CHAPTER TEN
T wo days later, Lin sat perched atop a wooden stool in the Black Mansion’s laboratory. She was watching Merren with great curiosity as he unveiled the various tools he’d readied to test the substance she’d brought back from Marivent.
Wearing thick gloves to protect his hands, Merren lined up a series of glass jars along the edge of the table, each containing, he had explained, a different reagent. He had set up an alembic as well, with a flame beneath for distilling.
None of it was entirely unlike the tools in the House of Physicians, where ingredients were pulverized, chopped, distilled, aged, and purified into medicines. Merren had a set of different words for what he did and the things he used, though— alchemy, retorts, cucurbit, anbik. In the Physicians’ House, everything was done as it had been done for hundreds of years. Merren seemed to be inventing his technique as he went along.
“You’re very clever with all this,” Lin said. Merren looked up and smiled, but there was a distance in his blue eyes, as if he’d only partially heard her. “Merren, is everything all right?”
He bent his fair head, grimacing as he added a drop of the vial mixture to a jar of yellow liquid. “I hate the fact that Artal Gremont is in Castellane and still alive. He squats like a toad on the Hill, and my hands—my hands are tied.” Nothing had happened with the yellow liquid; Merren moved on to the next jar. “I hate to ask, but have you learned anything? About the amulet?”
Lin frowned. She had spent some hours in the Shulamat, studying spidery old illustrations of amulets and protective medallions from times past. It was not enough for her to feel like an expert, though. “It is a very old and powerful thing that he bears,” she said. “The sort of object that would have been gifted to an emperor or king before the Sundering. A few such objects have survived the ages, but surely if the Gremont family had such a thing in their possession for generations, someone would have known it before now.”
“Interesting.” Lin wasn’t sure if Merren was talking about what she’d said, or about the blue substance he’d just dripped liquid into. It seemed to be fizzing a bit. “So how did Gremont get his hands on it? It doesn’t seem the sort of thing he would have picked up in his travels.”
“I imagine it was given to him,” Lin said. “But by who, and why?”
“And more important, how do we get it away from him?”
“I don’t know yet. And Merren, Andreyen is right. Trying to take such a thing from its owner can be dangerous.”
Merren looked grim. “It is bad enough for me, this waiting,” he said. “I know Kel hates it, too. It tortures him. And it is even worse for my sister, having Gremont in the city—patronizing the Caravel, even.”
Lin thought of Silla, of the fear and disgust on her face when she spoke of Gremont.
“I cannot decide whether he has forgotten Alys altogether,” Merren said slowly, “or whether causing her discomfort gives him pleasure. But she cannot throw him out—not without alienating her other patrons from the Hill.”
Other patrons from the Hill. Lin could not stop herself from wondering if Conor knew all of what Gremont had done years ago. Kel had not known either until Joss Falconet had filled in the details for him. She could not help hoping Conor did not know, and wished she didn’t.
Nor did she really wish to think of Conor at the Caravel. Kel said he had changed. But would someone who had changed really have given her a royal order?
She pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling a headache beginning to start. “Where is Jerrod, by the way?”
Merren, adding a dropper of liquid to a jar of what looked like blue water, started a bit. “I... don’t know. Off on some errand, I suppose. Why?”
“Because he seems to like to be wherever you are,” Lin said with a little smile. “You could break his heart, you know.”
Merren’s cheeks had gone pink. Staring at the watery substance in the jar, he said, “Jerrod doesn’t think of me that way. I don’t think he even has feelings like... like that for anyone.”
There was a noise at the door. Lin looked over, but there was no one there. Probably the mansion settling, she thought, but before she could say anything, Merren gave a shout.
The blue watery substance had turned an oily, opaque black. “Blackroot,” Merren said. “The main ingredient in this concoction is blackroot.”
Lin frowned. “I haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s very strange.” Merren seemed to have forgotten talk of Jerrod entirely. He was a pure alchemist now. “You are a physician; you know the old saying. The only difference between poison and cure is dosage.”
Lin nodded.
“But that is not true for blackroot. A few grains of it will sicken. A dram of it would be enough to kill an ox.”
Puzzled, Lin said, “And how much would you say is in this medicine?”
“A killing dose.” Merren regarded the jar, which continued to boil away. “This is pure poison.”
Kel was lacing up his boots when Conor came into their apartment, carrying a worn copy of The Cold Heart of the Lonely King . (He’d previously complained to Kel that the book had gotten none of the details about the true responsibilities of royalty remotely correct, but he hadn’t stopped reading it.) Kel nearly leaped into the air, leaving the boots behind; he’d thought Conor had a meeting today. He’d been counting on it, in fact.
“Marvelous news,” said Conor, flopping down on a divan and tossing his book aside. He proceeded to recount the tale of breakfast, during which Anjelica had horrified Lilibet by announcing that she was removing all the draperies from the Castel Pichon and replacing them with fabrics of her own choosing. “Every curtain, every bedspread,” Conor reported with glee. When Lilibet had asked what Anjelica planned to do with the old fabrics, Anjelica had said she would either store them or have them distributed charitably to poor families in the city.
“ Maman is livid,” added Conor. “I’m sure she regrets ever agreeing to this marriage.”
“I’m sure she never expected to have to sacrifice her draperies for the good of the kingdom,” Kel said, but Conor wasn’t paying attention; he had just noticed Kel’s boots.
“Are you going riding?” he asked.
Kel briefly considered lying, then discarded the idea. “No, I thought I’d visit the Arena this afternoon. You know how dusty it gets.” He indicated the boots. “You have that Dial Chamber meeting today; you won’t need me. You were going to introduce Anjelica to the families. I’d just be in the way.”
“You would,” Conor agreed, “ if the meeting were happening. But it’s off. Cazalet has the lurgy or the dropsy or something like that.” He sat up straight, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “What’s on at the Arena?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Crocodile fights,” said Kel. “I think. Or it could be a poetry competition—”
“If it’s Ellsday, it’s the fights.” Conor sprang to his feet. “Excellent. I’ll go with you. We haven’t sat in the box at the Arena for ages.”
“I wouldn’t think you should bring Anjelica there,” said Kel. His hands, clammy now, slipped on his bootlaces. “I don’t think she’d like it—”
“She won’t mind. You heard her—she doesn’t expect me to take her everywhere with me. In fact, she doesn’t even want it. She’ll be perfectly happy here, decorating her quarters. Which means I have a free afternoon, thank the Gods—and Cazalet.” Conor grinned. “Besides, I’ve fifty crowns on Green Death already. I had Joss place the bet. Now I can collect my winnings in person.”
There was no way to warn Ji-An, Jerrod, or Merren. Kel would just have to improvise when he got there. He supposed it was true what they said about the Gods: They struck most suddenly the moment you made plans.
In the days of the Empire, the Arena had been the center of the city. The Emperors of Magna Callatis had been addicted to bloodsport, and the people had loved it, too, for they had been taught that there was no greater glory than to fight and die for the Emperor—whether it was on a battlefield far away, or on the dusty sand of the Arena, for the Emperor’s amusement.
There had been weekly shows of violence, where gladiators battled—sometimes each other, sometimes wild beasts. (Before the Sundering, it was claimed, a swordsman might be forced to fight a phoenix or a dragon; such battles never lasted long, nor did the human combatant often come out the winner.) Tigers from Hind, wolves from Detmarch, great apes and lions from the Sunlands to the south—the crowd would roar as they tore men and women apart and left the sands of the Arena soaked with blood.
The Empire had gone, but like the roads and aqueducts and sewers that kept the city running, the Arena remained. After the Empire’s fall, gladiators, now free men instead of slaves, continued to volunteer to participate in Arena battles, for the rewards—gold and fame—remained tantalizing.
It was Conor’s great-grandfather who had passed Laws forbidding men to fight each other to the death for sport. There had been grumbling from all sides, but the animal fights remained, and King Marchal had brought in acrobats and dancers, musicians and acting troupes, from up and down the Gold Roads to perform in the Arena—free of charge for the citizens of Castellane. That had quelled the complaints.
The Arena had become a great leveler in the years since. Any citizen could come to be entertained, be they noble or merchant, guildmaster or street urchin. All of Castellane took a proprietary pride in the place, though it had grown grimy and worn down over the centuries. The outside of the circular arena was clad with marble, but inside the ancient stones were cracked and worn smooth, the bright paint that had once decorated the rows of seats faded to sun-worn pastels.
Kel and Conor entered through an archway, accompanied by Castelguards. There was a faint cheer from the crowd as they realized the Prince was among them. A few lewdly admiring remarks about Anjelica were called out, along with offers to buy the guards various alcoholic drinks. Conor, dressed in white linen like an Emperor of old, smiled as if deaf to their commentary, graciously inclining his head. He and Kel had been to the Arena many times before; Conor had once told him that it was good for the people of Castellane to see the royal family enjoying the same things they did.
A set of stone steps led up to the royal box—once the Emperor’s seat, from which he could dole out death or mercy at a whim, but now merely a privileged viewing position. Kel and Conor headed up between their escort of guards, Kel keeping his eyes on the crowd as they passed.
He saw them, a flash at the corner of his eye: Jerrod, Ji-An, and Merren seated in the fifth row. He caught Ji-An’s furious gaze, shook his head quickly. I couldn’t stop him from coming.
Ji-An turned back to Merren and Jerrod; they began to whisper together. Kel cursed quietly to himself as he entered the royal box, hung with a bunting of yellow flowers. The stone benches here were cushioned, and glasses rested on a low, inlaid table, ready for wine. He took a seat beside Conor, scanning the Arena below. The seats were half full—whole families had come, with small children, spreading out blankets over the stone benches.
And then, down by the first row, Kel saw her—Magali—her crown of braided gray hair familiar even at a distance. But as long as Kel was with Conor, he could not get away to question her. What, Kel wondered to himself, were they going to do?
It was a hot day, the sun gleaming like a yellow diamond. Lin was on her way back home from visiting her patients (several of whom needed to be placated with apologies, since she had missed visiting them the day Conor had brought her to the Palace). She kept to the cooler sides of the streets where flowering fig and almond trees offered shade. The sky was cloudless above the Sault walls, the color of techelet —the ancient blue dye that even now was used to color holy tapestries and the garments of priests like the Maharam.
Once inside the Sault, Lin cut toward the Etse Kebeth, meaning to check in on Mariam, but she came to a halt at the edge of the Kathot, her eyes squinted against the sun. A dais had been set up, just as on the day of the Tevath, with the Maharam’s carved seat atop it. The seat was occupied not by the Maharam, however, but by Aron Benjudah.
The Exilarch did not look as he had when Lin had met him in the Shulamat, dusty and travel-stained. He looked like paintings she had seen of Judah Makabi, the Lion, the first head of the Sanhedrin, dressed in a tunic of techelet blue, a sword slung at his side. Around his neck hung a heavy silver medallion, not unlike Mayesh’s, though this one was set with deep-blue stones that matched his tunic.
Two small groups were clustered in front of the dais, and Aron seemed to be listening to them intently. A line of more Ashkar trailed from the dais nearly to the steps of the Shulamat. Lin had seen this before with the Sanhedrin: Aron was hearing cases and giving judgment, just as the King of Castellane had once done in the Convocat.
Seeing Mariam standing at the edge of a cluster of onlookers, Lin crept up beside her and tapped her shoulder. Mariam grinned upon seeing her. There was color in her cheeks, which was good, but her eyes looked too big for her face. Lin made a note to brew some gentian tea tonight. It would stimulate Mariam’s appetite.
“I’ve never seen such a crowd on a Judging Day,” Lin whispered. “Is something fascinating happening?”
“Oh, goodness, no,” said Mariam, her eyes sparkling. “The Ohl family has a tree that’s been dropping its fruit into Kep Chaiken’s garden. The argument is over who owns the fruit.”
“What kind of fruit?”
“Who cares?” Mariam elbowed Lin playfully. “Everyone’s here to see the Exilarch. He’s gorgeous. I’d watch him adjudicate a catfight.”
Taken aback, Lin rose up on her toes to stare at Aron. The last time she’d met him, she’d been far too terrified to ponder if he was handsome or not. He was, she supposed, much younger than everyone had expected. He had tidied up his hair, which was now a neat halo of dark bronze. The planes of his face were strong, like the profile of a king on a coin. Square jaw, serious eyes. He seemed at ease dispensing judgment, gesturing fluidly as he talked. When the sleeves of his tunic fell back, Lin could see the Rhadanite markings on his arms.
Lin said, “What happens if the fruit falls into the public street? Or a squirrel steals it?”
“Legal chaos,” said Mariam solemnly. “Don’t you think he’s handsome, though?”
“He holds my future in his hands, Mari,” Lin said. “I haven’t time to wonder whether they’re attractive hands.”
At that moment, Aron glanced toward them. Lin forced herself to meet his gaze, even as she thought: Everyone here knows. They know the Exilarch must recognize the Goddess Returned, for the soul of the Exilarch is passed down through the blood, and the soul of the Goddess is eternal. They would be watching her and Aron, watching for some visible sign of connection between them.
She tore her eyes from his.
“Are you all right, Lin?” Mariam said. “You seem troubled.”
“I had a dream two nights ago. A bad one. It was so vivid.” Lin recounted the substance of her dream to Mariam, though she did not mention that the words she’d heard the man in her dream speak had also been said to her by the King in the tower.
“He burned everything he touched?” Mariam said curiously when Lin was done. “I think I know why you had that dream. It’s one of the stories from that book of yours. The one you lent me.”
Lin frowned. “Which story?”
“I wish I had the book with me. It was one of the Sorcerer-Kings.” Mariam lowered her voice. “The others called him the Phoenix King because he harnessed the power of fire. He cursed his enemies so that everything they touched would burn away. All sorts of odd things we read turn up in our dreams, Lin.”
“Yes,” Lin said slowly. “In fact, something a patient said to me turned up in my dream. It was Malgasi, I think. Hollazekyer di niellem pu nag.”
“What an odd thing to say.” Mariam looked puzzled. “It’s Malgasi, yes. It means ‘They are trying to prevent me from becoming what I am.’”
Before Lin could reply, she was interrupted by a familiar hissing voice.
“Goddess,” said Oren Kandel, his dark eyebrows beetling. “Pardon me for interrupting. There is an angry woman at the gates, looking for you.”
“An angry woman? Did you get her name?” A patient? Lin wondered.
“No.” Oren looked at her haughtily. Of course he hadn’t gotten a name. “I believe she is from Geumjoseon.”
Ji-An? Lin thought. She didn’t have any current patients from Geumjoseon, so who else could it be? But wasn’t Ji-An supposed to be in the Arena today, with Kel and the others?
Had something gone terribly wrong? Bidding a quick farewell to Mariam, Lin hurried from the Kathot. She thought she could feel someone watching her as she went. Aron Benjudah, most likely, but when she turned to look back over her shoulder, he seemed engaged in the business of judgment, and as utterly unaware of her as if she had been a passing moth.
“Here we are,” Conor said. He was sitting back against the cushions piled on the bench in the royal box, a half-full wineglass in hand. “Like old times. Before I became, you know. Responsible. ”
His tone was light, but Kel wondered if there was a sadness underneath it. It was hard to tell with Conor. He had always been able to retreat from unpleasant realities—into drink, into courtesans, into games of chance or indoor archery. Now that he was no longer allowing himself such strategic retreats, hard truth seemed to sink in at unpredictable times.
“You seem to have taken to those responsibilities,” said Kel. He tried to force himself to focus on Conor—though it should not be a matter of force. Conor should be the center of all his thoughts. But his mind kept returning to Merren and Ji-An and Jerrod, and their broken plans. “I think far more than you imagined you would, at first.”
At first. Kel knew what had brought on the great change in Conor, even if no one else did. He remembered the moment, outside the Gallery full of the dead, when Conor had taken hold of him as if he needed Kel to keep him standing upright. How he had whispered, every word edged in grief: I went behind their backs out of vanity and pride, and now that pride is paid for in other people’s blood. This—this is my mess. Mine to clean up.
“Out of necessity,” Conor said now, twirling the narrow stem of the wineglass between his long fingers. “Not out of choice. I wonder if the fact that it is a necessity limits how good I can ever be at it.”
“Con. Everyone who takes on the responsibility of ruling does it out of some kind of necessity.”
Conor raised his eyes to Kel’s. They were ringed with kohl today, which made them look larger. More as they had when he was a boy—when he and Kel had been boys together, and Kel had dreamed of seeing as those gray eyes saw.
“Most people would not listen to my complaining sympathetically, Kellian,” he said. “I am, after all, regretting the responsibilities that power confers. Look how quickly Artal Gremont came running back to Castellane once he knew the power of the Charter was within his grasp.”
It was painful to hear Gremont’s name. But before Kel could say anything, a grinding sound came from the center of the Arena. The Empire’s system of hydraulics and pulleys still functioned, tended to by a team of engineers. Two slabs of earth drew back, revealing a watery pit below.
Savagely, Kel said, “Gremont is the sort who wants power for the worst reasons. Antonetta told me he plans to exercise his right of First Night when they marry. I suppose you know—?”
“I know,” Conor said quietly.
Kel flung himself down on the bench beside Conor. “Then why don’t you put a stop to it?”
“You think a man like Gremont will be angry with me if I tell him no,” said Conor, “but you do not understand his mind. He will be angry with Antonetta. He will take that anger out on her.”
“Antonetta said she was not worried he would harm her,” Kel said, though he knew he had said too much as soon as the words left his mouth.
Conor only lifted an eyebrow slightly. “He will not hurt her physically—she is a noblewoman of the Hill, and they are not yet married. He would be a fool to do such a thing. But there are other ways to harm. He could plan a lifetime of humiliations and cruelties we might never see.” He looked into his wineglass. “Better to let him have that one show of power. You understand? It is not possession of her body he wants. It is power, and wielding it in front of others.”
“How do you know that?”
“I understand him,” said Conor, his voice sharp, but the cutting blade was turned inward, against himself.
“I cannot fathom how you can bear to,” said Kel.
Conor set the wineglass down. “Believe me when I say I wish it was not necessary.” He sounded weary enough to make Kel feel torn in half. Half fury that there was no way to stop Gremont, that Conor could not do it, that Kel himself was helpless, alone with his bitter fury and murderous rage. And half despair that these grim calculations were ones that Conor was forced to make, that he had no choice.
Another grinding sound ripped through the Arena. Iron portcullises at opposite ends of the field below heaved upward, and from the dark space within came marching a long line of crocodiles, each one with a steel ring around its scaled neck. A chain was attached to each ring, the other end gripped by a masked crocodile handler. As the soon-to-be-fighting reptiles entered the Arena one by one, they were met with cheers and admiring cries.
Kel and Conor watched the parade for some time in silence, Conor through half-lidded eyes. The animals would be paraded for the admiration of the crowd, after which bets would be placed and the fights would begin. Kel had little stomach for bloodsport, but he had to admit that if he had to watch any animals fight, he would feel the least sympathy for the terrifying monsters that lurked in the harbor. He thought of Fausten, his scream as he had hit the water, the splash and the silence that had followed.
“Sometimes,” Conor said, breaking the silence—he seemed to be speaking half to Kel and half to himself—“we must forget that we are creatures with feelings. We must take the emotions we have and bury them, or turn them to stone. And hope to the Gods it does the trick.”
Kel wasn’t sure what to say to that, but at that moment Benaset approached the box and cleared his throat politely. “Monseigneur,” he said to Conor, “there’s someone here to see you.”
The Castelguard looked down at Lin—he stood upon the step above, adding to the sense that he towered over her—with a superior frown. “One cannot simply intrude upon the royal presence,” he said, gesturing at the flower-draped box some feet above them. Lin could just see Conor and Kel, who seemed deep in conversation; neither had noticed her yet. “If you wish to lay a matter at the feet of the Prince, there are ways—”
Lin clenched her fists at her sides. She hated what she was about to say, about to do, but there seemed little choice. When she’d left the Sault, she’d found Ji-An outside, distraught. The other girl had begged her—
Well. That wasn’t precisely true. Ji-An never begged. She’d told Lin of the wreck of their plan to have Kel question Magali in the Arena.
“The Prince just turned up,” Ji-An said. “No warning at all, or any consideration for other people’s plans—”
“That does sound like him.”
“You’re going to have to question Magali.” Ji-An had taken Lin by the shoulders. “You’re the only one she’ll recognize, the only one she might talk to—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lin had shaken her head. “She won’t tell me a thing. But —I think I can help another way.”
Which was how she’d found herself here, about to lie her way into the royal box at the Arena. Lin had never even been to the Arena as a spectator. She’d nearly choked on the dust when she’d first arrived, not to mention the strong smells of fried onions and sweaty bodies.
“Do you have no request?” the Castelguard asked, eyeing Lin—who had gone silent for who knew how long—with some puzzlement. “If so, I am going to have to ask you to remove yourself, Domna.”
Lin took a deep breath. “I am the granddaughter of Mayesh Bensimon, the Counselor to the throne,” she said, and saw the guard’s face change as she’d known it would. “Please tell the Prince I am here.”
The Castelguard looked irresolute. He cast his gaze over her, more closely this time, noting her Ashkar colors, her demurely braided hair. She could practically see the gears whirring in his mind. Clearly he did not relish the idea of interrupting the Prince, but neither did he wish to risk Mayesh’s wrath by sending his granddaughter packing. With a shake of his head, he gestured for Lin to follow him.
Somewhere down in the Arena, Jerrod, Ji-An, and Merren were watching her as she hurried after the guard. She let that knowledge strengthen her as she approached the royal box. She could see Kel and Conor lounging on a long bench draped in rich fabrics, beside them a gilded table upon which was set a pitcher and wineglasses. The heady scent of Aurelian roses perfumed the dusty air.
“Monseigneur,” the Castelguard said, “there is someone here to see you.”
Lin held herself as calmly as she could as two pairs of gray eyes swept over her. The Prince’s were heavy-lidded; he seemed to be squinting at her, as if trying to recall exactly who she was. Beside him, Kel had gone still, but it was the only surprise he showed. Lin forgot sometimes what a good actor he had to be, to do what he did.
“Domna Caster,” Conor said, inclining his head. The sun sparked off the slim gold circlet that bound his brow. “To what do we owe this pleasant surprise?”
Lin spoke quickly. “Monseigneur. I bring word to you from my grandfather. He would have come to the Arena himself,” she added, “but he is an old man, and the sun is too strong for him here.”
Conor smiled a charming smile. She wondered if he had practiced it in a mirror. Like a painted screen in a theater, that smile, hiding the unknown. “Well, let her in, Benaset. One cannot disregard word from the Counselor.”
Benaset stepped back, and Lin entered the box. Something crackled beneath her feet; she glanced down to see the floor strewn with dried petals. Conor was watching Benaset leave, his only movement the tap of his fingers against the arm of his chair. Kel was looking out at the Arena floor, but Lin could tell his attention was on her. Waiting to see what she wanted, what she’d do next.
Heart beating like the tap-tap of a timbrel, Lin said, “Sieur Kel Anjuman, please excuse us, but my business is state business, I’m afraid. I must speak to the Prince alone.”
Kel glanced at Conor, who shrugged, as if to say: This is not my doing, and nodded. Kel rose to his feet. “It’s no trouble, Domna. It gives me a chance to place a bet on today’s fight. I have a good feeling about Green Death’s chances.”
Kel ducked out of the box, angling a quick smile of acknowledgment at Lin as he went. It was a comforting look: one that said they were in this together even as they went their separate ways.
The moment Kel had gone, Conor’s whole demeanor changed. Lin saw the tension in him as he turned his full attention to her. “I told you how to reach me,” he said. “Through the Castelguards, not like this—”
“I couldn’t wait. I had to speak to you.”
“Has something happened? Are you in danger?”
“Danger? No, not at all,” she said, and to her surprise, his posture relaxed. “But the message. About the patient you introduced me to. I didn’t want to risk it falling into any hands but yours.”
“Then you’d better tell me what it is,” he said, and gestured for her to take Kel’s vacated place beside him.
Lin hesitated—but she could hardly refuse, and besides, this was all in the service of distracting the Prince. She settled beside him on the bench. It was a comfortable seat, padded with thick-napped velvet, the arms cushioned. The view over the Arena was sweeping; Lin felt she could see every bit of it spread out before her as a green flood of crocodiles, who had been marching on display, were led one by one back into the darkness of the pens below.
The sense of being pinned in the sky, looking down on the world below, was inescapable. The old Emperors had thought themselves Gods; it was easy to see why.
“An excellent view of a shabby place,” said the Prince, and Lin realized he had been watching her take it in; she could see her fascination reflected in his face.
“Shabby now,” she said. “But you can see that it was glorious once.”
“I never thought of you as being particularly interested in the architecture of the Empire.”
It was odd, Lin thought. Despite the clear urgency of her message, he didn’t seem interested in hearing it, at least not immediately. “Everyone is interested in beautiful things,” she said.
After a moment, he said, “Yes,” in an odd sort of tone that made her look over at him. He was turned away from her, though, reaching to take a bottle out of the ice chest by his seat.
He placed it on the low table between them. The bottle glass was bright red, condensation already beginning to run down its sides. When he poured the liquid into two crystal glasses, it was nearly the same color, bright and deep as blood.
“Would you care for some rabarbaro ?” the Prince inquired, sliding a glass full of the bright-scarlet stuff toward her. She took it automatically. The crystal was cold as ice against her fingers, a pleasant chill. “It is made from the roots of Shenzan rhubarb, to which the Sarthians add cardamom and lemon to lessen the bitterness.”
Lin hesitated a moment. She rarely drank spirits; sweet wine at festivals and weddings was the extent of it. She took a sip and nearly choked; the tang of the rhubarb was almost eclipsed by the fire of the alcohol.
“It tastes of medicine,” she said before she could stop herself.
To her surprise, the Prince laughed. He was holding his own glass between his fingers, the red of the liquid bright against his white linen clothes. She did not think she’d seen him in all white before. He looked like a dissipated priest. “I suppose it does. I hated the taste of it when I was younger—not rabarbaro, all liquor—but one gets used to it. And the effect is worth it.”
Lin stared dubiously into her glass. She was about to set it down when, below in the Arena, she glimpsed Kel approaching Magali. Quickly, she took another sip, spluttered, and turned to the Prince, who was watching her with amusement.
“Your fa—” she began, stopped and licked her lips, tasting rhubarb. “The patient in whom we both have an interest,” she corrected herself. “I tested his medicine. More than once. I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” The Prince had drained his glass. It appeared to have no effect on him that she could see. He poured himself another, his movements casual, careless. Lin watched the splash of the red liquid in the crystal and wondered briefly if Ji-An and Merren were watching. Would they be wondering what on earth she was doing?
“The drug has a sedative base, but that is not all it is. There is within it blackroot. Which is a poison. And there is not just a small amount of it present. There is more than enough to kill.”
The Prince went still. He sat back slowly, glass in hand. His gaze was on the Arena.
“But he has been taking this medicine for years,” said Conor, finally. “If Fausten had meant to kill him, would he not have died long ago?”
“I cannot say what Fausten was trying to do. Or why the patient is still alive. I only know he is. And clearly it has affected him, though whether because it has harmed him or because he has developed a dependence on it, I cannot guess yet.”
“A dependence? As if this stuff were poppy-juice? But addicts become desperate for the drug they take. They will do anything to get it. That hardly describes our patient.”
“It does not,” she said. “But not much is known about blackroot, since usually any dose kills. If one survives taking it, it is hard to say what might happen then.”
Conor was silent, his gaze inward and thoughtful. Lin took another sip of the rabarbaro; this time she did not choke. A warmth had started to spread out from her stomach, making her skin prickle. The sun, too, was strong on her skin, and Prince Conor’s. It illuminated his face, making the white scar at his temple stand out like a twist of silver thread. His circlet seemed to glow among the shadowy locks of his hair; it was the sort of hair that was so dark, it would absorb the sun’s heat. If one stroked one’s hand through it, one would feel the sun-warmed threads against one’s palm, hot and soft as black silk.
“Could the patient, perhaps, have built up a resistance to the poison over the years?” said the Prince at last. “Perhaps Fausten started with small doses and increased them over time?”
Lin blinked and set her glass down on the table. To her horror, it was empty. Somehow, she had drunk all the rabarbaro.
“It’s possible. It’s a common mountain plant in Malgasi; perhaps Fausten heard about it there, and uses for it beyond the ones we are aware of in Castellane. Unfortunately, there are few books on florticulture in the Shulamat—”
The Prince raised an eyebrow. “Did you say florticulture ?”
“Floriculture,” said Lin haughtily. “I said floriculture. The study of—”
“Flowering plants. I’m aware.” The Prince looked at her closely. “Are you drunk?”
Lin frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve never been drunk.”
The Prince smiled. It was not his earlier, practiced smile. It was a real smile, with no edge of falsity to it.
“I’m a very busy physician,” she said. “I don’t have time to be drunk.”
“Gasquet is a doctor, and he’s drunk all the time,” Prince Conor pointed out.
“Yes,” said Lin. “But he is a very, very bad doctor. That’s why you keep coming to me in emergencies. You’ve done it”—she counted aloud on her fingers—“three times now. Three. ”
His eyes sparkled. There was something heart-catching about his unstudied amusement. Though it had nothing to do with him personally, Lin reminded herself. It was as she had said before, about the Arena. Everyone is interested in beautiful things. Though it was unfair that he was a Prince and also beautiful. Like being very rich and very lucky; a person should really be only one of those things.
“I have an idea,” he said. “There are plenty of floriculture texts in the Palace library, due to my mother’s obsession with gardens.”
“You’ve been to the Palace library?” Lin couldn’t hide her surprise.
“The assumptions you make about me are truly bizarre,” he said. “Apparently you think I am illiterate and are not afraid to say so to my face. It’s... unusual.”
“I just didn’t think—”
“That I know how to read? Believe me, I’m required to— and in several languages. I enjoy reading. I could show you my favorite books, but you would probably tell me they were silly.”
Lin made an indignant sound.
“There’s a banquet I can miss, if I must, tomorrow night. Come to Marivent. I’ll let you into the library. You can help me look for information on this root of yours.”
There was a loud grinding noise. Two gates had opened in the pit. Through each slithered a massive crocodile—certainly among the largest that had marched around the Arena earlier. Now that there were only two, it was possible to see them in more detail: Elaborately worked collars encircled their necks, each collar attached to a chain. Their scales flashed; jewels were embedded into individual scutes, each jewel a symbol of a battle won. White scars showed along their hides, around their eyes and jaws.
At the other ends of the animals’ chains were their handlers. Massive men with oarsman’s shoulders, they controlled their beasts with a mixture of strength and training. These were not crocodiles from the harbor of Castellane; they had been bred as fighting animals, and as such, responded to their handlers. Still, it was a dangerous job: Lin had once cared for a handler whose leg had been bitten off below the knee by his beast.
The handlers released the animals, who lunged for each other, jaws snapping. The acoustics of the Arena brought the sound up to the crowd, who yelled out the names of their preferred fighters— Split-Tail! Green Death! —though Lin doubted the crocodiles cared.
Amid the noise and motion of the fight, Lin caught sight of another movement. It was Kel, heading up the steps of the Arena, clearly having finished his conversation with Magali. Lin must have made a noise of surprise—she had nearly forgotten that her purpose in the box was to distract the Prince’s attention—for Conor glanced at her and said, “Does it bother you? The sight of the crocodiles?”
“I am not afraid of them, no.” The warmth of the alcohol was receding; she felt a bit sick. “It is more that I have no desire to see two living creatures, no matter how brutal they are, kill each other.”
“It is unusual for one to kill the other.” Prince Conor gestured toward the Arena floor. “You see that white circle chalked at their feet? Each crocodile tries to drive the other out of the circle’s boundary. The one pushed out of the circle loses. They fight for territory just as people do. Murder is not the first step; the game of dominance comes before it. It is about what you can hold,” he added, “even as another might try to take it from you.”
“But they wound each other,” Lin said. “They bite and slash and bleed.”
“Of course.” There was an odd light in his eyes as he studied her face. “I had forgotten you can be gentlehearted.”
In the pit, the crocodiles circled each other, heads down, growling. Lin wanted to say, I am always gentle, I heal, I am a physician. She wanted to say, I can see the shadows in your eyes, hear the bitterness in your voice when you speak of your father. I know you have nightmares. Kel told me. I feel for your wounds. How could I not?
But she thought, instead, He gave me a royal order, and the taste of the rabarbaro was bitter in the back of her throat.
“Well,” she said, rising to her feet, “not to Princes. Just crocodiles,” and she slipped out of the box without looking back.
She passed the Castelguards on the long stairs and heard the crowd roar as she went; the beasts in the pit below had begun to fight.
Well done, Lin, Kel thought as he made his way down the Arena steps. Away from the shade of the royal box, the Arena was even hotter than it had been earlier, and more crowded. The air was thick and salty, as if the sea and air had melded at the horizon.
Lin had been nimble in getting him away from Conor. Clever to use her relationship with Mayesh that way. Though she’d certainly have to think up something that would keep Conor distracted for the next quarter hour at least.
He was aware that somewhere in the Arena, Ji-An and the others were watching him as he approached the lower tier where Magali Berthe was seated, alone.
Kel was used to seeing Magali on the Hill, clothed in the rose and silver of the Alleyne livery. Now she was dressed as an ordinary woman of Castellane, a shopkeeper or a publican’s wife, wearing a plain brown cotton dress over a linen cotehardie. In her lap was a ceramic dish of sweet treats: fried milk, sesame pasteli, spiced biscuits from Hanse. She was staring fixedly at the crocodiles parading around the Arena floor.
Kel pushed past a knot of people—some of whom stared; perhaps they recognized him as one of the Prince’s companions—and planted himself in front of Magali. She was gnawing a macun —a sweet-spicy toffee wrapped around a stick and popular on the Gold Roads.
Kel sat down beside her on the stone bench. “Domna Berthe,” he said. “A fine day for the Arena, don’t you think?”
Jolted, she turned to stare at him, nearly dropping the macun. In the harsh unfiltered light, he realized she was older than he’d guessed, closer to sixty than fifty, lines of worry etched deeply at the corners of her eyes and mouth.
“Sieur Anjuman.” She inclined her head, but he could see her clearly wondering: What on earth was he doing here? Nobles were certainly not meant to make light conversation with servants, but then he was a foreign noble, wasn’t he? Marakandi by birth—a little strange perhaps, in his customs. In the end, she said in a slightly sulky voice, “I am permitted to attend the games, Sieur. Today is my free day, and my lady gave me leave.”
Kel said mildly, “You are a very loyal servant to the Alleynes. I suspect Liorada—your lady, that is—relies on you a great deal.”
Magali seemed to puff up, like a long-haired cat. “Yes, she does. For everything.”
“You have been her right hand,” Kel said, keeping his voice smooth and gentle, “helping to raise her daughter, to maintain the household, plan her festivities, pen her correspondence...”
Magali nodded along, puzzled but pleased.
“And when she most needed your help, Domna Berthe, you assisted her in hiring mercenaries to murder the little Princess from Sarthe.”
Magali went white. The ceramic bowl slid from her lap; Kel caught it before it shattered.
“My lady would never—” Magali began, but she didn’t seem to know what to say after that. Her eyes darted around the Arena. Looking for exits, maybe?
“Don’t run,” Kel said in the same calm voice. “It will go worse for you if you do.”
“What do you want from me?” she whispered. In the distance, a roar went up from the crowd to signal that first blood had been drawn on the Arena floor.
“Only the truth. To know what happened.”
Magali shook her head. “You cannot ask me to betray my lady.”
“Then I will tell you what I already know,” Kel said, plucking a piece of loukum from the bowl he was somehow still holding. “You frequent these fights, here at the Arena. I can only assume that this brought you into contact with Raimon—also known as the Gray Serpent. You offered five hundred crowns to Raimon and his band of mercenaries to attack the Shining Gallery—specifically, the Princess Luisa and her delegation from Sarthe. Something went wrong—Raimon says a means of escape was promised, but none delivered—and the result was an all-around slaughter.” He popped the loukum into his mouth, tasting sugar and roses. “Do you deny it?”
The dots of rouge on Magali’s cheeks stood out now, like bruises. “Who knows this?” she whispered.
“Only a few,” said Kel. “House Aurelian does not yet know—and if you do not want that to happen, then you must help me. Raimon named you as his contact, but I assume you were acting on behalf of your mistress. I cannot imagine where you would have gotten such money otherwise. And while I know Lady Alleyne hoped the Prince might marry Antonetta, I could not imagine why she would think harming the Blood Royal in this way—”
“She didn’t!” Magali gasped. “Oh, this is wretched.” She wrung her knobby hands. “That’s not what she did. She would never do such a thing.”
“But it was done.”
“My lady is loyal to House Aurelian. The Sarthians sent this... this brat-Princess to humiliate us. To humiliate Castellane and our royal family. My lady only meant to humiliate them in turn. Since they sent us a child, the idea was to frighten her as a child might be frightened. It was meant to be a prank.”
“It is rare,” said Kel, “that one hires mercenaries to do one thing, and then they do another. They were there to kill.”
“My lady did not give the mercenaries their instructions. She was not behind what happened, Sieur Anjuman. There were others—one who was giving instructions, demands—” Magali’s voice had started to rise.
“Who?” Kel demanded. “Who was giving instructions? Who was in charge of all this, if not Lady Alleyne?”
Magali clamped her lips shut.
“You understand that what your mistress did was treason,” said Kel. “And she will hang for it, for all she is a noble. She will not be able to protect you then. The walls of the Trick will close about you both.”
“No.” Magali blinked rapidly, shaking her head back and forth. “I am no traitor—”
“Then tell me,” said Kel, low and urgent. “If your lady did not order the slaughter, who did ?”
“Please,” Magali gasped. “You must believe me. It was a day or two after the Gallery murders. I overheard my lady in her study. She was arguing with someone, saying, ‘How could this have happened? Is this what you intended all along? This death, this destruction?’ And a voice replied to her. Such a dark, rough voice as I have not heard in all my days.” Magali shuddered. “It said, ‘You are now implicated. Should you attempt to betray me, we will fall together, and your fall will be far harder than mine.’”
A dark, rough voice. Kel thought of the black-clad figure on the rooftop, the ragged voice saying, You’re lucky that I have a use for you, Sword Catcher.
“And you’ve no idea who Lady Alleyne was talking to?”
“No. No. ” Magali was breathing hard. “The visitor arrived masked and hooded, all in black, and left the same way, in an unmarked carriage, and my lady shut herself in her study for all the rest of that day. I heard her weeping through the door.” Magali looked at Kel eagerly. “So you see? It was not her fault. Find the person who was threatening my lady, and you will find the one who planned the slaughter.”
“A mysterious figure, all in black, who comes and goes in an unmarked carriage?” Kel’s tone made Magali shrink back. “If I bring this tale to Legate Jolivet, he will imagine you have invented this individual, Magali, to distract attention and blame from Lady Alleyne. If you have no further proof—”
“There is one more thing.” Magali’s eyes were red-rimmed now. “My lady received a letter a few days ago. She flew into a rage over it. I—I may have fished it out from the rubbish. I wanted to know what had upset her so greatly.”
“What did it say?”
“It ordered her to a meeting on Cereday night. On Tyndaris. To discuss a matter of loyalty. ”
“Tyndaris?” Kel frowned. People tended to avoid the drowned island, save for religious pilgrims determined to visit the Chapel of a Thousand Doors, visible only at low tide.
“Yes.” Magali’s voice was firm. Kel knew lies and the look of them. She was not lying—of that he had no doubt. Nor did he sense she had anything more to tell him.
He rose to his feet, the taste of loukum oversweet and sticky on his tongue. “Keep this conversation between us, Domna Berthe. Or I will know it, and so will the Legate. Do you understand?”
Magali nodded; the spirit seemed to have left her, as if she had no energy for anything but agreement. Kel left her staring blankly at the Arena, with no sign that she was aware of the now-unchained crocodiles as they circled each other, each snapping at the other’s sides with blood-flecked jaws.
Kel turned his steps toward the stairs that led back to the royal box, thinking of Magali, the fear in her eyes as he spoke of the Trick, the Law, the Legate. He had never really used his place as Kel Anjuman to threaten anyone before. He was surprised to find it did not bother him nearly as much as he’d thought.