“Oh,” she said. “We hide them. You could have just said so.”
“You’ll continue your duties at the palace.” This wasn’t a question.
“Certainly,” she replied. “I am still secretary to the king—”
“And report back to me in a less casual fashion? Unless you’d like to appeal to Araan to become your benefactor.”
Calaa shuddered. She’d never seen Araan in his actual form, but the Zaal had made sure to let her know the line between ‘employee’ and ‘lunch’ was a narrow one indeed. If she stepped too far out of line, she might find herself among the missing.
“I need no benefactor, no champion, no patron other than you yourself, my lord mage.” She’d made herself over as Hellne and, looking up at him through her eyelashes, fashioned her into someone who was both demure and provocative. The girl was a marvel, despite her faults. She only let him enjoy the sight for a moment before she was back in her own skin. “I’ll be off,” she said, pulling her traveling veil from the hook by the door. “They’re set to leave early, and I have to be there. If anything interesting happens...”
“Let me be the judge of what’s interesting.”
She treated him to another eye roll before she shut the door. He reminded himself to look into a charm which stopped the tongue. It would be an improvement.
Chapter Eleven
Eriis/Mistra
Before her departure, Lelet talked to Maron. Afterwards, Maron talked to Clare, and both of them now sat looking at Olly in the little nook of a courtyard, out of the wind.
“She said ‘spectacle.’ Specifically. What does that mean to you?” Maron patted the back of his neck with a floral-printed scarf.
Olly frowned and took a sip of sarave. He found he was getting a taste for it—the trick was to strain it through a cloth and then add half again as much water. To say the Eriisai could hold their liquor was an understatement of mythic proportions. “Spectacle. I can’t think of any definition that won’t make the prince get up and leave the room. I don’t know him as well as Lelet does—did. But I know he doesn’t care to be the center of attention.” He’d hated it so much, in fact, he almost vanished forever. But the brothers didn’t need to know that story. “On the other hand, the idea of presenting him to Mistra—through the auspices of the Prime Council—makes sense for everyone. He himself said he doesn’t want to be sneaking around.”
“Then you’ll talk to them.” Maron looked distinctly relieved.
“Me? I am neither an ambassador nor a sworn brother of the Guardhouse. I’m only Blue’s assistant.”
Clare snorted a laugh. “You’re a Sechelle and can do what you please. When you get tired of tending an old man at the ass end of the woods, you’ll go back to the city and try the next thing that catches your eye. Everyone on the Prime council knows your family. Aren’t there any of you installed on it?”
“No,” Olly replied. He was annoyed that Clare was mostly correct. He was wrong about leaving Blue though. “One of my uncles are up for a seat next year, but that won’t help us in our current situation.”
“Your family may be pleased that you’ve taken this on,” Maron said. “You may find yourself with an ambassadorial post before this is over. If that is what catches your eye.” He looked as casual as possible. “After all, one of us is going to be staying here. Why not you?”
Olly didn’t reply. He’d been thinking along the same lines, especially after spending an intoxicating week with Aelle. There was more to this city than one admittedly ravishing woman, and he hesitated to put his name forward. If he took this on, if he made it his job to present Rhuun to Mistra, it might become inevitable.
He drank more of the sarave and thought about Coll and about dirt. The negotiating sessions had been completed, possibly more quickly than they might have, particularly once Maron mentioned the presence of gold. And Lelet’s sudden, unremarked absence meant they had Rhuun’s full attention. Olly wasn’t privy to whatever was going on between them, but if they wanted the two worlds to think they were apart, he wouldn’t say otherwise. In all, he counted it a success for both sides. They had agreed a ceremonial delivery of their precious dirt would be arranged as soon as possible, with trade of goods to resume shortly after that. When he thought of The Door opened and Mistra vulnerable to the Zaal’s monsters, he felt cold, but Aelle insisted there was a plan in place. In any event, the dirt would move through the Guardhouse Door, and that was where he would be, standing firm in front of Blue.
But after that...being here, being the human representative of the rebirth of this place—what an opportunity.
“I’ll talk to them,” he said. “The Primes. When we go home, I imagine Rhuun’ll stay at the Guardhouse for a while. We can sort it out then. Hopefully we can have permanent quarters in town arranged for whatever staff he’ll need quickly. My—”
“Your family can help to ease the treads.” Clare nodded. “I don’t mean to sound insulting. We need these resources, and we need you and your family to provide them.”
“I’ll talk to Rhuun about my coming back here. It will depend on Brother Blue. I won’t leave him. A week has been too long.”
And when Olly walked back through The Door to the almost overwhelming damp and chill, had a hot bath and some good human wine (it seemed a bit sweet) he went with Rhuun to see his master. Blue could barely be roused from sleep and did not appear to recognize either one of them. As he suspected, Rhuun preferred to stay at the Guardhouse until the city was ready to welcome him or, failing that, send him home.
As he’d told the brothers, he didn’t know Rhuun very well, and most of the time they’d spent together, the prince had been under some sort of disappearing curse. He privately found Rhuun rather morose and somewhat intimidating. He could understand his being morose, what with the curse and all. And of course, he was involved with the prince’s ex-girlfriend, which was another layer of awkwardness. It felt like he needed a running start to talk about his scheduled meeting with the Primes—a gift. Would the prince be insulted by the bottle of whiskey?
He went up to Rhuun’s little cell. His guest had only had made one request: a high floor. Since moving in, the new ambassador had hauled an old wingback chair to the narrow window and sat watching the visible sliver of the sea, seemingly content to sit there until the moons fell.
“A spectacle? She said that?” Rhuun laughed bitterly and reached for the bottle with a nod of thanks, to Olly’s relief. But when Olly explained he had a meeting with the ruling council of Mistra and it was about the ambassador’s formal introduction, Rhuun became serious and gave Olly permission to set up whatever he thought would be appropriate.
“After all,” Rhuun said, “I’ve been invisible and didn’t care for it. Perhaps I’ll have a talent for being a centerpiece.”
If he had to pick, Olly would have said Ilaan was a more natural choice for extolling the virtues of Eriis. But Aelle’s brother was nowhere to be found, and she wouldn’t say a word about him. Olly supposed Rhuun, who at least looked the part, would have to do.
That wasn’t what he’d tell the Primes, of course. Once he’d wiped both the dust of Eriis and the mud of Mistra off his boots and sat down to lunch, he settled in for battle.
The field of combat had crisp white linens and served a very nice trout en beurre with dill and boiled, sliced new potatoes. The servers were so discrete as to be non-existent. The wine was the best the Northern Territories had to offer. The club was so private it had neither name nor street address. Olly was no stranger here though. He knew the old men seated to his right and left; he’d played with their grandchildren in their gardens and under their tables. This was the first time they’d see him as an adult, and he intended to make it count—for himself, for Rhuun, for Aelle. That was a bit of a bonus, actually. Aelle promised him that if he managed to pull off a party—a spectacle—she would travel to Mistra to attend.
“They can be without their queen for one night, Ahlee,” she said. “And I wil
l miss you until then.” All of Mistran society would see her on his arm. The thought made his heart pound.
The enormity of his job began to catch up with him, and he took a steadying sip of his white wine.
“So,” said Sever, apparently ready to get started, “tell me about this creature.” Sever was head of the Prime Council and could say what he liked.
Olly smiled. “I wouldn’t personally call Prince Rhuun a ‘creature.’ He’s taller than me and frankly a lot better looking.”
The joke fluttered feebly and then died on the table.
Nimbus, somewhat lower in status than Sever, said, “Oh, I thought they were all small. The demons.” He turned to the diner at his left. “Aren’t they all little things?”
“Some of them—indeed, almost all of them—are smaller than we are in stature,” said Olly. “But the prince has the advantage of being half human. His father was a human man, and his mother, as you know, is the queen. He looks quite like we do.”
“No horns then? Or a snake tail?” Sever looked positively merry at his own wit.
“What about wings? Does he have wings?” Nimbus, rather more seriously, wanted to know.
Wings. He didn’t want to lie. Olly took a moment to compose his thoughts by taking a bite of fish. “He looks, as I hope you’ll come to find, almost exactly like we do. His eyes are an unusual shade of red. His skin is darker than ours. Other than that, I don’t think you’ll see a difference.” He fervently hoped they’d be satisfied with physical descriptions and move on to more important things. Perhaps he could hurry it along. “He was raised at a court even more formal than our own. His manners are impeccable.”
“A court? Really?” Tumult sipped his port. Port, with fish! At lunch! Olly had to look away. “What sort of court is it, I wonder? Just the lot of them grubbing around in the sand? What good, after all, are these creatures to us?”
To Olly’s dismay there was a general mumble of agreement.
“If you’d only come to us first,” Tumult said.
Ah, there it was. They’d been sidestepped, and this was the payback.
“If only I could have,” Olly agreed, adding a mournful note to his voice. “So much bother out at the Guardhouse, when it should have gone directly through this room. I am deeply grateful I may serve as a... a sort of conduit between the Brothers and the Prime Council.”
Tumult apparently wasn’t convinced. “How lucky for you, young man. Once he’s here, what shall we do with him? Does he dance? Will he do tricks? Perhaps shoot fire from his—”
That was enough. “Looking entirely beyond the fact that reopening The Door is an unparalleled achievement for Mistra and for this council, I am forced to wonder: where is the simple courtesy the government of Mistra unfailingly extends to visiting nobility?”
“He’s right about that.” Sever tossed his napkin across his plate, a signal to the servers to clear the dishes. “Even if he was a three-foot-tall ape with snakes for hair, I won’t be whispered about as a poor host.” He looked up and down the table. “We’ll fete this creat—this tall and handsome fellow who’s made such an impression on Master Sechelle. Any man who doesn’t wish to attend may develop a sudden chest cold.” If Sever attended, they all would. “By the way, I know they have their hands out for our wine and furniture and so on. What in the world do they have to offer us?” He looked around again, chuckling. “We’ve got sand to spare, don’t we?”
Olly smiled. “Gold. They have gold.”
Sever’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Should have said that first.”
Nimbus said, “Are we talking quite a bit? Or—”
“Now, now,” Sever scolded his friend. His smile was broad. He was munificent. “Plenty of time for that. Sechelle, take this to the Mayoral Council.” He raised a finger, and an assistant appeared out of nowhere. The boy leaned over, and Sever spoke to him for a moment. Then the boy nodded and left. “They’ll be expecting you. They’ll have lists of the right people and table settings and all that nonsense.”
While the Prime Council ran the city and everything in it, from how much the whores could charge by the hour to the size of your steak at dinner, the Mayoral Council was the public face of government. The Primes could walk the streets without attracting a look, and the Mayors sometimes had to go into hiding. But setting up a formal event was something they knew through decades of experience.
Olly heaved an inward sigh of relief. Unlike the Primes, he had friends among the Mayors. He began to compose the letters he’d send to the Guardhouse, to Rhuun, and to Aelle.
Somehow, he’d won.
Chapter Twelve
Eriis
Ilaan opened his eyes then shut them again. The shiver of dislocation when he moved from place to place—in this case, a handsome guest suite in the upper floors of the palace then back to his home here at the tents—came and went. The noise was different here in the Vastness. He didn’t need to look around to know where he was. Back in the city, even with the door shut and drapes drawn, the endless hiss of feet on tiled floors, of chatting in low voices or loud ones, of gossip and commerce, it was so much louder there than here, where if it wasn’t for the wind and the chuff-chuff-chuff of silk walls, sometimes there’d be no sound at all.
If it wasn’t better here, it was certainly quieter. Here, inside the tents, the ground under your feet was either a thick carpet or a patch of manicured sand. Quieter, less crowded and less...Ilaan searched for the right word. Invested. Yes, the people of the tents were less invested in the comings and goings of their neighbors. Even he himself was generally left alone, he who came trailing what he pictured as a great, sparkling mantle of reputation.
It had been less crowded and maybe it still was, but one couldn’t help but notice new neighbors limping in from the city. Word was people were starting to go missing. It was almost like the old days after the Weapon, not exactly like that of course but still—people were disappearing. Not important ones. No one from inside the Arch needed to carefully count their children at the end of the day, at least not yet. And not all the missing citizens wound up at the tents either.
Ilaan wondered how long it would be before the new king and queen would hear about the tents, perhaps schedule a visit. He hoped it would take them a while, that he’d get the trick of his bloodless Door first. From what he heard, luck might be on his side, as they were remarkably unconcerned with the actuality of ruling their city. Equally removed from the day-to-day business of the High Seat was Queen Hellne, and that was the most curious thing of all. He made a note to himself to look in on Hellne and soon.
“You’re back, I see.” Ah, Niico. Or Niico’s voice, where Niico used to be.
“I didn’t think it would take long. Scilla’s a smart girl. She understood just what I intended.”
“You put her in your service.”
Ilaan nodded, as if Niico were there to see. After all, she already had the pen. The stone stick, the tool by which one could pierce the Veil and communicate with someone on the other side. Siia—instead of sensibly passing it along to him—had given it to Beast, who (sensibly) gave it to Scilla. She was the only human he knew of who had the training to use such a thing.
“I hope it works the way you intend,” Niico said. “That pen got me in a bit of trouble.”
“Trouble?” Ilaan replied sulkily. “Is that what we’re calling it?” It had been the theft of the pen from his father’s desk that led Niico to...where he was now. Which was nowhere. Which was why his father had to pay.
Niico laughed softly, and Ilaan could almost feel the sweet blush of sparks on the back of his neck. “Don’t be that way. Tell me what happened.”
Once Scilla had gotten over the shock of seeing Ilaan materialize in her guest room at the palace, she’d been thrilled at the chance to get in on a new scheme. “After all,” Ilaan said, “the girl got her start writing to my father, so this was a return to form. In her travels between the Guardhouse and town, she’ll be in touch with everyone, and
as she is still a child, no one will suspect her motives. She’s perfect to keep me filled in.”
“By ‘in touch with everyone,’ you mean Beast, of course. You still don’t trust him to make his own way.” Niico laughed again. “You just can’t help yourself.”
“There’s too much at stake,” Ilaan countered. “Lelet’s the one I really don’t trust. If she figures out what my father’s playing at, that he’s been living under her nose, she’ll move against him. I don’t know what would be worse—if she succeeds or if she fails.” The idea of any hand other than his bringing justice to his father was unbearable. But the thought of what it would do to Beast if his plan fell apart and Lelet was injured, or worse, was almost as bad.
“Let me see if I am caught up,” Niico said. “You haven’t told Rhuun or Lelet that Scilla is your spy. You haven’t told Scilla the two of them are only playing at being at odds. You haven’t told anyone that your father wears a human face, and you certainly haven’t mentioned that you’ll still be visiting Mistra, even if it’s only to watch. Hmmm.”
Ilaan kept his eyes closed because then he could imagine Niico’s smile, even though this time it wasn’t really a smile. “Hmmm? What does that mean?”
“I wonder,” Niico said, “I wonder sometimes if you are too much your father’s son.”
That hurt. Now Ilaan did open his eyes. He slumped back onto his bed. This isn’t good for me. Ilaan was saved from further analysis by a sharp rap at his door.
In the old days, when the tents first went up, the folk who lived there quickly noticed there was no good way to announce themselves. Grasping the edge of the silk screen serving as a door and giving it a vigorous shake didn’t do the job. Ultimately, people began placing a stone square just outside their door, to be tapped on by a waiting visitor’s foot. The upper floors used a hanging version. It was this bit of stone that Mother Jaa slammed her cane against, bringing him back to the world in front of him and driving Niico—temporarily—away.
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