“What happened?” the inspector asked.
“Only a detour.”
“She struck her head,” Spider said. “And probably needs to rest.”
Shadows turned Khelséa’s frown into an exaggerated snarl as she held the lamp closer to peer at Isyllt’s eyes. “A concussion?”
“I’m fine,” Isyllt snapped, raising a hand against the glare. At least she could count her fingers. “We can hardly turn back now.”
“You’re clumsy and slow,” Azarné said softly, “weak. The others will smell your blood.” She leaned forward as she spoke, eyes burning.
Isyllt grinned, though it made her skull ache all the more. “Then I’ll be excellent bait, won’t I?”
S
avedra had hoped that the weather might impede the scheduled party, but Polyhymnis dawned grey and dry with only a light breeze. So evening found her bathed and oiled and dressed—yards of blue velvet over a tight-bound corset, her hair ironed flat and curled again and piled high, dripping feathers and strands of bronze and ivory pearls—and picking her way carefully down the crushed gravel walk that led to the palace quay. Pale rock shone in the dying light; streetlamps hissed to life on distant hills, gold against the slate and violet dusk. The chill was only a nip now, but promised to bite deep by midnight. This would be the last outdoor party of the season.
When Mathiros returned Savedra might not enjoy her present position near the head of the procession, just behind Ashlin and Nikos. It pushed the limits of propriety and taste to bring one’s mistress and one’s wife to the same parties, and Nikos had already stood up to his father enough where she was concerned that she tried to
avoid further confrontation. Tonight it was Ashlin who’d insisted that Savedra attend her—
suffer with me,
she said—so no one would complain within earshot.
The Canal Sarai had been dug decades ago, a wide curve of water gated and locked to slow the Dis’s deadly rush. History was conflicted as to whether it was named for Saint Sarai, saint of lovers and of sighs, or Princess Sarai Aravind, who had drowned in it not long after completion. The Isle of Cormorants stood between the two waterways, crowded with trees and flowers and hedge-mazes—and gull shit, one imagined. In theory it could only be reached by the palace side, but Savedra had heard tales of enterprising thieves rigging lines across the river to steal fruit. She doubted the haul would be worth the trouble, but the risk and thrill alone might be. In any case, the island was searched thoroughly by soldiers before any barges docked there.
Today colored lanterns hung on both shores, and costly hothouse blossoms bobbed on dark water. The royal barge, the
Daphne
, dripped with more lamps and bright ribbons, and her oiled canopies rippled in the breeze. The canal looked so innocent dressed in jewels and finery, but it was as black and cold as the Dis, and just as hungry.
Nikos helped Ashlin down the step at the end of the ramp, earning him a narrow glare. A footman stood ready to assist Savedra, but before he could the princess turned and offered her a hand.
“Darling,” Savedra whispered as Ashlin’s calloused fingers tightened around hers, “people will talk.” She could already feel the weight of stares on her back.
Ashlin’s grin was more a baring of teeth. The gold ring in her nose flashed with it. “Let them.”
Her life might be easier with less scandal, but Savedra couldn’t help smiling back. She dipped a shallow curtsy. “As Your Highness wishes.”
Nikos watched them with an expression between amusement and horror; the thought of one’s wife and mistress conspiring together must be terrifying.
But she was only willing to push propriety so far, and didn’t join them on the covered dais at the aft of the barge. Thea Jsutien did, and her niece, and other scions of the eight houses who presently held favor in court. Savedra had told Nikos about the assassin, but without proof it would be no use acting against the Jsutiens, even by a social slight. Better, she supposed, to keep them close, but the sight of Ginevra Jsutien glowing in blue silk and topazes was enough to sour her stomach. Behind them all, Captain Denaris was a lean brown shadow at the back of the dais.
The musicians’ barge floated alongside the
Daphne
, and the night was bright with songs and voices and laughter, the air heavy with wine and perfume and the bitter-cold smell of the river. Savedra threaded her way through trestle tables laden with food and found a spot near the prow. She missed the days when she could enjoy parties, instead of watching and worrying every time anyone wandered too near the prince or princess.
They made an attractive couple, Nikos and Ashlin, if not a traditional one. He wore green-and-violet peacock finery, aglow with gold and carnelians. She wore black and forest green, slim trousers and high boots and a short jacket, with her hair slicked back to bare the strong bones of her face. Besides the nose ring, the princess wore only the golden torc that was the marriage custom of her
people, and two rings—the sapphire Nikos had given her, and the ruby in white gold that marked the royal house of Celanor. If she’d worn a sword—a habit that Savedra had talked her out of—she would have looked like a foreign bodyguard, hired for show as much as skill.
Savedra leaned against the railing, Varis’s caution echoing unpleasantly in her head. Ashlin at least could swim if someone tipped her over the side—Savedra imagined the weight of her skirts and pearls would bear her straight to the bottom of the canal. She refused a passing servant’s offer of wine, though she badly wanted some; her imagination was morbid enough already. And though she’d never admit it, the steady sway of the barge unsettled her.
The
Daphne
drifted slowly across the water, the carven nymph at her prow gilded with lamplight. Eventually they would alight at the island, where more food and wine and music waited, and doubtless a game of hide-and-seek in the hedge, which would quickly devolve into tipsy trysts. She and Nikos had taken advantage of their share of those. Now the thought of him or Ashlin wandering off in the dark sent a chill down her back.
Soft footsteps and a hiss of silk skirts drew her attention, and she turned to find Ginevra Jsutien approaching, her gown shining in the lamplight, a wineglass sparkling in her hand. Even distracted and paranoid, it was hard not to give Ginevra one’s complete attention when she crossed a room.
Thea’s sister had married an Aravind, and Ginevra had inherited his copper skin and lustrous black hair. Gowned in azure and blue and yellow topazes, she shone like a flame. Savedra had to concede the merits of a match between her
and Nikos; the girl had wits to go with her lovely face, not to mention Jsutien wealth and trade as a dowry.
Her dark beauty would remind the people of Lychandra, though the late queen had held the added attraction of being a nobody from the Archipelago—in truth the child of wealthy merchants and titled landholders, but that wasn’t as romantic—instead of a scion of a great house. In choosing her, Mathiros had thrown over a dozen daughters of the Octagon Court, and had angered the Eight again when he betrothed Nikos to a foreign princess.
It was a minor miracle and a credit to palace security that no assassin had been successful yet.
“What are you contemplating so seriously?” Ginevra asked, her voice light and musical. Savedra felt like a clumsy rasping thing beside her. She closed her hands on her fan to keep from brushing at her own midnight skirts. Both shades were close enough to royal sapphire to be daring, but far enough to prevent scandal.
“Assassinations,” she said, before she could think better of it.
“Really? I didn’t think it was that boring a party yet.” Savedra thought that she turned away quickly enough to hide her frown, but Ginevra’s eyebrows quirked. “Either you don’t like my jokes, you’re angry about our dresses, or…”
She stopped herself from snapping her fan in annoyance, but the sticks rattled softly with the effort. “Or maybe I don’t find assassins amusing.”
“Does anyone?”
Savedra couldn’t keep from glancing at the dais, where Thea laughed at something Nikos had said. “I imagine some people do.”
“Ah.” Ginevra blinked. Beneath kohl-dusted lids, her eyes were a striking grey. The stones draping her collarbones flashed with her sigh. “And so you judge me by my aunt’s schemes.”
The forthrightness of it startled her, and she answered in kind. “How can I not, when you benefit from them?”
“She doesn’t speak of them to me, you know.”
“No. You would need to be guiltless, in case she was caught.” A predicament she was all too familiar with. What should have been righteous anger soured in her mouth.
“And since you’re speaking to me of this and neither Thea nor I are in chains, I gather she hasn’t been caught.” Ginevra paused, studying the wine in her glass. “I don’t want anyone harmed, even if it would see me queen.”
“But you let her scheme and cling to your innocence.”
“Do you think she would stop for my sensibilities, for ethics or mercy?” This time her eyebrows rose high enough to crease her brow. “Would your mother?”
Her fan snapped now, but Savedra lowered it again, conceding the point with a wry twist of her lips. “No.”
“I don’t want to be your enemy.” And saints help her, the girl sounded as if she meant it. Sounded almost wistful.
“Your aunt will be, as long as she sends assassins after Nikos or the princess.”
Ginevra turned, leaning her stomach against the rail, graceful and sad as the Lady of Laurels on the figurehead. “I had another aunt, you know.”
“Yes.” She could name most of the members of the great houses, including Thea’s sisters. Talia, the youngest, was Ginevra’s mother. Tassia, the eldest… The realization settled cold in her gut even as Ginevra spoke.
“Do you really think she died in childbirth?” She smiled wryly at Savedra’s momentary discomposure. “I know I’m a coward, but I would rather Thea had some use for me.”
She drained her glass and walked away, all shining hair and skirts, leaving Savedra to curse the sympathy that already spread slow as poison in her blood.
The barge docked smoothly and the laughing courtiers spilled into the manicured gardens. A new set of musicians was already in place, playing livelier tunes to invite dancing and games. Tables strained with the weight of wine and confections, and the breeze was heady with sugar and alcohol and the tang of freshly clipped grass. Colored lanterns and candles in glass bowls painted the night with red and green, blue and gold, turned trees and hedges into a phantasmagoria of color and darkness. The cold light of the waxing moon cast opposing shadows.
Nikos lingered beside Savedra while the guests waited impatiently for him to begin a dance. “What’s wrong?”
She laughed too brightly. “Shall I draw you up a list?”
He traced the crease between her brows. “You’ll wrinkle if you keep frowning like that.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your mother is a woman of taste and wisdom. Do you think she’d accept a seat on my council?”
That drew an honest laugh from her. “I imagine she would, if only to see the looks on the other archons’ faces.”
He kissed her lightly; he’d had years of practice learning not to smear paint or powder. “Forget about politics. Dance with me.”
She plucked his hand off her arm with feigned indignation. “Dance with your wife, Your Highness.”
He clasped the slighted hand to his breast. “As you command, my heart. But you must join me at least once tonight.”
“I make no promises. Go on—your court is waiting for you.”
The musicians struck up a new song as Nikos entered the circle of light that served as a dance floor and offered his hand to Ashlin with a bow. She rolled her eyes, but let him lead her into the center of the lawn. The princess rarely danced, but when she did it was with the same grace with which she wielded a sword. The guests watched them move together for an extra measure before pairing up and joining the steps.
Savedra tensed at footsteps in the grass behind her, but it was only Ginevra again. The Jsutien held another glass of wine; her eyes glittered, and Savedra wondered how many she’d already drunk.
“People will think we conspire,” she said.
Ginevra hid a smile by raising her glass. “I’ll say you were angry about my dress, and all we did was snipe and quarrel.” She watched Nikos and Ashlin move in each other’s arms, dark and bright. “Are you jealous?”
“Are you?” Savedra retorted, though the question had been honest and not biting.
The woman’s shrug made it look as though her gown would slide off her shoulder, but the dress was too well sewn for that. “No. But I don’t love him.”
“I’ve always known Nikos would marry. And he could hardly marry me, could he?”
“You might be jealous of
him
. The Princess does flirt with you, after all.”
Savedra shot her a startled sideways glance. “We’re friends, however mad that seems. And she likes to unsettle. She doesn’t like women that way.” She realized how foolish that sounded as soon as the words left her mouth.
Ginevra made a noncommittal sound. And, Savedra realized, she didn’t know that for a certainty. Ashlin scorned the giggling pampered doves of the court, of either sex, but Savedra had never heard her speak of lust for anyone. But the princess hadn’t come virgin to the marriage bed—the tactful long betrothal was proof enough of that, for all that they had called it mourning for Lychandra. Who had Ashlin left behind in Celanor?