“Just don’t expect much from the pastry. I mourn for the pastry chef we lost a year ago. Strong men fell to their knees weeping just at the thought of her pies.”
“You lost her?” Rema bit into the pastry. It was some kind of tart, dry and crumbly. The crumbs clung to her tongue and mouth—if only Alys had brought a drink as well. “What happened?”
“My father learned that she was spending a little too much time with my sister, so he sent her away.” Loric blushed. “Poor Elsie. She really liked that one too.”
Of course Elise had sought comfort in the servants. Forceful as she was, it was improbable she would never have tried to satisfy her desires before now. “Does that sort of thing happen often?”
“Not too often. Elsie knows she’s gambling every time. Her dalliances are about the only thing that might convince our mother to pack her away. You’re too tempting for her to resist, though.” Loric plucked a blossom from his shoulder and frowned at it. “If you’re not interested in her like that, I can ask her to stop chasing you.”
The look in his eyes made clear that he wanted badly for Rema to ask exactly that. “Don’t worry,” she said, after an awkward pause. “It takes a great deal to make me uncomfortable.”
“And what does make you uncomfortable?”
“Well, I once saw a man forced to eat himself from the feet up.”
Loric opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again. “That isn’t true, is it?”
Rema replied with her most inscrutable smile. “A diplomat never tells.”
Shaking the leaves from his hair, Loric stood. “Thank you for an image that I’ll carry with me all day. By the way, my brother is supposed to be back tomorrow. I desperately want to be there when you meet him. And I’d like to invite you to dinner with me and Elsie tonight, to spare you from my parents.”
“That’s a gracious offer. I accept. As for your brother, we’ll see what happens.”
“You may have seen some amazing things, but I bet you’ve never seen anything like a fight between Elsie and Calan.” Loric glanced at Rema, not quite making eye contact. “Don’t you feel bad about what you’re doing?”
“I like you both. But I also have to save a kingdom.”
“You know, mostly I’ve felt sorry for Elsie.” Loric’s lips tilted in a crooked smile. “But maybe I really ought to feel sorry for you.”
A little too perceptive for comfort, this one. “I’ve an apple to finish, and I don’t want to eat it in front of you. It’s undignified.”
“I’m tempted to stay now just to see what you look like when you’re undignified.” Loric ran his finger around his neck. He was blushing even under his collar, the poor boy. “Well, back to my hard day’s labor.” He disappeared into the hedgerows, casting a furtive glance backward.
Rema returned to her morning relaxation. A beetle crawled up her sleeve, and she peered with interest at its slick red carapace and seeking, spindly legs. With care she redirected it onto a crisp leaf, placed the leaf on the ground and watched the insect stumble into the grass. Loric’s story was troubling. If Talitha was in a bad mood, then it would be wise to avoid her for a time. Better to wait for the return of Calan, who obviously held influence over his father.
Her thoughts crept, once again, to Elise. The barely-veiled desire in Elise’s eyes had made clear Rema’s mission was to be an especially painful one. At the court of Arann, she was known as a relentless advocate for the vulnerable: slaves, prostitutes, beggars, the crippled and uniquely-minded, those who refused the sex given at their birth, and, of course, people like herself and Elise—women constituted to love women, men constituted to love men. As a Danoshan, Elise would have been told throughout her life that her way of loving was some monstrous sin. If only Rema were free to demonstrate the beautiful truth that women could love one another—with as much passion and lust as they dared—and day would continue to burn into night, as it had always done.
She caught herself. Such thoughts could easily crush her. Far more productive to find Yorin and learn more about the imminent arrival of the eldest prince. Her knees ached as she stood from the bench, and she took a moment to shake the pain from her legs.
As she crossed the garden, she passed a group of servants beating compost out of tin drums. She caught, for a lingering moment, the eye of a young woman among the group, and received her reward: a nervous smile, a coy movement of long lashes. It was a fine thing to be Rema.
She found the front court once more crowded with peasants, their harried faces expressing countless miseries. As Rema stood near a wall, trying to see through the packed mass of heads, a tall man with a coiled purple mustache walked toward her. His tunic was dyed orange and red, and it had been wrapped several times around his body, causing him to puff at the waist. Judging by his absurd mustache, he was either a dye merchant or a dangerous lunatic.
The man’s chapped lips lifted in a smile. “Fancy meeting a mouth of the Emperor in a dungheap like this,” he said in Annari, the language of the Empire.
“Perhaps you’ll bring a little color to it,” Rema said in the same tongue. The man spoke with an accent, and it took her only a second to place it—he was an Ulati, from the far northern steppes of Amantis. She switched to Ulat, which she enjoyed speaking for its melodic, rolling vowels. “You’re a long way from home.”
“A merchant is always far from home,” he said, switching likewise to Ulat. “And your master has ensured my home is not what it used to be. I feel bound to note that when he conquered our province, he killed two of my brothers.”
“If he’d had his way, he’d have killed everyone. I’m sorry I didn’t end the war in time to save your brothers.”
The Ulati tugged on his mustache, which sprang pertly back into position. “Anyone who speaks my language so sweetly can’t be entirely rotten.” He extended his hand, and she shook it. “My name is Muhan.”
“Rema. I’m amazed. You still haven’t made an astonished comment about my being a woman.”
Muhan grinned, revealing teeth stained in countless colors. “I didn’t want to be rude, and besides, it made a great deal of sense. My wife always settles disputes at home, so why shouldn’t women be out settling them abroad?”
“I don’t know if I like your analogy, but at least you’re trying. Have you really come here to sell dye?”
Muhan gestured to his prismatic body. “Do I look as though I’m here to sell cabbage?”
“With leaves of particularly vivid green.” Rema smiled. This meeting was precisely the antidote she needed to the dourness of this cold, superstitious kingdom. “It merely seems odd to offer luxury goods to a kingdom that’s impoverished and on the wrong end of a war. You should be selling your goods in Lyorn.”
“Such is my plan, but I thought I’d try my chances here before heading north. At the very least I can earn some coins exhibiting myself in the street.”
Rema glanced at Muhan’s hands. Each finger was stained a different color, and a vivid swirl ran up his dark forearms. “If you want to skip the queue, come with me. We need to find a man in a white robe, his forehead dragged somewhere down to his knees by the weight of the world.”
“I will follow you like a puppy.” Muhan returned to speaking Annari. “Where might this man be?”
“Let’s find out.” Rema stepped onto a bench and gazed over the heads of the crowd. “There he is! Hiding in the corner and shouting at a servant. Follow me.”
Rema led Muhan toward Yorin, who was berating an unfortunate pageboy. As he noticed Rema’s approach, Yorin’s eyebrows made an intrepid attempt to reach the top of his head, and he waved the servant away. “You’re lucky I don’t make you a jester, you damn fool. Now go on, get.”
“Yes, Master.” The pageboy gave Rema a grateful look before scampering off.
“That idiot is more useless than an aphrodisiac in a monastery.” Yorin exhaled a long, irate sigh. “Nevermind, nevermind. Who is your colorful friend, Rema?”
“Welcome,
palace man of great dignity!” It seemed Danoshan was not one of Muhan’s stronger languages. “I be known as a trader, Muhan.” He clasped his hands together in a gesture of respect. “To where is the address of my honor?”
There was a moment of awkward silence, and Rema cleared her throat. “Yorin, can you speak Annari? It might help.”
“Well enough,” said Yorin in capable Annari. “Stop butchering my native tongue, Muhan. I’m Yorin, the king’s steward. I suppose you’re here to sell me something.”
“Exotic dyes!” Muhan spread his arms wide. “Shades beyond even the comprehension of nature! If you don’t mind me saying, your plain robe could be transformed into a spectacle of radiance with only a momentary soak.”
“If we can’t eat it, I’m not interested.”
“What you do with the dye is none of my concern. For all I know, it may taste as spectacular as it looks.”
“Give him a chance,” said Rema. “Don’t you think Elise and Loric might at least be curious to see him?”
“I suppose they might,” said Yorin. “Especially Loric. The boy’s too easily amused. And it’ll give him a chance to practice his Annari.” He scratched the tip of his nose. “You’re fortunate that you found our persuasive friend to talk on your behalf, Muhan. I’ll inform the court you’re here.” He retrieved an envelope from his robe. “And Rema, this is for you. I don’t know why she didn’t come to you directly.”
Rema turned the envelope in her hands. It was unmarked, but she detected a familiar perfume. To her alarm, the scent provoked her heart to beat faster. “Thank you,” she said, slipping the envelope into the pocket of her coat. “Shall I leave you two to get better acquainted?”
Yorin nodded, his mind clearly already on other things. Muhan grinned and twirled his mustache in her direction. “I appreciate your support, my lady of Arann. I look forward to meeting you again.”
“I’m not hard to find. Just follow the giggling of the servants.”
Rema returned to her chambers and closed the door behind her. It was cool within, and the room was dark enough that she paused to light a lamp at the bedside. She sat on the edge of her bed and tore the envelope open. The letter inside bore one of the strangest writing hands she’d ever seen; every letter seemed to have a new loop or flourish.
Sweetest R: You are beautiful and witty and I miss you already. Remember, there’s trouble on the way. Be a wary little diplomat and don’t forget to wear your present! Forever, E.
The intimacy of the letter was sweet, even touching—but its content was puzzling. If Rema were to list those people who had reason to see her harmed, Elise would be at the top, yet it was the enchantress herself sending her affectionate warnings. Yorin? He had the power to harm her, but he was the closest she had to a certain ally. Loric? Ridiculous. Cedrin and Talitha? No ruler would touch an imperial diplomat. What about Muhan? He had a personal motive to dislike the Empire, but Rema was a fair judge of character and found it hard to picture him as a brightly-daubed assassin. That left Calan and the mysterious hooded man.
It was too much to think about, and she was tired of this drab palace. Rema returned to the hallway and walked to the nearest guard. He eyed her nervously as she drew closer.
“Good morning, guardsman,” she said. “Is there a tavern close by where the food is edible and the water clean?”
“The guards usually drink at the Bristled Sow.” The guard stared at her trousers as if they were a wild animal. “If you go down the road from the gates, it’s the first tavern on your right when you reach the big square with the fountain.”
Rema saluted. “Thank you. Have a good watch.”
“You too, sir. Uh, my lady. I mean, have a good day, my lady—”
Rema fought back laughter as she walked away. No matter where she visited, be there painted traders, rebellious enchantresses or sinister hooded men, she unfailingly remained the greatest novelty of them all. Well, except for that time with the crocodiles.
Chapter Six
The courtyard behind the gate was in a state of confusion. A horse had leapt over its stall door, and several soldiers were in pursuit, attempting to subdue it before it kicked anyone. A child stood alone, staring at the twisting, rearing beast. He was too near those flying hooves for comfort. Rema took his hand and pulled him away from danger.
“Has someone lost a child?” she said, to no response. Frowning, she dragged the stray child over to a guardsman by the door. “Take this boy to Yorin. We can’t have parentless children wandering the courtyard.”
“It happens,” said the guard. “They come to see the palace. Isn’t that right, son?”
“I want to see the King,” said the boy. “My father is sick and he won’t get better.” He couldn’t have been more than eight years old, and his pudgy face showed a touching determination. Rema’s compassion stirred—the poor thing was barefoot, and his feet were black and swollen.
“Forget about taking him to Yorin,” she said. “Take him to Elise.”
“My lady, while you are a valued guest, you aren’t really allowed to give orders…”
Rema crossed her arms. “Are you defying me, guardsman?”
The guard blanched. “As you wish, my lady. Come on, boy.” He took the boy’s fat hand and led him toward the palace. Another guard sniggered, and Rema glared at him. He snapped back to a respectable composure.
After the horse was brought safely to rein, Rema left the courtyard and moved beneath the shadow of the portcullis. The morning remained pleasant, and the worst odors of the city were some distance off, though every now and then a whiff of sulfur or manure caused Rema’s eyes to water. As she strolled down the road leading to the palace, her skin prickled beneath the stares of the city folk. Many looks were appreciative, others bewildered, and quite a few hostile—but such was to be expected when garbed in fine silk and scandalous trousers. Rema kept her head high. She had no illusions about the dangers of the city, but confidence was effective armor.
Despite her bravado, it was a relief nonetheless to reach the square. As promised, its center was dominated by a square fountain. A modest jet shot from its waters and broke into a glistening spray that crashed musically onto the surface of the pool. Children splashed in the waters while travelers passing by stopped to appreciate the sound. Several merchants roamed the square selling fruits and toys, and Rema moved quickly to avoid being sold a tin windmill.
The Bristled Sow proved warm and well-lit. The smell of alcohol had worked its way into every surface, true of taverns everywhere. Several off-duty guards were sitting together at the large central table, thumping the table, clinking their mugs together and braying with thin, drunken laughter. No doubt they were night watchmen to be drinking so heavily at noonday. Either that or they were shameless drunks, a not uncommon secondary occupation for guardsmen.
The guards paused in their revelry to look at Rema. They giggled in tipsy conference. “Hey!” one of them said. “Hello!”
“Hello to you too.”
“I told you!” The guard knocked one of his companions on the back of the head. “It’s a bloody woman!”
Drunken guardsmen, like bed lice, were the same the world over—an irritation. Rema took a seat at the next table. The guards continued to stare, and she stared back. “Do you lads ever chase criminals, or are you more interested in pursuing the bottom of your tankards?”
Several of the guards smirked. “You’ve got a pretty voice,” said the one who’d had his head thumped, slurring and spilling his drink on himself. “Pretty little face too. Wouldn’t mind spending a night or two with you.”
“And yet a moment ago you thought I was a man. What does that tell you, lads?”
The guards cheered and clapped their chastened friend on the back. Rema couldn’t resist laughing with them, and the tension in the room dissolved. Satisfied with their fun, the guards returned to their bantering.
A servant took the opportunity to duck over to Rema’s table. “Morning, miss,”
he said. “May I get you a drink or a meal or both or neither?”
“I’d be afraid to touch what they’re having. I’ll have a meal and some water. What do you serve here?”
“Our usual customers like it simple, which his fortunate, as simple is all we do. If you’ve money for it, there’s meat. Otherwise, we can bring you a mash of vegetables, with a bit of butter if you like.”
Rema had no desire to learn what passed for meat in Danosha. “I’ll take the vegetables. And just a little butter.” She took a coin from her purse and pressed it to the surprised servant’s palm. “Keep whatever is left over.”
“Yes, miss! We’ll cook it extra quick, miss.”
“No rush. Just bring the water first.”
Rema crossed her legs and waited, and the servant soon returned with a mug of water. It tasted of tin but soothed her throat and cleared her head. As she put her purse away, a thought struck her: she might well be the wealthiest person in this kingdom. Ormun’s father, Togun, had rewarded her exceptionally for her long service. She had one of the largest offices in the palace, and she owned a ten-room mansion by one of Arann’s lukewarm bays, where the water always seemed to be the color of the sun. Her work kept her so busy that she was rarely able to visit it.
In a realm like this, it was hard not to grow nostalgic for the days of Togun. He had been a good Emperor, insofar as there could be such a thing. At Rema’s urging, he had reformed the Empire and the great city of Arann, improving opportunities for women and ending slavery. In return, she’d brokered many of the foreign deals that had allowed him to consolidate his reign. If it hadn’t been for Ormun’s coup, the Empire today would be very different, and she wouldn’t be crossing the world to abduct innocent women.
The meal landed in front of her, returning her to the moment. The mash was a terrifying brown and filled with haggard lumps. “What vegetables are these?” she said.
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