Encouraged, Breon scooted closer. “It’s kind of romantic, having a picnic by the river.” Putting his hand on her knee, he leaned in for a kiss, but Aubrey turned her head away.
“Tell me that again when you an’t stinking of fish.” She licked her fingers and wiped them on the bench.
She’s sure moody, he thought.
When Breon and Aubrey ducked back through the door of the crib, Whacks was back, and having a litter of kittens.
“Where’ve you been?” Whacks gripped the front of Breon’s jacket and gave him a shake. “Why is it you always wander off just when I need you?”
“Take it easy,” Breon said, wrenching loose. “If I’d of known you needed me, I wouldn’t of wandered off.” He eyed Whacks warily. It had been a long time since Breon’s self-styled manager had shown that much interest in him. Whacks could be much too creative when it came to ways Breon could earn his keep. Ways that crossed the boundaries Breon had set for himself.
He’d been with Whacks since he was a pretty blond ten-year who needed protection in the southern harbor town of Baston Bay. He was grown, now—sixteen years old and able to make his way on his own. More and more, he was beginning to question whether staying with this lot did him any good.
Aubrey would be fine. She knew how to land on her feet. Lately she’d been gone a lot, and Breon suspected she had her own game going. He was surprised she’d stayed this long.
But what about Goose? What would happen to him if Breon left? Breon was bringing in most of the money these days. And Whacks could be ruthless when crossed.
He could be ruthless anytime he thought it would do him some good.
“So what’s up?” Breon said. “Did you bring anything back for us?” Breon could take or leave the leaf, but Goose was in a bad way.
Whacks’s gaze flickered away. “I got nothing for you now,” he said, “but we’ll be in gravy tonight. You’ll just have to tough it out until then.”
Breon clamped his teeth to keep his thoughts from spilling out. Then opened them enough to say, “What happens tonight?”
“That gig I was talking about? It’s on.” Whacks rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “It’s real money this time. I told you the capital was the place to be.” His eye lit on the food Breon was clutching. “Is that an orange? Where’d you get that?” He grabbed it out of Breon’s hand and began peeling it.
Breon tossed the remaining bread to Goose before it went the way of the orange. It wasn’t what Goose wanted, but it was all Breon had.
“I’ll need a hit if we’ve got a show tonight,” Goose whined, taking a big chomp out of the bread.
“It’s just Bree,” Whacks said, jerking a thumb at Breon. “Not you.”
“Hang on. What kind of a gig are we talking about?” Breon asked, instantly on guard.
“It’s, you know, a—a private concert,” Whacks said. “Somebody heard you play back at Baston Bay and nothing would do but you’d come and play for him here.”
“A private concert?” Breon raised an eyebrow. He’d heard that before.
“I got you some new clothes,” Whacks said. “And I’ve arranged for a bath at an inn across the river.”
An inn. Right.
“Forget it,” Breon said, his cheeks burning. He sat down on the floor next to his jafasa, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I’m a musician. Not a fancy.”
“No, no, no,” Whacks protested, shaking his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. It an’t like that.”
“Oh?” Breon undid the buckles on the case and lifted the instrument out. “What’s it like, then?”
“It’s a concert,” Whacks insisted. “In front of quality. You can’t go into it stinking of fish.”
“Who’s the audience?” Breon demanded. “Who’s paying, and what’s the money? And where’s the concert?”
“The concert an’t at the inn,” Whacks said. As usual, he picked the question he wanted to answer.
“Where is it, then?”
“Ah, Bree,” Whacks said sadly. “I remember when you were such a charming, trusting boy, who relied on me to—”
“I’ve learned that charm an’t enough,” Breon said. “And trust has to be earned.” And that I can’t rely on you to tell the truth.
Whacks heaved a put-upon sigh. “You’ll be singing for a girlie,” he said. “She’ll be attending a concert at the temple around the corner.”
Breon recalled the banner draped over the entrance to the temple. That must be the one.
“You’ll begin singing and playing when she passes by. You know it’s on the up-and-up because it’ll be out in public.”
How does that make it on the up-and-up? Breon thought. Bad things happen in public all the time.
“She walks by, I sing to her, and that’s it?”
Whacks nodded. “See? Easy money.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does this client want me to sing to this girlie?”
“He wants you to woo her for him.”
Well, that explained the bath and the change of clothes. But it didn’t explain Whacks’s shifty-eyed look.
“That kind of thing can go wrong, you know,” Breon said. “A girlie is not like a pork bun. It’s not like I can woo and win her and then hand her off to someone else.”
“I guess he just wants you to put her in the mood,” Whacks said, licking his lips in a suggestive way, which wasn’t at all appealing on him. “Sing some romantic ballads to soften her up a little. She’s a blueblood, and he’s not. He’s hoping you can help him make his case.”
“I don’t like it,” Breon said, running his fingers over the strings, hearing the notes float up like magic. “Every other spark in town uses blue ruin to talk a girlie into making a bad decision. I’d just as soon not get mixed up in that.”
“He’s offering forty crowns,” Whacks said, playing his trump card.
“Blood and bones,” Goose muttered. “Forty girlies? For a love song?”
“Girlie” was also the popular name for the coin of the realm, which bore an image of a crown on one side and a silhouette of a royal on the other. It was rare that one girlie crossed Breon’s palm, let alone forty. That was a small fortune. And if Whacks quoted forty, it likely meant the lovelorn suitor had offered sixty.
“I thought you said this cove wasn’t a blueblood,” Breon said. “Where would he get that kind of money?”
“It’s not just bluebloods that are rich, you know—”
“Right, there’s rushers and thieves and streetlords,” Breon said, “and I don’t want to mix with none of them.”
“Forty girlies, Bree,” Goose said, picking at his blankets with his busy hands.
“Don’t you want to bring these young lovers together?” Whacks pressed him. “He just wants to talk to her.”
“Talk to her? Are you sure that’s all he means to do?”
“Look, when the concert lets out, there will be all kinds of people in the streets and bluejackets everywhere. What could happen?” Whacks stroked his wispy beard.
Breon sighed, running his hand through his filthy hair. It wasn’t just Goose that was hurting. It had been a very lean year. “All right,” he said, already working out a set list, “I’ll do it.”
“Good boy!” Whacks said, all smiles. “Now we’ll just—”
“If,” Breon added.
Whacks blinked at him. “If what?”
“I know this cove gave you money down,” Breon said. He stuck out his hand, wiggling his fingers.
“He did, but I spent it on your new clothes, and the bath and all,” Whacks whined.
“Not all of it,” Breon said. “We all need a good meal, and me and Goose an’t going to wait until tonight. When the payment’s made, I get twenty-five girlies, Goose and Aubrey each get five.”
“Why do they get five? They didn’t do nothing to earn it.”
“’Cause we’re all in this t
ogether,” Breon said. “Isn’t that what you always say? Share and share alike?”
“What about my finder’s fee? Only five crowns?”
“I’m guessing you’ve already claimed your fee,” Breon said. “Take or leave.”
“All right,” Whacks grumbled, and the fact that he gave in told Breon all he needed to know. Whacks dug in his carry bag, pulled out a purse, and handed it over. It wasn’t all that heavy, and no doubt it was stuffed with steelies and not the girlies Bree was looking for.
“How will I know who to sing to?” Breon asked. “Do you have something that belongs to her?” Breon could charm almost anyone as long as he had an instrument to channel through. It helped if he could look the person in the eyes. It helped even more to have a connected object—a beloved object was even better.
“You’ll be meeting your client on the corner of South Bridge and River Street. Just the other side of the river from the temple. He’ll have something of hers to give you.”
“Do you even know what her name is?”
“Nah.” Whacks slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him over. “No worries. I have faith in you. Just sing. What with that and your pretty face, she’ll come.”
10
OUTPLAYED
Dinner was early, and even more informal than usual in these lean times. The queen had issued an all-hands invitation in honor of the concert later that evening, proclaiming it the launch of the holiday season.
The dining room was already crowded when Lyss walked in. Automatically, she scanned the room for potential ambushes. She hated this kind of gathering, with everyone jostling for position.
Seeing the diverse mingle of people, Lyss relaxed a little. She spotted Cam Staunton in his dress blues, scouting the dessert table. As she watched, he scooped up two biscuits and stuffed them into his mouth. When he turned and saw Lyss watching, his face went scarlet, which contrasted nicely with the powdered sugar around his mouth.
“You look for witnesses before you snitch the biscuit, Private,” Lyss said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Staunton blurted, spewing a few crumbs. “Sweet Lady of Mercy,” he muttered, then saluted and hurried away.
“Your Highness.”
Lyss turned and saw that it was Finn sul’Mander, in a midnight blue velvet coat that set off his silver-blond hair and his black eyes, his fellscat stoles over top.
Finn bowed and kissed her hand, his lips leaving the buzz of wizardry on her skin. “Your Highness. I want you to know that I agreed with what you said in the council meeting today—that we’re losing the war, but no one will admit it.”
“I didn’t exactly say we were losing,” Lyss said. “I only questioned whether we were winning. There’s a difference.” She was sure there must be, though she’d be at a loss to explain it.
“Still. There are many who believe that we are on a path to disaster.” He gripped her hands hard, and his voice shook a little.
“Hey, now,” Lyss said. “It’s been a long season. As for the council, sometimes it just takes time to win people over to a new way of thinking. It’s not supposed to be easy.” Even as she said this, she couldn’t believe those words were coming out of her mouth.
“What they don’t understand is that time is running out,” Finn said. With that, he seemed to gather himself and remember that he was in a room full of people. “I apologize,” he said. “After all, we have lots to celebrate tonight.”
We do? Lyss thought, as he bowed and turned away. Biting her lower lip, she watched him cross the room. The war doesn’t end when the fighting stops, she thought. There were so many walking wounded among her friends. If the war ended today, how long would it take the realm to heal?
Sighing, she headed for the food and drink herself.
The recent winter court arrivals were swarming the meager spread after months of trail food. Greeting several hungry members of her salvo, Lyss helped herself to a biscuit and a glass of wine. Turning away from the sideboard, she found herself face-to-face with Quill Bosley, resplendent in his dress Highlander uniform.
“Sweet Alyssa,” he said, with a bow. “I hoped you would be here.”
And I hoped you wouldn’t be, Lyss thought, looking around for an excuse to escape, and seeing none.
“Lieutenant,” she said, inclining her head in greeting.
“I just heard the good news,” he said. “I understand that congratulations are in order, Captain. Or should I call you the Gray Wolf?”
“Captain will do,” she said. “It was an honor to be selected, when there are so many more experienced officers to choose from.”
“Well, it’s not surprising that General Dunedain would want to get into your good graces. I’m not saying you didn’t deserve it, of course.” Bosley winked at her, as if her promotion were some kind of cozy insider joke.
Bosley was one of several suitors who had displayed interest in Lyss last social season. These overtures were mostly quick forays and quicker retreats. Bosley had been more persistent than most, showing up on her dance card repeatedly despite her penchant for awkward conversation and stepping on feet. The youngest son of a member of the Vale nobility, he seemed to be pursuing an alternate route to advancement.
Lyss had been polite at first, reasoning that at least, as soldiers, they’d have something in common to talk about. But the more time she spent with him, the less she liked him. It seemed that he was more interested in getting under her smallclothes than in anything she had to say about strategy. Now he seemed to think that he had staked some kind of claim.
Though he’d called on her several times since she’d been home, she’d managed to avoid a face-to-face. With the advent of the Solstice social season, that respite was over.
“I must say, I am disappointed that I’ve not seen more of you since we’ve been home,” Bosley said.
“I’ve been pretty busy,” Lyss said vaguely. “Our time at home goes by so quickly.”
“Which is why we need to make the most of it.” Reaching out, he took both her hands. Why did people keep taking her hands? “I wondered if you had plans after dinner,” he said, leaning in close so she could smell the stingo on his breath. “We could go somewhere and exchange war stories.”
If he’d really meant that, she might have been tempted. Especially if the conversation took place in public.
“Too bad,” Lyss said, pulling her hands free. “I have a recital tonight. In fact, this entire season is incredibly busy. Since I’m out of town so much, there’s a lot to pack in. Drilling, marching, meetings, more drilling . . .”
Bosley shifted his weight and fisted his hands. “I understand that your social calendar must be complicated, what with the holiday and all, but surely you—”
“Speaking of social calendars,” Lyss said, looking over Bosley’s shoulder, “here comes Lord Thornleigh.” She couldn’t ever remember a time when she was glad to see Thornleigh. Until now.
Caddis Thornleigh, assistant minister of state, was bearing down on them. Or maybe gliding down on them was a better description.
“Your Highness,” he said, executing a perfect bow and ignoring Bosley. “Welcome back from the hinterlands. You must be in an absolute frenzy of excitement. Can you believe that we are on the cusp of the most important night of your life?”
For a moment, Lyss was lost. “Oh,” she said finally. “If you’re talking about the concert, I—”
“Concert?” Thornleigh furrowed his brow. “I’m talking about your name day, Your Highness. Your debut.”
“Oh,” Lyss said, her confusion clearing. “That’s still months away.”
“Exactly my point,” Thornleigh said, taking her arm and drawing her away from Bosley. In Thornleigh’s case, that would be an intentional snub. “I know you’ve been busy, but now you are here, and time is of the essence. I told the queen that I would assume responsibility for planning an exquisite ceremony and celebration. We’ll need to put our heads together soon to discuss an invitation list.”
&
nbsp; Lyss’s stomach clenched into a knot. “I couldn’t ask you to take that on, what with all your other responsibilities, like, you know, diplomacy . . .”
“Your Highness, I can’t think of any diplomatic endeavor more important in the new year than seeing you well married.”
Hang on.
“My name day is coming, Lord Thornleigh,” Lyss said. “Not my wedding. Not for a long time.” She swung around to find Bosley still hovering. “Good-bye, Bosley,” she snapped.
Bosley bowed stiffly. “Perhaps, Your Highness, I will see you at your name day party,” he said, his jaw tight. He turned and walked away.
Thornleigh watched him until he was a distance away, then said, “That whelpling is arrogant, isn’t he? What makes him think he would be invited?”
“Look, I’m not really interested in a lavish bash,” Lyss said. “We don’t have the money, and I don’t have the time. Summer is the marching season and no doubt I’ll be out of the city. I think we should handle name days the way they do in the uplands—with two big ceremonies a year, honoring everyone who’s turned sixteen. Each family could contribute a haunch of venison and a keg of ale.”
Thornleigh’s face just kept twisting until it resembled a sailor’s knot of disapproval. “Your Highness, with all due respect, I—”
“We would have to have a very large cake, in order to fit all the names,” Lyss said. “Or maybe it could just say, ‘To whom it may concern: Congratulations!’”
The diplomat’s face gradually smoothed into a mask of solicitous concern. “You may think of your debut celebration as frivolous, but it’s an important investment in the future of the queendom. We are in dire need of allies, resources, and money. The right marriage can deliver all that. In order to attract a useful match, we will need a display of power and wealth.” He leaned in closer. “Be realistic, Your Highness. You’re not the beauty that your mother is, or your sister, Hana, may she rest in peace, or your cousin Julianna—such a lovely girl—but there’s a lot can be done with the proper staging and—”
“Lord Thornleigh, I am well aware of the importance of choosing wisely when it comes to an alliance. Rest assured, when I marry, I won’t be looking for a pretty face, either. I’ll find somebody who brings assets that will help us win this war.” Lyss’s voice was rising, and now people were turning to look. Bloody bones, she thought. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
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