CHAPTER TWO
I keep telling you,” said Jerrod, “use the edges of your feet, not the points of your toes. You’re Crawling, not dancing.”
Kel glanced down in order to glare at Jerrod and immediately felt a little sick. He’d never realized before he started Crawler training—learning to shimmy up and down walls with only the barest of hand- and footholds—how much heights bothered him.
It had never really come up before Jerrod had gone to work for the Ragpicker King and offered to teach any of his current team—Kel, Merren Asper, and Kang Ji-An—his Crawling skills.
Only Kel had taken him up on it, which was somewhat ironic. On the face of it, Kel had less reason than his friends to trust Jerrod Belmerci, who—when he had worked for Prosper Beck—had once ambushed Kel in an alleyway. They had papered over their differences, though, and it had been Merren and Ji-An who had been stiff with Jerrod at first. Their loyalty to Andreyen was paramount, and Beck had been a threat to the Ragpicker King until he had abruptly departed Castellane, leaving Jerrod unemployed.
It was Andreyen who had calmed their doubts, assuring them that Jerrod would be more of a useful asset than he would a drawback. He had even ordered the construction of a model climbing wall, made of smooth granite with irregular indentations, which was installed into the solarium. (Jerrod had suggested they construct the climbing wall above the interior river, feeling the crocodiles would give Kel additional incentive not to fall, but Andreyen had nixed that idea. “Those crocodiles are expensive,” he had said, “and eating Kel would certainly give them indigestion.”)
“And don’t look down, ” Jerrod now said. “I’ve told you before never to look down. And don’t look sideways. Or up,” he added. “Don’t look for the handholds. Feel for them.”
Glaring directly in front of himself, Kel adjusted his position. When he’d arrived at the Black Mansion and found Andreyen closeted in a meeting, Jerrod had suggested they get in some Crawling practice. Kel, still antsy from the Dial Chamber meeting and with the words the Gray Serpent echoing in his head, had agreed—though he was beginning to regret it now.
Crawling required all one’s concentration, so he’d hoped it would calm him. When he was a boy in the Orfelinat, clambering up rocks with Cas, he’d dreamed of one day being a Crawler. It had seemed the peak of what a Castellani orphan could achieve: perhaps not a mastery over one’s own life, but at least a mastery over the city’s vertiginous peaks—its sloping roofs and towers, its arches and high windows.
He missed a foothold now, slipped a little, and swore. It was one thing to feel for a handhold with well-chalked fingers and another entirely to try to wedge one’s shoe against a vertical wall—
“Lean into the wall,” Jerrod called, sounding exasperated. “Visualize it below you— Oh, hello,” he added in an entirely different tone. “Meeting’s over, I take it?”
Kel couldn’t help himself; he looked down. The floor of the solarium seemed to blur under him, and he slid halfway down the wall before he was able to arrest his fall with an ungraceful scrabbling at the nearly featureless surface. Embarrassing.
He dropped the rest of the way, landing nearly on top of Jerrod, who ignored him. He was looking at the Ragpicker King, who had just come into the room, flanked by Ji-An and Merren. Ji-An wore her usual silk jacket and trousers, embroidered with peonies. Her black hair was gathered up on her head, held in place by a copper clip. Beside her, Merren looked the student he was in faded black, his blond hair bright as Antonetta Alleyne’s.
Kel pushed the thought of Antonetta to the back of his head. He noticed that Jerrod did not seem to be looking at Andreyen so much as staring at Merren—though Merren was, as usual, oblivious.
“What happens if you fall all the way from the top?” Merren inquired, craning his head back to look at the full height of the climbing wall. “Is there some special way Crawlers learn how to land so they don’t break their legs?”
“No,” said Jerrod. “He’d just break his legs. That’s why I’m trying to teach him not to fall.”
“Do try not to break him while he’s still useful,” said Andreyen. The Ragpicker King’s green eyes gleamed in the solarium shadows. “I assume you are here to tell us of the Dial Chamber meeting, Kellian?”
Kel tried to brush the chalk from his fingers. Ji-An was glaring at Jerrod, which she always did. He had worked for the Ragpicker King for three months now, gathering intelligence from all over Castellane—even deep in the Maze—but Ji-An still did not trust him.
Jerrod didn’t seem to mind—though it was hard to tell when things bothered him. Half his face was covered with a hammered-steel mask. Now that he kept his head bare around Kel and the others, it was easier to see the thin scars that unspooled like thread from beneath his mask, marring his temples and cheekbones. Kel wondered often what could have made such a wound as the one Jerrod Belmerci was hiding.
“Yes,” Kel said, having gotten off as much of the chalk as he could. His fingers still felt unpleasantly dry. “But there is something else I have to tell you—”
The words the Gray Serpent were on his tongue, but Andreyen held up a hand. “Go in order, please,” he said. “The meeting, from beginning to end.”
Kel sighed inwardly but did as requested. As they all took seats on the stone benches surrounding an ornamental pond, he ran through the events of the Dial Chamber meeting: the nervous attendees, Conor’s announcement, the reactions of the Charter Families.
“Your Prince is marrying again?” Jerrod raised his eyebrows. “I suppose nobody brought up how well that plan went the last time.”
“Actually, Montfaucon did, since he has no tact,” said Kel. “But the situation is different from last time. Now it is a matter of preventing war, and both the Queen and Bensimon agree it is the best course. If anyone wasn’t truly relieved, they did a good job of acting.”
“Surely they did not need to act. No one profits from war,” said Merren.
“Not true,” said Andreyen. “ Someone always profits from war. Still.” He sat back. “Kutani is the richest country in the world. They will have more than enough gold to pay any blood price Sarthe is demanding, or for an army to hold off Sarthe if that is what it comes to. I am impressed that Bensimon and the Queen were able to secure such an alliance.”
“Conor did a great deal of the negotiating himself,” said Kel, and when everyone looked at him sideways, he added defensively, “I’ve told you. He’s changed.”
Ji-An had taken a pack of cards from her pocket. She spread them out on the stone table beside the pond. “I have seen Anjelica of Kutani,” she said, to Kel’s surprise. “At the Court in Geumjoseon. It was an official visit. She is... beautiful.” She looked down at the cards, then placed the Lion atop the Weeping Girl. “So beautiful that it is almost too much. Prince Hui, all he wanted was to marry her. He would have done anything, I think. His father forbade it. He said such beauty could only cause trouble.”
“It is curious,” said Andreyen, resting his chin atop the head of his cane. “Anjelica of Kutani should have her pick of any suitor. Why our rather troubled Prince?”
Kel felt himself stiffen. The observation cut too close to questions he himself had; Conor had not shared the details of the arrangement, and he had not asked. “I do not know what Castellane is offering Kutani,” he said. “It must be something they believe they cannot get elsewhere.”
“Despite the Prince, Castellane remains a valuable ally,” Ji-An pointed out. “Especially for a trade-dependent country like Kutani.”
“Malgasi will be angry,” said Merren. A leaf had caught in his curling hair. He reached up to free it, and Jerrod’s eyes followed his movement. “Did they not want Aurelian to marry their Princess? Now he is to marry once more—and once again, not to Elsabet Belmany.”
Kel spread his hands wide. “Officially, Bensimon would tell you that Conor wedding a Princess of Malgasi would pin Sarthe between two allied countries. They might feel threatened, perhaps even need to go to war.”
“And unofficially?” asked Ji-An, crossing the Prince of Swords with the Dark Widow.
“Unofficially? Conor despises the Belmany family. Not only because they are dishonest in their dealings, but specifically because of the way they have tormented and murdered their Ashkar.”
“That’s interesting,” Andreyen murmured. “There are few royals out there who would care much about the Ashkar. I suppose Mayesh is doing his job.”
“Imagine Conor Aurelian having a moral qualm,” wondered Merren. “I always thought of him as qualmless.”
“I don’t think that’s a word,” said Kel. “Also, it’s practical as well as moral. Not only are the Malgasi royal family unpleasant on the face of it, but their subjects seem to have noticed. Jolivet’s sources tell him a revolution could take place any day.”
“As an anti-monarchist, I am technically in favor of revolution,” noted Merren.
Kel smiled but could not forget King Markus hissing at the Malgasi Ambassador: You would cage your son as you caged me! A dark current ran between the courts of Malgasi and Castellane, a history of blood and secrets that were locked away in the mind of the now-silent King.
“What of our friend the Legate?” said Andreyen. There was a little edge to his voice; the Ragpicker King understood that the arrangement with Jolivet was a necessary one, but Jolivet represented one side of the Law and Andreyen very much the other. He would never really consider the Legate a friend. “I assume he was at the meeting. Has he any insights for us, or directives?”
Kel shook his head. “He is impatient,” he said. “The Arrow Squadron has interrogated everyone in the city they can find who had a grudge against Sarthe. They have learned nothing.”
“And so he leans on you?” The edge was still in Andreyen’s voice. “Is he not worried that if he leans too hard, you will break?”
Kel could not help but remember something Andreyen had said to him earlier, when they had been alone. I fear you cannot hold all conflicting things within yourself. Being a Sword Catcher, and also this.
Kel only shrugged. “Jolivet seems to feel we should know more than we do at this juncture—”
“Oh, he thinks it’s easy, does he?” said Ji-An. “Having us do his job for him?” She shook her head. “No one in Castellane is talking. Not to the Hill, and not to us, either. There are no clues—”
“Well,” said Kel. “As to that. Montfaucon is hosting a gathering at the Caravel tonight.” Merren glanced over; his sister, Alys Asper, owned and ran the Caravel.
“And?” said Jerrod. “Shall we all go drown our sorrows with the dissolute nobility?”
“I doubt that would be as much fun as you think,” said Kel. “Anyway, Montfaucon invited us all there expressly to meet his newest lover, someone known as the Gray Serpent.”
“The Gray Serpent,” Andreyen murmured. “Gremont’s last words?”
Kel nodded.
“You think the Gray Serpent is a person now? Not a metaphor? Not the snake-headed boatman of the tales?” asked Andreyen.
“The Dark Guide,” said Merren. “He ferries souls into the underworld.”
“Gremont spoke with such urgency,” said Kel. “I have long wondered why he would waste his last breath reminding me of a fable. But perhaps it was no fable. Which means I will be at the Caravel tonight.”
“Does that mean you will be attending with the Prince?” inquired Jerrod. “Or as him?”
“Neither,” Kel said shortly. He always said as little about Conor as he could get away with. He was not here to report on the Palace, and even if Conor would never know it, even if it might never matter, keeping Conor out of the discussion as much as possible felt less like a betrayal. “I’ll be there as Kel Anjuman. If this Gray Serpent is a person, then I’ll follow him, see what he does.”
“I don’t like Alys being near to all this,” said Merren, frowning. “I should tell her—”
“Tell her what?” asked Jerrod. “That you believe Lord Montfaucon might know someone involved in the attack on Marivent? Telling her that will bring her closer to danger than telling her nothing.”
Merren set his jaw in a stubborn line. “I still want to be there tonight.”
“You shall be,” said Andreyen. “And you ”—he indicated Jerrod and Ji-An—“will go with him.”
“Do we have to wear disguises? I hate disguises,” said Merren glumly.
“No,” said Andreyen. “You needn’t wear one. You should remain outside the Caravel—”
“Merren could be a courtesan. He’s attractive enough,” said Jerrod absently.
“I just said he didn’t need to wear a disguise; pay attention, Jerrod,” said Andreyen, not without a flicker of amusement. “You three stay with the carriage, where Kel can signal if he needs you. Ji-An can drive.”
“I disagree,” said Jerrod.
Ji-An shot him a dark look.
“Well, if you change your mind and decide you need costumes this evening,” said Kel, “I may have a pirate’s hat I saved from the Queen’s last nautically themed ball. Jerrod, let me know if you need it.”
Jerrod glared at him darkly. Merren said, “Kel, at the Dial Chamber meeting... was there any mention of Artal Gremont’s planned arrival?”
Kel shook his head. “He’s still at sea. Literally, I mean, not figuratively.”
“He is cutting it rather close, isn’t he,” said Merren, “if he plans to marry your friend Antonetta before the end of the month?”
“Merren.” Kel tried to catch his friend’s eye, but Merren was looking studiously in the other direction. “Are you still planning on killing Gremont in revenge?”
Merren blinked rapidly. “I have not made what you might call a concrete plan. I prefer spontaneity.”
Jerrod looked worried. “Merren, Artal Gremont is very well connected. He’s about to be a Charter holder, which is as close to being royalty as you can get without being royalty.”
“Ah, yes,” Merren said with an uncharacteristic bitterness. “He destroys my family and is rewarded with a Charter. It couldn’t have gone to some other Gremont?”
“It seems his mother is bestowing it upon him as a method of getting him out of exile,” said Andreyen.
“Be that as it may,” said Jerrod. “Merren, murdering him would put you in a great deal of danger.” He looked at Kel. “Tell him, won’t you?”
“I think Merren is a careful person,” said Kel. “And Gremont does not deserve better.”
“Thank you,” Merren said, looking gratified.
“Is that really what you think?” said Jerrod, looking annoyed. “Or do you just want Antonetta Alleyne’s future husband dead?”
Kel smiled tightly. “Why must it be one or the other?” He turned to Merren. “Do what you think you must,” he said. “Though it would be better if I knew none of the details.”
Ji-An raised an eyebrow. “Because then you’d have to keep secrets from Antonetta Alleyne, and that troubles you?”
“Why would that trouble me?” said Kel, feeling very tired indeed. “I keep secrets from everyone.”
It was always a test, going through the gates, Lin thought. Not a test of herself, but a test of the Sault and its mood toward her: the Goddess Returned they had not expected, had not—in many of their minds—truly asked for.
Two guards were at the gate today: her old friend Mez and Adar Gamel, one of the younger Shomrim. He had just turned eighteen, the age when he could begin his guardian duties, and was still gangly as a new colt. He did not like Lin and did not bother hiding it.
“Greetings, Goddess, ” he said as she passed, infusing the word with mockery. Mez smiled at Lin, clearly embarrassed by his companion’s tone.
“Lin,” he said. “Out visiting a patient? Is all well?”
“Very well, Mez.”
“The Maharam wants to see you. He said to let you know when you returned.”
He gave a half-apologetic shrug as if to say he had no idea what this summons was about. Lin did not doubt this was true. She smiled at Mez and, ignoring Adar’s glare, swept through the gate, cutting across the Sault toward the Etse Kebeth. She did not hurry away, not wanting to show any outward sign of distress. Inwardly, her stomach felt knotted up like rope.
She still remembered the night it had happened—her announcement, the flaming of the ships in the harbor like stars exploding. There had not been doubters that night, save her grandfather, but time had passed and things had changed in the walled city.
Mez and Adar seemed to sum up the divided opinion of the Sault. Some believed her to be the Goddess or thought she should at least be given the chance to prove herself. Others felt it was clear she was lying. They did not say so to her face, but the whispers ran through the streets like poison: What second miracle had she performed, since that first one? And why, of all the Ashkar women in the world, would the Goddess have chosen Lin Caster to herald her return?
As she cut across the Kathot, she saw Arelle Dorin sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by other young women. Lin gave them a wide berth. The last time she’d met Arelle alone in the street, the other girl—whom Lin had known all her life—had looked at her coldly and said, “The Sanhedrin’s coming soon enough. Enjoy this while you can.”
She was right, too, Lin thought. Not that she was enjoying this, but that the Sanhedrin were coming. It was something she tried not to think about. She had the time she had, and access to the Shulamat during that. She could not think about the future.
In the meantime, Lin occupied a liminal space: not quite the Goddess Returned, but not her old self, either. She was now allowed access to the Shulamat, to the books and tools she needed for her studies. She came and went with little questioning. She continued to see her patients, for had the Goddess not been a healer? She had her defenders: Chana, Mariam, Mez. One day, she had opened her door in the Sault to discover a silver bowl on her threshold. It was inscribed with the words of a spell meant to ward off the shedin and lilin, evil spirits who sickened babies and snatched old people from their beds. She was not sure if it had been placed there to protect her or to protect others from her.
Either way, it was doing nothing to keep away the dreams that had haunted her for months now. Strange dreams of the Goddess herself, of the flames rising and surrounding Aram—and sometimes dreams that made even less sense: of a man throwing a book into the sea, of a Malgasi man finding something golden and dangerous inside a cave. Even last night, she had dreamed of a dark-haired woman with fire spilling from her hands and of a man turning to ash against a white marble pillar.
The Shulamat was quiet at midday, still under the sun like a sleeping cat. Lin cut through the dusty, washed-stone interior, passing the gold lattice-gate behind which were the Shulamat’s books. Books she had held in her hands now, feeling their weight, the texture of their bindings. Smooth leather sometimes, or heavy silver, carved and inscribed, or stiffened fabric whose glued-on precious stones were beginning to fall away. Three months ago, she could never even have imagined touching them. When she did, it was all worth it: the resentment and hostility, whatever damage she had done to her own soul with her lies.
(And then there was her most precious volume, which she had reclaimed after the Maharam had confiscated it: The Works of Qasmuna, so rare and so forbidden that she kept it wrapped in black velvet. The Prince had given it to her personally, and she could not help but see his face every time she opened the pages.)
She made her way through corridors spangled with dust motes that shimmered in the syrupy sunlight and passed out into the enclosed garden behind the Shulamat. Here the air smelled sweet, for honeysuckle crept down the stone walls, and the ground was carpeted with blue lupin and yellow crocus. Fruit hung heavy from the pomegranate and date trees that lined the paths.
She could see the Maharam, standing in the shadow of a plane tree. He was not carrying his staff; he seemed absorbed instead in scattering seeds for a boisterous group of sunbirds. A few of them hopped away as Lin approached, but the Maharam did not look up. Instead he whistled, and a sunbird with a bright-red head hopped closer to him, nearly sitting on his slippered foot.
Lin did not greet the Maharam, merely stood patiently (a task made easier by the fact that her skirts had become caught on a prickly sahja cactus) waiting for him to speak. At last he said, “Have you ever wondered at the purpose of this garden?”
Before three months ago, I was not allowed in this garden. But Lin only said, “Must a garden have a purpose, other than to be a peaceful retreat?”
The Maharam reached into the pockets of his voluminous robes and took out another handful of seeds. “When the first Exilarch, Judah Makabi, fled Aram, he took with him not only its people but also the seeds and fruits of the plants that grew there, in order that none of them might vanish from the earth. Everything that grows in this garden once grew in Aram. King’s crown and white anemone would carpet the mountains, and roses and tulips the valleys. We preserve them all, growing them where we can, so they can be carried back to Aram when it is restored.” His dark eyes studied her. “Your task, of course.”
Lin heard a snort from behind her. She turned and saw Oren Kandel passing by them on the path. She had, of course, seen a great deal of him since she had assumed her new role—such as it was. The Maharam had appointed him as caretaker of the Shulamat, and he was always there, glaring from the shadows. He walked off stiffly now, a burlap sack over his shoulder.
“Do not mind him,” said the Maharam. “One must have patience with those who are not ready for her return yet.”
“Some people accept change more easily than others,” said Lin, matching the Maharam’s bland tone with her own. There was no use in saying that if the Maharam himself were not such an obvious doubter, things would be different for her in the Sault. He knew that; and besides, she did not entirely blame him.
He was not wrong to doubt.
“The Sanhedrin are coming,” said the Maharam rather abruptly. “In a week.”
Lin caught her breath. Everything in the garden seemed suddenly too vivid: the brightness of the flowers, the precise, sharp-edged black shadows cast across the dusty earth. Even the scent of the honeysuckle seemed suddenly cloying. “I thought you said it would be several months before they arrived—”
She cut herself off, but the Maharam looked pleased nonetheless. Too late. He said, “They move at their own discretion. Perhaps they have taken a special interest in you.”
“How flattering.”
“One week,” the Maharam mused. “That would mean they are not so close that it would be impossible for me to send them a message and tell them not to come. If, perhaps, you had changed your mind about the test.”
Why would I do that? Lin almost said, but she could not deny that her heart had leaped at the suggestion. Not to have to stand before the Exilarch and his court, not to have to lie to the Sanhedrin... She did not have a miracle in her pocket this time—a once-in-a-lifetime bit of knowledge regarding the burning of a fleet of ships, a coincidence of timing...
She had only herself, and what she had learned. She knew it would not be enough.
And yet. The Maharam was looking at her with kindness. The look of the old man who presided over weddings, blessed babies, and fed sparrows and sunbirds from his own hands. If she asked him to tell the Sanhedrin not to come, that she had been wrong about who she was, then he would be kind about that, too.
But the rest of the Sault. Her friends, neighbors, patients. They would always regard her as a liar. She would escape exile, but she would be shunned. Those who had doubted would be vindicated, but that did not bother her as much as the knowledge that those who had believed would be heartbroken.
And there was still Mariam. Mariam, who was not yet healed. But a week was not nothing; a week was time...
A sunbird had alighted on the Maharam’s shoulder. It cheeped thoughtfully. “Let me know what you decide, Linnet,” said the Maharam. “I assure you, it is your choice.”
Well, of course it is, Lin thought. The Maharam was too canny to want the weight of the decision, or its consequences, on him.
“Many thanks, Maharam,” said Lin, who had finally freed her skirts from the cactus. One of her fingers, pricked, had begun to bleed; a small drop of blood rose against her skin, bright as the Prince’s rings. “I shall think on it carefully.”
Kel arrived at the Caravel alone on Asti. He had left Conor in the Star Tower, flanked by Lilibet and Mayesh, still finalizing the arrangement for the Kutani Princess’s arrival. “I suppose Montfaucon will be annoyed I’m not there,” Conor had said, though he did not seem terribly bothered about it. “But this is more important.”
Kel found himself feeling oddly bereft as he set off down the Hill. It was better in many ways, he told himself, to have a Conor who found his responsibilities more compelling than his enjoyments. And yet—Kel missed him, especially with the prospect of a night spent with the nobles of the Hill in front of him. Conor was the only one of that group he truly liked—save for Falconet, sometimes.
Kel determinedly set himself to enjoying the clear bright night regardless. The stars were a fisherman’s silver net flung across the sky; the air was still, translucent enough that he could see the dark profile of the Orfelinat, his first home, perched on its sheer cliff above the ocean.
He found the Caravel alight, windows and doors flung open, the sounds of merriment spilling onto the street. Passersby looked on, curious, as Kel left Asti with the footmen and ducked inside. Wondering who he was, no doubt: a nobleman, even a Charter member? Or perhaps they’d noted his Marakandi colors: green velvet trousers, celadon silk shirt, and figured waistcoat studded with green gems—though they were not real emeralds, only colored paste. False as his name, his relation to the Palace.
The interior of the Caravel had been decorated in the colors of House Montfaucon, which happened to be silver and violet. The courtesans wore versions of the Montfaucon livery, and their eyelids were colored with metallic lavender. They darted among the guests with liquor and food, trailing silver scarves. Montfaucon, in purple moiré silk, was moving through the crowd, clearly in his element: greeting some, snubbing others. Since it was his own guest list, Kel could only assume Montfaucon had invited them in order to snub them, which did seem like something he would enjoy.
Kel let his gaze drift over the crowd and saw only familiar faces, save for a few of the courtesans. It had been a long time since he’d visited the Caravel, he realized. Nearly four months. The feel of the place was strange to him now, in a way he could not quite describe. On stage, a group of workmen were hammering together a sort of wooden structure that Kel couldn’t identify.
Kel swept his gaze across the room and saw familiar faces from the Hill; most already seemed to have gotten well into the plentiful wine on offer. He did not see Ji-An or Jerrod anywhere, but he did spot Merren in conversation with Alys on a red settee. Kel did his best not to look at them too closely—a goal made easier when Ciprian Cabrol and Joss Falconet approached him. Both carried silver goblets of a milky liquor. Joss wore black velvet, Ciprian a modest gray that did not suit him.
“What are they building up on the stage?” Kel asked, trying to sound drawling and unconcerned.
“Perhaps he wishes to show this Gray Serpent off against some sort of fanciful backdrop,” Joss said. “Montfaucon has always had a theatrical disposition.”
“Is this truly his debut?” Kel asked. “Montfaucon has not so much as brought him out for a card game before?”
Ciprian shook his head. “Montfaucon has never been so secretive about a lover before.”
It was odd, Kel thought, how Ciprian spoke of them all with such familiarity, as if his family had always been on the Hill.
Joss took a sip from his cup, his dark eyes thoughtful. “Apparently, he used to be an Arena fighter, before it was outlawed. He killed so many in combat that they started calling him the Gray Serpent, because he sent souls to the underworld.”
Ciprian frowned. “Excuse me. I must pry my sister Beatris from the grip of Esteve. He constantly corners her and lectures her about horses.”
“For Esteve, that is the language of love,” said Kel. Ciprian made a disgusted face and shouldered his way into the crowd.
Joss grinned. “I rather prefer these new dye merchants to the old ones. They’re more fun.”
Kel raised an eyebrow. “What, you don’t miss Charlon?”
“I’ve had penetrating leg wounds that I’ve missed more than Charlon,” said Joss bluntly. “And the Cabrols seem to have settled in without a hitch. One has to admire the ruthlessness.”
Kel glanced over at Ciprian, who had an arm around his sister’s shoulder—she was dressed all in white and yellow, like a daisy—and was glaring at Esteve. Behind him, someone had begun to tunelessly play a lute. The room was tightly packed, the noise of the construction on stage deafening. Kel caught a flash of red hair in the crowd and thought for a moment: Lin? But of course it was not her. It was Silla, wearing only a number of cleverly knotted violet and silver scarves. She looked like a drawing of a sea sprite, trailing the foam of the waves. She beckoned to Kel with a crooked finger, her head to one side.
“I see you have to go,” said Joss, “which is rather too bad. I was going to ask you when the Kutani Princess is arriving.”
“A few weeks, I think. She is already on the way, but it is quite a sea voyage.” Kel hesitated. He did not want to be distracted by Silla, but he could not push too hard with Falconet on the question of the Gray Serpent, either. It would only bring suspicion. Nor did he wish to enter a conversation about Conor’s engagement. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Falconet flicked his gaze to Silla and smiled knowingly. “Of course. Who am I to barricade the path of young love?”
Kel clapped a hand to Falconet’s shoulder and pushed into the crowd. Young love. Silla and he had only ever been commerce, of course, but then love and commerce were nearly the same thing on the Hill. There was no point in being annoyed with Falconet about it.
He reached Silla, passing Gasquet, who was sprawled in a plush chair, a handsome young man perched on the arm. Kel wondered if Montfaucon had invited every member of the Charter Families; certainly he could not have expected Lady Alleyne or Lady Gremont to attend. Lady Gremont was elderly and respectable, and Lady Alleyne took only rich lovers. Both would have felt obligated to seem shocked by the debauchery of the Caravel, though Kel would have wagered they’d both seen more scandalous things in their lives.
Kel realized with surprise that he had forgotten to remove his gloves when Silla made a circlet of her thumb and forefinger around his wrist, where the skin was bare. She looked up at him from beneath silver-and-violet-painted eyes. She had used the paint cleverly, creating the illusion of a shimmering mask. “Come,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”
He let her lead him from the room. As they left, Kel caught a glimpse of Montfaucon, who seemed to have inserted himself into the conversation between Esteve and Beatris, but there was no one with him who could credibly be an ex-gladiator named the Gray Serpent. Where was Montfaucon hiding him?
“You are distracted,” Silla said. A little sharpness cut the honey of her voice. “And it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you.”
She’d led them into one of the velvet-lined alcoves in the heart of the Caravel. Each one was no bigger than a closet, but they were all plushly upholstered, with soft walls and a pillowed chaise. Montfaucon used to joke about these rooms, saying they were for customers who lacked either the cash or the commitment to take a courtesan upstairs.
Silla drew the sheer curtain closed across the alcove entrance and turned to Kel. Violet tapers shed a reddish light, deepening the shadows. “I’ve missed you,” she said, taking hold of his hands and placing them on her hips. “Have you missed me?”
His gloved fingers slipped over the fabric of her scarves reflexively. It was strange, touching her and not touching her at the same time. He could feel the shape of her but not the texture. He let his hands travel, leather against silk, her body curving under his hands. When he kissed her, she was already leaning up into him.
Kel was used to being able to lose himself in a kiss, a touch. The pleasure that caught him up, blurring the sharp edges of thought and memory. He was jolted now by how distant that feeling seemed. He was aware of Silla’s touch, her taste, but just as aware of the fact that one of his boots was laced too tightly and he had a crick in his neck.
His thoughts scattered themselves, following different paths: Was he missing a chance to lay eyes on the Gray Serpent? Were Ji-An and Jerrod outside with the carriage as promised? Should he have left Merren, who should have been with them, on his own? Obviously, he had his sister, but—
Silla drew back, looking up at him. Silver paint made half-moons of her lowered eyelids as she said, “There is something wrong. Kel, I know you. Don’t think I don’t know you. I was your first girl.”
“And you’ll always be that,” Kel said. He still had his hands at her waist. He might as well have been holding a log. He let her go and stepped back.
“Is this because of the Prince?” she asked, raking lilac-tipped fingers through her red hair. “I knew that night I shouldn’t have gone back with him, that you shared a room with him, but—”
It took Kel a moment to even remember what she was talking about. The morning after the Roverge party, Silla creeping out of Conor’s bed at dawn.
He shrugged. “You make your own decisions. You owe me nothing at all.”
“I like you,” she said. “Most customers, it’s a transaction. An investment. But you...” She sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but the Prince did not... he did not want from me what most men or women do. He asked only for me to be there and be silent. He did not even say much to me. Only went to sleep, and I watched him until I went to sleep, too.”
Kel sighed. “Silla, don’t you see, that is what makes it strange for me. These things are private to Conor. He would not want me to know them.”
“He called me by a name that wasn’t mine,” Silla said. Some of the metallic paint on her face had smeared; silver tears appeared to be trickling from her eyes.
Kel held up a hand. “I don’t want to know.” This was not entirely true, but he had done enough behind Conor’s back these past months. He did not want this on his ledger, too.
Silla frowned. “I used to understand you.”
Kel almost said, I used to understand myself. It was on the tip of his tongue—and then a hand twitched the alcove curtain aside and Kel found himself staring into the face of Antonetta Alleyne.
She was very pale, almost as if she had powdered her skin the way some of the older women on the Hill did. But there were bright spots of color on her cheeks as she looked from Kel to Silla and said, “Oh, my goodness, I’m so embarrassed.”
Silla ran her hand down the front of Kel’s waistcoat. “You could join us, Demoselle.”
Antonetta gave a bashful laugh; only Kel would have seen the flash in her eyes. “Gracious,” she said. “How very shocking. I shall have to tell Magali. She will positively faint.” She waved at them vaguely. “Do carry on,” she chirped, and vanished from the alcove.
Kel swore and detached Silla’s hand gently from his waistcoat. Thoughts of the Gray Serpent momentarily fled, he darted after Antonetta.
He caught up with her in the narrow, wood-paneled corridor that led back to the main rooms. When he called out her name in a low voice, she didn’t turn. He jogged ahead and planted himself in front of her, blocking her way forward.
“Ana,” he said. “Listen to me—”
Assuming a look of saintly patience, she crossed her arms over her chest and regarded Kel with a level stare. He could not help staring back. He had not been this close to her since the awful night in the Shining Gallery. She had not dressed herself in Montfaucon’s colors; she wore scarlet silk like a banner of rebellion, and dark-red ribbons had been woven through the heavy mass of her curling golden hair.
“Antonetta,” he said. He was close enough to smell her perfume, to see the ever-present locket nestled in the hollow of her throat. The locket that contained the grass ring he’d given her when they were children. He could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. “I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.”
“I’m an engaged woman now, Kel Anjuman,” she said lightly. “I have more freedom. I need not fear society’s scorn, only my future husband’s—and he is not here.”
“That will not always be true,” said Kel. He hardly remembered Artal Gremont; he had seen him only when he’d been a child, before Gremont had been exiled from Castellane. He’d been a big man, with slablike hands. When Kel pictured those hands on Antonetta— following the rise of her breasts, the curve of her waist, big meaty fingers digging into her silk-covered flesh —he wanted to throw up. Though Alys would make him pay for it if he ruined her carpeting.
“I know that,” Antonetta said sharply. “I will know the moment he sets foot on the Hill. Believe me. Until then...” She glanced around. “I might as well see the world.”
“This isn’t the world.” Kel was still looking at her; he couldn’t stop looking at her. It was like not being able to stop eating when you were starving. Of course, people died of doing that. “This is a place of...”
“Desire?” she said lightly.
Kel shook his head. “Loneliness.”
She glanced away.
“Antonetta.” He took a step toward her. “Let us not be angry with each other. You do not have to marry Gremont—”
“Yes,” she said, and to his surprise, she looked angry. He was used to Antonetta giggling or being dismissive or even haughty; angry was new. “I do. You know the way things are for Conor. He must marry whoever is chosen for him. For me, it is no different. Two Charters will be united. He will hold the tea Charter, and I will hold the silk Charter, and together we will control both. That is all my mother cares for.”
“Conor could put a stop to it,” he said. “He could free you—”
She was wearing white silk gloves. Her hands gripped each other tightly, two still white birds. “I will not beg him for help.”
But you did ask him. I know you did. Though it had not been Conor she had asked. It had been Kel, bearing his talisman, pretending to be Conor. As was his duty. And he had answered her as he thought Conor would have answered her, because answering her as himself was not a choice.
But Conor had changed since then. “I will ask for you, then.”
The look she gave him was alive with ferocity. “You shall do no such thing,” she said furiously. “Do I want to marry Gremont? No. If I escape wedding him, will the next man my mother selects be just as bad? Most likely.” Voices rose in the main room—some kind of cheer that nearly drowned Antonetta out. “The silk Charter should be mine by rights. If the only way my mother will give it to me is if I marry, then he will do as well as another.”
“He is not a good man,” said Kel. “It is why he was exiled.” He wanted to tell her what Gremont’s crime was, but he had sworn to Merren he would not speak of what had happened to his sister.
“I know that. Of all people,” she added in a low voice, “I thought you, at least, did not believe me completely foolish.”
A feeling like despair seized him. She was so close that he could see her pulse beating in her throat, the rise and fall of her locket with her quick breaths, yet she felt as distant as she had ever been.
“You pretend to foolishness,” he said. “It is your armor.”
She raised her head at that and looked at him, her blue eyes so dark they seemed black in the low light. “We all have armor,” she said. “As if you do not have yours, Kel Anjuman.”
He choked on the words he could not say. I am the Prince’s armor. I cannot have my own.
“Antonetta—”
She took a step back. “You are not my father, not brother or lover,” she said. “You have no rights here.”
And with that, she pushed past him in a rustle of silk and was gone. Back to the main room, where he could not be seen to follow.
Kel stood motionless for a moment, where he could still smell the lingering scent of her perfume. Where he could imagine her still there with him, a handsbreadth away.
But he had a duty to his friends. A duty to his Prince and city. He could not mope about in a brothel like a lovesick student preparing to write reams of poetry about his delicate feelings.
Kel stomped his way up the Caravel’s stairs in a very poor mood. He wished he had not thought the word lovesick. He prided himself on never having been in love, and his situation with Antonetta could not change that. You have no rights here, she had said, and she was utterly correct. He had no rights where she was concerned, and no chance to be anything other than a friend—one her husband was unlikely to be enthusiastic about.
He could not love her; therefore, he did not love her. So he told himself as he arrived at the library door. He could hear raised voices from within. One sounded very much like Montfaucon’s. Under other circumstances, Kel would have made himself scarce, but there was no chance of that now. What he needed to know was more important than manners.
Kel opened the door quietly. The lamps were not lit; the city light that poured through the windows was the only real illumination. It turned Montfaucon and the man he was arguing with into silhouettes, like clever paper cutouts.
“Raimon,” Montfaucon was saying, “you’re being unreasonable—”
Raimon snorted. He was a head taller than Montfaucon, solidly built, with white flecks in his dark, close-cut hair. The moonlight picked out the lines in his face—a harsh spiderwebbing. Kel was surprised; he looked quite a bit older than Montfaucon. “Am I some kind of joke to you, then?” he was demanding. He had the accent of lower Castellane: the docks and the Maze. “I’m not bloody going on some stage and hitting people for the benefit of those posh fuckers you call your friends.”
“It’s nothing to do with thinking of you as a joke.” Montfaucon’s voice was a soothing purr. “I want them to see how skilled you are. To see the great Gray Serpent in all his glory.”
“I am not that man anymore.”
“You are still a fighter,” said Montfaucon. “One I wish them to admire.”
“You wish them to admire you, ” said Raimon. Kel, in the doorway, ducked his head to hide a smile—not that either of the men had noticed him yet. Raimon certainly seemed to know Montfaucon well. Kel wondered how long they’d known each other. Which made him think of the Shining Gallery slaughter. His smile vanished.
“I’m leaving,” Raimon growled. “I never wanted a part of this in the first place, Lupin. You told me yourself, city business and Hill business should stay separate.”
He turned on his heel, brushing past Kel in the doorway, as if his presence there was of supreme unimportance. As he shoved his way into the corridor, Kel caught sight of a dark tattoo on his neck, above the collar of his shirt—the inky S shape of a hook.
Not a tattoo then, but a brand. The Tully brand that denoted a convicted criminal.
Montfaucon turned on Kel, scowling ferociously. “What’s wrong with you, Anjuman? Why’ve you been standing there like an idiot during what was obviously a private conversation?”
Kel was too distracted to answer. A Tully brand—so Raimon was a convict, then? That was interesting. It was difficult to find employment when you bore a prisoner’s brand. Many such men and women turned to mercenary work to keep food on the table.
With a disgusted noise, Montfaucon shoved past Kel into the corridor and hurried downstairs. Kel waited a few moments before going after him. He doubted Montfaucon would take well to being followed at the moment.
He found the main room of the Caravel in chaos. Raimon was not there, and Montfaucon was on stage arguing with a bulky man, stripped to the waist, carrying what looked like a bear mask under his arm. “I don’t care if he’s run off,” the man was saying, “or if there’s no one for me to box. I expect to be paid—”
“I’ll box you,” called someone—Ciprian?—drunkenly from the crowd. Everyone was milling; Kel looked briefly but did not see Antonetta. Good. She was the only one likely to notice if Kel left. “Let me on stage!”
“I won’t fight amateurs,” said the man with the bear mask, clearly outraged. But the crowd had already started shouting— Fight! Fight! Fight! —which was bad luck for the bear man but excellent luck for Kel. He pushed his way through the distracted crowd to Merren, who was in a corner talking to a courtesan named Audeta about the chemical composition of perfume. Audeta looked as if she was considering fleeing. “Merren,” Kel hissed, grabbing his friend by the back of his coat. “We’re leaving.”
“Oh, thank the Gods,” said Audeta. “Kel, why is Montfaucon trying to get someone to fight that bear?”
“You’d have to ask him,” Kel muttered, and he hauled Merren away through the crowd.
Outside, the footman wanted to know if he should fetch Asti, but Kel was already hurrying Merren across the street to where a black carriage with scarlet wheels waited, Ji-An perched atop the driver’s seat. She gestured to Kel just as the carriage door flew open and Jerrod leaned out, saying, “Someone just took off in Montfaucon’s carriage, so move it, you loitering bastard! Come on! ”
Hoping the footman would chalk his behavior up to “strange things rich people do” and think no more about it, Kel dashed across the road and leaped in through the open carriage door just as the wheels began to turn. They rattled away into the Castellane night.