CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A s soon as Kel had returned to the main ballroom, he was accosted by an anxious Ciprian Cabrol. “Monseigneur. Monseigneur! I need to speak to you.”
Even behind the jackal mask, it was possible to tell that Ciprian’s eyes were bloodshot with anxiety. He had hold of Kel’s sleeve between whitened fingers. Conor’s sleeve, he reminded himself. He was Conor now. He wished he’d had a moment more to adjust himself to it, but it seemed that was not to be.
“Do let go of me, Ciprian,” Kel said pleasantly, and Ciprian snatched his hand back. “Indeed. Let us speak. In fact, I’ve been wondering when you were going to approach me.”
“You have?”
“Oh, yes,” Kel said smoothly. “There should not be too many secrets between a man and his sovereign, don’t you think? And you’ve been keeping quite a lot of secrets, dear Ciprian. For example, I had no idea that you were on such close terms with Elsabet Belmany.”
Ciprian shrank back a little. With his head hung low, he was beginning to resemble less of a vicious jackal and more of a worried terrier. “Wh—what?”
“The Malgasi Princess,” Kel said. “It’s unusual, a merchant family having such a close connection to a foreign Princess, don’t you think?”
“I...” Ciprian reached up to adjust his mask, glancing around as he did so. No one seemed to be paying special attention to them, beyond the regular sort of glances Conor received at any event like this one—a mix of admiration, curiosity, desire. Save that Beatris Cabrol was looking over at her brother, Kel noted, worry very plain on her face.
When Ciprian spoke again, his voice was low. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”
Kel hesitated only a fraction of a second. This was dangerous stuff, he knew. He was out on a ledge, over the ocean. Crocodiles below. He felt no fear, just concentration—that pleasurably careful sense of walking a tightrope.
He said, “I have no need to imply anything, Ciprian. I know perfectly well what I’m talking about.” He cocked his head to the side. “Let’s talk in private, then. How about the Caravel? Tomorrow at noon? We won’t be disturbed there.”
Cabrol gave a nervous jerk of his head. “Yes. Yes,” he muttered. “Tomorrow afternoon.” He stiffened. “Monseigneur,” he added, and there was a slight warning in his voice that made Kel turn around.
Anjelica stood behind them, smiling. She held a hand out to Kel. “Dance with me, my lord?” she said.
As Conor would have done, Kel dismissed Ciprian without a word and let Anjelica sweep him out onto the dance floor. The music was lively, the musicians themselves hidden behind a velvet curtain, giving the impression that the sounds of viol and lior were divinely provided.
Anjelica moved gracefully as they danced. The pale feathers of her mask provided the no-doubt-deliberate illusion of bridal lace. She was slim and strong in his arms, and Kel was aware that a new emotion had been added to the mix of feeling projected in Conor’s direction: envy.
“Come,” she said. “Let us move away from the Queen.”
Kel had not noticed Lilibet, standing with Lady Gremont, a silver goblet in her hand. She did not seem to be observing them, but he followed Anjelica’s lead across the room nonetheless: Lilibet’s eyes would pierce the illusion of his amulet immediately, which would result in nothing but trouble later.
“So.” Anjelica raised her face to his. Her smile was not for him, he knew, but for all the watching eyes. “I must admit, I am impressed. I did not even see him leave. What was so urgent that he felt obligated to flee this celebration of his own dynasty?”
Him. Neither he nor Anjelica, Kel reflected, felt the need to use Conor’s name. He was the planet around which they revolved; there could be only one him.
“I’ve no idea, but I’m sure I’ll find out later.” The circlet was snagging in Kel’s hair; he longed to readjust it. “And I imagine if you ask him, he’ll tell you as well.”
“No doubt,” Anjelica mused. “When I found out the Prince had a Sword Catcher, I never thought I would spend so much time with him. But it is a lucky thing tonight. For I have had a message from the Ragpicker King.”
Kel was instantly on alert. “What kind of message?”
“He tells me Laurent Aden will be here tonight. At the Solstice Ball.”
Incredulous, Kel said, “But that’s madness! He’s a wanted criminal.”
“Laurent enjoys risk.” Her lip curled delicately. “I suppose the masks proved too much of a lure. He intends to disguise himself as a diplomat from Hanse.” She sighed. “He will absolutely delight in walking unnoticed among a group of nobles who would adore nothing more than to see him swing from the Tully gallows.”
“And then what?” Kel could hardly believe her calm. “You exchange money for the letters of yours that he has? And that’s the end of it?”
“Supposedly.”
“Do you really trust his word in the matter? He is already blackmailing you. Can you put so much stock in his honesty?”
Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “Had you a better suggestion, you could have voiced it when we met the Ragpicker King.”
“I speak only out of concern.”
“But not concern for me,” she said dryly. “Concern for your Prince’s precious alliance. Kellian, you must understand. What Laurent wants is to see me. He believes that it is my parents’ will that separated us. He needs to hear from me that I do not want him, that I am not suffering from our parting. That he must leave me alone for my own good.”
“He really believes you cannot bear being parted from him?”
“People believe what they want to believe,” Anjelica said. Her slender hands tightened on his shoulders. “He is here,” she murmured. “Look—in the eagle mask.”
She had gone tense all over, her lips pressed together in a bloodless line. Carefully, Kel glanced across the ballroom.
And there he was, just at the edge of the dancers, dressed in the black and yellow of Hanse. A tall man, fair-haired, wearing the mask of an eagle with a cruelly hooked beak. He is disguised as a diplomat, but he does not carry himself like a diplomat. He carries himself steadily, flat-footed, like a man used to standing upon the swaying deck of a ship.
The room was full of rising whispers. For a moment, with a stab of alarm, Kel wondered if Aden had been recognized. And what do I do if he is? Go to his bloody rescue?
A moment later, though, he realized he had been entirely wrong. No one was looking at the criminal in their midst. They were all staring at Antonetta, who had just come into the room.
Kel blessed the years of practice that kept him dancing, kept him moving across the floor with Anjelica. All he wanted was to cross the room to Antonetta’s side, to catch her up in his arms. To shield her with his body from the narrow-eyed stares cast in her direction, the whispers sharp-edged as blades.
But he was Conor now. And Conor would not go to her. Conor would watch, with a mix of interest and admiration, as she moved into the ballroom, her head held high.
Another woman might have dressed herself plainly, that she might not be remarked upon or stared at, but Antonetta had clothed herself in fire. Her dress was russet silk, the skirt slashed at every pleat so that as she moved, glimpses of her slim legs flashed through the material. Around her shoulders was a cape of gold and russet, and her mask was a clever-featured fox, with burnished orange and gold silk ears. Around her throat gleamed her heart-shaped locket.
Behind Anjelica’s back, Kel clenched his left hand into a fist. It was not what Conor would have done, but he could not help himself; he needed the pressure, the pain, to tear his gaze away from Antonetta.
He found Anjelica looking at him, her expression a mixture of sympathy and pity. He could read the thought behind her eyes: Oh, poor you. As bedazzled and mistaken as Laurent.
“I see,” she said.
“Anjelica—”
She drew away from him. “I’d better go while everyone is staring at Demoselle Alleyne,” she murmured, and he knew she was right. “Besides. I believe you have something else to attend to?”
He felt her pat his shoulder gently, and then she had slipped away into the crowd, her pearl pins gleaming amid her dark hair. He waited one heartbeat. A second. A third. And then he was striding across the room, the throng parting for him with murmurs he barely heard: Monseigneur, I did not see you there.
And then he was near her. Up close, he could see she was pale, though her lips were lacquered crimson, her cheeks stained with rouge. As she turned to face him, he was about to say her name when a figure crossed between them.
Lady Alleyne, fierce and feral-looking in her tiger’s mask. She whirled on her daughter like a cat pouncing on a mouse. “Where have you been —”
Beneath the mask and the rouge, Antonetta flushed scarlet. Kel cleared his throat.
“My dear Liorada,” he drawled, and never had he let so much scorn drip into Conor’s voice. Slow and sour-sweet, like rancid honey. The satisfaction that went through him as Lady Alleyne jolted around to face him was nearly pleasure. “I believe my mother was hoping to speak with you.”
Lady Alleyne glanced over at the Queen, who was busy directing a group of servants to relight the tapers outside, which had sputtered in the rain. Lilibet looked impatient behind her mask, which was that of a golden deer.
“My daughter—” Lady Alleyne began tightly.
“Looks stunning tonight. I simply must know who made your dress, Demoselle, as my fiancée has not yet chosen a tailor for her wedding dress, and time grows short.” He proffered his arm to Antonetta. “Come, let us dance, and you can tell me all about it.”
For someone else, it would have been a breach of etiquette to interrupt Lady Alleyne’s conversation with her daughter, but Conor was not required to ask permission for anything he did. It was a privilege Kel could only wear occasionally, like his borrowed crown, but he let himself feel the gratification of it as he led Antonetta out onto the polished dance floor.
“I suppose I should thank you, Monseigneur,” Antonetta said as he slid an arm around her waist and began to guide her into the music. “For rescuing me from my mother—the most terrifying of all the beasts in the animal kingdom.”
Behind her mask, he could see Antonetta’s eyes, the pupils turned the shape of diamonds by posy-drops. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Nettle.”
She shot him a surprised look. “You haven’t called me that in years.”
Kel almost missed a step in the dance. Speak to her as Conor would speak to her. Not as you would speak to her.
He should not have had to remind himself.
“Regardless, I am surprised you are willing to be seen with me,” she added. “I am social poison, after all. Artal Gremont has fled the city rather than marry me.”
You know better than that, Antonetta.
“If you have driven him away truly,” Kel drawled, “then you have done us all a service.”
They were moving among the other dancers, and Kel caught sight of Anjelica in the throng, easy to spot in her luxuriant white dress. She was dancing with Laurent, and to Kel’s eye, they appeared to be arguing.
He would have to keep an eye on them, he thought.
“I do not pretend to know why Gremont has left the Hill,” Kel said, “but I suspect it has more to do with him than you. The whispers may have made you the scandal of the moment, but they will fade soon enough. We will find you a better match than Gremont ever was.”
Antonetta was silent a moment. Then she said, “You are being so kind to me, Monseigneur. You must be very happy in your new engagement.” She moved closer to him. Closer than the dance required. Kel caught the scent of her hair, her skin: white roses and honey. It made him think of the yellow room in the Caravel, the way she had shaped herself into his arms, and he felt his blood quicken. “Let me repay the favor, then, with all I have to give you.”
Kel wanted to ask her what she meant, but he could not seem to catch his breath. She smiled up at him.
“Advice,” she said.
The frantic beat of his blood slowed. “Advice is always welcome from someone I trust.”
She tilted her head to the side, letting the rich fall of her hair sweep across her shoulder. “Well, it is an issue of trust, in fact.”
“Oh?”
“You have to be careful, Monseigneur,” Antonetta said. She glanced quickly about the room before returning her gaze to him. “Careful about what you share with Kel.”
Kel felt himself stiffen. “ What? ”
Antonetta’s blue eyes were full of concern. “I have seen him with members of the Ragpicker King’s coterie,” she said. “He seems to know them quite well.”
“I see.” Kel spun Antonetta in his arms; when she had returned to him, he said, “Kel does many things for me. Sometimes that requires him to meet with unsavory people.” He smiled; a rictus grin, he feared. “I can be unsavory myself, on occasion.”
“Oh, I believe that Kel loves you,” Antonetta said carelessly. “But you will never be equals. You will always have power over him. He may resent that.”
“I don’t question his loyalty,” Kel said in a tone meant to quell future discussion. He wasn’t sure he could bear to hear what else she might say.
“I have heard,” Antonetta said in a conspiratorial whisper, “that the Ragpicker King has ways of manipulating even those with pure motives. Kel seemed to know Morettus’s people well, to trust them. That leaves him open to manipulation. And the Ragpicker King is a master of manipulation. He could turn Kel against you without Kel even knowing it was happening.”
Not since he was a child had Kel felt so close to breaking the pretense of being Conor. He wanted to catch hold of Antonetta and demand why she was saying these things. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to press her up against the wall and kiss her breathless. I am not Conor. I am not Kel Anjuman. I am myself, Kel Saren, and I am nobody’s fool.
“You make him sound like a fool,” he said.
“He is not a fool, but he is sincere, and sincerity can be exploited. Think of what’s already happened. He was stabbed when someone mistook him for you. He tried to pay your debts to Prosper Beck.” She gave a shudder: real or false, Kel was too fevered to tell. “When I think of him lying in that alley...”
He tried to pay your debts to Prosper Beck. Kel felt a sudden, awful pressure behind his eyes as myriad disparate pieces came together. It felt as if the ground were falling out from under him, but he knew he could not show it. Years of training saved him. As if faintly bored, he said, “Enough, Antonetta. I have heard you, and believe me, I will take what you have said into account. But, my dear”—and he looked directly into her diamond-pupiled eyes—“you must not repeat these concerns to anyone else. Under my royal order, I require it. Do you understand?”
It seemed to Kel that she looked surprised beneath the fox mask, but she gathered herself quickly. “I shall be the very picture of discretion.” She glanced away, her brow furrowing. “Look, there Kel is now. Where has he been, I wonder? He’s soaking wet.”
Almost blindly, Kel followed her gaze. She was right. Conor, drenched to the bone and wearing Kel’s mask, had just slipped silently into the room.
He was keeping to the wall, his head down. Had Kel not known to look for him, he would not have seen him.
Conor moved along the wall, out of view of most of the dancers, and disappeared into one of the corridors opening off the central rotunda. A quick glance assured Kel that no one else had noted his presence.
“I had better go after him.” Kel bowed stiffly to Antonetta before turning away to follow Conor. His head was pounding; he felt lightheaded and a little sick. Had he ever really known Antonetta? He had always thought that she had one face she showed to the world and another she showed to him, but what if neither was the true face? What if there was some other, secret truth he had never guessed at, too dazzled by the thought that he, and he alone, knew the truth of her to imagine that he had been as blind as all the rest?
It was not a pleasant thought, and he carried the bitterness of it as he ducked into the corridor after Conor. It featured a splashing fall of gold-tinted water, contained in a handmade grotto at the end of the hall. Someone had clearly been picnicking here earlier; there was a tray of half-eaten food and a bottle of wine balanced precariously at the fountain’s edge.
For a moment, Kel thought Conor had disappeared—vanished into thin air as the Sorcerer-Kings had once been rumored to do.
Then he looked down.
Conor was sitting on the floor. The hem of his cloak, the leather of his boots, were dark with mud. His hair and shirt were wet from rain. As Kel stared, Conor reached up, silently, and undid the ties of his mask. It fell into his lap.
He looked at Kel.
“Con,” Kel said, dropping to his knees; he could not bear to be above Conor, gazing down. Any resentment, any anger, had fled. He had never seen Conor look like this before. His pupils were vast and black, rimmed with a thin ring of silver. His face looked as if the bones were protruding too sharply through his skin. There was blood on his lip. He must have bitten it, though it seemed profoundly unlike him. “Conor,” Kel breathed. “What happened?”
Conor closed his eyes. He shook his head slowly. “I,” he said, “am a fucking idiot.”
“Look at me.” Kel took Conor’s face in his hands. Felt the sharpness of bone against his palm, the familiar slant of Conor’s cheekbones, the coldness of his rain-damp skin. “Everyone’s an idiot,” Kel said. “Some people pretend better than others.”
Conor didn’t smile, but he turned his face into Kel’s hand. It was something.
“Tell me what’s wrong. I won’t ever blame you, you know that. Just tell me.”
Conor opened his eyes. Tell me, Kel thought. Tell me. I will fix it for you. Like I fixed it with Prosper Beck. Like I’m trying to fix it now. Tell me, just tell me, so I can understand you again.
“Not my secret to tell,” Conor said. His voice was flat. “I need something to drink. Wretchedly badly.”
“That won’t help,” Kel said.
Conor bared his teeth in a smile. “It won’t hurt.”
Kel stood up, grabbed the wine bottle off the abandoned tray—it had been opened but was still half full—and knelt down again. He handed the bottle to Conor, who threw his head back and took several deep swallows.
By the time he lowered the bottle, his hand was steadier. He had spilled a little of the wine onto his hand and the black velvet of his tunic.
“Is this about your father?” Kel whispered. He could hear the fear in his own voice. Conor, what has happened that’s so bad you can’t tell even me?
Or was it worse than that? He thought of Antonetta’s warnings. Of all his own lies. Of the house of cards he had built on sand, so precarious a single wrong word could bring it all crashing down.
“No.” Conor looked down at the back of his left hand, watching the spilled beads of scarlet wine run between his fingers. In the gold light of the waterfall, they seemed to shine. “Not my father. I want—” He looked up, directly at Kel. “I want a different life than the one I have.”
“Oh,” said someone softly. A low voice, and familiar.
Kel looked up, as did Conor. Anjelica stood at the mouth of the corridor. It was not far away; Kel wondered when she had arrived there. She would certainly have been able to hear everything.
Conor blinked, looking dazed, as she moved toward them. Because she was beautiful, Kel thought. And because, in her diamond dress, she seemed to blaze like a torch. It reflected back the waterfall’s light, turning her from silver to gold. Rings flashed on her fingers as she reached the place where Conor knelt and held out her hand.
“Get up,” she said. “Conor Darash Aurelian, Crown Prince of Castellane, get up off the floor.”
There was something in her voice Kel had not heard before. She spoke to Conor as if, between royalty, there was a secret language. Conor stared up at her. And then, as if the words were hooks lodged beneath his ribs, he rose to his feet. He straightened his shoulders. He looked at Anjelica, maskless, his gaze direct.
“You heard me,” he said. “How much did you hear?”
Kel rose silently. The balance had changed, he thought. Shifted between one breath and another. He was in the background now, as Prince and Princess regarded each other. It did not matter that Conor was clutching a wine bottle, that he was muddy and wet with rain. He was who he was. And so was Anjelica.
She said, “I heard you say you want a different life.” She took a step toward him. “I understand you did not choose me, or this marriage—”
“It’s not you—” Conor began.
She only shook her head. “And I did not choose you,” she said with a small smile. “But it is incumbent upon each of us, I think, to make of our lives something we would choose.”
“I think you are braver than I am,” Conor said.
“You are brave enough,” she said gently. “What is more frightening than change? And you have changed a great deal in these past months. I did not know you before, but everyone speaks of it. How much you have altered since the Shining Gallery. It may be a change that had its birth in blood and horror, but it is change nonetheless.”
“Perhaps,” Conor said. He looked at her. “What do we do now, Ayakemi ?”
“Our duty,” said Anjelica. “We return to the ballroom. We show the Hill we are united. Kutani and Castellane.” She stretched out her hand to him, and he took it. “They play the tune. And we dance.”