by Moira Katson
And planning the assassination of any woman lucky enough to catch the Emperor’s eye.
Luckily, the maidservant wasn’t paying any attention to her. Alleyne had earned enough trust for gossip, at least, and the woman was throwing words over her shoulder as she went to the ornamental screens and smoothed a gown hanging there. “They say Nerea hasn’t said a word about any of it. Even her maidservant says she doesn’t know what happened—but butter wouldn’t melt in that one’s mouth, so I’m not sure I trust—”
Both of them jumped when the door slammed open.
“There you are.” Lord Baradun cast a panicked look back into the hallway behind him, where the faint tramp of feet could be heard.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach and Alleyne backed away, shaking. They’d found her already, they must have, but how? She cast a look out into the gardens beyond the window. She had to run, but she had only a sheet wrapped around her—
The lord hadn’t noticed her fear.
“You, get her ready.” He flicked his fingers at the maidservant. “Bring her to the receiving room. And you.” His eyes fixed on Alleyne. “The Regent wants to meet you.”
Panic gripped her. Alleyne tried to remember how to breathe. Of all the people in the court, this was one she did not want to see. In truth, Cyrio of Andryn was no longer the Regent, having ceded the throne on his nephew’s twenty-first birthday. Even in the years when he ruled Aiqasal by right, there had been questions over just how much he was able to control Darion—questions that had been answered, in Alleyne’s mind, the night Darion sent the Imperial Guard to kill two children. He was still, however, powerful enough that even those beyond the walls knew his name. Some called him Darion’s conscience, others said he was Darion’s attack dog, and she had no desire to find out which was the truth.
She forced herself to take a breath in. “Why?” she managed.
“Because he is used to controlling everything in this palace and he is not intending to let any one of the nobles slip a spy into his nephew’s bed,” Lord Baradun said simply. The veneer of geniality had vanished. “I thought we had more time than this, but we do not. So listen, Melisande, and listen well: you are to be polite. You are to tell the truth of how we met. Tell him everything you told me. Do not attempt to charm him. Do not attempt to lie to him. Whatever you do, the most important thing—”
The door opened behind him and Alleyne dropped into a curtsy out of sheer reflex.
“Efkataros.” The voice was smooth, elegant. “A pleasure, as always. I trust you received my message?”
“My lord.” Baradun had pivoted and dropped into a bow in one smooth motion. “If you will accompany me to my study, I will have the girl brought to us shortly.”
“I would prefer to speak to her now.” The Regent drew off his gloves and cloak and handed them to a waiting attendant. “Alone.” He seemed entirely oblivious to the frightened stares of Baradun and the maid, and did not seem to care in the slightest that Alleyne was wearing only a bath sheet.
No one protested, however. Baradun and the maidservant were gone within a moment, and Alleyne stayed where she was, frozen in her curtsy, clutching the linen around her.
“You may rise.” The voice was not particularly warm. “Look at me, girl.”
Slowly, willing herself not to pass out from sheer terror, Alleyne looked up.
The Emperor’s uncle, he might be, but Cyrio bore little resemblance to his nephew. A salt-and-pepper mustache had been trimmed neatly and his hair smoothed back from his face. He had been a warrior in his youth, that much she knew, but he no longer carried himself as a swordsman. Only his eyes, dark and quick, showed the tactician he had once been.
Something flickered in his eyes now as he stared at her, and Alleyne swallowed hard. It took all of her effort to meet his gaze, and not let her own drop to the gold seal on his chest, the first thing she had seen when he walked into the room. A seal with a two-headed bird grasping a beast in its talons.
Chapter Ten
The Regent stared at her for so long that Alleyne almost thought he might be made of stone. Only the wind moved, rippling against his robes, and she shivered convulsively. Still he did not move. His eyes were tracing over her face, over bare arms, the curls pinned up. There was a hunger in his gaze she could not name. She knew the look of lust, and this was not it—at least, not entirely.
It made her skin crawl. She forced herself to stillness, waiting him out, telling herself that there was nothing to fear as long as he was not calling guards, not running her through. Surely he had not recognized her? If he had …
It did not matter. His staring frightened her in any case. “My lord?”
He seemed to shake himself out of a daze. “So.” He searched for words for a moment, and then his tactician’s gaze settled back on her, sharp. He seemed almost amused. “Melisande, is it?”
“Yes, my lord.” She understood, all in one moment, what Baradun had meant when he told her that she would have to impress the Regent. There was power in this man, in his very carelessness. He was used to being obeyed, and that expectation called power to him. She thought he had ceded the throne to Darion upon the Emperor’s majority.
Now, she was not so sure. She tried to draw on every ounce of grace she had. She could not afford to be sent home because he found her manners lacking.
“I’m told by my soldiers Efkataros found you in the markets. Is this true?”
By my soldiers. A warning. “Yes, my lord.” She wanted to look away, but his gaze drew her in. He was trying to destroy her, she reminded herself. Any word she said would be twisted and used against her if he could manage it. He wanted to discredit any … what had he called the Emperor’s potential brides? Ah, yes. ‘Baseborn populists.’
She could only hope that he delayed his endgame until she had a chance at the Emperor.
“Which markets, specifically?”
He would be making enquiries, she knew, and she could not allow herself to be caught in a lie here. “Beyond the third wall, my lord.” She had the sense that she should look away as if ashamed, but she could hear Lord Baradun’s words echoing in her head: do not attempt to charm him.
He looked at her for a very long time. “Tell me of your family,” he said finally.
“My sister is a priestess of Alogo.” She and Almeric had devised this story together. The adherents of Alogo, revering a world senseless and turned upside down, forsook their names and rarely deigned to acknowledge the niceties of etiquette. It would be almost impossible to refute her story.
“Is that so.” The faint smile on the Regent’s face said that he did not believe her in the slightest. “And your parents?” The question was sudden and sharp.
He knew. Surety hit her, and was gone the next moment. His face was serene now, smiling. The change was dizzying.
And now she was beginning to understand the recommendation not to lie; she had a sense that the Regent liked to use his opponent’s lies against them. More, she had a sense that he liked to induce people into confessions.
He would get no such satisfaction from her. She swallowed and lifted her chin. “They have both passed beyond this world, my lord.” Did people normally say how their parents had died? She wasn’t sure. She wouldn’t risk it.
“You’re very young to be alone in the world,” he observed.
It was a trap, in so many ways. Anyone who traded in black market goods, or slit purses, or worked for the unofficial guilds that existed on the city’s outskirts, would of course be ineligible for the Empress Consort’s Throne. Such a person had no respect for the laws, it would be said. And yet, legitimate opportunities were rare beyond the third wall. He would be looking for her to say that she barely made it from year to year, but if she did so, he could easily claim that she would be open to bribery.
Piety. The answer came to her in a flash.
“I am, my lord.” She bowed her head. “I am sometimes allowed to sweep the temples for my dinner. I have thought of becom
ing a priestess, but I do not think I am worthy.”
“A priestess of which god?” He seemed to be enjoying himself, suddenly.
“Anatolia.” She cursed herself as soon as the name was out of her mouth. She should have said Elius, god of the sun, patron deity of the throne. She was going to need to get better at this.
“Why Anatolia?” At least he, too, seemed caught off guard by the imperfect answer.
She lifted her chin, and told him the truth: “Hope, my lord. Hope that a new dawn always awaits us.”
The words hung in the air as he considered.
“Interesting,” he said finally. He toyed with a ring on the first finger of his right hand, silver tarnished so badly that it was nearly black.
Alleyne frowned. What use did the Regent have with a ring so old?
“You understand that my nephew is an idealist,” he said finally, bluntly.
Alleyne could think of nothing to say to that. What sort of idealist? she wanted to ask. What sort of ideal does murder fulfill?
“I am not an idealist,” the Regent continued, when she did not speak. “He believes in the goodness of his people. I believe that there are many who would hurt him. Some would hurt him from spite, others from stupidity. It is my duty to ensure that while he appeals to the goodwill of his subjects, I shield him from those who do not bear any goodwill for him in their hearts. Do you understand, girl?”
“Yes, my lord.” And nothing you do can protect him from me. I will not be stopped. She could only hope that he did not see the flash of defiance in her eyes.
“And you have nothing more to say than that?” He linked his hands behind his back. “Do you think you are fit to be Empress Consort?”
“No.” The truth again. She met his eyes.
He was genuinely amused by that. “Honesty. A pleasant surprise. Although, I suppose there will be some delusional enough to believe they could rule well. Why do you not think you’re qualified? Why do you not believe you’re fit for the throne?”
Her mind was racing. What did she say now? Self-deprecation cleverly wrapped around something appealing? Surely he would be adept at spotting such a lie.
Best to keep it simple. “I have not been trained to rule, my lord.”
“Interesting. And do you not think you could learn?”
A sudden burst of inspiration: “I might be able to, my lord. Could you—would you—teach me, were the Emperor to favor me?” When his eyes rested on her face, brows raised, she scrambled to fix her mistake. “I do not presume to think that he would, of course, my lord—”
“I could teach you.” His smile was the coldest thing she had seen in her life. “But let us be clear on one thing, Melisande. Baradun may be taken in by this act of piety and humility, but I am not, and I will not hesitate to kill you before I let a viper into this court. If you wish to become my nephew’s consort, you will first have to prove yourself to me.”
He left without another word, the golden seal on his chest winking in the light of the lanterns, and she stared after him silently.
So the Regent would make himself her enemy. The Regent was the one planning to set assassins on the candidates for Darion’s bride.
Almeric’s wry question came back to her: D’you think they bargained on one of the women being an assassin, herself? She smiled. Lord Cyrio was going to find her a more difficult mark than he anticipated.
Chapter Eleven
Her training began soon after. From dancing to history to music, Alleyne was to be given instruction in every subject she had failed to learn beyond the third wall. She studied until her eyes crossed, and until her feet were sore and her head was spinning from endless turns around the floor. She could not seem to take a single step correctly, much less recite any poetry, or even—to her disgust—eat with the proper manners.
The fact that she would have known all of this had she grown up in the palace did not help her mood, and so, for the better part of three days, Alleyne struggled and swore her way through lessons both large and small, hating the tasks and her own clumsiness with the same intensity. Margery’s instruction was patient and helpful—the woman had a knack for making Alleyne laugh even when she wanted to hurl objects across the room—but still, when Baradun suggested an outing to the Singing Gardens, she accepted gratefully.
She almost immediately regretted the choice. The gardens themselves were pleasant enough, of course. Cunning fountains tapped hidden chimes and the cheerful burble of the water flowed along inlaid marble paths. The breeze off the river rustled in the orange trees and sang in the covered walkway that circled the gardens. In the summer, the Singing Gardens were one of the most fashionable places to be.
Alleyne, however, could enjoy none of it. She was veiled—a ploy of Baradun’s that she had accepted gratefully—but the veil itself was hot and she wanted nothing more than to feel the breeze on her face. Not only that, she still had not learned to walk properly in the heavy skirts that were now the fashion of the court. The woman around them sported layers upon layers of cloth embroidered with seed pearls and gold thread, and Alleyne wondered, disgruntled, why women did not wear the same loose pantaloons as the men. Her memories of the court were of simple robes and elaborate belts. Would it have killed anyone to keep that fashion?
“Would you like to sit?” Baradun asked conscientiously.
“Please.” She was beyond pride at this point. She managed to sweep her skirts out as she sat—another acquired skill—and watched the other nobles as surreptitiously as she could. She was gaining a reputation for humility, Baradun told her; in truth, even with her face veiled, she kept her head bowed out of fear that someone might recognize her. Once or twice, as curious nobles came to greet Baradun, she thought she half-remembered the arch of a brow or a noble’s falsely-warm smile. Once, she thought she saw a flicker of recognition in a woman’s eyes, and she knew a moment of absolute terror.
“Sit up, my dear,” Baradun reminded her.
For a moment, she was seven years old again and listening to her mother’s gentle words, and she felt a familiar wave of resentment. Why should she have to sit up straight? Why shouldn’t she kick out her feet?
She would give anything to hear her mother remind her of that now.
Whatever her lies, her struggle to learn court etiquette was real. The irony pained her. She sat up, and watched. The trick was in the feet, she decided; the ladies of the court had learned to walk in their elaborate robes, and it seemed that a very particular gait was required. They managed it, of course, to perfection.
All except one. Alleyne watched surreptitiously as a young woman on the other side of the gardens struggled along, holding to her sister’s arm. The older sister was bending down attentively, encouraging the younger girl along with a gentle smile.
“Clever,” Baradun murmured.
“Mmm?” Alleyne looked over.
“The woman with the darker hair is Lady Dianne, and the other is a woman brought from their estate here in the city.”
Alleyne raised her eyebrows. Now that she looked more closely, she saw that the younger woman was of a different cast than the lady: where the lady had the rich brown hair and heavy-lidded features of the lands that lay southeast of the city, the servant had skin like porcelain, and dark hair that hung straight over her shoulders in a river of black. She was exquisite.
And yet … Baradun was right, it was clever. Lady Dianne was unfailingly polite in the face of the Emperor’s edict, quite visibly doing her very best to help the poor, disadvantaged woman from among her family’s servants … a woman, of course, whose incompetence only set the noblewoman off to her advantage.
“She’s quite beautiful,” Alleyne observed.
“The commoner?” Baradun studied her critically. “Yes, I suppose she is, but if it were only beauty Darion sought, he would have found a bride by now. There is no shortage of pretty faces in the court.”
Alleyne looked over at him with a smile. Baradun’s pragmatism had been a welcome d
iversion from the deceptive smiles and honeyed poison of the courtiers she had met so far today. As far as she could tell, the man was nothing but practical, never denying his family’s relatively recent ascension to the nobility, and accepting the court’s spite with good humor.
And yet, his very pragmatism had led him deeply astray. Where other noble houses had sent their own emissaries to the city, seeking women just as Baradun had, Margery confided that the other nobles were quick to remind those young women where their loyalty should lie. Baradun did not do so. He simply assumed that if he was kind and decent to her, she would repay him. He saw the two of them joined by the desire to rise at court, and never questioned whether Alleyne might have another motive.
Guilt was becoming her most constant companion. She bit her lip on a smile, and reminded herself that Baradun had said nothing in her defense thirteen years ago. He did not deserve her pity, he was a stair on her upward climb and nothing more.
Baradun saw her turmoil, and attributed it to fear. “You are doing well,” he assured her. He took Alleyne’s hand and squeezed it. “Why, the Regent himself congratulated me on finding you.”
Alleyne smiled reflexively and tried to contain her fear at his mention of the Regent. She had not shared the Regent’s warning with Baradun. What would be the use? In any case, she had expected that the Regent would make his own warning to the lord.
Instead, the Regent had apparently spoken of her in glowing terms. On this point, Baradun seemed to be entirely sincere, which left Alleyne with a question she could not answer: what was the man playing at?
She would give anything for Almeric’s counsel, and she still had not seen hide nor hair of him. She was trying to believe that he was well, but after three days, she began to worry that something had gone wrong.
“Efkataros!” A hearty voice, smooth and deep, called their attention away. The speaker was young, but he carried himself with an easy confidence. This was a man who had no doubt of his place in the world.