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“No need! It’s lovely.” Nona bent her head and took another spoon, consuming it as silently as a Sister of Discretion.
What’s a persimmon?
I have no idea. And shut up.
Keot slid down the back of her neck, curling towards her stomach, presumably to investigate in person.
The meal moved from soup to fish, four servants required so that the plates could be simultaneously swept away and replaced. Ara and Terra chattered about this or that lady of the Sis, though Terra’s knowledge of who wore what dress and which colour was in favour at court seemed to wear down even Ara’s tolerance for such detail. At last Ara swept the blonde sheath of her hair over one shoulder and turned those blue eyes of hers on Regol. “Have you beaten any other novices senseless lately?”
“No.” Regol shook his head sorrowfully. “That’s a treat reserved for apprentices. I get to dance with Gretcha now, and she punches hard!”
“Yours is a dangerous profession, sir.” Ara pushed her plate back.
“It has its advantages.” Regol mopped his plate with a hunk of bread, his manners those of the Caltess. “Free lunches, for example.”
“Where else have you dined?” Ara arched an eyebrow. She looked much older than her fifteen years, Nona thought.
“It’s where I will dine that interests me most.” A degree of genuine excitement broke through Regol’s habitual mask. “Sherzal herself has requested the pleasure of my company at her palace!”
Nona sat up at that, almost toppling the exquisite glass they’d brought her water in. “Sherzal!”
Ara half-raised her hand, a placatory gesture. “Ring-fighters are popular guests at many high tables. Raymel Tacsis made the whole business fashionable and it’s a trend that seems to have outlived him.”
Terra’s smile had a touch of nerves about it. “I hear Sherzal takes all manner of pleasure in the company of ring-fighters. Keep your guard up, Regol.”
“Always, lady.” He nodded. “Around Gretcha especially, but hardly less so in the homes of the rich and powerful. Present company excepted of course.”
They all laughed at that, though probably for four different reasons.
“And when, pray tell, is Sherzal to have the pleasure of your company, Regol?” Ara asked, every bit the Sis.
“Just over a month.” Regol dipped his spoon into the soup, clearing it with an admirable lack of slurping. “The feast of . . . Stevvan?”
“Oh!” Terra clapped. “The feast of Stevvan? You won’t be alone then, Regol dear. Everyone who is anyone is going. Sherzal has sent out invitations by the cartload. I doubt there’ll be a Sis mansion with anyone under fifty left in it that day. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t invited Durnish princes and Scithrowl warlords! She’s promised something spectacular!”
“I can hardly wait.” Regol seemed disappointed to learn his meals at the palace would likely prove less intimate than he had expected.
The main courses arrived: individual peafowls, deliciously roasted and garnished with mushrooms, then redketch, fished from the meltwater rivers off the southern ice. Nona ate with dedication, amazed at the idea that food could be so much better than what was served in the Sweet Mercy refectory, which she had considered to be a paradise.
Hard on the heels of the servants removing the second set of plates came a maid bearing a tray of porcelain cups each brimming with a fragrant, steaming liquid. Nona peered at hers uncertainly.
“It’s chai, Nona.” Ara picked up hers. “An infusion of leaves from Gerula. Drunk in all the best houses.”
Gerula rang a bell, a land far to the east. Nona picked up her cup and sniffed.
“It’s an acquired taste.” Regol grinned at her across the table. “You have to work at enjoying many of the most expensive things in life!”
Something hit the door with such violence that the lock burst open. Surprise set Nona’s cup slipping from her fingers. Instinct kicked in and Nona dug into the moment. Even with whatever threat might be exposed as the door continued its swing Nona’s first act was to catch the cup again, intercepting its lazy fall and setting it on the table.
By the time the door stood wide enough to reveal Sister Kettle, Nona, Ara, and Regol were all on their feet, chairs tumbling behind them. The swinging door banged against the wall.
“Don’t drink it!” The chairs crashed to the floor as Kettle walked into the room. Her gaze seemingly fixed on Regol.
“Wh—” Terra, still seated with her cup halfway to her lips, blinked and looked around her, astonished to see everyone else standing.
“Don’t drink it,” Kettle repeated, leaning over the table to take the steaming cup from Terra’s hand.
Nona followed Kettle’s gaze. Not Regol—the serving maid behind him. Regol, understanding, spun around, but the woman caught him by the wrist and neck, pressing on a nerve cluster to force him to his knees.
“The chai isn’t poisoned, Kettle.” The woman stood straight, looking less like a serving maid with each passing second.
She lied to you. With her body. Like your poisoned apple has been trying to teach you.
“I came to speak with Zole. If I’d wanted your novices dead you would be collecting their warm corpses now.” The woman let Regol go with a shove that sent him sprawling. She was younger than Nona had thought, perhaps as young as Kettle, her hair hunska-black, tied into a tight plait. Dark eyes watched from above high cheekbones. There was a hard beauty to her. And a threat.
“I know you.” Regol from the floor, rubbing his neck. “You come to the Caltess forging every year and watch the novices.” His pursed lips took on a rueful smile. “My charms failed me last year. And the year before.”
“Zole’s not here, Safira,” Kettle said, moving to put herself between the woman and the table. “What made you think she might be?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.” Terra found her feet at last. “I swear it!”
“I can see she’s not here.” Safira stepped towards the door. “I’ll leave you to your dessert. Your maid’s unconscious in a cupboard in the cold pantry.”
Kettle moved to block Safira’s exit. Regol gained his feet, wincing,
Who is this female? You know her too. Keot edged towards Nona’s neck, a red flush rising.
Safira. She trained Zole for the emperor’s sister. She was banished from the convent years ago when she stabbed Kettle.
At last! Keot pushed Nona’s flaw-blades into being. Someone you can kill.
No. But Nona made no effort to dispel her blades.
“Get out of my way, Mai.” Safira advanced on the door.
Mai?
Must be Kettle’s real name. Shut up.
“You’re coming to the convent. There are questions to be answered.” Kettle settled into a blade-fist stance, soft-form, arms raised.
“I’m not.” Safira echoed the stance.
“She knows about Yisht and the shipheart!” Nona leapt onto the table, her concern for the crockery forgotten. Jump on her! Shred her flesh. Open her body! Keot spread, shading crimson along her limbs.
“And she stabbed Kettle!” Ara hissed.
Safira shook her head, a narrow smile on her lips. “It wasn’t like that. You don’t know anything. You’re children.”
