“Shuden went about it the wrong way,” Roial said. “He just ran away—and everyone knows that no matter how hard you run, there’s always going to be someone faster. I, on the other hand, don’t run. I find far too much enjoyment in playing with their greedy little minds.”
Sarene’s chastising reply was cut off by the approach of a familiar couple. Lukel wore his customarily fashionable outfit, a blue, gold-embroidered vest and tan trousers, while Jalla, his dark-haired wife, was in a simple lavender dress—Jindoeese, by the look of its high-necked cut.
“Now, there’s a mismatched couple if I’ve ever seen one,” Lukel said with an open smile as he bowed to the duke.
“What?” Roial asked. “A crusty old duke and his lovely young companion?”
“I was referring more to the height difference, Your Grace,” Lukel said with a laugh.
Roial glanced up with a raised eyebrow; Sarene stood a full head taller than him. “At my age, you take what you can get.”
“I think that’s true no matter what your age, Your Grace,” Lukel said, looking down at his pretty, black-eyed wife. “We just have to accept whatever the women decide to allot us, and count ourselves blessed for the offering.”
Sarene felt sick—first Shuden, now Lukel. She was definitely
not
in the mood to deal with happy couples this night.
Sensing her disposition, the duke bid Lukel farewell, pleading the need to check on the food in other parts of the garden. Lukel and Jalla turned back to their dancing as Roial led Sarene out of the lighted pavilion and back under the darkened sky and flickering torchlight.
“You’re going to need to get over that, Sarene,” the duke said. “You can’t go running every time you meet someone with a stable relationship.”
Sarene decided not to point out that young love was hardly stable. “I don’t always get this way, Your Grace. I’ve just had a difficult week. Give me a few more days, and I’ll be back to my regular, stone-hearted self.”
Sensing her bitterness, Roial wisely decided not to respond to that particular remark. Instead, he glanced to the side, following the sound of a familiar voice’s laughter.
Duke Telrii had apparently decided not to join the king’s private section of the party. Quite the opposite, in fact. He stood entertaining a large group of noblemen in a small hedged courtyard opposite the pavilion of Iadon’s private gathering. It was almost as if he were starting his own exclusive subparty.
“Not a good sign,” Roial said quietly, voicing Sarene’s own thoughts.
“Agreed,” Sarene said. She did a quick count of Telrii’s fawners, trying to distinguish rank, then glanced back toward Iadon’s section of the party. Their numbers were about equal, but Iadon seemed to command more important nobility—for the moment.
“That’s another unforeseen effect of your tirade before the king,” Roial said. “The more unstable Iadon becomes, the more tempting other options appear.”
Sarene frowned as Telrii laughed again, his voice melodious and unconcerned. He did not at all sound like a man whose most important supporter—Gyorn Hrathen—had just fallen.
“What is he planning?” Sarene wondered. “How could he take the throne now?”
Roial just shook his head. After a moment more of contemplation, he looked up and addressed open air. “Yes?”
Sarene turned as Ashe approached. Then, with astonishment, she realized it
wasn’t
Ashe. It was a different Seon.
“The gardeners report that one of your guests has fallen into the pond, my lord,” the Seon said, bobbing almost to the ground as he approached. His voice was crisp and unemotional.
“Who?” Roial asked with a chuckle.
“Lord Redeem, Your Grace,” the Seon explained. “It appears the wine proved too much for him.”
Sarene squinted, searching deep into the ball of light and trying to make out the glowing Aon. She thought it was Opa.
Roial sighed. “He probably scared the fish right out of the pond. Thank you, Opa. Make sure that Redeem is given some towels and a ride home, if he needs it. Next time maybe he won’t mix ponds with alcohol.”
The Seon bobbed formally once more, then floated away to do his master’s bidding.
“You never told me you had a Seon, my lord,” Sarene said.
“Many of the nobles do, Princess,” Roial said, “but it is no longer fashionable to bring them along with us wherever we go. Seons are reminders of Elantris.”
“So he just stays here at your house?”
Roial nodded. “Opa oversees the gardeners of my estate. I think it fitting—after all, his name does mean ‘flower.’”
Sarene tapped her cheek, wondering about the stern formality in Opa’s voice. The Seons she knew back in Teod were much warmer with their masters, no matter what their personality. Perhaps it was because here, in the presumed land of their creation, Seons were now regarded with suspicion and dislike.
“Come,” Roial said, taking her arm. “I was serious when I said I wanted to check on the serving tables.”
Sarene allowed herself to be led away.
“Roial, you old prune,” a blustery voice called out as they approached the serving tables, “I’m astounded. You actually know how to throw a party! I was afraid you’d try and cram us all into that box you call a house.”
“Ahan,” Roial said, “I should have realized I would find you next to the food.”
The large count was draped in a yellow robe and clutched a plateful of crackers and shellfish. His wife’s plate, however, held only a few slices of fruit. During the weeks Seaden had been attending Sarene’s fencing lessons she had lost considerable weight.
“Of course—best part of a party!” the count said with a laugh. Then, nodding to Sarene, he continued, “Your Highness. I’d warn you not to let this old scoundrel corrupt you, but I’m just as worried about you doing the same to him.”
“Me?” Sarene said with mock indignation. “What danger could I be?”
Ahan snorted. “Ask the king,” he said, shoving a wafer into his mouth. “Actually, you can ask me—just look what you’re doing to my poor wife. She refuses to eat!”
“I’m enjoying my fruit, Ahan,” Seaden said. “I think you should try some of it.”
“Maybe I’ll try a plate of it after I’m done here,” Ahan huffed. “You see what you’re doing, Sarene? I would never have agreed to this ‘fencing’ thing if I had known how it would ruin my wife’s figure.”
“Ruin?” Sarene asked with surprise.
“I’m from southern Arelon, Princess,” Ahan said, reaching for some more clams. “To us, round is beautiful. Not everyone wants their women to look like starving schoolboys.” Then, realizing that he might have said too much, Ahan paused. “No offense intended, of course.”
Sarene frowned. Ahan really was a delightful man, but he often spoke—and acted—without thought. Unsure how to properly respond, Sarene hesitated.
The wonderful Duke Roial came to her rescue. “Well, Ahan, we have to keep moving—I have a lot of guests to greet. Oh, by the way—you might want to tell your caravan to hurry.”
Ahan looked up as Roial began to lead Sarene off. “Caravan?” he asked, suddenly very serious. “What caravan?”
“Why, the one you have carrying sourmelons from Duladel to Svorden, of course,” the duke said offhandedly. “I sent a shipment of them myself a week ago. It should be arriving tomorrow morning. I’m afraid, my friend, that your caravan will arrive to a saturated market—not to mention the fact that your melons will be slightly overripe.”
Ahan cursed, the plate going limp in his hand, shellfish tumbling unnoticed to the grass below. “How in the name of Domi did you manage that?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Roial asked. “I was half partner in young Lukel’s venture. I got all the unripened fruits from his shipment last week—they should be ready by the time they hit Svorden.”
Ahan shook his head, laughing in a low voice. “You got me again, Roial. But just you watch—one of these days I’m finally going to get the better of you, and you’ll be so surprised that you won’t be able to look at yourself for a week!”
“I look forward to it,” Roial said as they left the serving tables behind.
Sarene chuckled, the sound of Seaden scolding her husband rising behind. “You really are as good a businessman as they say, aren’t you?”
Roial spread his hands in humility. Then he said, “Yes. Every bit as good.”
Sarene laughed.
“However,” Roial continued, “that young cousin of yours puts me to shame. I have no idea how he kept that sourmelon shipment a secret—my Duladen agents are supposed to inform me of such things. I only got in on the deal because Lukel came to me for capital.”
“Then it’s a good thing he didn’t go to Ahan instead.”
“A good thing indeed,” Roial agreed. “I would never hear the end of it if he had. Ahan’s been trying to best me for two decades now—one of these days he’s going to realize I only
act
brilliant to keep him off-balance, and then life isn’t going to be half as entertaining.”
They continued to walk, speaking with guests and enjoying Roial’s excellent gardens. The early-blooming flower beds were cleverly lit with torchlight, lanterns, and even candles. Most impressive were the crosswood trees, whose branches—leafed with pink and white blossoms—were lit from behind by lanterns running up the trunks. Sarene was enjoying herself so much that she almost lost track of time. Only Ashe’s sudden appearance reminded her of the night’s true purpose.
“My lady!” Ashe exclaimed. “The king is leaving the party!”
“Are you certain?” she asked, her attention snapping away from the crosswood flowers.
“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said. “He left furtively, claiming he needed to use the privy, but he called his carriage instead.”
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Sarene curtly told Roial. “I must be going.”
“Sarene?” Roial asked with surprise as Sarene walked back toward the house. Then, more urgently, he called again. “Sarene! You can’t go.”
“I apologize, Your Grace, but this is important!”
He tried to follow her, but her legs were longer. In addition, the duke had a party to attend. He couldn’t just disappear in the middle of it.
Sarene rounded the side of Roial’s house in time to see the king climbing into his carriage. She cursed—why hadn’t she thought to arrange transportation of her own? She looked around frantically, searching for a vehicle to requisition. She picked a likely candidate as the king’s carriage pulled away, hooves clopping against the cobblestones.
“My lady!” Ashe warned. “The king is not in that carriage.”
Sarene froze. “What?”
“He slipped out the other side and disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the driveway. The carriage is a ruse.”
Sarene didn’t bother to question the Seon—his senses were much more acute than those of a human. “Let’s go,” she said, heading in the proper direction. “I’m not dressed for sneaking; you’ll have to keep watch on him and tell me where he goes.”
“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said, dimming his light to a nearly imperceptible level and flying after the king. Sarene followed at a slower pace.
They continued in that manner, Ashe staying close to the king and Sarene following at a less conspicuous distance. They covered the ground surrounding Roial’s mansion quickly, then moved into the city of Kae. Iadon moved strictly through alleys, and Sarene realized for the first time that she might be putting herself in danger. Women didn’t travel alone after dark—even in Kae, which was one of the safest cities in Opelon. She considered turning back a half-dozen times, once nearly dashing away in a panic as a drunk man moved in the darkness next to her. However, she kept going. She was only going to get one chance to find out what Iadon was up to, and her curiosity was stronger than her fear … for the moment at least.
Ashe, sensing the danger, advised that she let him follow the king alone, but she pressed on with determination. The Seon, accustomed to Sarene’s ways, gave no further argument. He flitted back and forth between her and the king, doing his best to keep watch over Sarene while at the same time following Iadon.
Eventually, the Seon slowed, returning to Sarene with an apprehensive bob. “He just entered the sewers, my lady.”
“The sewers?” Sarene asked incredulously.
“Yes, my lady. And he is not alone—he met two cloaked men just after he left the party, and was joined by a half-dozen more at the mouth of the sewers.”
“And you didn’t follow them in?” she asked with disappointment. “We’ll never be able to tail them.”
“That is unfortunate, my lady.”
Sarene ground her teeth in frustration. “They’ll leave tracks in the muck,” she decided, stalking forward. “You should be able to follow them.”
Ashe hesitated. “My lady, I must insist that you return to the duke’s party.”
“Not a chance, Ashe.”
“I have the solemn duty of your protection, my lady,” Ashe said. “I can’t allow you to go climbing through refuse in the middle of the night—I was wrong to let you go this far. It is my responsibility to stop this before it goes any further.”
“And how will you do that?” Sarene asked impatiently.
“I could call your father.”
“Father lives in Teod, Ashe,” Sarene pointed out. “What is he going to do?”
“I could go get Lord Eondel or one of the others.”
“And leave me to get lost in the sewers on my own?”
“You would never do something that foolish, my lady,” Ashe declared. Then he paused, hovering uncertainly in the air, his Aon so dim it was translucent. “All right,” he finally admitted. “You are indeed that foolish.”
Sarene smiled. “Come on—the fresher those tracks are, the easier it will be for you to follow them.”
The Seon sullenly led the way down the street, which soon ended in a dirty, fungus-lined arch. Sarene strode forward with determination, paying no heed to the damage the sludge would do to her dress.
The moonlight lasted only as far as the first turnoff. Sarene stood for a moment in the suffocating, dank blackness, realizing that even she would never have been foolish enough to enter the directionless maze without guidance. Fortunately, her bluff had convinced Ashe—though she wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended by the level of arrogant idiocy of which he thought her capable.
Ashe increased his light slightly. The sewer was a hollow tube, a remnant of the days when Elantris’s magic provided running water for every house in Kae. Now the sewers were used as a receptacle for trash and excrement. They were flushed out by a periodic diversion of the Aredel—something which obviously hadn’t been done in a while, for the wet muck at the bottom of the corridor came up to her ankles. She didn’t want to consider what that sludge must be composed of, but the pungent stink was an overpowering clue.