No, the boy ahead of Kataljid in the reception line was the one who caught her gaze. Not only was he good-looking, he seemed as nervous as she felt. He was wreathed in cheap scent that tried to copy the prince’s musk and jasmine. His looks were exotic, and he was dwarfed by the gaudy courtiers. At first his shortness made her think he was younger than she was, then she saw fuzz sprouting from the neck of his tunic. His curls were the darkest she’d ever seen, his skin a warm gold. When he turned to stare curiously around, his guardian elbowed him and he snapped almost to attention. A flush stained his neck. He polished his sandals on the back of his legs. His guardian, probably a general if all that gilded armour was anything to go by, nudged him crossly. The boy moved forward as though his feet weren’t quite connected to the floor. His bow to the imperial family stopped just short of grovelling. His patron nodded, making the gilded feathers on his helmet flutter.
The very last in the queue, Kataljid waited her turn. Stares pressed in on her. The whole court was just dying for her to make a fool of herself again. She wobbled on the wretched high heels. When it was her turn, Princess Nalix and her royal sister smiled at one another like sharks.
A steward announced, “Kataljid, heiress to the throne of Oakland.”
Prince Herricus craned his head back and drawled, “What’s the weather like up there?” His mother jammed her elbow into his ribs. It didn’t stop him and his two cronies chortling behind their hands. Apparently they were Lilixar and Belden but she didn’t catch which one was which. One was flabby, the other all muscle and no brain.
The empress offered her condolences on the death of Kataljid’s elder brother. Kataljid felt a quiver of optimism – would Haladra be an ally against her guardian? – until she realised a scribe prompted the remarks from a scroll.
That set the tone for the Guests of Empire reception. A few guests dropped a patronising word, perhaps thinking of Oakland’s riches in timber, gems and aurochs, riches she now stood to inherit, however reluctantly. Riches in a kingdom she’d never been trained to rule. If only her big brother hadn’t died. She missed him fiercely.
Some though, the ones closest to Prince Herricus, turned a cold shoulder. Others giggled and didn’t speak to her at all.
Not the exotic lad, though. Kataljid was standing alone on the balcony when he sauntered across, short but beautiful, and said, “You look lost.” She smiled a welcome. He shot a glance at the prince and got a nod before smiling back. After that he was charming.
His name was Salrivos and he’d lived here as long as he could remember. They talked until the sun went down, and he didn’t mock her accent once. When slaves carried out incense to keep off the insects he said in flawless Rovalan, “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad being a guest of the empire. Anyway, I’m the youngest son. I doubt my life would last very long if my brothers laid eyes on me. No, my home’s with General Adraius and Lady Adraia.”
Clearly he’d expected her to gasp in awe but she shrugged and shook her head.
“You know, of Eagle Mansion?” He pointed to the silver bird embroidered on his tunic above some emblem she couldn’t make out. Salrivos went on, “I wouldn’t even know what my mother looks like if they hadn’t sent a portrait.” His tone was as level as if he were discussing a discarded shoelace.
Surely he must be pretending not to care? Perhaps it was to save face. This was only her first day here, the thirty-seventh since she’d left home, and already Kataljid was swamped in homesickness. How much worse it must be for him! To hide her pity - and secretly because she felt awkward looming over him – she leaned on the balcony. Down below lamps began to shine through the dusk. Dim twinkles answered them from across the bay.
Laughter brayed from the crowded hall. Kataljid was sure they were talking about her. But Salrivos was nice. She decided he must like her, at least a bit. Her name sounded like music from his lips, or perhaps the wine had gone to her head. She almost screwed up enough courage to ask, “What does acorn-eater mean?” but a flunky came to whisper, “Prince Herricus’ compliments, lordling, and why are you wasting time with that blond troll when you could be losing a fortune to him?” The slave hadn’t meant her to hear.
Salrivos pulled a face. Without a word he scampered to the royal brat. Feeling abandoned, Kataljid wondered if he did like her after all.
That same night she’d spoiled everything by rescuing him. From the Lion Emperor’s son.
“Shoulders back, Candis!” Laratus said in exasperation. “I’ve had enough of this pretence of yours.”
For the last eight weeks she’d thwarted his plans for ‘taming’ her. The eunuch’s dislike couldn’t have been plainer. The feeling was mutual. As for forcing her to mince around with an empty jar on her head, what was the point? Her stupidly high heels slithered on the marble. She barely caught the pot before it smashed.
The ferocity of the eunuch’s hiss belied his servile posture. “How do you expect to walk elegantly when you won’t stand up straight?”
“I don’t have to carry water,” she snapped back. “I’m not one of your peasants.”
“Any of whom would be more graceful than you are.” He dripped his acid in perfect Rovalan, his drawl even more pronounced than his mistress’. Kataljid was sure he was more of a snob too.
She lifted the pot back. It wobbled the other way. The sudden prick of tears caught her by surprise. Instead of these dreary humiliations she should be back in Oakland helping with famine relief. Homseickness throbbed like a wound.
Eventually she mastered herself. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Laratus, but my strengths are healing and hunting, not learning how to simper at courtiers who either hate me or want to use me.”
“So use them, Kataljid.” For once he didn’t call her by her Rovalan name. Instead he reached up and put the jar aside, then took her hand in his soft ones and drew her over to a bench. “You have a homeland, a family.” He swallowed. “All this posturing I’m trying to teach you, it’s not just for me. It’s to protect you at court. Don’t you realise? This is training for another sort of battle so stop pretending you’re useless. Are all Oaklanders cowards? Are you a coward?”
She tried to leap to her feet but his grasp was surprisingly strong. Also he allowed a foreign accent into his voice. At first she suspected mockery and her eyes flashed, but it was different from the sound of her tongue. Softer, with furred gutturals. “Please, Kataljid. Sit by me.” She perched as far away as she could get. He patted her arm and said gently, “I know you heard those fools on board betting on us. You think I’m only pushing you because I want my freedom. At the start, that was probably true.”
“And now?”
“I saw you that night after the hostages’ reception, remember? No, of course you don’t. You didn’t see me. Too busy rescuing your ungrateful young princeling. That was some war cry! I was on my way back from a poetry evening and saw the imperial brat up to his tricks.”
“You did? Wait a moment. Why didn’t you rescue that boy? I thought you didn’t want me getting into trouble.”
Laratus dropped his humble mask. Sourly he pointed to the Lion brand on his temple. “Remember my position, mistress.”
Of course. He was a slave. In Rovala that was lower than the low. It didn’t matter that he ruled the Lion Mansion, the personal aide to Princess Nalix herself. He was still a slave. They’d already taken his manhood. If he laid a finger on a noble they could have him beheaded. Or if he even looked at one aslant...
And yet he’d touched her. He had quite literally put his life in her hands. “You do have courage, Kataljid, or at least you did back in the spring. You acted not out of self-preservation but because you still believe in fairness. You were quick. Clever. You’re not stupid so stop pretending you are.”
“But I don’t want to be with people like that!”
“But nothing. You have a job to do. Your people expect it. The drought in the north has weakened your country along with all the others. It’s playing right into your enem
ies’ hands. The wolves are out there laying ambushes and you’ve been hiding in here –”
“I’m not hiding!”
“So you don’t have the first clue what they’re up to. They’re up in court right now, manoeuvring to get the biggest cut when your land is conquered.” Abruptly he walked away, then stopped, not turning. “As mine was.”
The first Kataljid knew of the Great Corn Riot was the smoke drifting through the windows of the Lion Mansion. It added an unholy tang to the bright autumn breeze. Coughing, she let go of the scroll she’d been conning and went to close the shutters. She’d learned a lot in the last month, not least that pigs ate acorns. Pigs, halfwits and peasants. And ignorant barbarians like her.
From the window she saw fires scattered across half the city. All at once flames burst from the corn exchange. She was already casting aside her stupid skirts when the whomp! of the explosion broke over her.
Fastening her breeks, Kataljid leaped down the stairs and flew across to the gates. Guards barred the way with their spears.
“Princess Nalix’s orders, m’lady. Food riot. It’s not safe out there.” That was Captain Camadus, of course, the one who’d forbidden his daughter to talk to her. To stay calm Kataljid thought of the cartoon she’d drawn of him so she could singe it when he vexed her. The caricature of Nalix was down to a fragment.
“But the fires!” Kataljid shouted. “People are burning to death down there!”
Distant screams tore through the dusk. Briefly the captain closed his eyes. “It’s ’ard, miss, very ’ard, but a slip of a girl couldn’t do nothing about it any more’n I could.”
“I’ve got my medicines. No, don’t turn away! I trained as a healer before my brother died. I was never supposed to be the heir.”
“But Princess Nalix –”
“But nothing! She’s loyal to the emperor, isn’t she? Which makes her responsible for his people while he’s... indisposed.” She wasn’t going to make the mistake of saying the Lion Emperor had been suddenly taken drunk. Again.
The captain winced when he heard another scream, this one a child’s. He scratched his cheek, clearly torn. Laratus scuttled out of the dusk, hissing, “You can’t go! You’re responsible for making the best match you can for your people. You can’t do that when you’re dead!”
Kataljid dragged him out of earshot. “Laratus, you don’t understand! It’s the magic of our realm. Our kings are tied to the land and our queens are healers. When people are in pain it stabs me like knives. Even if you tie me down, those screams will cut my flesh. See? It’s started!” She thrust her arm at him. Blood trickled over her wrist. “Please, Laratus, I have to help!”
The eunuch looked at the drops pooling crimson on the ground. He nodded permission. Triumphant, she whirled, not quite managing to hide the scissors from her medicine pouch. The eunuch thoughtfully watched her go.
Kataljid was glad when fresh bandages arrived. The litter-bearers carried them, and salves, and the juice of the poppy, right into the lamplit temple where she worked alongside the priests. To her surprise, Laratus had brought them himself. Or rather, he’d accompanied the bearers and a batch of Lion guards to protect them from the masses. He ordered the burly men to assist with the groaning wounded, and poured a drink for Kataljid. “With my very own hands, I hope you’ll notice. You should be honoured.”
“I’d like to see you do it with anyone else’s.”
“Very droll, my lady. Princess Nalix has realised what a help we could be to the emperor’s subjects.”
The blond girl was coming to realise how obliquely the eunuch spoke. Equally circumspect, she replied, “I’m sure the empress will be suitably grateful.” Layers of debts and obligations hung unspoken between them.
“Good girl!” Laratus said with a wink. Then he heaved a sigh and put himself in charge of organisation. With the corn stores gone any food merchant’s stores had fallen prey to looters. The death-toll below the citadel was appalling.
Kataljid straightened her shoulders and walked tiredly back to a new group of scorched and mangled commoners. For a moment she felt their pain less keenly as she suppressed a small, selfish smile. However much she pitied these poor half-starved folk, now she was in Nalix’s good books she wouldn’t have to spend another three months mewed up after all. Then a father ran in carrying a screaming baby. Stomach roiling, she rushed to dress its burns.
Two nights later she attended the viewing of moonflowers on Lady Adraia’s pond at the House of the Eagle. It was her second ever expedition to a Rovalan great house. Salrivos would be there, and Herricus. She’d looked forward to this and dreaded it in equal measure. When the imperial party arrived she bowed and joined the chorus of “All hail to the Lion,” hoping the prince wouldn’t spot her.
Luckily the garden shadows hid her when she was presented to the lady. Also Princess Nalix’s supporters now included her in their chit-chat. With Laratus’ lessons in mind, she didn’t allow their smiles to fool her. Empress Haladra deigned to thank her on behalf of the emperor, which was an excuse for a self-serving speech. Luckily Herricus was too busy flirting to pay attention. After that the empress’ followers oiled around her. Shared looks of triumpth told Kataljid she still wasn’t catching all their verbal barbs. Nor did Salrivos show any sign of recognition though she caught him watching her once or twice. Protective of his cracked ribs, he moved stiffly, hanging around Prince Herricus and his toadies, begging for attention like a dog begs for crumbs. She remembered them well and now she knew their names. Belden the Belly, Lilixar the strong one and the loathesome Prince Herricus. Recalling his firebrand, she pulled her veil further across her face.
Nevertheless, after three months with only tutors to talk to and slaves who were too scared to respond, it was exciting to be at a party. Even if it was a party with screechy Rovalan music. Girls clustered round her, chattering like parrots, and boys showed off to catch her eye. Kataljid hid her grin behind her veil. Also, as long as her height didn’t give her away, Herricus was unlikely to notice her. It seemed he liked a flagon or three. Like father, like son. Just in case, she sat down as soon as she could. Two stone-faced matrons plonked down either side to keep watch on her. They were poor relations who breathed at Nalix’s whim.
At moonrise the white lilies opened. Their perfume was intoxicating. Literally. Laratus had warned her to breathe through her veil. Being unused to the scent, the hostages would be drugged more readily than native Rovalans. “This is your next test,” he’d warned her. “Don’t succumb to licentiousness. Don’t swoon at what you see. And don’t let a certain Lion cub catch you on your own.”
As the evening wore on, the rustles and sighs from the shadows vied with the music. Licentiousness indeed. Kataljid sat uncomfortably where she’d been told, between Princess Nalix’s dependents, either of whom could have repelled a cavalry charge with a single glance. At least they weren’t openly mocking the foreigners drugged into passion. She wished she’d never come to this party.
A Rovalan maiden threw her arms round the prince’s neck and tittered, “Just look what’s going on behind those palm trees, your highness. To think they’re hostages! Your imperial father is saddled with worthless acorn-eaters.”
“Acorn-eaters,” slurred Belden, more than a little drunk himself. He obviously assumed only true-blood Rovalans were sober enough to hear. “Since they’re dim enough to set the corn exchange alight, what else can –”
“That was some fool in the army who didn’t know flour can explode,” retorted Lilixar.
Herricus slapped them both. “Shut up, you morons!” he hissed. “Do you want the rabble blaming us for them starving?” Much louder he said, “It’s for their own good. Rationing’s a sensible policy.”
“Yes, for acorn-eaters,” chuckled Belden, unabashed.
“There is one difference between acorn eaters and hostages,” announced Lilixar with the air of one lumbering towards a punch-line.
Herricus joined his cronies in the chorus. “Th
e ones at court don’t eat acorns ’cause they live off Rovalan banquets. Now shut up, Ox.”
The words came to Kataljid as though from far away. Gazing dreamily beyond the dark, petalled waters, she thought of the hills of home. Then recalled the swathes of horse-bones on the steppes below where the people had slain their herds because there was neither grass nor corn. It hadn’t been so bad in Oakland where snowmelt trickled down the mountains. And her father’s kingdom was all that stood between the starving Empire and the weakened hordes?
A hubbub pulled her from the moonlilies’ thrall.
“Enough!” cried Lady Adraia. The Rovalans fell silent. A wail from inside the house pierced the night. Ignoring a couple writhing in the shrubbery, the lady and her husband Adraius hurried to the empress’ side.
Princess Nalix snapped her fingers at her chief attendant, who sped to find out what was happening. A sense of wariness racked Kataljid. It broke the moonlilies’ spell. Upset by the distant weeping, she would have gone to help if the dowagers hadn’t clamped her on the couch, hushing her whispered pleas.
In suspicious silence everyone waited for the empress’ messenger to come back. Guests and Rovalans drew apart into separate muttering clumps. The last of the hostages came out sheepishly straightening their clothes and asking, “What’s wrong?” Whom they chose to approach was interesting now she’d learned the sigils of each house and scion. And which house sponsored each hostage from all the kingdoms of the world.
Salrivos visibly hesitated between a group of foreigners and the knot of Rovalans round the prince. He was still dithering when Princess Nalix upstaged her imperial sister. “Apparently a mob is burgling its way up to the citadel. They claim it’s because they have no food.”
Annoyed, the empress spoke over her sib. “Gentles and guests, General Adraius and his good lady open Eagle Mansion to you until the rabble is put down.”
Legends Page 17