CHAPTER SEVEN
D espite her late night, Lin rose early the next morning, put on a plain gray dress, and pinned her silver brooch to her shoulder.
The Exilarch was here, in the Sault. She had been able to put the fact out of her mind at the party, but she had woken up with the knowledge pressing down on her, an oppressive weight on her chest. The Exilarch is here. I have not much time to help Mariam.
Since most of her books of lore and magic were at the Black Mansion, she set off across the city. Usually, she loved mornings in Castellane. The heat of the day had not yet set in, and the breeze was fresh and cool. Colorful birds chirped from the wrought-iron balconies of houses whose bright paint had been dimmed to pastel by salty air. The Broken Market had melted away into the shadows, and the stores lining the Ruta Magna displayed the riches of their wares: heavy silks, translucent porcelains, gorgeous brocades, sculptures made from jade and ivory in the shapes of foreign Gods. Though perhaps all Gods were foreign to the Ashkar.
But this morning, when she arrived at the Black Mansion, she found it in an uproar. She had gone first to the laboratory to retrieve her books, but it was empty; upon hearing shouting, she made her way to the Great Room, where she discovered the Ragpicker King sitting calmly in a chair, his blackthorn cane across his lap, while Merren—to Lin’s surprise—made angry noises and clutched madly at his tousled blond hair.
Kel was also there, which Lin had not expected. He was leaning against a wall, as was Ji-An, who looked bored as usual. Jerrod stood hesitantly in the middle of the room, as if he wished desperately to approach Merren, but did not dare.
“He should have died, ” Merren shouted. “I can’t understand why he didn’t die! It was enough aconite to kill a horse!”
Lin glanced around the room, puzzled, but everyone else seemed to know what he was talking about. “Who should have died?”
“Gremont,” said Jerrod, as Merren aimed a kick at a nearby chair. “We tried to poison him at last night’s party.”
Lin looked accusingly at Kel, thinking of their walk together before the party. “You didn’t tell me that was the plan.”
“I didn’t know until I got there,” he responded, sounding aggrieved.
“You said I ought to kill him,” Merren objected. “Last night.”
“And you said you’d already poisoned him anyway,” Kel pointed out. “Also, it was the heat of the moment.”
“Murdering a Charter holder is serious business,” said Andreyen. “As we have discussed before.”
“Murdering anyone is serious business,” said Lin. “I don’t understand—I know he’s awful, but what’s he done to Merren?”
There was a moment of awful silence. The anger drained out of Merren’s face. He sat down heavily in an armchair. He looked very young suddenly; Lin could imagine him as a boy with a cap of fair curls, his small hands stained with alchemical solvents, his voice rising with excitement as he described some new experiment.
Ji-An sighed. “This is ridiculous,” she said, and, turning to Lin, she recounted the tale of Merren’s past: how Gremont had raped Alys, his sister, and arranged the imprisonment of his father. It was a grimly awful tale, and Lin felt her stomach shrink back against her spine. Oh, Antonetta, she thought.
“Merren,” she said when Ji-An was done. “I’m so sorry.”
Merren only nodded. He looked exhausted. Jerrod stepped forward to lay a hand on Merren’s shoulder.
“I think I know why the poison didn’t work,” Lin said.
Merren’s eyes flew wide, and Kel let out a low whistle. Only Andreyen looked unsurprised.
“He is wearing a protective amulet,” Lin went on. “A bit like Kel’s talisman—powerful old magic. I glimpsed it around his throat last night.”
“That ugly necklace?” Ji-An made a face. “Well, I can shoot him with an arrow if poison won’t work—”
“No,” said Merren, in an uncharacteristically cold voice that made Jerrod look down at him worriedly. “I want him to die by my hand. Not someone else’s.”
“I’m not even sure an arrow would work,” said Lin. “The amulet isn’t a protection against poison. It’s protection against danger. Anything that might threaten him. And it is from a time when amulets were far more powerful than they are now. The arrow might break before it ever struck him.”
Kel said, in a peculiar sort of voice, “If Conor had a talisman like that, he might not even need a Sword Catcher.”
“I’d be very curious as to where Gremont got it,” said Jerrod. “Very curious.” He looked down at Merren. “There is only one thing to do, then. We must steal the amulet—”
“Stop.” Andreyen’s voice, cut steel, sliced through the conversation. The room fell silent. “All of you. Cease this foolishness immediately.” He rose to his feet. Lin forgot sometimes how tall he was, tall and rangy as a shadow elongated at dawn. “Amulets can be powerful and complex. In the old days, there were some so powerful that any action taken against the wearer would be turned back on the attacker sevenfold.” He turned to Merren. “You trust me, do you not?”
Merren nodded. Andreyen knew a great deal about amulets, Lin thought, though that did not really surprise her; he had always been fascinated with magic. It was why he had approached her in the first place.
Andreyen’s voice softened. “I will look into this amulet business. Specifically, its origin. Something like that would be illegal to sell. If he bought it, I should be able to trace the acquisition. In the meantime, turn your attention back to the matter of the Shining Gallery.” He brushed his fingers along the head of his cane—a habitual gesture. “And indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if we find Gremont’s name somewhere in this Gallery business.”
Kel uncrossed his arms. “You think Artal Gremont could be implicated in the massacre? I’d love to see him swing from the Tully gallows, but he was in exile when it happened.”
The Ragpicker King smiled his long, unnerving smile. “And now he has returned, precisely because his father was killed that night. His exile was ended by his inheritance. Always look to who benefits from a crime when seeking the culprit.”
There was a short silence. Merren looked disappointed, but Lin knew he would not speak up against Andreyen, whom he adored as a sort of father figure—though truly, Andreyen was not that much older than any of them.
“Well, then,” said Jerrod, “we have our next move in the investigation. The Legate told Kel that Magali Berthe will be at the Arena croc fights on Ellsday. We can find her there.”
“And do what? Interrogate her?” Lin asked.
“Talk to her. She’ll speak with me. I’m from the Hill; she’s known me for years,” said Kel. “If there are any changes to the Ellsday plan, let me know through the usual channels.” He smiled crookedly. “Alas, I must depart. I have to retrieve a Princess in two days, and there are many preparations to see to.”
Two days later, Kel, dressed as Conor and bearing his circlet and talisman, rode along the Ruta Magna in the Palace’s open-topped carriage. The great road that ran from the Narrow Pass to the harbor was lined with the citizens of Castellane, who had turned out in great numbers to celebrate the new Princess’s arrival.
It was almost as though they had forgotten that three months ago, there had been an entirely different new Princess—one who had barely lived a week in the city before being murdered. Public memory was short when it came to an excuse to celebrate, Kel thought, remembering to incline his head gently every once in a while to acknowledge the presence of the crowd. They cheered as the carriage went by, waving the golden chrysanthemums that had been passed out that morning by Castelguards.
Though they held tightly to the green stems, the flowers would not be thrown until the Princess showed herself. She was the one they were desperate to see. Would she be beautiful? Glorious? A credit to the city? Today, the Crown Prince would be eclipsed. Kel could only feel relieved about it.
Queen Lilibet had stayed back at the Palace to ready everything for the arrival of Anjelica Iruvai. Jolivet, too, had remained behind, which struck Kel as strange. Usually, the Legate would have been present at a moment like this. He wondered if it had anything to do with the Shining Gallery investigation.
He felt the incipient beginnings of a headache, a buildup of pressure behind his eyes. He should not be thinking about the investigation. He was Conor now, doing what Conor would do in this situation. He needed to be alert not just to danger but also to the authenticity of his portrayal. He owed it to Conor and to his oath.
As they approached the curve of the harbor and turned toward the Royal Docks, Kel saw that they, too, had been prepared for the Princess’s arrival. The wood had received a coat of gilded paint, and climbing roses had been wound over and under all the beams, then the blossoms had been painted—gold again, the color of House Aurelian. Kel thought the whole thing resembled a gold dinner plate, adrift on a blue tablecloth.
It was quiet as the carriage drew up and Kel dismounted. Lilibet and Jolivet had argued that morning: The Queen wanted the Prince to meet the Princess alone, without soldiers or counselors to spoil the mood, while the Legate had pointed out that they were sending the Sword Catcher precisely because there was possible danger, and having guards present would only be good sense. In the end, they had compromised. The mounted members of the Arrow Squadron made a scarlet crescent behind Brigadier Benaset, seated on Jolivet’s white stallion, though they did not approach the wharf.
From here, Kel could see the curve of the shoreline all along the harbor they called the Key. The commercial wharves had been shut down for the day, and crowds of onlookers massed on the wooden platforms, gazing out to sea, their arms full of flowers. The taverns along the Key had thrown their doors open, and the sound of festive music drifted across the water. Only the armored ships moored off Tyndaris served as a hint that Castellane was prepared for an attack.
Someone in the crowd cried out. A speck had appeared on the horizon, growing quickly in size as the steady wind carried it toward the harbor. It was a clear day, the kind where heaven and sea met seamlessly at the horizon. The great ship from Kutani could be seen in all her splendor, moving across the harbor like a dowager queen sailing across a ballroom floor. Her red-orange sails made Kel think of spices—a spill of saffron and turmeric.
As the great ship neared the shore, Kel craned his head back to see it. The soul of the boy who had once, with his best friend, Cas, wanted to be a pirate, soared at the sight: polished, gleaming wood and brass, vast sails, the prow carved into the shape of a brightly painted mangrove tree. Men and women crowded the decks.
The massive ship stopped short of the dock. Uncertain muttering whipped up among the Arrow Squadron. Kel stood, feeling like an ass, as the Kutani boat drifted just offshore.
After some moments, a small dow boat was released into the water. It oared smoothly to the dock, where a single man—of medium height, with a smoothly shaven head and lean, handsome features—disembarked. His tunic and trousers were white linen; over them he wore an open robe the color of sumac, threaded through with gold. The deep color set off his dark-brown skin.
The sunlight glinted off his gold spectacles as he bowed to Kel, as was Kutani custom; Kel bowed in return. “I am Kurame Iruvai,” the man said. “This dock is too small.”
“You are Anjelica’s brother?” Kel realized, belatedly, the import of the purple-red robe, the gold bracelets at his wrists, studded with scarlet bloodstones. And Kurame’s familiarity: Of course he resembled his sister. “Then you are of the Bloodguard.”
Kurame inclined his head. “I am. But this dock remains too small. My sister cannot disembark here.”
“Can’t she?” Kel was frankly amazed. “She seemed ordinary-sized, from her portrait. Not a giantess of any sort.”
A smile touched the corner of Kurame’s mouth. “You will see what I mean, if the problem can be rectified. If not,” he added thoughtfully, “perhaps we must return to Kutani?”
Kel turned to face the Arrow Squadron and summoned his best version of Conor’s imperious tone. “We need to move the dock. Now.”
There were some muttered protests, but the dock had been designed to be mobile. Kel retreated to the shore as the Arrow Squadron waded into the water, muttering furiously as the lapping tide splashed up to ruin their scarlet-and-gold trousers. With a great deal of heaving on ropes, the dock was towed aside, leaving a clear path from the water to the land.
Kurame, meanwhile, had returned to the dow boat, where he seemed to be reading a book. Benaset, who had remained on horseback, glared. Kurame ignored this with a truly magnificent indifference. Kel, who was beginning to sweat in his heavy clothes, considered whether Kurame might be his personal hero.
When the dock had been relocated, the boat drew near. A massive gangplank was lowered, the Arrow Squadron staring up in frank amazement at the shining expanse of wood. Two long columns of Kutani courtiers lined up along either side of the walkway. Each carried a branch bearing the scarlet flowers of the flame tree. The women wore simple shift dresses of gorgeously printed cotton with rich decorative borders of gold and silver thread; the men wore white linen, with bands of more colorful fabric at their wrists and ankles.
Kurame’s small boat had come to shore; he climbed out and made his way to where Kel was standing. Two more of the Bloodguard—both handsome young men with a family resemblance to Kurame—marched down the walkway, heads high, swords glimmering at their waists. Like their brother, they wore the gold bracelets of their rank. As they reached the foot of the gangplank, they bowed to Kel and stepped aside, one to the right and the other to the left. They reminded Kel, somehow, of a double line of Lutan’s priests moving aside to allow the common folk to view the holy flame of the Temple.
He craned his neck back as movement stirred at the top of the gangplank. Something moved into view—something so massive that for a moment, it blocked the sun. Making its way down the wooden gangway was an elephant—massive and gray, with huge dark eyes lashed like a girl’s. Saddle-cloth of amber brocade draped its sides; its tusks were painted silver, and strands of tinkling silver bells wreathed its head and ankles.
Kel’s mouth fell open. He heard Kurame laugh delightedly. “I told you,” he said.
As the beast came nearer, Kel saw that lashed to its back was a basket-seat, woven from strips of mangrove wood. Inside the basket sat Princess Anjelica, her back as straight as an arrow.
She, too, wore a sheathed dress, but hers was of gold brocade, and over her slim shoulders hung a translucent cloak of gold and scarlet Marakandi sef, creating the effect of dragonfly wings. Her cloud of black curling hair was bound in a shining net. She glanced down at Kel from her perch, and he caught the fleeting glance of her dark eyes.
He drew in his breath; he could not help it. She was beautiful in a way that was like a blow. Kel had seen portraits of her, of course, and had heard all the tales of her loveliness. She was famous for it—and rightly so, it seemed.
But Kel had always thought of beauty as something to admire and enjoy. He had not realized there was a kind of beauty that was painful to look upon. That brought an ache to the back of the throat, as if he were listening to music that was profoundly sweet and sad.
And she looks sad, he thought. No, she looks anxious. She was looking around the harbor, half expectantly. He could see her tension. She, too, is expecting an attack from this spurned suitor of hers. But there were no ships on the horizon, no sign of any craft between here and Tyndaris bigger than a fishing vessel.
She rose to her feet and bowed—not to Kel, but to the people of Castellane who had gathered to see her. A great cry rose up. Cheering, they hurled their flowers into the air—a plumed cloud of saffron.
Then she called out—a sharp single word, clearly a command—and the elephant began to kneel. It sank down gracefully before Kel, extending one foreleg, bent slightly. “She wishes you to join her,” said Kurame, a hand on Kel’s shoulder. “Climb up.”
Here goes nothing, Kel thought, and clambered up onto the elephant’s sturdy leg.
Lin read for several hours in the Black Mansion before it was necessary for her to leave and go on rounds. She only had a few patients to see today, but given the crowds that would be clogging up the roads in the city, she was anxious about getting to them on time.
To her surprise, she found Andreyen waiting for her on the front step of the Black Mansion. He was leaning on his cane, gazing out at the Scarlet Square and the city beyond. His expression was especially opaque today—not that it was ever easy to tell what the Ragpicker King was thinking.
“You are worried,” he said. “Is this because Benjudah has arrived in the city?”
She gave him a curious look. Few malbushim even knew that the Ashkar had a leader, and if they did, like Conor, they called him the Exilarch. Then again, Andreyen had known about the forbidden books in the Shulamat. His pursuit of knowledge about magic had taken him closer to her people than most.
“Yes,” she said. It was something of a relief to state the plain truth. “It is his task to test me. To see if I am the Goddess I claim to be. When he discovers I am not—”
“I have a suggestion for you,” Andreyen said, still gazing out across the city. “I imagine you are trying to learn all you can before you, as you predict, inevitably fail at whatever challenge he sets you.” He turned to her. “You can lay your hand on magic, Lin. Concentrate not on faking your way through these tests, or on the time you imagine is growing ever shorter before you. Concentrate on passing the test. I believe you can.”
Lin was too astonished to say anything in reply, and indeed he did not seem to expect one, but went back into the Black Mansion, closing the door behind him.
She had been right about the difficulty of traversing the city. It was nearly midday, and the crowds were out in full force; all of Castellane had heard of the beauty of the foreign Princess and were eager to celebrate her arrival. (Save those young girls mourning that the Crown Prince would soon be married and unavailable to them; they wandered the streets disconsolate, wearing red ribbons pinned to their chests to symbolize broken hearts. Lin thought they were ridiculous.)
White jasmine was the flower of Kutani. Every balcony seemed to sport a plant pot from which white jasmine flowers spilled; every door was a wreath of the blooms. The air reeked with the rich, buttery-sweet scent. Alongside the jasmine were displayed yellow roses, the flower of House Aurelian, and colorful silk flags of Castellane flew from every window.
The closer Lin came to the Ruta Magna, the more densely crowded the streets became. Castellani had turned out in celebratory colors: bright red and gold, of course, as well as lime greens and raspberry silks saturated enough to look edible. Women wore crowns of flowers; the men pinned sprays to their buttonholes or pockets.
Lin realized she was terribly underdressed. But then, she was obviously Ashkar: people’s gazes slid over her and away, dismissing her, just as they usually did. The Ashkar were not expected to celebrate things like royal marriages. After all, they were not really citizens of Castellane.
Lin soon found herself entangled in a group of drunkenly boisterous students, carried along for several blocks, and deposited somewhere near the Street of Singing Women. Irritably, she dusted off her clothes and cut across the Temple District toward the Fountain Quarter, where her first patient, Zofia Kovati, lived.
She found Zofia in high good humor. Zofia had been a pirate in her younger days and still wore a black eyepatch. Today she wore a military jacket buttoned over an old-fashioned taffeta dress with full skirts.
“There’ll be music in the streets tonight,” Zofia said a bit dreamily, as Lin knelt to feel the swelling in the old woman’s frail ankles. “Clever of the Aurelians to marry the Crown Prince off to the girl from Kutani.”
“Yes,” Lin said. Clever and cold. Conor did not love this Princess, though perhaps if she was as beautiful as rumor had it, he would come to eventually. Her stomach tried to give another sick little lurch, but she ignored it and picked up her auscultor.
“I was in Kutani, long ago,” Zofia said, still in the same dreamy tone. “In Spice Town. The houses there are like castles. The sand so fine and soft you can sleep on it like a mattress. Even commoners are draped in silks and velvet, gold rings in their ears, on their fingers. The gardens are like paradise.”
The thrum of Zofia’s voice came through the auscultor, along with the sounds of her failing heart. When the heart began to die, Lin knew, fluid built up around the muscle, slowing its function further, causing the body to retain water and salt. A Castellani doctor would bleed Zofia’s swollen arms and legs, as if they were the cause of her ills and not a symptom. They would tell Zofia she could be cured.
Lin knew better than that.
She put away her auscultor and took out the usual medication. Digitalis lantana. “One tablet each morning with water,” she instructed. “And I shall leave several talismans for you, too, here on the nightstand. Wear them close to your skin.”
Zofia looked impish. “Can I dance? In the streets tonight, there will be dancing to celebrate the royal marriage.”
“Of course you can dance. In fact, I recommend it.” Lin slung her satchel over her shoulder. “I prescribe moonlight and music and a handsome young admirer to swing you about.”
Zofia cackled as Lin took her leave. If anything, it was hotter outside than it had been before. Lin walked close to the buildings, keeping to the shaded areas as she headed toward the Temple District. Children gathered around the public cisterns, splashing themselves with water. There would be swimming in the Fear River, cold sherbets sold from stands that seemed to appear magically on every corner when the heat rose above a certain temperature—
Lin sensed movement on her right side and turned her head just as a carriage pulled up alongside her. It was not just any carriage. This was a Marivent carriage, all red lacquer, with a gold lion blazoned on the side. The driver, perched in his seat above, wore Palace livery; he was staring straight ahead, his expression dour, as if he did not see her.
The carriage door swung open. The man who leaned out had graying hair, a hawk’s profile, and a narrow, hard mouth.
Lin stopped in her tracks. The carriage halted beside her.
“Legate Jolivet,” she said. She looked up and down the street; there were a few pedestrians making their way toward the Ruta Magna, but they studiously avoided glancing in the direction of the carriage. Palace business was Palace business.
The Legate inclined his head. “Domna Caster.”
“Shouldn’t you be with the Prince?” she said. “On such an important day as this?” And a dangerous one. Mayesh had always said that for royalty, appearing in public was a matter of risk and reward. Exposed to the public, they were in danger, but to hide from the public was to risk their ire or contempt.
He raised a thin eyebrow. “Kel Anjuman has the situation well in hand, I assure you.”
Ah. When Kel had said he needed to retrieve a Princess, Lin had assumed he would be going to the docks with Conor. Not going in Conor’s place, a Sword Catcher acting not the part of protector, but the part of Prince.
“Come.” Jolivet gestured impatiently, indicating that she should get into the carriage. “Your presence is requested by the Palace.”
“By the Prince, you mean,” Lin said.
Jolivet simply stared at her, his expression stony. She knew she ought to be afraid, but something inside her rebelled. She was a physician, on rounds. She had other patients, people who depended on her. Unlike a certain Prince who clearly could not imagine that she had responsibilities more important than his whims.
“Mayesh Bensimon is my grandfather,” she said. “He will not like to hear of you treating me this way.”
“Mayesh would tell you that you were being foolish to deny the Palace, if that is indeed what you are doing,” said Jolivet. The signet ring on his hand flashed as he gestured dismissively. “Believe me. I know him well.”
He was right. Lin gritted her teeth together. She had the urge to kick the wheels of the carriage and scream, but that would do no good either way.
She raised her chin and matched the Legate’s gaze, stare for stare. “I suppose,” she said. “But I will need to be back at the Sault before dark.”
He smiled thinly. “As you wish, Domna,” he said, and reached out with a callused hand to help her into the carriage.