Child of a Hidden Sea (43 page)

The head of the room boasted a colorful tapestry, a grid eight wide and thirty high depicting the various islands' national flags. There was a big podium, complete with bell and gavel, and tucked to one side she saw a desk for clerks. Screened viewers' galleries were above on a mezzanine.

“Pomp and circumstance,” Bram said in English, and Sophie nodded. It all reminded her of what she'd seen of the British House of Commons on TV, except that an assortment of crates, nets, and rope was piled high right beside the entrance.

Annela saw her looking at the the stacked ropeworks. “Convene goes out of session for the southwinter break, right after graduation. The ship's logistics officer usually takes the opportunity to shift around the stores while the government is resting up.”

“Sometimes it's a storage room, sometimes it's where you run an international government,” Bram said, choosing his words slowly, speaking in a thick Fleet accent.

“Down with the bilge and the ballast,” Annela said.

It was obviously an old joke, so Sophie tried to make herself smile.

“Wear these,” Annela said, handing out wrist corsages, pomegranate-colored sprays of small lilies. “In memory of Gale.”

Sophie fiddled, one-handed, trying to affix it to her wrist.

“Right hand,” Annela said.

“I'll help—” Bram said, and in the same instant Parrish said “Allow me.”

The men's eyes met, and then Parrish stepped back. Sophie thrust her arm out and Bram slid the catch into place and tightened it.

“You're ready for your closeup, Ducks,” he said.

“Don't be a jerk, Bramble,” she whispered.

“Over there is the petitioner's loft,” Annela said. “You'll wait there.”

“Don't go! Tell us what to expect,” Sophie said.

“The first mate of
Constitution
acts as chair or speaker. He'll grant you permission to address the Fleet.” She looked as though she might have something more to say to Parrish, but he had turned away to greet Tonio, who was just arriving. The two of them seemed extra upright and respectable in their starchy officer uniforms.

Protective camouflage,
thought Sophie. She asked, “Where's Verena?”

“Unavailable,” Annela said, pointing at the visitor's loft. “I'm hoping to keep the Convene from getting sidetracked into the question of Gale's position, and why you're holding it.”

“Great,” Sophie sighed.
Hiding all the embarrassing Verdanii gossip,
she thought.

“Good luck,” Annela said, sweeping over to the starboard side of the room and taking her place among the other government officials.

“Isn't this grand?” Tonio bowed in greeting before handing Sophie the tube full of polystyrene peas. “I've never seen the Convene before.”

“Very grand,” Sophie agreed. She had been surprised and delighted to discover the princess dress had a couple of little pockets—they were probably for lipstick or similar grooming tools. Now, as she tucked the jar into one of them, it clinked against something glass already there.

It was the pickled jeweler's wasp Parrish had given her. She was smiling as she switched the peas to the other side of her skirt.

“Gonna stand there daydreaming, or are you gonna sit?” Bram asked.

Reluctantly, she crunched her backside down onto the cushioned seat. She'd never expected to wear the dress, and in the past few weeks she'd tucked enough bits and pieces into the quilting of the skirt—shells, seeds, wrapped leaves, a few bones—that it made for lumpy seating.
Wish I'd gotten the data card for the camera in here,
she thought, mourning her sea raft footage.

Then again, if Verena noticed the chip was missing, they might search her closely enough to find the rest of her stash.

Convenors were filing in now, skirting the pile of crates and murmuring. They looked like they were mostly in their fifties and sixties, and many glowed with the confidence and charisma Sophie associated with Hollywood actors and rock stars. One stood out—a fragile, sylph-like maiden with a walking stick, in Erinthian dress. She blew Sophie a kiss, mouthing the words “illa Conto,” before joining Annela.

“This isn't ten people,” Sophie whispered to Bram.

“It's more than all of our fingers and all of our toes,” he said gravely. It was something they'd said as kids; he was trying to make her laugh.

“The room's filling up.”

“Breathe, Sofe.”

“It looks like the whole government's here!” She strained to draw breath, imagining the dress was cinched corset-tight. “I can't—”

“You can,” he insisted.

“There's hundreds of them.” She felt a flash of panic. With it came that unsettling sensation she'd picked up back on
Estrel
—imagining the grenade, imagining her hand exploding.

“Meditate?”

She shook her head.

“Come on … distract yourself. Make some observations.”

“Okay,” she said. Her heart was racing. “Yeah. Plenty to see here, right?”

“Always. What
do
you see?”

“Um…” She scanned the room. “A number of the folks on the starboard side of the room are wearing the same lily corsage Annela gave us. Show of solidarity, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“No sign of Lais,” she said.

“What else?”

She looked at the Convenors filling the seats. They looked rumpled and grumpy, the way anyone might if they'd been called in to work on the first day of vacation. A few cast dark looks in Parrish's direction.

“Whatever you did to alienate the Fleet oligarchy, it must have been apocalyptic,” she blurted, regretting it instantly when the expression drained from his face.

“Memory runs long here,” was all he said.

She grasped for the first change of subject that came to mind. “Where's Cly?”

“He'll be up there,” Parrish replied, indicating the viewing gallery.

“Doesn't he have to testify—to say he saw the blockade?” Bram asked.

Testify.
Sophie felt her shoulders clenching.

“His Honor is an adjudicator. If he says there's a blockade, it can be read into the record as fact.”

“Just like that? I suppose if he says pale pink rhinoceroses are dancing on the beaches of Tiladene in tutus it can be read into the record as fact.”

“Yes,” Parrish said, with just a trace of a smile. His words were barely audible; even so, a few of the gathered Convenors glared at them.

Conversation petered out entirely as Tanta Maray, the woman from Ualtar, joined them in the petitioner's loft. She was in a gown too, a gold shift with long, trailing tatters of fabric.

“Kir Hansa,” she said, and as her one-eyed gaze took in first Tonio and then Bram, something glinted there—revulsion. “You seem to go out of your way to surround yourself with vilemen.”

“Funny,” Sophie said. “I was just gonna say that for a raging homophobe, you have stunningly accurate gaydar. Where do you get off—”

“Shhh!” someone hissed from above. The speaker was taking his place. Maray favored them with a smile that could have frozen the sun, then sat daintily down next to Sophie.

They were a bit crowded on the bench; Sophie could feel the other woman's body heat through the layers of their skirts, warming as the formalities of getting started dragged on for what seemed like forever.

Parliamentary process was long and chewy, like cold gum: There was a head count, and then a formal protest from someone about being called back from break. The scribes had to attest that they were reliable, rested, and sober before they could sit down and start scribbling, super fast, taking in every word uttered.

Then each of them: Sophie, Parrish, Tanta Maray, and Bram had to petition for speaking rights and swear to tell the truth.

At this rate we'll break for lunch without doing anything,
Sophie thought. She'd beaten back the panic attack, but only just.

But the speaker said, “The matter before us is the Isle of Gold's request that the Fleet make a penitential cruise to Harrow's Bay, as reparation for the sinking of
Lucre
in the final days of the Raiders' War. The Convene recognizes Kir Brawn.”

“Thank ye, Speaker.” An old man rose from the portside ranks. Unlike John Coine, who'd always been dressed in those tailored smocks that looked like medical scrubs, this gentleman was dressed in a way that pretty much screamed “pirate.” His longcoat was bloodred velvet, embroidered in gold and bound with a crimson sash on which stylized skulls had been silkscreened, also in gold. He also wore a skullcap studded with rubies. He stood about seven feet tall, sun-leathered and bald, and his fingernails were long—almost as long as his fingers themselves, and straight as stilettos.

Do they straighten those using magic, or technology?
Sophie wondered. Either way, they flashed with the fire of opals.

Brawn launched into a long rant, the gist of which was the Fleet had kept kicking the Piracy long after they were down, back in the latter days of what he called the Raiders' War. He concluded: “The days when the threat of
Temperance
was needed to enforce the Cessation are long behind us. We're all tame and civil folk now.”

“Once a rogue, always a rogue!” came a call from the starboard gallery. The Speaker banged his gavel.

Brawn reacted with indignation. “If our claim cannot be respected, Kirs, we maintain that the threat of
Temperance
cannot be allowed to persist. 'Tis no mere symbol, and power must be used responsibly…”

The hoots were louder this time.

“We of the Isle of Gold have ever maintained that we have a transcendent moral right to seek and destroy the inscription that enfangs
Temperance,
” said Brawn. “If the Fleet will not make amends to the dead of
Lucre
, we will put an end to that threat.”

“Are you saying that you have recovered the lost inscription known as Yacoura?” asked the speaker. “And that you mean to destroy it?”

“The Heart may have been recovered, but not by anyone from Isle of Gold,” Brawn purred. “You have my word that it rests not in the possession of the Golden, nor has it passed through our hands.”

It was as Parrish had predicted: They'd handed it over to the Ualtarites to cover their butts.

Good,
Sophie thought,
he guessed right.

“If nothing's changed,” bellowed a starboard Convenor, “why are we here?”

“You're out of order, Kir,” the speaker said. The mood of the room had turned ugly.

Brawn raised his hand, spreading his fingers so his opal-toned claws flashed in the lantern light. “If I seek that inscription, I will put my hands on it. I hereby vow to break Yacoura
Tempranza
within the day. Ye all know I am a man of my word.”

Worried murmurs.

He says he doesn't have it, so they can't just compel him to give it up. But he can get it, if he wants it.

Word games and loopholes, Sophie thought. Everyone here was playing lawyer.

“Does that complete your petition, Kir Brawn?” asked the speaker.

“For now.” Radiating satisfaction, the Isle of Gold's representative took his seat.

“Rebuttal?”

Annela rose.

“The Convene recognizes Kir Gracechild of Verdanii.”

“Thank you, Speaker. First, I will note that the matter of redress for the tragedy at Harrow's Bay is in the courts.”

“And has been for the length of the Cessation! How long must the dead wait?”

“You've had your chance to address, Kir Brawn.”

Brawn fluttered his long nails, almost as though they were a fan. “My most heartfelt apologies, Speaker.”

“Since when does the Convene interfere in Judiciary affairs?” Annela continued, as if there had been no interruption. “At this time, the Fleet's presence is urgently required to calm the waters between two member nations. The following Ualtar warships have been seen by the Duelist-Adjudicator, taking up positions around Tiladene and effectively enforcing a blockade:
Loftbridge
,
Righteous
,
Dictum
—”

“Excuse me, Speaker, but what has this to do with the matter at hand?” asked Brawn. “My business is nothing to Ualtar, nor theirs to me. And 'tis
me
holds the question.”

Sophie shifted in her seat. They all already knew this; they had to. This was either theater or an exercise in getting the situation into the record.

“Speaker, I believe there has been collusion between Ualtar and the Isle of Gold. The former has lent assistance to the Isle of Gold's petition for this penitential cruise to Harrow's Bay. I charge that it is Ualtar who keeps the Heart for the Isle of Gold.”

“To what end, Kir Gracechild?”

“Ualtar means to invade Tiladene. They want to break the peace.”

The air was charged now; everyone was sitting up, straight and tense.

Annela continued. “What's more, they murdered Fleet Courier Gale Feliachild of verdanii in their quest for Yacoura.”

Tanta Maray was on her feet. “These are specious accusations!”

“They're certainly very bold,” the speaker said. “Can you prove them, Kir Gracehild?”

“My argument is built upon the following facts,” she said. “First, that Gale Feliachild was set upon twenty-nine days ago, by two men who caused her life-threatening injuries.”

“Who says so?”

“Feliachild reported the tale to the Watch and confided in the herbalist and chieftain of Stele Island.”

“Accepted as fact, then. Read it into the record.”

“Next: The two assassins were John Coine of Isle of Gold and Hugh Sands of Ualtar, the latter presently assigned to the Erinth diplomatic mission.”