25
“You don’t look dead enough.” I tilt my head, examining the prince’s prone body.
He cracks one eye open. “The fuck I don’t. Look at me, my guts are spilling out.”
“I think you should have your eyes open and fixed in that glazed, soulless sort of way.”
“Respectfully, I disagree,” interposes Severin. “He should keep his eyes shut. It’s very difficult for a living person to deliver the proper ‘dead’ expression with their eyes open.”
“I’m superb at being dead inside,” Vawn says. “I’ll give it a try.”
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Heim Cordall replies. He’s been keeping his back to the scene while preparations are under way. When the scene we’re designing is finished, he’ll turn around and take it all in, absorbing the image and the memory.
It’s been two weeks since the Twin Lieges met their end—two weeks in which city mayors, village leaders, and military commanders have traveled in and out of the Celestial Seat, each wanting to confirm the news of Twins’ demise.
Cordall imprinted an image of the dead Lieges onto a canvas as proof of their death, and we showed both the picture and the betrothal contract to all who visited. If further evidence was needed, Stewardess Inaya provided her statement as a witness.
I kept a close eye on the reactions of each leader we met with, trying to gauge if their loyalty might transfer from the Lieges to Vawn.
Most of them seemed to care very little about the Twins’ death.
They were far more interested in the options Vawn could offer them for safety and relocation.
After Vawn provided them with reassurances, he would glance at me, and subject to my nod of approval, he would go a step further and share the details of our plan to deceive the Exemplar and retake Belavrin.
With their country on the brink of famine and collapse, the leaders and commanders of Tularesk were easy to persuade.
Most of them agreed to contribute workers to the kingdom-wide effort of manufacturing as much invisible glyph paint as possible.
A representative from the Tularesk Royal University was put in charge of the effort, including the collection of the key ingredient for the paint—the abandoned husks of tundra vole claws, shed by the creatures every few weeks and left behind in sinkholes or tunnels across the land.
With the entire nation unified and hard at work, it’s our job to make the report of Vawn Molloi’s death as convincing as possible.
For the site of his “accident,” we settled on a shallow sinkhole and a half-collapsed tailor’s shop.
He has draped himself languidly near the edge of the hole, with Severin ready to dive in and catch him if the ground gives way.
A few servants have arranged pieces of debris artfully across his body, including a large beam.
On the prince’s abdomen, around the place where the beam lies over his stomach, the Twins’ royal makeup artist, Jillia, fashioned a wound, painted in startling detail and accessorized with a few pig entrails. She spattered blood across Vawn’s bare chest as well.
To me, the scene looks quite convincing, as if Vawn went into the tailor shop to purchase clothing and was practically bisected by a falling beam when a new sinkhole opened up. But I’m not the one who has to be persuaded. All of Belavrin must believe that their rightful king is dead.
“Would your shirt really be open like that?” I ask Vawn.
“It would if I was preparing to let the tailor measure me,” he says. “By the fates, darling, why won’t you allow me to be sexy in my moment of death?”
“Fine.” I smirk. “We’d better hurry with this, though. You look a bit cold.”
“I’m freezing, thank you very much.”
“If the sun wasn’t so strong this afternoon, you would be dead within minutes of exposing your skin to the air,” offers Severin helpfully. “Your nipples would be the first to freeze—”
“Not my nipples!” Vawn says in such a dramatic tone that I giggle.
“Don’t make him laugh,” begs Jillia. “He’ll crease the makeup, and I worked so hard for that shade of pallor. A little blood at the corner of his mouth, and then we’re ready.”
Vawn lets his head fall into position, and Jillia daubs the crimson paint carefully, trailing it from the corner of his mouth and dripping some onto the snowy ground at the edge of the sinkhole. Then she backs away and surveys him, while the Stewardess and I do the same.
We barely breathe, all of us snared by the stark beauty of him—the lines of his body, the tragedy of the pose, the perfection and vulnerability of his pale face. His eyes look vague and empty, like clouded ice.
The admiration quickly transforms to terror within my heart. “Vawn?”
“Yes, lovely?” he murmurs. “Am I dead enough for you?”
I breathe a quick sigh of relief. “You’re frighteningly good at this. Take a few breaths, and then hold perfectly still. Cordall, we’re ready.”
Vawn inhales and exhales a couple of times, then falls into his death pose again. He doesn’t breathe for a full minute as Cordall turns around and absorbs the sight. The artist walks a few steps in either direction to get multiple angles of the scene in his mind.
“I have it,” he says. “Well done, your Highness. I’ll go back to the palace and imprint a few images, and then we’ll choose one for circulation.”
He hops onto one of the Tularesk carpets and glides away.
“I wonder if people will really believe it,” I muse. “You look so pretty, and the lighting is perfect. Maybe we should have done it at night.”
“We talked about that.” Vawn dabs at the fake blood on his face, smearing it between his fingertips. “It would have been too cold and too dark. And why would I be at a tailor’s shop during the night?”
“Fucking the tailor?” suggests Severin, and I swat at him.
“I only fuck my bodyguard now,” Vawn says. “For the love of my nipples, please get this beam off me.”
Once all of us are safely back in the palace, we review the two images that Cordall has already created.
“Shit, I do look gorgeous don’t I?” Vawn wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes lightly, lowering his voice.
“Darling, what if we have Cordall witness a few of our private activities and provide us with some images? I wouldn’t mind keeping them in a safe place to look at occasionally.
” He takes in my expression, then says quickly, “A dreadful idea. Let’s pretend I never mentioned it. ”
“Once my glyphs recharge, I can produce a few more options, different angles of the death scene,” Cordall offers.
“I think we have what we need.” I point to the second image. “We should use this one. You look extra convincing.” And tragically beautiful and regal, but I don’t say that part aloud. The prince’s ego doesn’t need stroking.
“Very well,” says Vawn. “Severin, tomorrow you’ll take Syth and Cordall to the border, and he’ll return to Belavrin to begin disseminating the images.”
The carpet ripples in assent. “If I’m to provide my best speed, I will need a good cleaning and brushing before the journey.”
“Oh, may I?” exclaims Jillia. “I’ve always wanted to get my hands on one of the beautiful carpets from Belavrin, and you are an especially fine one. And so much more intelligent than the carpets we have here in Tularesk.”
“A woman of taste,” purrs Severin. “You may brush me.”
“Follow me then. We’ll go to my quarters.” She hurries away, with the carpet undulating after her.
“Jillia keeps her quarters spotless,” says Inaya fondly. “I intend for the whole palace to be just as clean when I’m through with it.”
She heads out of the room as well, probably to resume her cleaning efforts.
“Why does she invest her time in this rat-hole?” Vawn says airily, taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it. “After all, if everything goes according to plan, the entire population of the kingdom will be migrating south, and the palace will be abandoned.”
“Maybe it’s not logically worthwhile,” I reply. “But it means something to her. Now that the Twins are gone, she can make this place what she always wanted it to be.”
Vawn, Cordall, and I fall silent for a moment. Maybe they’re thinking about the cremation ceremony we held for the Twin Lieges. Maybe they’re pondering the brevity and cruelty of life, especially for those who—
“Fuck, my nipples are still cold,” Vawn says. “Darling, I may need you to warm them with that pretty mouth.”
Apparently we were not, in fact, thinking about the same thing.
Cordall stifles a snicker, but when I shoot him a rebuking glance, he clears his throat and says, “We should discuss the rest of the plan. When I came to warn you, I crossed the border at the Central Gate with my artist’s license, claiming that I had a commission to fulfill.
I should be able to get back in the same way. ”
“Actually, there has been a slight change of plan,” I interject.
“The commander from the West Gate sent us a message this morning. The bodies of Lord Kaenan and his guards were taken down recently. Apparently there was a conflict of some kind at the Belavrin border wall. We believe that gate may have changed hands from the Redemptive Authority to those loyal to the Crown. If that’s true, the West Gate is the safest way to get back into Belavrin. You may find allies there.”
“And if it’s still in the hands of the Redeemers, I can show my license and give the same excuse I would have given at the other gate.
” Cordall nods. “Should they hesitate to let me in, I’ll simply explain that I witnessed the Naughty Prince’s death and I’m bringing proof of it to the Exemplar. Maybe they’ll give me the reward.”
“I hope so,” Vawn says. “It would be well deserved. And even if they don’t, I will reward you myself when all this is done. Your loyalty is precious to me.”
“Your patronage and your skill as an artificient have benefited my career more than I can say,” replies Cordall. “Tell me, did you get a chance to see the portraits I made for you at Anyssir Castle?”
Vawn hesitates for only a second before replying, in his warmest tone, “I did see them. And they were beautiful.”