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“I was not being presented to them as their future ruler,” Kel pointed out, “but rather as your orphaned cousin from Marakand, whom they might pity. They will not pity Luisa.”They will hate her as a symbol of the scorn of Sarthe.
“Speaking of Marakand,” Conor said, “there is a saying with which my mother has always made sure I am acquainted.The jackal that lives in the wilds of Talishan can only be caught by the hounds of Talishan. I believe it means,” he added, “that you cannot defeat what you do not know.”
“And you cannot win a game you do not play,” said Kel. “Luisa is too young to play Charter Family games.”
“But she is not too young to see the board on which the games are played,” said Conor. He smiled, eyes flashing silver under his silver-painted lids. “I am not going to change who I am, or what I do, because of an engagement that will not be a marriage foranother seven or eight years. If Sarthe insists that Luisa remain in Castellane for all this time, they might as well understand the world she will inhabit, and the people she will know.”
“And perhaps they may see the wisdom of letting her finish out her childhood in Aquila?” said Kel—more a question than a statement, but Conor only smiled and glanced out the window as the carriage came to a stop in the Roverges’ courtyard.
The house of the dye Charter occupied a coveted position on the Hill, built half into the cliffside, with a view of Poet’s Hill. Mount Cicatur rose behind the Academie, its face threaded with glimmering veins of Sunderglass. The sun was setting now, as they left the carriages, turning the Sunderglass the color of copper. To Kel it looked as if a bolt of lightning had speared through the mountain and been frozen there, a fiery reminder of a force long past.
The house itself was as grand as might be expected, and far more in the style of the old Empire than Marivent. Tall pillars supported an arched roof, and the front doors were reached via a broad marble staircase. Statues of the Gods lined the rooftop’s edge, gazing down benevolently—Aigon with his sea chariot, Cerra with her basket of wheat, Askolon with the tools of his forge. Long ago there had been a statue of Anibal, lord of the underworld, but some past Roverge had removed it, considering it bad luck. The result, Kel thought, was somewhat odd—twelve Gods could be spaced out evenly, but eleven looked somehow lopsided.
The courtyard out front was full of carriages already, with footmen in the Roverges’ teal livery seeing to the horses. Several of them cast covert glances at Conor: partly, Kel guessed, because he was who he was, and partly because of the sheer luminosity of his clothes.
They were quickly joined by the convoy from Sarthe. Sena Anessa and Senex Domizio were polite but unsmiling, wearing patriotic blue. Vienne d’Este—somber in her Black Guard’s uniform—looked as grim as if she were attending her own funeral rather thana party. Luisa, lost in a bell-shaped dress covered in lace, ruffles, and ribbons, seemed delighted by Conor’s appearance in a manner that her companions clearly were not. She pointed from Conor to the statue of Turan on the roof, and eagerly showed him her hands, wiggling her fingers back and forth.
Conor looked puzzled.
“You can talk to him, you know,” Vienne said gently. “He speaks Sarthian.”
Luisa smiled. As they moved in a group toward the front doors, she explained that she liked the color of Conor’s nails, painted to resemble silver mirrors, and that she wanted her own the same color.
“Well, that’s easy enough,” said Conor, never one to deny another the opportunity to experiment with fashion. “We can have a cosmetician sent over to the Castel Pichon tomorrow.”
“That would not be at all appropriate,” said Sena Anessa frostily, and Luisa scrunched up her face. Before the situation could escalate, however, the liveried servant at the door caught sight of them, and soon they were lined up to be announced as they entered the house: Conor first, then Luisa (with Vienne beside her), then Kel and the Ambassadors.
Shouts and cheers greeted the entry of the Prince, which died away as Luisa entered, pressed tightly to Vienne’s side. “Ostrega! Xé tanto grando par dentro,” she whispered. Gracious, it’s such a big place.
Indeed, the first floor of the Roverge mansion was a vast space, dominated by a wall of windows looking out onto a stone terrace and the city below. Nearly all the furniture had been removed, making the space look even larger. What remained was a temple to the worship of dyes: Brightly colored fabrics covered the plush divans scattered around the room and trailed gauzily from curtain rods. More consideration had clearly been given to impact than harmony. The textiles on display were a wild combination of deep cinnabarand blue, bright mustards and greens, tangerines and violets. Servants, moving through the room carrying trays of iced wine, added to the riot of color—they were dressed in indigo blue, gamboge yellow, poppy orange, vermillion red, poison green, and blushing coral.
Kel could hear Sena Anessa muttering that her eyes hurt. It was a great deal to take in, Kel thought, but it was also a display of power—a reminder to the Sarthians present that in taking on Castellane with this alliance, they took on the Charter Families as well, each one a fiefdom in their own right. The party might look like a carnival, but the message was clear:Reckon with our kingdom.
“Sena Anessa? Senex Domizio?” One of the serving girls was approaching their party, her head bent respectfully. She had on a red silk shift, the kind noblewomen wore under their gowns as a layer between the expensive fabric of their gowns and their skin. Her arms and legs were bare, save for a pair of white lace stockings. If she had been on the Ruta Magna, she would have been arrested by the Vigilants for public nudity. “Sieur Roverge craves the honor of an audience with you.”
The two Ambassadors exchanged quick whispers with each other in Sarthian. As they did, the girl looked up, and Kel realized with a shock to his gut that he knew her. Knew her well, in fact.
It was Silla. Her red hair had been braided around her head, her lips lacquered dark scarlet. She winked at him before composing her features again into an expression of blank politeness.
Conor knocked his shoulder into Kel’s. “Look,” he said, under his breath. “Roverge must have emptied out the Caravel.”
Kel looked, and cursed himself silently for his previous lack of observation. The servants were all as scantily dressed as Silla—in light shifts for the women, tight breeches and flowing shirts for the men—and all were courtesans. He recognized the young man who had been telling fortunes the last time they had been at the Caravel. The night Kel had met the Ragpicker King.
Their brief conference finished, the Sarthian Ambassadors decamped without a word, following Silla across the room toward an alcove where Benedict Roverge was holding court from an armchair of violet brocade. Vienne, watching them go, shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, thoseidiots,” she said. “Always their own interests first, never Luisa’s—”
“Oh, hello,hello,” piped up a cheerful voice. Antonetta was sailing toward them, and Kel had never been so relieved to see anyone. She wore a close-fitting gown of teal-green silk, cut daringly low in the back. Her hair was spilling out of the jeweled clips meant to restrain it, loose curls falling to cup her cheeks and brush her bare shoulders. When she bent to smile at Luisa, Kel saw the gleam of her gold locket, swinging on its chain. “Are you the darling little Princess?” she said, in passable Sarthian. “You look just lovely.”
“I see Demoselle Alleyne’s mother is no longer selecting her clothing,” Conor said, in a low voice, as Antonetta handed a sparkling hairpin to Luisa (while Vienne looked on, bemused). “A marked improvement, I would say.”
Kel felt a prickly tightening of his skin. Antonetta turned briskly toward Kel and Conor. “Now,” she said. “Why don’t you let me bring her around, make the introductions? I know just the girls for her to meet and, really, I’m not sure you can say the same.” She turned to Vienne. “Boys,” she said. “They’re justimpractical.”
Vienne looked stunned, as if the prospect of being asked to consider the Prince of Castellane and his cousin “boys” might be too much for her. “Luisa is a bit shy—”
“Oh, don’t worry, all she needs to do is smile, and if she can’t do that, everyone will just assume she’s intellectual,” said Antonetta, in a bright tone that belied the cynicism of her words. “Now, I swear I saw a tray of sweets around here somewhere, delightful cakes and things; I’m sure one of the rather naked servants had one. Come along, we’ll find them.”
“Interesting,” said Conor, as Antonetta set off, Luisa tugging her by the hand. Vienne followed, looking more than a little dazed.“I wonder if Ana sees something of herself in the girl. She, too, will have little say over who she marries. Ana might be flighty, but she’s got enough of her mother in her to be a force of nature when she likes.”
Now that Conor was no longer with the Sarthians, party guests were beginning to sidle closer—Cazalet was lurking, no doubt hungry for tidbits about any new trading deals with Sarthe, and a group of young noblewomen stood not far away, casting glances at Conor. Since the Princess from Sarthe had turned out to be a child, the position of mistress to the Crown Prince was clearly an open one for at least the next eight years.
