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Disappointment flashed across the Maharam’s face, deepening the net of wrinkles around his eyes. “I see,” he said. “Well, it is a complicated matter you have brought before me. It may require the wisdom of the Sanhedrin.”
Lin caught her breath. “But—it could be months before they come to Castellane again,” she said, forgetting to be politic. “Mariam could die by then.”
The Maharam’s usually benevolent gaze hardened. “Mariam Duhary is dying of the same disease that killed her father—a disease the best physicians of the Sault could not cure. Yet you think you can do better? Why?”
“I think,” said Lin, trying to control her temper, “that for a religion that purports to worship a Goddess, who was once a powerful Queen, there are a great many men making decisions about what I, a woman, can read and do.”
His eyes darkened. “I advise you to tread carefully, Lin. You are a physician, not a scholar. Yes, we worship her, but it is from Makabi that we have our Laws, from which none of us are exempt.”
“Makabi was not a God,” said Lin. “He was a man. I do not believe it is the will of the Goddess that Mariam die so young. I do not believe the Goddess is so unkind.”
“It is not a matter of kindness. It is a matter of fate and purpose.” The Maharam sat back, as if weary. “You are young. You will understand in time.”
He closed his eyes as if in sleep. Lin understood this as a dismissal. She left, pausing only to kick the pile of dust Oren had swept carefully into a corner. She heard him yell as she hurried down the steps, and grinned. Let that be a lesson to him not to eavesdrop.
—
When Kel returned to the Palace, he found Conor lying on his bed, reading a book. This was not unusual: Conor tended to treat Kel’s bed as an extension of his own, and would often drape himself across it when feeling dramatic.
He sat up when Kel came in, and said, “Do you think you’ll be ready for practice again soon? Or do you intend to continue this business of wandering about the Palace like a lost soul?”
Kel shrugged off his jacket and went to join Conor on the bed. It had not occurred to him before, but his new habit of rambling about the grounds of Marivent provided a useful excuse for any absences. “I thought we could start up again tomorrow—”
“There’s a diplomatic dinner two nights hence,” Conor said. “I’ve been trapped with Mayesh all afternoon, practicing my Malgasi. You ought to come. Sena Anessa will be there, too, and she likes you. I believe she feels she’s watched you grow up.”
“Dinner with MalgasiandSarthe,” said Kel. “Two countries that loathe each other. How could I resist?”
“You’ll be fine,” Conor said, and Kel knew that, of course, there was no question of resisting. If Conor wanted him to go, he would go; it was his purpose, his duty. He thought briefly of the Ragpicker King and their discussions of loyalty. To the Ragpicker King, Kel’s loyalty was a quality that simply made him useful. Andreyen saw that loyalty, but he did not understand it. He did not live in a world of loyalty and vows. He lived in a world of trickery and extortion, a world where power balanced on a knife’s edge, ready to tip this way or that. Of course, one could say the same of the Hill, or international diplomacy for that matter. But that, too, was part of Kel’s purpose: to be a shield for Conor against invisible arrows as well as visible ones.
Conor had not seemed to notice Kel’s silence; he was grinning. “Look what Falconet gave me,” he said, and handed Kel the book he’d been reading. It was a slim tome, bound in embossed leather.Conor watched with a look of amusement as Kel flipped it open and perused the contents.
For a moment, he thought it was simply the same collection of loose portraits Mayesh had shown them the previous day, bound into book form. Then his eyes adjusted. Here indeed were Floris of Gelstaadt, Aimada d’Eon of Sarthe, Elsabet of Malgasi, and many more, but instead of being painted in their finery, they had been depicted stark naked. Princess Elsabet had been drawn draped over a brocade sofa, eating a persimmon, her long black hair brushing the ground.
“Where did Falconetgetthis?” Kel said, staring.
“He had it commissioned, to amuse me,” said Conor. “Leave it to Falconet to know exactly the list of royals Mayesh considers eligible. The images are reliant, of course, on the artist’s imagination, but they do say there are spies in every Court.”
Kel looked at him. “EveryCourt?”
Conor looked thoughtful. “Are you suggesting there are spies here at Marivent drawing naked pictures of me?”
“Ihaveseen some of the servants lurking in the shrubberies. Planning to peek through the windows, perhaps?”
“Well, let them bask in my nude glory, then. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” Conor flipped a page, revealing an illustration of Princess Aimada of Sarthe, wearing only a few strategically placed peacock feathers. “Not bad.”
“She has lovely eyes,” Kel said, diplomatically.
“Only you would be looking at her eyes.” Conor turned the next page, and there was Princess Anjelica of Kutani. The artist had drawn her with one hand feathered across her bare breasts, half covering them. Her eyes were the same as they had been in Mayesh’s portrait: amber-gold, unfathomable. Kel turned the page quickly.
“Give me that back.” Conor flipped the book out of his hand and grinned. “Gray hell, look at Florin of Gelstaadt. That tree cannot compete with his absolutely enormous—”
“Bank account,” Kel said gravely.
“Surely those proportionscan’tbe accurate,” Conor said. He stared once more, then tossed the book onto the nightstand. “Falconet may be a bit mad.”
“All the best people are,” said Kel. “He knows your sense of humor, Con.”
But Conor wasn’t smiling now. He was looking at Kel through his eyelashes; it was something he did when he wanted to hide the evidence of his thoughts. He said, “What would you say if I told you that I no longer needed a Sword Catcher? That you were free to go where you wanted to go, and do what you liked?”
