handle began to turn.
By the time Dern Firoxi stood in the doorway, Narl had composed her features, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, ready with a lie to tell him.
“Why did you not come when summoned?”
“Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t hear you.”
This seemed to satisfy him. “And where is the Princess Imperial?”
“The Poppy Shekayrin summoned her.” There was more than one Poppy in the palace complex, but only one who didn’t need to be named.
“You didn’t attend her?”
“Kvena is with the princess,” Narl said.
Feroxi nodded, but as though he hadn’t really been listening to her. His eyes drifted around the room, coming to rest on the two packs on the bed behind her. Narl could have hidden the packs or grabbed the knife, she hadn’t had time for both. Now it looked like she might have made the wrong choice.
“Going somewhere?” Narl had seen that smile before, and it led nowhere good.
“Discarded clothing, my lord, to be taken to the clothiers.”
“The clothiers?” His eyebrows raised.
“Yes, my lord. They will salvage anything of value, and either reuse the material for other purposes or sell it.”
He walked past her and stopped by the bed, hefting one of the packs in his hand. “And these discarded items are usually carried away in traveling packs?” He turned to face her, and this smile was one she’d never seen, and she liked it no better. “Do you know what the penalty is for stealing from the Luqs of Farama?”
Narl felt heat in her face. “I have served the Luqs of Farama since I turned fifteen,” she said. “I think I know better than you.”
His face stiffened, and he took a pace toward her. “I am the Luqs of Farama.”
“Of course, m
y lord,” she said in a tone that meant the exact opposite. At this point she had nothing to lose. As a thief, she was dead; as someone who’d lost the princess, she was dead. She might as well say what she wanted to say.
Firoxi’s face stiffened, but before he could speak, they both heard the outer door open, and this time the footsteps Narl heard were familiar ones. Kvena. Firoxi started past her, heading for the sitting room. As soon as he got there and saw that Kvena was alone, he’d know that Narl had lied to him, and the search for the princess would begin. Was she even out of the palace yet?
Afterward, Narl felt that she’d hesitated forever, but Firoxi was only one pace closer to the door, when she moved. Feeling completely calm, she pulled the knife out of her sleeve, stepped lightly behind him, grabbed his throat in a strangle hold, and shoved the knife three times into his kidneys. He grunted, but no other sound escaped his mouth.
“You’re no more the Luqs of Farama than I am,” she whispered in his ear as his struggles weakened. “You’re just a toy of the Poppy Shekayrin.” When the struggling stopped, Narl lowered the body to the floor and used the small rug to pull, push, and shove it under the nearest bed. By the time Kvena appeared in the doorway, there was nothing to see.
“What are you doing? Where is the Princess Imperial? Those are my things! That’s my pack!”
Narl looked the older woman in the face. This moment would tell her everything she needed to know. “Bakura has run away.”
Kvena covered her mouth with one hand and sank to her knees. She did not, however, scream, faint, or cry.
“We will be blamed,” she said finally, lowering her hand. “They will kill us.”
“Then let’s not wait around to be killed. Get up, come with me.” As Kvena stood, Narl pushed a satchel of clothing into her unresisting arms and folded her veil back over her face. Good, the bulge of the satchel didn’t really show.
“They will find us.”
“They won’t be looking for us; they’ll be looking for her.” Narl would have been more worried about Kvena, except for one thing: their entire conversation had taken place in Faraman. She beckoned the older woman into the sitting room and covered herself with her own veil.
How far could they get before someone raised the alarm? How far would they need to go until the Shekayrin couldn’t track them? She never thought she’d say this, but thank Mother, Daughter, and Son, there were no Talents. If there had been, it wouldn’t matter how far they went. A Talent would touch something that belonged to one of them and know right away where they were.
* * *
Jerek: Kerida?
Kerida: Here. Ker felt as though she’d been holding her breath until Jerek contacted her.
Jerek: She’s out. All the way across the square and into Griffin Street.
Kerida: Are you sure you don’t want us to meet her?
Jerek: Better you’re not seen on the street together. We’re not certain how far Kvar can see.
Kerida: Understood.
She didn’t like it, but she understood. Poppy Shekayrin weren’t best at Far-seeing, but it was just possible that Pollik Kvar could see the Princess—if he knew where to look. Ker grinned. A Talent would have been able to help him with that. Too bad he’d killed them all.
<
<>
Ker smiled at the sudden image of Weimerk lying with his eagle’s head on outstretched paws. <
<
And, just like that, the connection was gone.
“What’s taking her so long?” Tel murmured. “This isn’t the only place we’re needed.”
Ker cleared her throat. It was hard to remember that the griffin was safer than any of them. “I thought you would have learned patience by now.” She laid down the seven of Summer and smiled at him. She remembered that in the military they were encouraged to develop the kind of patience that served guards on night watch and companies waiting for the call to arms. The kind of patience that had helped Tel, now changed into civilian clothes, grin at people from his post behind the counter when it was his turn to serve. Ester had put them to work, as the easiest way to explain their presence in the inn. Her friend Elisk Stellan, the innkeeper, had welcomed the help, seeing as how he didn’t have to pay them more than their room and board.
“What if she gets caught? How will we know?” Tel’s impatience was under control, but it was there in the way he flicked the next card down.
“The same way we know that she got out of the palace.” Ker scrutinized the cards in front of her, making sure there was no seven. “Jerek would tell us.”
Business slowed down enough after the midday meal to allow them to take a break from their duties. They’d fallen into the habit of playing Four Seasons. They were both good players, and normally the Seasons turned quickly, but today they’d been here all afternoon and Winter still hadn’t passed from Ker to Tel.
And it wasn’t going to pass in this hand either. Ker put down the four of Winter that she’d been holding in reserve, and Tel threw down his cards with a snort of disgust. Ker gathered them up, faced them all the same way, shuffled, and began to lay out the opening moves of another hand, two cards faceup, two facedown for each of them. Several moves later, Ker tapped her index finger on the tabletop, contemplating the Luqs of Spring, when Tel leaned forward to inspect the displayed cards and cleared his throat as a shadow drifted over them.
“Excuse me,” a mildly accented voice said. “Would the proper move not be to place a Faro of Spring with the Luqs?”
“It would be,” Ker said, looking up into a pair of storm gray eyes over broad cheekbones and a slightly flat nose. “But we’re in the Winter round.” Which was true oddly enough, since this was the code Jerek had suggested to help them identify the Princess Imperial. He could describe them to the girl, but Far-thinking hadn’t given him much of an idea of what the Princess herself looked like.
Fortunately, Ker had her own way to be sure. Paraste.
Colors sprang into the air around them, but Flashing the girl’s aura was like looking at the sun through a piece of smoked glass. Ker had expected more than the usual number of colors; after all, the girl could Far-think with Jerek, so there had to be at least some Feeler in her. But her colors were muted and pale, faded, as if echoing the exhaustion that was obvious, now that Ker thought to look for it. Something she needed to address, but not with the girl standing there, sticking out like a sore thumb. Terestre.
Tel tapped the tabletop with his index finger, his eyebrows raised. Ker nodded, eyes still focused on the cards. A shrug would have meant “no.”
“Watch and learn, little one,” Tel said in his most bored voice as his pushed out a small bench with his foot. “Watch and learn.”
So, this is the Princess Imperial of Halia, Ker thought, as the girl shed her satchel and swung it gently onto the bench. Her thin hands with their polished nails lingered on it, as though she was having second thoughts about letting it go.
“You’re safe with us,” Ker murmured under her breath. The look on the girl’s face wasn’t exactly relief, and it wasn’t exactly trust. It was more the look a soldier gives the medic when he was ready for the knife. An agreement to something necessary but not wanted. “Kaff? Almond biscuits?” Now that look was definitely one of relief. Careful to keep her face straight, Ker got to her feet. It was likely the girl had never carried her own dishes, let alone someone else’s. Ester was serving behind the bar, and Ker gave her a nod as well as she placed her order. As staff, they didn’t have to pay for the kaff, but the almond cookies weren’t free to anyone. Ker balanced two cups on her le
ft hand and wrist, picked up the third with her right hand, and carried them to the table while Ester counted cookies onto a plate.
Tel swept up the cards and started to shuffle them. Turning back for the cookies, Ker saw the girl’s fingers trembling as she picked up one of the cups. Ker returned to the table as quickly as she could and set the plate down.
Kerida: Can you hear me?
All she got from the princess was a frowning glance. Ker sat down. It had been worth trying, but since she couldn’t Far-think with Jerek directly, she hadn’t really expected she could with the princess. She thought about asking Weimerk if he could connect them, but she resisted the temptation. Every time they communicated increased the chances that the griffin would be caught helping her.
“I’m Kerida, and this is Tel,” Ker said quietly. She picked up her cup of kaff and raised it toward Tel before taking a sip. Jerek would have told her their names.
The princess swallowed and nodded. “I am Bakura. And I know how to play Seasons.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.” Tel started to deal out the cards, this time for three players.
* * *
“I feel sorry for Kerida and Tel.” Barid sat heavily on the bench seat in the center of the building’s inner courtyard. Wynn looked around, frowning. Barid supposed it wasn’t entirely comfortable for her to be back where she, and Tel, and Kerida had once been held prisoner. He smiled at her, patting the stone beside him.
“What they’re doing is a lot more interesting than what we’re doing.” Wynn sat down, covering her knees with her cloak.
“That’s not it,” he told her. “Not it at all. ‘Talents do not live in the world,’ you know that, right? That’s the rule, right?” She was pretty, Barid thought. Short, though.
And she took too many risks.
“Everyone knows the Law. What’s your point?”
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