by E. J. Beaton
Glancing down the enclosure, she saw several nobles whispering and staring at her. “I believe I was clear on the matter,” she said.
“For an attendant, a captain, and even a royal advisor to take the place of nobility . . . it is not protocol, for Axiumites.”
That was a word you heard as an excuse, passed down from those at the top of the ladder, Lysande thought. Everyone imbibed it without question. Protocol. A silver word.
“Nobility of spirit is the standard I use,” she said. “I am confident that you have all met it.”
They locked eyes. Derset did not look away, and she had the distinct impression that something about her had affected him in a new fashion.
Litany’s sleeve had scraped something oily and Chidney was cleaning it with a corner of the tablecloth, she saw, trying not to smile. The pair straightened at once when they saw her and greeted her, then fell silent, Chidney opening her mouth and then closing it just as quickly. Lysande poured them each a goblet of wine. “How comforting it is to see you both at my table, and so close together,” she said.
“Councillor, I did not mean—”
“I hope you are not about to apologize, captain. I should much rather you explain the dancing to Litany. She has not had time to study it, you see, nor to secure a partner.”
Chidney turned to Litany again, looking a little hesitant and yet not displeased. One of her hands, which Lysande had seen frequently gripping a sword or a dagger, came to rest atop Litany’s arm. “It is all very straightforward if you know how to fight. Dancing is a lot like fighting, except that nothing gets wounded.”
“Except your pride,” Litany said, “if you make a misstep.”
“Ha!” Chidney leaned against the table as she laughed, sending two glasses clinking into each other. Litany edged closer to her.
Lysande slid into the seat beside Derset’s and gestured to him to join her. “Is there any sign of an army yet?” she whispered.
“Your captain says there’s been no word from the scouts.” Derset squeezed her hand under the table, with barely enough pressure to be felt.
“There must have been a sighting further out, though.”
“No doves from the border or any of the towns.” Looking at her, Derset leaned closer. “Aren’t you pleased, my lady?”
“I wish I could say I was.”
Their eyes locked briefly. Lysande watched the rest of the Council take their seats and sank into thought. She heard the clash of an attendant dropping a tray of cutlery, and the curse that followed, but paid no heed. A small army would have pleased her. A large army would have disquieted her; but no army at all meant something different. She put a hand to her temple. Right now, she would have traded all the balls in the world for the golden glow of scale, whatever price it put on her heart and stomach, let alone her mind.
“Perhaps the White Queen hasn’t brought an army,” Derset said.
She reviewed the string of attacks, from the panther that had clawed Sarelin, to the chimera blood, the silent sword at the banquet, the wolf bounding across the Arena . . . panther, poison, wolf . . . and then the coin-purse that had nearly brought them to war. Each was a move in the same game. She remembered the flash of a sword as the assassin charged at Luca, just yesterday; the bust of Sarelin shattering on the floor; the notes from her readings on the White War that she had gone over last night.
“I don’t think she’s been deterred,” she said, slowly. “If her legions aren’t in the desert by now, I believe Mea Tacitus is planning something else.”
“We haven’t prepared for something else,” Derset said.
He almost succeeded in hiding the waver in his voice. Lysande looked across at him. If Derset was afraid, despite all their efforts . . . it was an unpleasant thought.
Before she could respond, Vigarot Chamboise ushered Jale to the front of the seating, and the crowd fell silent. “Ladies and lords,” Vigarot said, “Queen Persephora and King Ramon Ferago; Mariana, Anton, Dion; Councillors, distinguished guests, and guards who defend us so bravely: let me welcome you all to the Sapphire Ball!”
She saw Luca Fontaine looking at her across the room as applause broke out. He raised his glass. The red of the shirt under his doublet flashed in the candlelight.
“In Lyria, our motto is art, wine, song, and tonight we plan to give you all three. But first, a taste of our history,” Jale announced, spreading his hands. “I give you the illustrious tales of our poets. Here, for you, we present the Song of Sun!”
A troupe of dancers ran in: eight women and men in costume gathered on the stage and bowed, followed by a band of flute-players. At a clap of Jale’s hands, a lilting melody began, and the dancers moved back and forth: Lysande recognized the crocodile who had emerged from the river to give birth to Lyria; the bird that laid a golden egg out of which the spirit of art hatched and blessed the city; and of course, the fountain that poured forth southern cheer, created by a pyramid of dancers scattering glitter onto the ground, their blue costumes mimicking water. Each of the desert myths received cheers. When a man leaped from atop the pyramid, Lyrians whooped and hollered.
It was easy to imagine Mea Tacitus seeing splendor like this, in Axium, and standing at the edge of the official crowd, looking in on a realm of glitter and glory yet not being part of it. Like me. The thought came swiftly to her. She did not like the way it lodged in her mind.
Lysande glanced around and saw Raden among a group of Axium Guards. Four entrances fed into the enclosure, and he stood in front of the one on the back wall, closest to the palm garden. She watched him raise his hand to her. Slowly, she waved back.
The White Queen’s not here, she told herself. She saw Cassia among a group of Pyrrhan nobles, yawning. A lock of long white hair made Lysande sit up, but it was only an elderly woman in a captain’s uniform. There had been no glimpse of Three, nor Six, nor even Charice, who might be hiding somewhere. A gust swept through her mind, stirring the anxieties.
The performance had grown more vigorous. A woman dressed as Prince Arle Raquefort began striking another dressed as a chimera with a wooden sword. Across the enclosure, Lysande saw the fine-boned Ferago son looking at her. She stiffened.
The dancers received a warm reception, and they were followed by the even more welcome sight of Lyrian attendants bearing dishes and jugs. The attendants carried food, water, and wine to the Councillors’ tables, working their way forward.
“The songs start in a moment, my lady,” Derset said, offering her a plate of stuffed chilies. “At a Lyrian wedding, they weave music and food together, to delight both senses.”
“Must I dance?”
“You’re an Axiumite; so only if the beat is even and well-ordered.”
“Sun and stars, Derset . . . was that a joke?”
Weeks ago, she knew, he would not have smiled in response, as he did now. The soil of their intimacy had borne shoots, and he met her eyes again without a blush, a hint of that subtle glow lending a shine to his eyes.
As the band marched onto the stage and struck up the first tune, hands picked up spoons across the enclosure. Lysande watched the slender Ferago son while she nibbled at jasmine-cakes and balls of fried banana. Her gaze jumped every time the light fell on his sword. After the first two courses, the musicians tripled their volume and boots tapped the ground.
“Ah, here comes the dancing,” Lysande said, turning her gaze on Litany for a moment. “Did you manage to find a partner, by any chance?”
“I shouldn’t wish to ruin anyone’s night. I have no talent for leaping and twirling.” Litany looked down at the tablecloth.
“That cannot be possible,” Chidney said. “I saw you leap into the rigging and down again, on the ship. It was as handsome as a clean shield.”
Litany blushed. Lysande noticed Chidney’s pleased expression.
Her eyes swept the tables again, finding
nothing of note but searching every group of bejeweled figures. Suddenly, she was aware of movement. Heads were turning across the enclosure. Vigarot rose and walked toward the Lyrian table—but Dante had drawn Jale from his seat and was speaking with him. After a few words had been exchanged, Lysande saw the young prince turn on his heel and hurry over the platform, back into the palace. Chairs scraped the ground. The ladies and lords of Lyria knew how long to wait before joining the first dance, she guessed, but none of them seemed to know what to do if the bride and groom did not begin it.
Lysande heard a cough and turned to her side. “Lady Pelory.”
Those cold eyes stared down at her. “May I present my husband, Councillor Prior? Lord Clifferd Pelory.”
Still conscious of the staring and muttering guests, Lysande nodded her greeting. A young man in a small ruff bowed back, his hands folded, his belt winking with emeralds, his gaze skipping merrily over Lysande’s necklace.
Lysande noticed that as he stepped back beside his wife, his hand slipped under hers and nestled there, unmoving, a portrait of spousal tenderness. Pelory smiled—the first genuine smile Lysande had seen her give since they met.
Briskly, Lysande looked around. She weighed the risk of diverting her attention for a few minutes, and decided that she could allow herself one conversation. She recommended the wine to Pelory’s husband, and Clifferd Pelory was not slow to take a hint. He bowed, adjusted his ruff, and was halfway to the wine-fountain by the time Lady Pelory had found a chair and dragged it over to Lysande.
“I announced that the four castles would be used as jails for elementals, just before I left,” Pelory said as she sat down. “And I introduced your law about vigilantes, at the same meeting. There was an outcry. But my colleagues yielded. Remarkably quickly. It may have been because I brought fifty Axium Guards with me and only waved them through the door once the others had taken their seats. Your letter was most instructive.”
It had begun, then: the quiet campaign, which soldiers and captains might never see as an engagement. Yet it was a war; one that had seen its first arrows fired.
“Very good.” Lysande smiled. “We understand each other, Lady Pelory. I should like us to keep doing so. I have not forgotten my gift. A small castle, did I not say? A modest dwelling with a hereditary title? But I am afraid I have checked, and there are none to spare.”
Pelory opened her mouth, but caught her words.
“That is why I have decided to give you a large castle instead. Prexley Castle should do nicely. It is newly restored, after all . . . I should like it to be a symbol of my reliance on you, and of your support to me.”
“Councillor—this is beyond all expectation—I cannot thank you enough—”
“Your ongoing support, Lady Pelory. These are such treacherous times. It is good to know that I have eyes and ears in the Oval, or in the manors of Axium; and since Prexley Castle shall contribute a considerable annuity to my Leveling Fund, we shall be closer than ever. Your fortune shall be intertwined with mine.”
Pelory leaned back in her seat and nodded slowly. Her face did not reassume its mask, this time; its austerity melted to contemplation. “Just so,” she said, at last. “I see a relationship of great profit. I hope you will excuse me for taking a while to warm.”
“We speak as Axiumites. A little thawing is entirely necessary.”
Lysande almost added the saying that Litany had heard from one of Jale’s guards—that in Axium it was cold outside the walls, but warm inside them—yet she suspected that it might have a double meaning which Pelory would deem unfit for polite discussion.
“I have a task for you, in celebration of our new bond.” The idea had come to her after seeing the bone people, but it seemed the product of a much longer thread of thought, one that had begun weeks ago. “You see, I wish to survey the state of wealth across the realm. Find out where people are poorest, where they are rich, where they are just getting by. Note down their burdens and their anxieties. Then we will use the Leveling Fund to remedy the state’s sickness. Begin small. Take grain with you, from the royal stores, and distribute it to meet need as you go. I think the team of royal advisors should yoke themselves to the task of levying funds from the court, don’t you?”
“They will need persuasion to fall under any yoke.” Pelory smiled slightly. “But you may depend upon me.”
“So I can see. I will look forward to the results, Lady Pelory, and in the meantime, I wish you enjoyment of your new castle and its title.”
The Mistress of Laws bowed, and walked away, to where Clifferd Pelory was admiring a statue of Princess Orvergne. The young man bent down to kiss his wife’s hand, gazing up at her as he did so, the emerald teardrop of his earring catching the candlelight.
Lysande allowed herself a moment to relish the result. Turning away, she made another quick glance around the enclosure. There was still no sign of an unusual weapon, a figure out of place, or a foreigner in a cloak . . . she looked across the tables and saw the willowy Ferago son staring at her. He began pushing through the guests, excusing himself as he came, making a path toward her table. The motion of his elbows sent several ladies scuttling.
“While I hesitate to discourage anything so joyful as dancing,” Derset whispered, leaning toward her, “I suspect your Bastillonian suitor has more than one motive.”
Ah. Dion Ferago did not have the flashing grace of the jeweler she had once wrestled onto her bed; nor did he exhibit the sweetness of the Lyrian ambassador’s scribe, her first infatuation, a girl for whom she had endured a week of Sarelin’s teasing; nor, Lysande suspected, did he possess Charice’s penetrating mind and her more physical skills. Who did? He was not ill-looking, yet she considered that his father’s reasons might be plain, and she rose from her chair, taking a plate of sun-cakes with her.
She cut a path between two tables. At the great jug on the left side of the enclosure where guests could dip a spoon into honey, she joined the queue, holding the plate of little yellow cakes before her. As she was attempting to survey the enclosure, a woman swept past her to join the queue, arm in arm with a sharp-chinned Bastillonian.
“Prince Fontaine designed the fountains in the pools. You know how he loves to invent.” By the paucity of emotion in her voice, Lysande recognized Carletta Freste, the noblewoman who had shown her around Castle Sapere.
“Indeed.” Gabrella Merez—for it was she—looked down her nose, regarding Freste. “I have borne witness to his innovation, a little too closely. And the spearfish among the fountains—I suppose they were his idea too?”
“Oh, no. Those are all Lyria’s.” Freste laughed. “I wish we could claim those vicious little brutes.”
They drew closer together, Freste rubbing against Merez’s shoulder. Lysande had the uncomfortable premonition that the pair were going to approach and greet her. She looked out at the crowd again. Finding Raden directly opposite, she tried to signal for an update, but he was looking in another direction. She noticed that Dion Ferago had reached her table and was leaning over to Derset, speaking in a persistent flow. She was considering whether to stay in the queue or move away when she felt the sheath of one of her daggers rubbing against her side, through the fabric of one of the pockets.
By the time she had reached beneath her cloak and adjusted the blade within her doublet, the sound of voices had risen. Something metallic caught the light. Lysande turned toward it. Not far from the jug, Vigarot Chamboise held a glittering sword in his hand. It was the same sword she had seen Dante rehearsing with in the maze garden at Castle Sapere, and Vigarot was looking at the jeweled guard and grip and the enormous diamond in the pommel, his face scrunching. Groups of people halted their conversations to stare in the direction of the two men. As Vigarot examined the sword’s engraved message, his expression transformed from dislike to open fury.
Lysande hesitated, but after a quick glance around the hall, she stepped o
ut of the queue. No one seemed to notice her, with all gazes fixed on Dante and Vigarot.
“It’s merely an ornamental sword,” Dante’s voice boomed. “I see no slight.”
“Don’t act smart with me, Dalgëreth. I know the northern customs as well as you do. You mean to wrap your grubby hands around your beloved.”
“My hands are clean. Like my honor.”
“I pledge to nourish your spirit and defend your person as long as I live.” Vigarot flipped the sword over, reading the other half of the inscription. “I pledge to kiss you from your crown to soles of your feet, and worship where my lips touch. Is that honor?”
“It is no more than the truth.”
“Your hands are clean, you say. But not your mouth, apparently.”
“Unlike you, I do not spit the venom of self-aggrandizement.”
Vigarot’s smile was as sharp as the blade-edge. “You do not lack ambition.”
“You conflate ambition with love. A common mistake of smaller men.”
There was a pause—in which Vigarot raised the sword—but upon seeing Dante’s hand fly to his sword-hilt, he lowered it again. “Slipping this under a platter won’t do a thing,” he hissed. “Bastillón and Elira are one. The gift’s been made. The trade contract’s signed.”
“Don’t think I can’t see you looking up the ladder.” Dante moved closer to him. “You tried to wheedle your way into Ariane’s favor, drumming up fear about my mother. Do you think I don’t remember you pouring lies about Raina into her ear? You think your deeds are forgotten, minnow, but remember this. The ice-bear can wait.”
“I did what I did for the sake of Lyria.” Vigarot drew himself up.
“Bartering your nephew like a trader at a market . . . tell me, Vigarot, can you sell a heart? Even you might find that hard.” Dante stepped closer still. “The heart, at least, remains my property.”
Whose heart? It had sounded as if Dante had meant Jale’s. Only weeks ago, Lysande would have thought a public declaration of love unlikely. For all that she had observed since, she still hoped that she had misunderstood; surely, Dante could not be willing to risk open warfare between the north and south; yet even as she told herself that, she recognized the mark of possession stamped on each word. Whispers broke out across the enclosure.