Chapter Thirty-Three #2
No, I’m his shield maiden. It’s my job to be troubled on his behalf, and I’m going to keep a very close eye on Master Mehuda
and his scantily clad servants.
“It’s been a while, Lord Titus,” the tailor says as he eyes him up and down. He pauses a moment, as if posing for a portrait,
his right foot forward to display his crimson-painted toenails and ruby toe rings.
“It’s good to see you well, Master Mehuda,” says Titus. “You practically shimmer in Sulestra’s light.”
The tailor beams. “Master Mehuda is perhaps especially sparkly today, for having laid eyes on the future consort.”
Dahlia is wide-eyed, trying to disappear into the curtains framing the balcony door. I wish I could join her. Shyness is not
usually my nature, but this is a rhythm of speech, a way of thinking, that I’ve never heard in all my years growing up at
a busy inn.
“Thank you for being so generous with your time and services,” Titus says. “It brings me comfort and pride to know I will
be wearing a Mehuda original.”
“As well it should.” The tailor makes three full circuits around Titus’s very still form, eyeing him up and down, pausing
occasionally to hold up pieces of fabric to his face. “Lift your arms.”
Titus does. “Please, Master Mehuda,” he says. “Can you tell me anything about what’s going on in the palace?”
“I cannot,” the tailor says, crouching to inspect something at Titus’s feet.
“The potentat, my foster sister . . . are they all right?”
“It is not for me to say.”
“But you’re a member of the household. If anyone would know—”
Mehuda harrumphs. “Done. Now get out of my light. Blue-eyed girl!” he snaps his fingers. “Here.”
I feel like a puppy being called to do her master’s bidding as I step into the spot being glumly vacated by Titus.
“Please,” I say. “Nothing too revealing for me. I’m not used to—”
The tailor gasps and stares at me open-mouthed. “How dare! You do not tell Master Mehuda what you will wear! Master Mehuda
tells you!”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me.” Do all Suratian tailors talk like this?
“You are from far away,” he observes.
“Yes. I’m still learning how things work in the city.”
His gaze softens slightly, and for the first time, I feel like he’s seeing me the person instead of the wearer of garments.
“Your name?”
“Bria Angarsold.”
“Mountain girl, yes?” His beard tusks twitch as though he’s chewing on something.
“Yes.”
He taps a forefinger to his upper lip. “Master Mehuda will keep this in mind when deciding what you will wear.”
I say, “Lord Titus, who is my liege, trusts Master Mehuda implicitly. Therefore, I do too.”
And this must have been the perfect thing to say, because he beams, showing crooked teeth that gleam with magicked whiteness.
“Some things are the same, you know. In the city and in the country.” He reaches up and lifts a lock of my hair, studies it.
“A beautiful girl with wit and intelligence is a delight to dress, no matter where she’s from. ”
Such outrageous flattery from a guest at my inn would be immediately suspicious. But maybe this is just who the tailor is.
I glance at Titus, but he seems unaware of our conversation. He leans against a bedpost, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as though
his mind is a world away.
“Grimsvolders are a pragmatic people,” Mehuda muses. “And you in particular being my lord’s shield maiden . . .” His fingers
snap together in the air above my head as though he’s catching a bug. “Pockets!” he says. “And a place for a hidden weapon!”
I gape at him, genuinely delighted. “That would be perfect!”
His face is smug. “Master Mehuda will now take his leave. There is much work ahead.” He claps, and the loin-clothed men gather
up the fabric samples and reposition them inside their respective satchels.
Titus comes out of his reverie and says, “Can you at least get a message to Syla?”
“No,” says Master Mehuda.
“I don’t underst—”
“I cannot!” the tailor snaps.
Titus stares at him, both puzzled and hurt, as the three head for the door.
“Wait,” I say. “I thought you were going to take measurements?”
Without turning around, Master Mehuda says, “It is done.” And he and his crimson silks swish out of the room.
“What an interesting fellow,” I say as Titus closes the door after them. “I can’t decide if I’m amused or terrified.”
“That was strange,” Titus says. “Even for him.”
“And he did not take measurements. Is it possible he came here for a different reason? Maybe he’s a spy or . . .”
Titus shakes his head. “Mehuda knows the measurements of everything he sees,” Titus explains. “It’s his Gift.”
“Oh! That must come in handy.”
“The royal engineering corps borrowed him to rebuild some of the canal bridges. He hated every moment. Couldn’t wait to get
back to making garments. But the bridges are perfect.”
“Does he usually leave the palace to see clients?”
“Never! That’s why I thought he would deliver a message for me, or at least tell me what’s going on.”
“Maybe the potentat ordered him to—”
A loud thunk makes me whirl away from the door. It’s Dahlia; she has collapsed onto the floor, where she lies seizing.
I rush to her side.
“Keep your fingers away from her mouth!” Titus commands.
Blood-tinged froth bubbles from her lips. Her eyes are rolled back into her head.
“Help me push her onto her side,” Titus says. “Hold her, but not too tightly.”
I do as he asks, but I’m not sure how long I can keep her steady through this violent thrashing.
“I’m going to take a look at what’s wrong,” Titus says. “Try to keep her from hurting herself.” He closes his eyes, and I taste magic in the air.
I hold Dahlia’s shoulder as she continues to seize. She’s so frail. I can feel her bones beneath paper-thin skin. How much
abuse has she suffered as an indenture? How much neglect?
Just when I think she might break herself apart, her body stills. A strange sound comes from her mouth—part moan, part scream—and
then she goes completely limp, except for her chest, which rises and falls with rapid, shallow breaths.
“You’re all right, Dahlia,” I say, though I’m not sure she can hear me. “We’re here. We’re taking care of you.”
Titus says, “She’s been poisoned.”
I gasp. “We all ate from the same breakfast tray!” My throat is suddenly thick and achy, as though I’ve been poisoned too,
but the feeling passes quickly.
“I didn’t eat the grapes. I saved them for Dahlia.”
“I didn’t eat them either.”
She moans, her eyelids fluttering.
To Titus, I say, “Can you help her?”
“I did. I healed her stomach lining, and I coaxed her body to isolate and expel the poison. She’ll probably urinate soon.”
And it’s as though he spoke it into existence, because her shift darkens with moisture. I scoot back just in time, as urine
soaks through her clothing into the rug. It’s especially noxious, like skunk cabbage boiled in sulfur springs.
Titus collapses onto the bed.
“Titus!”
“I’m fine,” he mumbles. “Stay with Dahlia. Just going to close . . . my . . .”
“Oh no you don’t,” I say, rushing to the bed and shaking him awake. “Not until I know you’re not poisoned.”
His eyes flutter. “I’m not poisoned.”
My face is very close to his as I study everything about him—his breathing, the tone of his skin, the clarity in his eyes.
My palm presses to his forehead to feel for a fever or excess clamminess.
A small smile quirks his lips. “Bria,” he breathes, staring up at me. “I’m fine. Truly.”
“That poison was meant for you.”
“Yes. Now, please. Let me sleep a few minutes. The poison circulated all throughout her body, and it might be the most difficult
healing I’ve ever . . .”
He’s out like a snuffed candle. It appears to be a normal, healthy sleep, but my own breathing does not ease.
My skin is hot, and tears prick my eyes. I clench my hands into fists to still their shaking. Maybe the poison found me after
all.
No, this is rage. Someone almost took him from me.
Titus sleeps peacefully on the bed. Dahlia sleeps peacefully on the rug in her puddle of noxious urine. They both seem so
vulnerable. I shouldn’t leave them alone. But the would-be assassin is still out there. If I act fast enough . . .
I grab one of Titus’s daggers, open the door, and exit the suite.