The Diplomat

by French, Sophia

  Rema’s patronage had protected the diplomatic school from the general malaise that afflicted the rest of the palace, and she had spent the last four years training a new generation of diplomats, lecturing them and mentoring the brightest. For now, they handled minor errands and amused visiting dignitaries, but each aspired to travel the world as she did, brokering treaties and ending wars. They idolized Rema as the epitome of elegance and diplomacy—a perfectly fair and accurate assessment.

  “I’m sorry, mistress.” The others relaxed as they realized Rema had singled out her victim. “It’s just always such an honor to speak with you.”

  Rema admired the young woman’s trim uniform. She had enlisted the girl herself and tutored her closely; the poor thing was teased for it, of course, but such was the puerile wit of children. “I remember how proud I was the day I first donned my uniform. Back then, the imperial tailor was scandalized at the thought of fitting trousers to a woman. He offered to make me a skirt, so I offered to make him a eunuch. I got my trousers. Tell me, does he still grumble?”

  “No, mistress. He muttered a little as he turned the needle, but that was all.”

  “It fits you well.” The girl blushed. “Have you by any chance seen Ormun today?”

  The girl shook her head, but a lanky diplomat raised his hand. “He’s in the gardens, mistress. I heard the guardsmen complaining about it.”

  Rema nodded. The guards disliked it when Ormun strolled the gardens, as amid its forests and groves were any number of hiding places for an ambitious assassin. Bannon was right—it was a wonder Ormun had survived as long as he had. “Thank you. Both of you. All of you. Keep up the good work.”

  Rema walked away from their terrified smiles and made her way toward the palace gardens. After one too many exquisitely-cornered marble stairwells, she emerged into the open light and bent to catch her breath. She had entered the garden near its forested west side, devoted to flowering trees. The trees were planted close enough to create a canopy across the garden path, busy with warm colors and shining limbs. As Rema strolled under the trees, birds screeched and chattered, sometimes emerging plump and boastful to puff out their chests. Floral aromas drifted on the warm air, and she took a moment to enjoy a deep, scented breath.

  She followed the cobbled path into the depths of the garden. The sound of the waterfall built from a murmur to a clamorous torrent. It had been constructed against a miniature mountainside, and by some miracle the water returned to the top once its journey had ended. When that mechanism broke, Ormun would finally have no choice but to appoint an engineer. Rema pushed through a tightly-packed wall of pink blossoms and spotted the waterfall ahead of her, pounding into a wide and surging lake. Its spray dashed against the rocks on the shore, wetting her face as she approached.

  Ormun was sitting on a rock, his head in hands, smiling at the endless tumbling water. Rema stepped off the cobbled path and onto the loamy soil. She called his name, but the waterfall snatched every word from her mouth. She moved to his side and shook his shoulder, and he lifted his head and fixed her with languorous eyes. “Rema, dear,” he said. “Let’s get away from this noisy thing.”

  He took her arm, and together they returned to the path. They moved into a stretch of the gardens dominated by exotic flowers, many of them as tall as Rema. She touched their broad petals and inhaled their dark, sweet pungency. Ormun stopped them before a tangle of tropical carnivorous plants, all of which looked unwell, clearly unable to find enough warmth even in the plain’s heat. Dark blotches mottled their strange, pulpy flesh.

  “Such a pleasant surprise,” said Ormun. “How did you sleep?”

  “Well enough. What are you doing lurking about in the gardens?”

  “Escaping from Haran and Sothis. They’re always after me for one thing or another. Not today. I don’t want to hear Calicio’s dry reports, either, or even listen to Ferruro wheedle for money, humorous as he is.” Ormun pressed her hand. “But I’ve always time for you, dear heart. I’m sorry about having to punish you earlier. It was necessary, but still, I never like to see you in pain.”

  “I don’t much like it myself.” Rema was unable to take her eyes from the spindly teeth of an enormous flower behind Ormun’s shoulder. The resemblance was uncanny. “Ormun, it wouldn’t hurt to show clemency once in a while.”

  “No doubt, but I am what I am. So, cherished, have you sprung upon me for a reason?”

  “I’d like to talk about your marriage to Elise tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m looking forward to it. How is she enjoying the palace? Has she seen all of it yet?”

  “We’re getting around to it. There’s a lot to see.”

  “Yes. I’m sure you’re showing her many fascinating things.” Ormun’s eyes crinkled, as if he thought himself cheeky. Rema mastered her face and disguised her anxiety. Could he know what she and Elise had been doing? They had, after all, given up on discretion.

  Rema matched his amused gaze as she spoke. “Ormun, Elise’s parents promised her a wedding ceremony. She’s longed for one ever since she was a little girl. You’ve seen how sulky she can get. We don’t want her to pout on your wedding night.”

  “Perish the thought!”

  “I wondered if perhaps, with your permission, we might arrange a little event for tomorrow. Just the court entertainers, and perhaps one or two entertainers from the city. To welcome her to Arann and make her realize the grandeur of being your bride.”

  “You like this one, don’t you?” Ormun settled onto the grass, and Rema sat cross-legged before him. “You stopped bothering me about my wives some time ago.”

  Rema kept her eyes fixed on the bizarre plants that bowed and twisted around them. This was the only subject on which Ormun was liable to lose his temper and forget, albeit briefly, his affection for her.

  “I can be a brute,” he said. “But I do love these women. I wish they’d carry about the palace more. I’d like to see them frolic in the gardens, entertain people in the court, but instead they lock themselves away.”

  “Astonishing.”

  “You don’t approve. I won’t discuss it. You’ll just have to appreciate the good and forgive the bad. This Elise. How badly in love with her are you?”

  Rema tugged a handful of grass from the soil. “I’ve already told you I’m not in love with her.”

  “Oh, Rema, you underestimate me. I am sorry for you, I really am. But she’s married to me now. You’ll have to just accept that some women are beyond your clutches.”

  “Naturally.”

  “But because you’re so fond of her, I’ll let her have this little celebration. It will be fun, won’t it? I haven’t had marriage celebrations in such a long time. The last time, everybody sat with such sour faces. It sucked all the joy from the occasion.”

  “And the bride kept crying, as I recall.”

  “Let’s not dwell on that.” Ormun’s voice remained merry, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Make sure you invite Betany. She hates seeing people enjoy themselves.” A sudden breeze flattened his thin hair and whispered through the stalks. “Ah, it’s peaceful.” He stretched back, his arms sprawled between the plants and his face turned to the sun. “I like to lie here and imagine myself decomposing into the ground. Rotting into the soil until all my flesh is gone, and then snaking my way up again, all awful and misshapen, a mass of tangled things punching out of the earth. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Not in the least.” Rema brushed grass from her lap as she returned to her feet. “Good day.”

  “It will be if you don’t tell the others where I’m hiding!”

  Rema retraced her steps, moving past the spray of the waterfall and into the shadow of the floral canopy. It was just as likely Ormun was trying to tease her, unaware his jests were accurate. If someone had seen her and Elise kissing in the corridor or overheard them making love, the gossip would be all over the palace. Ferruro would at least have made some reference to it. She sighed as she weaved around a bush with wid
e, serrated leaves. No, it was impossible that—

  Calicio stepped silently from behind a bent-branched tree, and Rema’s heart missed a beat. “Oh! Gods, you scared me!”

  “All part of my job.” Calicio extended a piece of paper. “I’ve dug up a little present for you. Take this to Lakmi and see what he says.”

  Rema unfolded it. The fussy handwriting was Betany’s—she knew it all too well. “Dear Haran,” she read, keeping her voice quiet. “Consider adding Lakmi to our list of undeserving appointments. It is true that he has served us adequately, but his reputation for corruption makes him an unseemly ally. Ferruro or the deviant could potentially buy him away from us. In any case, he is an illiterate toad of a man. Consider it. Yours, Betany.”

  Rema lowered the letter. “The deviant? Never mind. How did you get this?”

  “She never sent it. It was in her desk drawer. Like Ormun, Betany pretends the palace slaves don’t exist, and naturally, several of them work for me.”

  “I’m so grateful I could kiss you. But that’d be strange for both of us.”

  “I don’t know, Rema. You’re quite as handsome as any man I’ve met.”

  Rema laughed as she put the letter in her pocket. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose.”

  “Use this well. I’m glad I could do my part.” Calicio bowed before disappearing back into the trees, his head dislodging petals from the branches.

  Rema returned through the fragrant gardens, intent on finding Lakmi, the captain of the house guard and the master of the palace slaves. She moved through the halls and stopped at the first silver guard she saw. “Guardsman,” she said. The man’s helm inclined in recognition, but the tan face underneath remained still. The guards were aware of the factions at court and the loyalties they were expected to maintain. “Tell me where to find your captain.”

  “Training yard,” said the guard, and he shifted his attention back to the corridor.

  “Thank you.” Even her gratitude failed to remove the sullen hostility from the man’s face.

  Rema reoriented herself and proceeded through a series of twisting narrow halls. As she approached the high archway connecting the palace to the training yard, a clamor rose of stamping boots and the shivering clang of swords striking iron. She stepped beneath the arch and was blinded for a moment by morning light reflecting off argent armor. Lakmi stood before the practicing guards, his eyes squinted. He saw her, scowled and crossed the yard to meet her.

  Betany was wrong about many things, but she was right about Lakmi. He was a head taller than Rema and overweight, with a swollen, whiskery face. His leather armor was embossed with a silver fist, and a diamond-hilted sword hung bare at his belt. He enjoyed parading wealth and power; little did he comprehend such displays were signs of weakness. “Remela,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “Only to pass on a letter that somehow missed you.” Rema offered it to him.

  Lakmi paused a moment, his gaze moving mistrustfully over her face. “Fine.” He read the letter, and when he finally spoke again, his voice seethed with irritation. “Illiterate. I can read as well as anyone.”

  “I think she meant that you don’t spend much time doing so. She’s an unfair woman.”

  Lakmi licked his wide lips. “Well. What do you expect me to say?”

  “I only expect you to understand. When Betany vacates a court position, she doesn’t just send the unlucky occupant back to Arann. She has their head paraded through the outer court.” Rema injected a measured note of scorn into her speech. “But you know that, don’t you? You saw quite a few of them paraded four years ago. Among them the head of the best Emperor our city has ever known.”

  “Spare me your speeches.”

  “If you’ll spare me your sullen defiance. If you want to save your own head, start using it. Who is Haran more likely to side with, you or her?” Without a bow or a word of farewell, Rema marched from the square, leaving Lakmi standing in the dirt.

  There was only one last person to speak to, futile though it would be. At this time of day he was certain to be in his office, gleefully putting ink to execution warrants. Rema quickened her step and soon stood before Haran’s door. After several knocks, the door opened partway, and Haran’s long face filled the gap.

  “Let me in,” Rema said. “Unless you’re so busy you don’t have time for an old friend.”

  Haran glowered several seconds longer before opening the door the rest of the way. His office was the size of Rema’s, but even more crowded with books and papers. As she entered, Rema frowned at his decor, chilled as always by his odd taste in art. He preferred paintings of trial, imprisonment and execution, and the most prominent piece was a scene of three men hanging.

  Rema seated herself before his wide desk, and Haran took his place on the other side. He sat with his hands interlocked and his lips tight with distaste. “Well, state your business,” he said.

  “I remember when I first met you.” Rema leaned back in her chair, and Haran puckered his face in a scowl. “I was strutting along a corridor, young, pretty and pleased with myself, and you were lurking there in your spidery way. You stopped me and gave me a long look up and down.”

  Haran sipped a dark fluid from an ornate mug—either wine or the blood of infants. His eyes searched her own, trying to discern the reason for her visit. “You asked me why I was wearing a diplomat’s uniform,” she said. “I boasted that I’d just been allowed into the service. You smiled, shook your head and suggested I would be well-served getting to know you. I laughed in your face and told you that even if I were interested in men, I’d never lower myself to sleep with the hanging judge of Arann.”

  “Isn’t reminiscing fun.” Haran’s tone was bitter, though that was nothing new. “And then I made the worst mistake of my career. I complained to Togun about you, he discovered your existence and you’ve been a thorn in my side ever since.”

  “You started my career. I really should thank you. Fortunately, now we’re old enough to laugh about these things.”

  “What do you want? I can’t stand the self-assured sound of your voice.”

  “How have you fared with Togun’s successor, the young general you put in the place of a peacemaker? Do you think he really cares about your laws, or is his thought consumed with chasing war and wives?”

  “I hear vaguely treasonous undertones, Remela.” Haran hunched lower, giving him an appropriately predatory appearance.

  “Only vaguely. I merely want to remind you that you have poor judgment when it comes to regime change.”

  “Yes, Ormun is challenging. For every concession he gives me, he seems to feel that he must give you one as well. Yet with him as Emperor, I at least gradually get my laws through, whereas you had such power over his father that they were blocked at every step. Justice is on my side.”

  “Justice is something you’ve been escaping your whole life. Take some advice and open your eyes. Betany is leading you into an even bigger blunder.”

  Haran’s face livened with malice. “You sound concerned. Is she finally breaking through that famous composure of yours? You know that your time here is nearly concluded, and now you’re writhing in fear for your life like a worm on a hook.”

  Rema kept any emotion from her voice, though as ever in the presence of Haran, her chief desire was to slap him across the face. “You’re the one who should be afraid. Let’s say Betany does do away with me. Will you be the one to clean up Ormun’s messes and repair our reputation? We can’t conquer the entire world, and even the provinces under our control are filled with free-minded people who resent being ruled from afar.”

  “I always thought you a poor choice for a diplomat. You speak your mind too openly. A diplomat must keep their own thoughts inside and speak only the will of the Emperor.”

  “If I were to speak the will of Ormun, I would speak only in violent grunts and mad laughter.” Rema sighed. There was nothing expressed in Haran’s long features but pride and greed. “Your en
tanglement with Betany does you no credit. She’s using you.”

  “What would you know about human relationships? You consort with women and expect us to believe your union is natural.”

  “We don’t have any say in who we love. If you knew anything about human relationships, you’d understand.” Rema stood. “I’ve wasted our time. Good day.”

  “I’m not a fool. Betany wants some unreasonable things. But I can keep it all in check. She’s a strong, intelligent woman who knows what’s best for this Empire.”

  “I hear vaguely treasonous undertones, Haran.” Rema opened the door and paused. “These portraits. Do you find nothing haunting about them?”

  “You’re so timid.” Haran gave a crooked smile. “A man on the gallows is a sublime work of art, the triumph of civilization. Death isn’t disturbing when it’s legal.”

  Rema closed the door on his malevolence and paused to collect her thoughts. Her enemies had been dealt with, leaving her only to organize her friends. She had yet to consult with Jalaya regarding the entertainment, and later she would have to see if Artunos and Muhan had succeeded in creating a magic box. These were not daunting tasks, and for the first time since the meeting it seemed possible that her plan might truly work. The stage was nearly set for an improbable coup, and if all went to plan, the Empire would once more be turned to the path of peace. Rema adjusted her collar, flicked back her hair and, with a confident step, returned to the maze of hallways.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rema looped her initial a final time, dropped the quill into the inkwell and flattened her face against the desk. Her fingers were stained with ink, and she felt every ache of the exhausting afternoon. She released a deep sigh and closed her eyes, relishing the bliss that always followed the end of paperwork.

  It had been a tiring afternoon. Jalaya had spent an entire hour quizzing Rema on the details of the performance, wanting to know if they were to have a poetry recital, how many dancers would be needed, if it was appropriate to invite the fire-breather and how loudly the drummers were expected to beat. When Rema had suggested dancing animals, Jalaya had given her as filthy a look as was possible from her innocent eyes. “Those poor beasts,” she had said before wandering away, shaking her little head. It had been hard to resist the impulse to chase and kiss her.