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He glared. “And I have always said you can judge a country by how they treat their Ashkar. It was one of the reasons I left Nyenschantz. Stupidity, closed-mindedness, cruelty. Malgasi, too, is one of the worst.” He broke off, waving his hand as if to ward off the idea of evil. “Now,” he said. “Would you like to see the stone? As a reward for healing me, eh?”
I helped, but did not heal.Lin only wished she could do more for Petrov. She watched him worriedly as he rose to his feet and crossed the room to his new carpet. He rolled back a corner of it, revealing a square hole in the floorboards beneath. He reached in with atrembling hand and drew out an oval stone, pale gray as a swan’s egg.
He stood a moment, looking down at the stone, his fingertip resting lightly on it. Lin tried to recall the first time she’d seen it; he had brought it out to show to her when she’d told him her brother was traveling the Gold Roads. “He’ll see wonderful things, many marvels,” Petrov had said, and lifted one of his floorboards to bring out his small stash of treasures: a porcelain teapot, streaked with gold; the belt of abandaridancer, its strands interwoven with dozens of coins; and the stone.
He brought it across to her now, placing it gently in her hand. It was perfectly smooth, lacking even the hint of a facet: It was clearly a highly polished stone, and not a gem. Something seemed to flicker in its depths, a play of light and shadow.
It felt warm in Lin’s hand, and inexplicably soothing. As she turned it in her palm, images seemed to arise from the smoky depths, coming tantalizingly to the stone’s surface, then vanishing just as she was about to recognize them.
“A lovely thing, isn’t it?” Petrov said, looking down at her. He sounded a bit wistful, which struck Lin as peculiar—after all, the stone was his; presumably he could look at it whenever he liked.
“You really won’t tell me where you got it?” She smiled up at him. She’d asked before, many times: He would only say that he’d acquired it on the Gold Roads. Once he told her he’d fought a pirate prince for it; another day, the tale had involved a Marakandi queen and a duel gone wrong.
“I ought just to give it to you,” he said gruffly. “You are a good girl and would do good with it.”
Lin looked at him in surprise. There was a peculiar look in his eyes, something at once both sharp and faraway. And what did he mean, she wondered,do good with it? What could anyone do with a bit of stone?
“No,” she said, handing the stone back to him. She had to admitshe felt a slight twinge of regret as she spoke. It was such a pretty thing. “Keep it, Sieur Petrov—”
But he was frowning. “Listen,” he said. Lin did as he asked, and heard a faint step on the stairs outside. Well, there was nothing wrong with Petrov’s hearing, at least.
“Are you expecting visitors?” Lin reached for her satchel. “Perhaps I have stayed too long.”
As she rose to her feet, she could hear the voice of Petrov’s landlady, squawking indignantly downstairs.
Petrov’s eyes were narrowed, his back straight. In that moment, Lin could imagine him as a traveler on the Roads, squinting into the distance at an ever-receding horizon. “I’d nearly forgotten,” he said. “A few friends; we were meant to play cards.” He forced a smile. “I will see you at our next appointment, Domna Caster.”
It was a definite dismissal. Puzzled, Lin headed for the door; Petrov hurried to open it, jostling against her in the process. Also odd; usually he did not stand on ceremony.
On the way downstairs, Lin passed two men in disheveled sailors’ clothes. She could not have guessed at their nationality, other than that they seemed northern, with pale hair and eyes. One glanced at her and said something clearly discourteous to his companion in a language Lin did not know. They both laughed, and Lin left the building feeling disquieted. Petrov was a gentle old soul: What business did he have with men like that?
But in the end, she supposed, it was not her business. Her job was to care for Petrov’s physical health. The choices he made otherwise were not hers to judge.
—
After sword practice and supper, Kel and Conor returned to the Castel Mitat to find that Roverge, Montfaucon, and Falconet had crowded into the Prince’s apartments in their absence. They had already broken out thenocino—a strong liquor made from unripe green walnuts—and greeted Conor and Kel’s return with cheers.
“And we’ve a surprise for you,” said Charlon. “A visitor, upstairs.”
Conor narrowed his eyes with interest, but declared that he and Kel must change out of their sweaty practice whites. He directed his friends to wait for him upstairs, atop the West Tower.
Conor hurried to wash and dress mostly in silence. He seemed almost relieved the others had come by—he had a feverish energy to him, as if he were determined to have a good time the way some men might be determined to win a duel or a race.
What he was racing against, Kel wasn’t sure. Having washed and dressed in leather and brocade, Conor disappeared upstairs with wet hair, taking the spiral steps at a run. In contrast, Kel dawdled while getting dressed, gauging his options, before deciding that slipping away without anyone noticing would be impossible. Resigned, he made his way to the tower.
Conor had made many “improvements” to the tower in the past years, showing a flair for decoration he must have inherited from Lilibet. The square tower-top was surrounded by parapets, offering a crenellated view of the city and harbor below. Conor had installed canopied divans, piled with cushions, and marquetry tables where metal bowls of fruit and candy had just been laid out by servants, along with chilled bottles of various liquors and meat pies.
The others had sprawled across the divans with glasses of wine, and it was then that Kel saw the visitor Charlon had mentioned. Antonetta Alleyne, seated primly on a sage-green cushioned chair, her legs crossed neatly at the ankle. Her yellow dress foamed with lace and seed pearls and there were ribbons in her hair, though they looked about to come loose in the strong wind off the sea.
Kel felt a wave of irritation—he’d wanted to ask Charlon what it had meant, him bringing Antonetta to the Caravel. Now he could not. He looked toward Conor, who was leaning against Falconet’s shoulder while Roverge, having produced an entire bottle of orris-root jenever from somewhere inside his coat, complained loudly that his father, in a temper, had beaten Charlon’s favorite serving maid. The temper seemed to have been caused by some kind ofescalating feud with a family who was refusing to tithe the legally required portion of their ink sales to the Roverges.
“Charlon, enough,” said Montfaucon, taking a small jeweled snuffbox from his pocket. “This is dull. Let us play a game, perhaps.”
“Castles?” Falconet suggested. “I could get the board.”
“We did that last night.” Montfaucon took a pinch of snuff, his eyes roaming curiously over Antonetta, who had not spoken since Kel’s arrival. Montfaucon had never been part of their little group as children: He had never known a different Antonetta from the one who existed now. “Let us wager on something.” He tapped the snuffbox with a green-painted nail and said, “Would you be interested in a wager, Demoselle Alleyne?”
“I brought no money with me, Sieur Montfaucon,” she said. “Silly of me.”
