Without waiting for a response, Lyss made her escape before more thoughts slipped past her lips. In her case, that was the key to diplomacy—escaping before you said what you really thought.
Anyway, she’d seen somebody that she actually wanted to talk to—Hadley DeVilliers.
“Hadley!” she exclaimed, embracing her. “I didn’t know you were back until I saw you at that meeting this morning.”
Hadley always evoked thoughts of faraway places. After months away, she looked more exotic than ever, with her sun-bronzed skin, piercings, and tattoos, her hair a deep black streaked with blue.
Lyss held her out at arm’s length, studying her. “Last time I saw you, wasn’t your hair—?”
“Pink made too good a target,” Hadley said, grimacing. “After a few near misses, I decided to go with something less visible.”
“Good idea,” Lyss said. “I can’t wait to hear stories about exotic ports and naval battles on the high seas.” Stories were all right. Just don’t try to get me directly involved.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it the high seas,” Hadley said, laughing. “Between the Ardenine warships and Carthian pirates, we spent most of our time creeping in and out of inlets and trying to avoid running aground. We never got all that far from shore, but we did keep them busy.”
“Did you really see pirates?”
Hadley nodded. “Never very close up, though, and usually sailing the other way. Pirates don’t like to tangle with ships that shoot back, especially since we don’t carry the kind of swag they’re after.”
“How long will you be home?” Ardenine ships prowled the seas year-round, so there was no defined fighting season for Hadley.
Hadley shrugged. “I haven’t received orders yet, so who knows.”
“When can we catch up over a few beers?” Lyss said.
“How about tonight?”
“I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but I’m doing this concert tonight—”
“Oh, I’m coming to the concert,” Hadley said, grinning. “I wouldn’t miss it. Maybe after the concert, we can get a group together.”
“Let’s do it,” Lyss said, absurdly happy. “It’s been too long.”
Hadley hesitated, as if debating whether to speak up. “Just so you know, I’m on board with the idea of an attack on Arden. I assume you have a target in mind.”
“Several,” Lyss said, with a grim smile.
Dinner was served, and still no Shadow. Lyss’s concern turned to worry. He’d said he would come, but—what if something had happened to him? As she’d said in council, he walked a dangerous road—especially since Aspen died.
Dinner was being held early, because of the concert, and pretty much everyone at court was invited. Aunt Mellony was hosting. Raisa and Julianna sat up front with her, along with Finn and his parents. Aunt Mellony was dressed up, of course, and Julianna resembled a rare flower, with her porcelain skin and smoky eyes, her hair pulled up to show off her graceful neck.
For once, Lyss hadn’t been included in the seating plan. Since she had a choice, she ate with Hadley, Sasha, Mason, and Littlefield toward the foot of the table.
Lyss poked at her roast chicken, usually one of her favorites, not being barley, but her stomach was in a turmoil of worry. She’d been sure Shadow would show up for dinner.
During dessert, talk inevitably turned to Arden and the war. Can’t we ignore the war for just one night? Lyss thought. If you’re not going to do anything different, then why not talk about something else?
Be careful what you wish for.
Her mother stood, and the room quieted. She was that kind of a person. “I would like to welcome you all to the opening of the season of Solstice, when we celebrate the return of the light. We’re also celebrating the return of many of you from the battlefield, and honoring those who will never return to us.” She raised her glass, and everyone followed suit. “I hope all of you will find joy and peace this holiday season, and the time and space in which to mend your spirit.”
They all drank.
“It is during this festive season that the spark of romance often kindles,” the queen went on. “Marriage represents a hope for and belief in the future—something direly needed in a time of war. In that spirit, your host and my sister, the princess Mellony ana’Marianna, has an announcement.” She gestured, and Aunt Mellony rose to her feet amid a buzz of speculation.
Aunt Mellony is getting married again, Lyss thought. Good for her. Lyss scanned the table for possible candidates. Not Lord Mander. He was sitting next to her, but he was already married.
Could it be Micah Bayar? Could they have finally come together after all these years? Lyss looked down the table to where the wizard sat. He was looking on, smiling, but he displayed no flush of romance.
“Your Majesty, ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my daughter Julianna ana’Mellony to Finn sul’Mander.”
Wait . . . what?
Lyss looked down the table to where Finn and Julianna sat next to each other, blushing and smiling. Well, Julianna was blushing and Finn was smiling. Julianna held up their joined hands to display her engagement ring. A confection of emeralds and diamonds, it glittered in the candlelight.
Instantly, Lord Mander was on his feet, raising his glass. “A toast to the happy couple!”
Micah Bayar joined him, smiling, raising his own glass. “Hear, hear!”
Then Lord Vega. “I couldn’t be happier,” he said, with a broad smile. “You are the kind of fine young couple this queendom needs more of.”
There followed a flurry of toasts and best wishes and questions about wedding plans. Lyss dutifully toasted her cousin, then sat, silent as a stump, a smile pasted on her face.
It wasn’t that she was in love with Finn sul’Mander. True, she’d had a crush on him when she was younger, but she’d grown out of that. Pretty much, anyway. It wasn’t that she was jealous, exactly. It was just that Thornleigh’s words kept echoing in her head: 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. . . .
It was just that Finn and Julianna were so perfect together, like a matched pair of thoroughbreds.
It was just that Lyss had had no clue this was coming until it actually happened. Finn hadn’t said a word about it on the long trail home.
It was just so damned humiliating.
11
THE CLIENT
The “inn” was called Mabry’s, and it was a clicket-house, as Breon had suspected. But the place was clean and well kept, and there was no reason he couldn’t take a bath there as long as he locked the door and kept his shiv by his side.
Long, hot baths were rare in Breon’s world. It was unusual, too, to get to be first to the tub. Truth be told, it had been a while since he’d had his clothes off, and he was shocked at how thin he’d become. He’d grown taller, and it was like he’d been stretched out, his ribs prominent under his skin.
You need to leave the leaf alone, he thought, and he would. Soon.
He was surprised at how good it felt to stew until his skin got wrinkly, the water turning murky gray around him. When he finally rose, dripping, from the tub, his hair was two shades lighter and the stench of fish was gone.
As soon as he unfolded the bundle of clothing, he knew Whacks hadn’t picked them out. He found soft wool breeches, a snowy linen shirt with bloomy sleeves, and a velvet doublet in a rich emerald green. There were warm hose to wear underneath, and a fine hooded cloak with velvet trim to wear over. Everything fit well enough, though he had to cinch in the breeches to keep them from sliding down over his bony ass.
He was admiring himself in the mirror, striking poses, when somebody knocked at the chamber door. Breon grabbed up his shiv and said, “Occupied.”
“Open up quick. It’s Aubrey.”
He stowed the shiv and padded to the door.
Aubrey stood outside, holding a pair of boots.
Her eyes widened when she saw Breon. “Bones, Bree, will you look at you? You could walk right into any palace and be at home.”
“Until I opened up my mouth,” he said, stepping aside so she could enter.
She walked in, stuffing the boots into his arms as she passed. “Try these on,” she said. “See if they fit.” She glanced into the tub. “Whoa,” she said. “Plow that up and you could grow barley.”
Breon, touched and surprised, cradled the boots. “These are for me?”
“Naw, they’re for my other sweetheart with feet the exact same size as you.”
Sweetheart? That was encouraging, in a peculiar way. Breon sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the boots. They were loose, but another pair of hose or another year’s growth would fix that.
“Thank you,” he said, sticking out his feet so he could admire them. “Where’d you get these?”
“They were sitting outside one of the other rooms, and they looked like the right size. We’d better be gone before the owner misses ’em. But, first—” Aubrey sat down beside him. Sliding her arms around him, she kissed him, long and deep, pressing him back onto the pillows until his heart was thumping under the fancy doublet.
“What was that for?” he said, when she broke it off. Not that he was complaining, but it had been a long time since she’d kissed him like that.
“I wanted to see what it was like to kiss a gentleman,” she said.
“Well, then,” Breon said, “as long as we’re here, would you like to see what it’s like to—?”
She shook her head and put her fingers to his lips. “Like I said, we need to go before the cove down the hall comes looking for his boots,” she said. “But I wanted to talk to you in private.” She slid her hands down until they circled his neck, and her fingers caressed the magemark on the back of it. Then she pushed his head down so she could take a closer look. Gooseflesh rose on his back and shoulders.
“Don’t,” he said, pulling free.
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
Aubrey blinked at him, then dropped her hands into her lap. Breon guessed she wasn’t used to hearing no. Not from him, anyway.
“It’s time we went out on our own,” she said.
Breon sat back a little, resting his hands on his thighs. He waited.
“Whacks does nothing for us, only gets in our way,” she said. “A streetlord that can’t support his crew doesn’t deserve to have one.”
“He’s not a streetlord,” Breon said. “He’s a manager. We’re not a crew, we’re a musical troupe.” He couldn’t say why it was so important to him to maintain that distinction.
Aubrey flipped her hand, as if to say, Whatever. “You’re the one bringing in all the money. Now we have some coin, there’ll be more coming in, and you have some fine clothes. I say we leave after the gig tonight.”
“And go where?”
“We’ll go back to the coast. I’ve been doing some business on the side down at the harbor. Plus, we can sail anywhere from there. I’ll be your manager from now on.”
“What about Goose?”
She scowled. “What about him?”
“What happens to him?”
“He . . . stays with Whacks, I guess,” she said, shrugging.
“What’s he going to live on, with us gone?”
She shrugged again.
“Whacks can fend for himself,” Breon said. “But if we leave, then Goose comes with. He needs a chance to get clean.” If they left Whacks, if his source was gone, it might be easier.
“All right,” Aubrey said, rolling her eyes and loosing a put-upon sigh. “Goose comes with.” She stood. “We’d better go back,” she said, all brisk and businesslike.
“You go on,” Breon said, saying no for the second time that day. “I’m going to walk over to Southbridge early and see what’s what.”
Aubrey studied him for a long moment. “All right,” she said. “Be careful. I’ll get things together so we can leave soon as you get back.” She kissed him again in a promising kind of way and swayed out the door.
Breon shook his head, laughing at himself. That girl could turn the charm on and off like a spigot. He knew he shouldn’t trust her, and yet—this thing they had was maybe as close as he’d ever come to being in love.
You sing love songs all day long, he thought, but you wouldn’t know love if it came up and bit you on the ear.
Time was wasting. Breon picked up his jafasa, loped down the stairs, and walked briskly through the common room, careful not to make eye contact with any of the patrons or respond to any of the suggestive comments that came his way. Once outside, he crossed back to the temple side of the river and entered the big front doors.
A dedicate sat at a small reception table just inside the doors, paging through a large illuminated manuscript.
“I was told there was a library?” Breon said, when she looked up.
He half-expected her to demand why he wanted to know, but she just pointed. “Down this hall to the right. Go all the way to the end and you can’t miss it.” She returned to her reading.
Must be the new clothes, he thought, brushing his fingers over the velvet.
The library was the biggest he’d ever seen, three stories tall and all paneled in dark woods. They had rolling ladders you could use to reach the highest shelves. Another wall was all little niches with rolled manuscripts poking out of them.
Dedicates were seated at tables here and there, heads bowed over their work. In one corner, a scholar was reading a book to a group of children. At the front desk, a man looked up at Breon’s approach, keeping his place in his book with his forefinger.
“I was wondering,” Breon said, “if you have any books about ships.”
As it turned out, they did.
Breon could spend hours reading about ships and the sea. Maybe it was because he’d grown up in a harbor town, watching ships come and go, wishing he were aboard. This one time, a shipmaster had seen him staring longingly at the ships in the harbor and offered to row him out to take a closer look. Breon had been seized with an unreasoning panic, and fled.
Books were the safer way to go. It was easy to get lost between the covers of a book. He imagined what it would be like, living right here in the temple library, where he could read and read and read, venturing out to the square now and then for bread and oranges. On temple days, he’d go to the clicket-house for a bath.
Before he knew it, the bells overhead were bonging and it was seven o’clock and time to meet his contact about the gig.
Slinging his jafasa over his shoulder, he walked back down the steps, stopping at the table by the door in case they wanted to search him for whatever he’d pocketed. The dedicate just waved him on, out the front door of the temple, under the banner proclaiming the concert.
A light snow was falling as Breon crossed back over the bridge to the neighborhood known as Ragmarket and turned down the first alley on the left. The alley ran along the rear of a series of riverfront taverns, clicket-houses, and tenements.
At the end of the first block, he saw a cloaked figure leaning against a lamppost on the corner. When the lamp-leaner spotted Breon, he straightened, eyes glittering within the shadow of his hood. The rest was all darkness, like he was one of those demons, from scary storybooks, that are looking for a new body to live in.
Was this the lovelorn suitor? No wonder he was having trouble romancing his girlie.
And yet—there was a familiar shine to him, a blue-white glow that Breon had always associated with mages. That can’t be right, Breon thought. Mages never have trouble finding a lover. That’s what he’d heard, anyway.
Maybe he was mistaken. With the client wrapped up as he was, he couldn’t get a good look.
“I’m here about a street concert,” Breon said, wanting to establish the rules of the game up front. “Are you?”
“You’re the spellsinger?” The client’s voice was as cold as a dead fish across the face, and fl
at, as if he were trying to disguise it.
“Yes,” Breon said, not being in the business of splitting hairs and not knowing what Whacks might have told him.
“Are you able to charm a person, even if she is wearing a clan-made talisman?”
“Yes,” Breon said. He really had no idea, but he was beginning to think that the answer had better be yes. Was that why he’d been called in? Because this mage had tried and failed? Breon puffed out his chest a little.
The stranger looked up and down the street, then motioned for Breon to follow him. Breon did so with a prickle of unease. Whacks wasn’t all that choosy about who he did business with. Not that Breon had much money in his pockets. He’d spent most of Whacks’s light purse on some leaf to tide Goose over. And a little for himself.
“You’ll be on this corner,” the client said, pointing out of the snarl of alleys to where the main road crossed the bridge. “When she comes, you’ll move this way down the riverbank and bring her along to the riverside park. Stop there.”
“How will I know who to sing to? What does she look like?”
“She’s tall,” the client said, “and big-boned. Awkward. She’ll be wearing a green dress. And a shawl.”
That didn’t sound like somebody’s description of his sweetheart. Breon waited for more and got none. “Is that it?”
“That isn’t enough?”
“I don’t want to charm up the wrong girl,” Breon said. If it’d been anyone else, he would have made a joke of it. “Ah . . . what about her hair? What’s it like?”
“It’s long, and it’s a kind of an ochroid color.”
“Ochroid?” Who says “ochroid”? It sounded like some kind of a disease.
“Like old gold or amber,” the client said impatiently. “She may be carrying an instrument case.”
“An instrument case?” Breon said, with a spark of interest. “She’s a musician?”
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