Finally, in a room off the ballroom, where tables covered with white linen held splendid silver trays of crab puffs and lobster patties, they paused to collect themselves.
“I'll go first,” said Reed, adjusting the lace at his cuffs. “I'm the only one who still has a disguise.”
“You have three minutes to find her,” said Tyrian. “No longer. If you aren't back, we leave without you.”
Reed grinned, bowed to Faris with a flourish, and left them.
It was quiet in the refreshment room and oddly deserted, considering the excellence of the food set forth. Faris could not hear the orchestra but she thought she heard voices from the ballroom. It was maddening not to be able to make out the words. With or without Jane, Reed would be back in three minutes.
Faris tried to ignore her rising sense of dread. Jane had promised a signal. But her beloved hat? For all Jane could have known, Faris and the others might have been standing right beside it, waiting for Tyrian to put his wolf's head back on, just at the moment it went off. And just before the blast, there had been that sickening slow shift behind the pattern as something had brushed past Faris. Past her but not past Jane? Surely three minutes could not take so long. Where was Reed? Faris began to pace.
Tyrian, Faris noticed, had unfolded a white linen napkin and arranged it carefully over his arm. The fierce cheerfulness he'd shown in the Boulevard Saint Germain gleamed behind his calm demeanor. As Faris watched, he made minute adjustments to the silver trays, looking as if he had spent all his life in the study of the proper presentation of crab puffs. Finally, he selected a tray and lifted it easily into position. He nodded politely to Faris. “It's been three minutes. I want to reconnoiter. If I'm not back in one minute more, leave for the hotel without us.”
Faris started to speak. Tyrian held up his hand to stop
her. “Count sixty. Then go.” He turned on his heel and walked smartly toward the ballroom, crab puffs on high.
Faris started to pace again.
Before she had counted twenty, Tyrian was back, crab puffs intact. “We must go.” Only his wide blue eyes betrayed his excitement. “Jane looks like herself again. I think the king wants to know if she was you all along or if you're both to blameâ” Tyrian broke off.
Head held high, dusty shoulders back, Faris walked past him into the ballroom. With a quick, exasperated sigh, Tyrian ran in the opposite direction, as fast as the tray of crab puffs permitted.
In the ballroom, the dancers were drawn up into a gawking crowd just in front of the orchestra, but the musicians were not the source of interest. In a little clearing at the heart of the crowd stood the king, shouting at someone at his feet. “We ask you again. Where is Paris Nallaneen?”
If there was an answer, it did not carry beyond the crowd of costumed onlookers.
Faris crossed most of the chessboard before anyone noticed she was there. When she reached the crowd, she hesitated, wishing for Reed's court sword. She edged and elbowed her way forward on a steady chant of “Pardon me, excuse me, so very sorry.”
The ring of onlookers began to yield, whispering. Faris could not help but catch a few of the words.
Witch
was one,
bastard
another. She winced. The whispers rose to a buzz and the crowd melted away before her. Faris found herself within the little clearing.
The king was scarlet with rage. Drawn up to his full
height, he made a formidable figure, despite his simple costume. Faris noticed that he no longer wore the stuffed lark on his shoulder. She could not help feeling glad it was gone.
Jane lay at the king's feet, her hands pressed hard to her temples, her youthful face ashen behind the crumpled veil that was now only fabric. Reed knelt beside her, cradling her head on his shoulder. He might have made a picture of eighteenth-century gallantry, but his attention was centered on the king, not on Jane. He looked worried.
Two guards, in full scrub-brush splendor, stood close by. The guests they had elbowed aside in their haste to reach the king were still complaining. Across the clearing, the British ambassador and her husband had stepped toward the king as if to protest. Beside them, Brinker stood, his gauntleted hand protectively on Agnes's shoulder.
Faris walked out into the heart of the clearing and felt the ring of onlookers close behind her. She dared a glance back. No sign of Tyrian. Faris knelt beside Jane and spoke as calmly as she could. “Are you all right?”
Everyone stared at her. For a moment there was no sound in the great room, not a murmur, not a rustle of fabric.
Faris kept her voice prosaic. “Jane, are you feeling all right?”
Jane squinted up at Faris as if the light hurt her eyes. She kept her fingers to her forehead. Her knuckles whitened. Her voice was almost a whisper. “All my cigarettes went out at once. Sorry.”
The king's voice was loud and cold. “Soâyou acknowledge one another.”
Faris looked up. “You were looking for me?
“Guard, arrest these women.”
“What are we supposed to have done?”
“
Treason
.” He nearly spat at Jane. “She used magic against our person. No doubt you would have done so yourself, had you the aptitude. Instead you set her on. You have conspired to endanger our person.”
Faris fixed the king with an icy stare. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “you have confused me with one of your subjects. I am the ambassador of Galazon. As such I enjoy diplomatic immunity. So do the members of my staff.”
The king's mouth twisted. “You are ambassador of nothing. Your uncle could think of no better lure to fetch you from Galazon. You might with as much right call yourself ambassador of the farmyard. At least that has the ring of truth.”
All around them, whispers became murmurs.
Faris kept her voice steady. “Do you think I came to Aravis without looking at my credentials? Whatever your intentions were, my embassy is legitimate.” She glanced at Brinker, who looked away.
The king laughed abruptly. “Which is more than you can say for yourself.”
Faris began to feel annoyed. It was an emotion she was familiar with. As a relief from her other concerns, she welcomed it. “An old jibe from an old man. I confess I prefer it to your stale flirtations.”
The king, ominously calm, stared at Faris, then at the guards. “We have given an order. Why don't you obey it?”
“Protocol, perhaps,” said the British ambassador, with
icy courtesy. “The Congress of Vienna established certain principles of diplomatic behavior. You cannot set aside the entire apparatus on a whim.”
“Very well, if we must continue this farce, we hereby rescind this ambassador's credentials. Guards, do your duty.”
As the guards started forward, Faris rose and turned to the British ambassador. She pitched her voice to carry over the rising noise of the onlookers. “Jane is a British subject. I depend upon you, your excellency, to see that she comes to no harm.”
Across the chessboard, the outer door was filling up with guards. At their approach the onlookers began to melt away.
The British ambassador gave Faris a crisp nod. The nearest guards faltered before her disapproval. “Steps will be taken,” she promised.
Faris found her stern expression oddly reassuring. “Reed, stay with her.” Reed nodded as he helped Jane to her feet. Then, to the king, Faris called, “Where do you keep your arrested ambassadors? In the labyrinth at Sevenfoldâwith Menary?”
The room went still. In the sudden silence, the king stepped close to Faris, trembling with suppressed emotion. He reached out his hand and drew his fingertips very gently across her lips. When he spoke, his voice carried to the farthest corner of the ballroom. “You have a beautiful mouth, when it is closed. If you could have kept it so, we might have done very well together. But as things are, even your dowry cannot excuse you.”
For a slow moment, Faris looked into his face. Then she looked past the king to Brinker. Her lips parted, but it took her a moment to find words. “So that's what the taxes were for.”
This time, Brinker met her gaze. “You needed a large dowry to compensate for your reputation. Blame yourself, not me. I was simply doing my duty.”
“You robbed Galazon to sell me.” Her eyes blazed. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Brinker smiled. “Probably. Such is the peril of family sentiment. It's a luxury I seldom permit myself.”
Beside Brinker, Agnes screamed and pointed. It was a fine, full, operatic scream that ended in the word
lion!
Involuntarily, everyone looked where Agnes was pointing. The silence in the ballroom became pandemonium.
The press of bodies parted for an instant and Faris was able to glimpse the refreshment room. On a linen-draped table, a lioness stood in a ruin of silver trays. Her attention was entirely on crab puffs and lobster patties.
Agnes was still screaming. Someone shoved Faris aside. She caught her balance, and saw that Reed and Jane had nearly reached the door. The king, oblivious of the crowd's panic, moved swiftly toward them. In two steps, the British ambassador had intercepted him.
The crowd closed around Faris again and she turned to find herself face to face with Brinker. She sprang at him and caught his left vambrace.
“You!”
Brinker flinched, twisted his arm free, and turned to flee.
Before Faris could follow, someone behind her gripped
her elbow. Tyrian's breath was warm on her cheek. “This way.” He pulled her back into the crowd.
Regretfully, Faris let Brinker escape. It took all her agility to keep close to Tyrian as he worked his way through the surge of frightened guests. Tyrian reached the nearest service stair and held the door for her. As she darted past him and down the steps, Faris felt a curious lightness of heart steal over her.
Despite her failure to find a way to come near the rift, despite her uncle's betrayal, and the plight of her friends, Faris was glad to be done with her masquerade. Guilt and anger and fear faded before her delight in freedom. Skirts lifted high, all decorum forgotten, Faris followed Tyrian as he made his way along a corridor to the next of his fourteen unnamed staircases.
They came to a locked door. Tyrian produced a lock pick and employed it with the ease of long practice.
“How did you persuade the lions to come to the rescue?”
Tyrian glanced up from the lock. “All I did was squash crab puffs on the floor at every turning on the wayâand leave the door open.” The lock clicked sweetly and he opened the door. “Thus.” He smiled.
Faris smiled back. A small bubble of hilarity had lodged at the base of her throat. It made it hard for her to breathe evenly. “Impressive.”
Tyrian looked extremely pleased with her, with himself, with the world in general. His eyes held hers with a steadiness that made her bold.
“Thank you for rescuing me.”
“You're welcome. May I claim a reward?”
Faris felt unaccountably breathless. “Certainly.”
Tyrian leaned close and murmured, “Tell me where we're going.”
Faris blinked. “Out.”
“Yes, but then?”
Faris felt the bubble of hilarity grow until she could hardly keep her voice steady. “I haven't the slightest idea.”
Tyrian laughed. “That's lucky. As long as we don't look ahead, we should be all right.” He held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
“Of course.” Faris put her hand into his. “But I think it had better be a galop.”
Â
I
t rained the rest of the night. Faris and Tyrian had scarcely set foot outdoors when the downpour began.
In moments, the embroidered silk of Faris's gown was plastered to her skin, just as becoming as and rather less comfortable than a burlap bag. Her hair, still pinned in a braided coronet, developed wet tendrils that managed to drip in her eyes and down her neck at the same time. When she could spare a moment to consider her knees and elbows, Faris felt the bruises blooming there, like dark roses. She owed that discomfort to the fall she'd been given by the blast from Jane's hat.
She suspected Tyrian was in no better case. His sodden evening clothes, like his soaked shoes, made squelching sounds as he moved. It was not a pleasant night to be outdoors, wet to the skin or not.
In the first hour after their escape from the castle, she and Tyrian tried to reach the British embassy. It made sense
to them to seek Jane and Reed there, and safety as well. But the search parties were out too promptly. Faris and Tyrian found the streets around the embassy too full of the king's guardsmen to risk. In retreat, Tyrian led Faris into the poorest quarter of the city, where the streets were steep and narrow, sometimes connected by passages no wider than a flight of stairs.