Royal Airs (19 page)

No one could answer for sure, and they all glanced from one to the other, their faces concerned. It was as Mirti had said. It didn’t make sense.

There was a knock at the door and then Taro Frothen shouldered his way inside. He was a big man, brown all over, even less fashionable than Mirti, but full-bodied and comfortable and reassuringly serene. He was the one person Josetta knew whom no one despised. People might mock him, in a friendly way, for his rumpled clothing and slow manner of speech, but they couldn’t help liking him anyway.

“You all look pretty earnest for such a late-night conversation,” he observed in his rumbling voice. “One of the guards said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yes, you have to clear something up for us,” Mirti said in her impatient way. “We all know that the little girl upstairs is Mally, not Odelia, but Romelle is claiming otherwise. Furthermore, between us we think we’ve figured out that Odelia hasn’t been here for at least a few quintiles. And we’d like to know why—and why Romelle would lie about it.”

“Ahhhh,” Taro said, dropping his big body into one of the plush chairs that everyone else had ignored. “There’s a tale.”

“Then tell it, please,” Darien said, taking the chair beside the torz prime. The others followed suit, though no one else relaxed into the furniture the way Taro did.

“Odelia was last here—let me think about it—in Quinncoru of last year,” Taro said.

“Quinncoru! But that’s
more
than a year ago!” Mirti exclaimed. “That’s unacceptable! The heir to the throne
must
come to Chialto with some frequency! There is so much to learn—”

“She’s still young,” Taro interrupted gently. “Plenty of time.”

“Yes, but Mirti’s right,” Darien said. “When Romelle announced she wanted to raise Odelia in the country, the primes and I agreed with great reluctance. It’s essential that a child be familiar with court life from a very early age, because it is a complex society that is not easy for strangers to navigate.”

Josetta shared a look with Corene. They’d been born at the palace and lived there every day until the shocking truth of their parentage was revealed. They’d learned how to navigate the treacherous currents of court life, all right, but the personal costs had been high. Josetta had always been envious of Odelia—and glad for her, too—because she got to spend the majority of her life somewhere less poisonous. Maybe that meant she’d grow up with a clean soul and a whole heart.

“So I assume something happened to make Romelle uneasy about bringing Odelia here,” Mirti said. “What was it?”

“She was at a reception. One of the endless events that you insist on holding whenever she’s in Chialto. And she was in conversation with some well-dressed woman whom she didn’t recognize. And the woman smiled and said, ‘Don’t you ever worry about what might happen to your daughter if someone didn’t want her to take the throne?’ At first Romelle wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. She said, ‘What do you mean?’ And the woman said, ‘If certain people set themselves against little Princess Odelia. If they wanted to get her out of the way.’ And she handed Romelle a packet and walked off.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Darien exploded. “If someone made a threat like that—she should have come for me immediately! She should have called for a guard! If we’d stopped that woman—”

“What was in the packet?” asked Nelson, who had been uncharacteristically silent up to this point.

“She didn’t look right away,” Taro said. “First she ran up to her rooms, terrified, but Odelia was sleeping in her bed and the maids said no one had come in. Nothing at all was amiss. Only then did she open the packet and find—a lock of hair.”

“Odelia’s?” Darien said sharply.

Taro nodded. “She wasn’t sure, of course, until she came to find me. She handed me the packet and asked if I knew who the hair belonged to. When I answered, ‘You’ve cut off one of Odelia’s curls,’ I thought she would faint from fright.”

“Let me say it again,” Darien said, even more grimly. “This news should have been brought to me instantly. I would have found the woman—or at the very least I would have doubled the number of guards at the palace—”

“I’m not sure any measures you could have taken would have been enough to reassure Romelle,” Taro said. “But she feels safe when she is on my property. She knows that I could call a boulder to crush a man if I had any reason to do so—not that I ever have. She believes Odelia is safe there, and it will take a powerful inducement to convince her to put Odelia in danger. No matter how many guards you whistle up.”

Mirti, who always saw through all the clamor and clutter straight to the heart of matters, summed it up. “Then we have two serious problems. One is that someone has made a threat against Odelia’s life. And the other is that Odelia cannot—
cannot
, Taro, and you know it—live her whole life sequestered away from the palace and still be considered a candidate for the crown.”

“In both cases, the answer is heightened security,” Darien said. “And despite your ability to—to—kill men with random rocks, I hope you have fortified your property while Romelle lives with you.”

“I have.”

“And I will investigate this threat as thoroughly as I can, but—a trail that is more than a year old? It will not be easy to track.”

“Look at it from the other direction,” suggested Nelson. Naturally, it was a sweela man who approached the problem as an intellectual puzzle. “Who might want Odelia dead? Who might benefit?”

Darien spread his hands. “Anyone who sponsors a different candidate for the throne. Hardly a short list!”

“And yet, Odelia was essentially unharmed,” Zoe observed in a considering voice. “If a mysterious woman cut Odelia’s hair off, she could certainly have smothered the child in her crib.” When everyone cried out at that, she added impatiently, “Well, she
could
have. But she didn’t. She just wanted to frighten Romelle. Maybe she just wanted to keep her out of the city. Undermine her position with the primes and the regent and the governing council.”

Now they were all staring fixedly at Zoe.

“Are you saying—” Mirti began, then stopped, appalled.

Zoe shrugged. “Who doesn’t have nearly as much power now as she used to? Who is not only vengeful and ambitious, but has access to the private corridors of the palace? Who would do something like this?”

“My mother,” Corene said.

Darien’s hands were clenched. “I’ll murder her.”

“You don’t have a shred of proof,” Mirti said. “Just because you hate her doesn’t mean she’s guilty of every crime in the city.”

Zoe opened her eyes wide. “There
wasn’t
a crime. There’s nothing to prosecute, because no harm was done. There was just intimidation and suggestion. Who’s skilled with those particular weapons?”

This time nobody answered, but Josetta knew everyone was thinking the same thing.

“I’ll look into it,” Darien said. “I’ll have another conversation with Alys and see where it leads. I wouldn’t have thought any meeting could be worse than our last one, but I see I was wrong.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” asked the always practical Mirti. “Allow Romelle to pretend that the false princess is the true one? Allow her to hide Odelia on some isolated farm away from all society and sophistication?”

“It’s not as remote as you make it sound,” Taro drawled. “We even have gaslight. And elaymotives.”

Darien pressed a hand to his temple.
And I’m sure he thought his life would get easier once Vernon died,
Josetta thought, feeling a little sorry for him. Darien had kept all of the king’s dreadful secrets and never let them break him, but she had to think even a hunti man would wear down after a while.

“I don’t know what we do next,” Darien admitted. “But I think first we need to let Romelle know that we’re aware of the substitution. We understand why she thinks it’s necessary, but we can’t allow the situation to continue indefinitely. And we must assure her that we can keep the true princess safe.”

Taro sighed heavily and hauled himself to his feet. The rest of them more slowly followed suit. “I’ll go tell her,” he said. “No doubt Zoe’s visit has left her in a frenzy anyway.”

As soon as he was out the door, Mirti wiped a hand across her face. “I’m so tired I could lie down here on the floor and fall straight to sleep,” she said. She maintained quarters in the palace, so she didn’t have far to go before she could seek her bed. “Go home, all of you! We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Hold on a moment,” Nelson said, catching at Darien’s arm to keep him in place.

“What is it?”

Nelson waited until the sounds of Taro’s footsteps had faded away. “People like to say the sweela primes can read minds, which we can’t,” he said. “But we can tell when people aren’t speaking the truth.”

Darien just stared at him mutely, waiting for the blow to fall.

“I don’t know why, and I’m not sure about exactly what, but Taro was lying.”

TEN

R
afe was a little surprised and a little relieved to learn that Samson hadn’t given his room away while he’d been missing.

“Thought you’d be back,” Samson greeted him when he showed up at the tavern six days after he’d been there last. He inspected Rafe’s lingering cuts and bruises. Rafe had dispensed with the head bandage days ago, making sure his hair covered the half-healed ear, but his appearance was still a little rough. “Looks like you’ve been mixing it up with a few folks,” Samson observed. “Becko and his ugly boys?”

Rafe shook his head. “Strangers, if you can believe it.”

“Any of them look as bad as you do?”

Rafe laughed ruefully. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re too soft,” Samson said. “And you owe me a nineday’s rent.”

Rafe handed over the money, bought a loaf of bread and some fruit a day away from rotten, and headed up to his room, thinking over Samson’s comments. He’d always considered himself as hard as he needed to be—a reasonably good fighter, a shrewd thinker, a man who could take care of himself. He’d always been good at sizing up opponents, whether on the street or across the card table, measuring his strengths against another man’s weaknesses, and exploiting those weaknesses when he had to.

But he’d never been ruthless. He’d never been brutal. He’d seen those traits on display plenty of times in other men, and he’d deliberately turned away. Did that make him soft? Or did that make him a better man than the people he saw around him every day?

Did that make him a better man than his circumstances had led him to believe?

He let himself into his room and made one slow, thorough inspection. Yes, there were a few careless souvenirs of an imperfect search made by Samson or one of his lackeys; he wouldn’t have expected any differently. Samson had to know what kind of valuables might be lying around upstairs, didn’t he, in case the absent tenant never returned, in case city guards came calling with news of a crime? Only a few things were missing—some loose coins he kept in a bottom drawer, a woman’s ring he’d won a few ninedays ago and never bothered to sell. Small items he’d never miss or at least not bother to argue over.

He sat at the small table by the unlit fire and made a brief, not particularly satisfying meal.

If he was too soft, how could he toughen up?

If he was too good for the life he was currently leading, how did he find his way into a better one?

How good would he have to be to return to Josetta on something closer to equal terms?

The last question made his lips twist in a wry smile. He might claw his way out of the slums through some combination of luck and hard work, but he would never be fit to approach a princess as an equal. Insanity to think so.

He finished his abbreviated meal and touched his pocket just to make sure his cards were there. But his fingers felt forgotten shapes through the thin fabric, and he pulled out the three coins he had drawn from the barrel in Josetta’s temple.

Synthesis. Time. Triumph.

A man with those three blessings might do anything. If a blessing possessed any power, any magic at all.

 • • • 

R
afe slipped back into his ordinary life as if he had not been knocked completely askew by the events of the past nineday. He played cards most of the night, slept most of the day, won more than he lost, and spent every last quint-copper he brought home. He was restless, though, and that was new. He’d always been able to endure the dullest conversation, the slowest night, with natural equanimity. But now boredom was his constant companion, sitting beside him as he shuffled the deck, waiting for the next game to start, matching him stride for stride when he strolled down the streets. He was jumpy, he was impatient, and he only managed to hide his tension because he was very good at concealing his thoughts.

He knew, though, what was putting him on edge. It was the countdown of the days, one gone, then two, then suddenly seven. Two more and it would be firstday again, and he had promised to take dinner with Josetta at the shelter.

He was sure she remembered the invitation. He was sure she remembered the kiss. He was certain she expected him to show up anyway. He knew that only his own death would prevent him.

On the eighth day, he gambled hard and won big, a pile of silvers and quint-golds that any reasonable man would carry right over to a bank the following morning. But Rafe headed instead to the Plaza of Women with its endless booths and vendors. He couldn’t return to Josetta empty-handed. But what kind of present did you buy for an elay woman? He wasn’t used to shopping for
anyone
. He had no idea what kind of gift would be appropriate.

He wandered for at least an hour, bewildered by the unending variety of merchandise, from severely practical hand tools to purely ornamental glass figurines. He stood for a long time in front of a booth lined with small mesh cages, each filled with a live fluttering prism of butterflies in all colors and sizes. Butterflies were elay, weren’t they? Would Josetta be delighted by their delicate, powdery wings and jewel-bright colors? Maybe—but she was just as likely to be horrified at their captivity and set them all free. Rafe moved on.