The Councillor

by E. J. Beaton

  “I can leave, if you wish.” Litany mixed a teaspoon of salts into the bath water.

  “No. I would have you tell me what you want from me.”

  “Want?”

  “Do you expect me to believe you are a paragon of selfless striving, Litany?”

  Litany looked at Lysande and something hovered over them, something bright and mutable: something that no silverblood would ever need. She felt it, even though she could not see it. When you had refashioned your identity, you were drawn to others who had done the same, however diverse their circumstances.

  “I suppose,” Litany said, carefully, “I want to continue my employment, using my particular skills, with the stimulus of interesting work—of missions that require discretion.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  “And half my wage again, on top of the usual amount, each month.”

  “A quarter again,” Lysande said.

  “A third.”

  “Deft bargaining. I accept. In these times, I may have use of deftness.” Lysande climbed into the bath. “There is a coin-purse with a ram’s head under two crossed swords stitched on it in bronze thread. It will probably be in Prince Fontaine’s chambers.” She looked into Litany’s eyes. “You have until dinner.”

  Litany gave a nod and retreated from the suite. Lysande marked how quietly her personal attendant moved.

  How old was Litany? Eighteen? Nineteen? Perhaps a higher figure? More of a young woman than a girl, in truth, but she had always thought of her as a girl because she was small and quiet. A needle was always small. A pinch of nightroot, sprinkled into a dish, could be quiet.

  Lysande was left to soak in silence, gazing at the Maturation. There was a weariness in her bones that might have been soothed by a handsome poet, or perhaps by a musician with elegant hands. She well remembered the flute player that Sarelin had teased her about, two months ago, when she had lingered in the palace kitchen after midnight, she and the woman talking of the carving of instruments and the positioning of lips on the flute for optimal performance, until they made their way back through the corridors, Lysande steering the woman by the arm. The two of them had tangled themselves in Lysande’s bed, eventually finding other uses for lips.

  And there had been the jeweler from Bastillón, whose smile had flashed at her during an envoy’s visit to present an ornamental sword: the man had danced with Lysande after dinner until she whispered words less polished than his creations, which he did not dislike. That night, the jeweler had wandered into her rooms and submitted to her touch, letting Lysande wrestle him onto the bed. His pupils had widened as she pinned his arms down and waited, counted to two, three, four goddesses in her head, until he smiled.

  Now, for the most fleeting of moments after she dressed, Lysande hesitated, thinking of Luca again—what it would be like to take control of those long fingers, or to walk him back against the wall. A sliver of instinct told her that he would like it if she approached—a sliver that had nestled in her head since they first met—and yet she wondered if he would allow himself to show his sentiments. It would be exciting to see him struggle to hide his reaction. But was she deluding herself, conjuring pieces of enthusiasm to please her imagination?

  She reached toward the blanket-covered chest.

  If you don’t know its properties, she heard Charice saying, you should exercise caution. Or invest in a good physician’s service. She pushed Charice’s countenance away.

  One and a half spoonfuls.

  It was not much, if you were practiced in ignoring some of the effects.

  When the glow had filled the room and faded away, her heartbeat had slowed, and her forehead had cooled at last, a determination spread through her. Her mind seized on a link between the purse and the way the riders had charged. There were loose threads, she thought, but she needed time to knit them together. The thing that had shifted inside her told her that she could do this; hesitation would not be necessary.

  The old chant of the Axium orphanage still reverberated, but she was beginning to learn how to push it away with fewer qualms: it was becoming less and less desirable to restrain, constrain, subdue as she worked to knot and retie alliances.

  The corridors began to fill with attendants as the hour drew closer to six, and the preparations were accompanied by covert looks and shielded giggles among the staff. Tapestries were being cleaned in the Room of Accord, producing a swell of excitement. Derset offered to divert Lysande’s anxieties about the dinner with a walk through the greenhouse. Strolling through a panoply of rare plants, she searched the archives of her mind and passed swordlace vines with barely a glance.

  Returning to the Painter’s Suite, she examined the doublet laid out on the bed, taking in the embroidered sleeves and the intricately laced neck. Even looking at the garment felt uncomfortable. She pulled on a pair of trousers, buttoned up a plain doublet, and added an emerald necklace, and was about to begin plaiting and pinning her hair when the doors burst open.

  “I hope I’m just in time, Signore—Lysande. The Rhimese attendants were swarming.”

  Lysande took in the flush in Litany’s cheeks. Without hesitation, the girl drew a soft brown object from the pocket of her doublet.

  “It’s this one, isn’t it? Prince Fontaine’d put it underneath his pillow.”

  Lysande closed the door and took the object from Litany.

  “I had to wait for the guard to change. I borrowed a uniform from the staff closet.”

  “Sun and stars.” Lysande held the purse up. The ram under crossed swords gleamed on the side. “‘Just in time’ is about right. Litany—you treasure—this is brilliant!”

  “My service is yours now. That is—if we understand each other.” The girl colored a deep vermillion.

  “I believe we do. And as for the increase in wage . . . we will draw up terms tonight.”

  Lysande studied the leather for a moment, going through everything she had read about foreign materials. There had to be a clue, somewhere. If the White Queen had set this up, there must be a way to show it; every object told a story. Her body was humming, and she was aware of her excitement, again, at the opportunity to solve a puzzle.

  “Let’s examine this together,” she said. “I wonder if the leather—”

  But a knock at the door cut her off. They looked at each other.

  “Councillor Prior,” Carletta Freste shouted, “The ambassador has arrived. Prince Fontaine requests your presence in two minutes.”

  Lysande nodded to her attendant, slipping the purse into her pocket. The girl bobbed her head in return. No meekness, now; only a practiced calm and a readiness to move.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Room of Accord could only be reached by a long and narrow hall adorned with an even longer and narrower black carpet, along whose sides Rhimese guards raised their ceremonial rapiers, the blades meeting in the middle to form a steel roof. Lysande, Litany, and Freste passed below the weapons. A dark-haired man, whom Lysande recognized from the ride as Lord Malsante, stepped forward to meet them. “What kept you, Freste?” he hissed.

  “Councillor Prior required more time to prepare.” Freste cast an acid glance at Lysande. “How’s the sea inside?”

  “Choppy at best.”

  Lysande was still trying to analyze the purse, turning the object over in her pocket. They passed into a room where Cassia, Dante, and Jale stood in front of a table, flanked by various advisors and guards, while Luca leaned on a chair, wearing the black crown of Rhime. Its three ovular rubies sent out beams of light as he looked up, cutting across the floor. His gaze passed over Lysande, traveling upward from the toes of her boots and coming to rest on her unpinned hair, and Lysande knew that he must be noticing the tress of deathstruck silver: the bunch of glittering strands that she had not had time to cover. She fought the urge to flush.

  Litany
broke off from her with a whisper of “Call on me, if you need it,” uttered low.

  “Is anything amiss, my lady?” Derset whispered, as Lysande joined him.

  “Nothing I can be certain of.” She fingered the purse.

  Derset laid a hand on her arm. The touch felt gentle, almost like that flute player’s. His hand stayed there for the best part of a minute while Lysande gathered her composure.

  As if Derset could read her agitation, he remained silent until she gave a soft squeeze with her fingers. He nodded toward a plum sitting atop a bowl of fruit on a stand. “Do you know Chasseur’s Ode on a Summer Night, my lady?”

  “The poem about eating a plum?”

  “The same.”

  Lysande looked at Derset. He was aware, she was sure, of the mood in the room, and yet he had chosen to steal a moment with her amidst the tension, nonetheless. “Devour it slowly—that wine-colored bliss of queens—when the moon stripes your chamber with silver spells,” she recited.

  “My schoolmaster seemed to think the poem immodest.” Derset smiled.

  “Well, Chasseur was a Lyrian. She’d tasted a few plums.”

  They shared a quick glance. She saw something more than amusement in Derset’s eyes. “Like all good Axiumites, I was raised to hold back from ripened fruit,” he replied.

  “Still, there is something to be said for a ripe plum on a summer night.”

  She pretended that she did not notice his stare at her remark; the interest blossoming in his eyes. What she felt about the difference between Derset and Luca had not changed. But Luca was a prince of Rhime, and Derset . . . well, right now, Derset’s hand was exceedingly warm. She moved her arm out of his reach, yet kept the gap between them narrow.

  Derset said nothing about her deathstruck hair. If he had noticed the exposed lock, he had enough manners not to inquire about it.

  Taking a look around the room, Lysande saw that the table’s silverware had been polished, its candles set in clusters of four in respect of the goddesses, and that the other Councillors were dressed lavishly. Across the room, Chidney nodded to her. Lysande’s eyes traveled down her captain’s armor until she realized what was missing. “Has everyone forgotten their weapons?”

  “Prince Fontaine’s orders,” Derset said. “No swords are to be brought in.”

  Lysande was about to ask why anyone had agreed to such a demand, but she saw something shine in the candlelight. Scenes of rapier attacks pursued images of beheadings through her mind, all the more vivid because she remembered stories of Rhimese ambushes where blood flowed like thick wine; but it was only thread, she realized. Pairs of tapestries had been hung on each wall, their silver cloth showing scenes of conciliation embroidered in fine thread: Princess Isadonna Salla led her supporters through the capital, ending her war with Axium; Prince Cesaro Ursini knelt to lay an unlit torch at the feet of a Bastillonian king, on the banks of the Cordonna; and unlike in the paintings in Axium, she saw no symbols of power over elementals inserted, no chimeras with wings folded and horns broken beneath leaders’ boots.

  There was something about that shining thread that triggered an idea, though.

  Before she could develop it, a blast of trumpets rang out and a herald strode in. “Her Excellency Gabrella Merez, most honored representative of King Ramon Ferago of Bastillón, greets the Council of Elira with the full embrace of the east.”

  The guards tensed. Lysande could not help thinking that if Raden were here, he would have made some remark about easterners’ embraces and the scars they left. She had to focus on the purse. The truth behind the attack was so close, she could almost taste it . . .

  She felt the room stiffen as the herald peeled off. A party of women and men in pale blue robes filed in, flowing into two groups and leaving a corridor, their silver hair attracting a murmur of interest. The Bastillonian attendants who followed wore their golden hair tied back, and each walked with eyes cast down, behind a silver-haired dignitary.

  The Elirans began to whisper to one another, and Lysande heard the word servants passed around the room. Her stomach knotted. Gold and silver had only been paired as metals, until now.

  The Bastillonian ambassador marched in, assessing her surroundings. She stopped in front of Luca and regarded him down the length of her nose, like a woman inspecting a polished dish—and judging by her expression, she had found a few specks of rust. Gabrella Merez was not a formidable woman in size or build, but she sported an aquiline nose, tufted brows that sat low, and a chin that seemed to have been shaped with a chisel for the sole purpose of appearing in profile. She gave the rest of the Council a proud but not unamiable glance.

  “King Ferago sends his warm regards to the Council of Elira,” she said, in a voice that lacked any warmth. “And his heir Princess Mariana, his wife Persephora, and his sons Dion and Anton also wish you well in your new arrangement. May the Three Lands flourish.”

  Lysande was aware of her guards watching from all sides.

  “May the Three Lands flourish,” Luca said, inclining his head. “Elira always rejoices to welcome the citizens of Bastillón—silver-haired or gold.”

  Merez ran a hand over the chain on her chest, stroking a ram’s-head pendant. “Strength without swords. To enforce your city’s motto upon guests and friends alike seems irregular,” she said.

  “You will forgive our eccentricities in Rhime. No swords are permitted in the Room of Accord. The only blades here are drawn metaphorically.”

  Merez nodded curtly. Staff hurried in with miniature fountains that flowed with water, red wine, and Castelaggian amber, and set down platters of wheat knots in a rich tomato paste, sliced olive-bread, and wheels of the colorful baked dish that had been served at the Axium banquet. Lysande observed the Bastillonians whispering among themselves. As soon as the plates had been set down, the guests and Elirans were ushered to their seats, Merez taking precedence at the head of the table. Lysande tried to picture the purse, turning it over again in her mind, searching for the answer that felt so tantalizingly close.

  The conversation flowed steadily. Once the ambassador’s tongue loosened, she complimented Luca on the wine, and the Rhimese attendants began to serve. It became clear to Lysande that Merez was studying her hosts.

  “We have never met, I think, Princess Ahl-Hafir,” the ambassador said, as one of the attendants cut her a slice of olive bread.

  “We take the term Irriqi, in Pyrrha,” Cassia said.

  “Oh yes, you jungle people have your own ways,” Merez said, with a chuckle. “My king read of your defeat of the Qamaras with some interest. An innovative siege, I hear. Word is you lost your husband in it.”

  One of Merez’s hands reached toward her robe, Lysande noticed. She would have taken it for a commonplace movement, except that the ambassador did not adjust the garment, only let her fingers hover near it. Merez was like a bee; if you took your eye off her, you might look down to find a sting lodged in your thumb.

  “I’ve lost three husbands in total,” Cassia said. “Some call it careless.” She picked up an unraveled wheat knot, twirling it around her fork.

  The stares of the Pyrrhan guards seemed to convince the ambassador that the topic had been exhausted, for Merez turned away and looked straight into Dante’s face. Her hand seemed to hover toward her robe for half a heartbeat.

  “His Majesty’s first son, Anton Ferago, thinks much of your exploits in the Ice-Rose Campaign a few years ago, First Sword,” Merez said. “Strange that a man with your military glory should not have been able to find himself a partner in marriage.”

  Dante’s stare in reply would have made a lesser woman quail. When Merez turned her gaze to Jale and produced her first true smile, the whole table relaxed.

  “Now, here is someone we have all heard much about in Belága,” Merez said. “We look forward to welcoming you into the bosom of our capital, Prince Chamboise.” />
  “Oh, topping,” Jale replied, through a mouthful of olive bread. “I daresay Princess Ferago is full of vigor and spirit, as everyone tells me.”

  “And Councillor Prior. I shall not ask you about marriage. It is said in Bastillón that a scholar’s only wedding is to her books.”

  Lysande had been following the conversation and watching Merez’s hands with such interest that she had almost forgotten she was a member of the Council. Suddenly, she was aware again. “Books are rewarding companions, Your Excellency,” she said. “A good poem can speak to your soul in ways that people rarely do, and every relationship with a book is a mutual one. Stories are never forced to accept your affection.”

  Merez gave a shrug, but opposite her, Lysande saw Jale glance up, and thought that her words had stuck their target.

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Councillor. Yet I know little of your family name,” Merez said. The ambassador’s smile was a little too innocent. Derset’s mouth opened slightly, and Lysande was aware that several of her guards were stepping closer to the table, fists clenched.

  “I was found during the White War as a child, Your Excellency. I suppose that makes me lucky: to be found, not burned. Not lucky enough to have rescuers who thought up an original name, though.” She produced another smile. “In Elira, children abandoned in the War were named by those who saved them, and my rescuers must have been Valderran, for they named me after an Old Valderran word. Prior. It means fire. The blaze that destroyed the carpenter’s shop where I was found left my skin untouched, you see, but it turned this lock a rare kind of silver. Queen Sarelin called it deathstruck.” She paused, while the Bastillonian dignitaries peered down the table, gazing at her tress of silver hair as if it were an artifact from the Periclean States. “As for my first name . . . its meaning eludes even a palace scholar.”

  The whole table was listening—Councillors, Bastillonians, and their advisors were staring at her. She noticed Cassia’s interest as the Irriqi peered at her hair, the wrinkle in Dante’s forehead as he surveyed the deathstruck lock, and Jale’s pleased yet curious look, as if he did not quite know what to make of it. Only Luca did not share in the reaction.