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“You mean you’re going to make Gabe do it?”
“What? No.” He shook his head. “I’ll do the introductions.”
“But Gabe will be there.”
“He is the Priest Exalted, so yes, I assume so.” But Bastian seemed uneasy about the fact. His eyes flicked downward, as if working through a difficult equation.
“And you don’t see how that might be a problem?” Lore hissed. “What with their Emperor being the reason his father is dead and he has one less eye?”
He sighed. “I’ll do my best to keep them away from each other. Far enough where they don’t have to interact. But I can’t coddle him, Lore.”
“I hardly call that coddling—”
“I don’t want him hurt any more than you do.” And he said it so earnestly, the muscle in his arm spasming beneath her hand. “But I can’t sacrifice everything to keep Gabe happy. Or whatever emotion he has in place of happiness.” He snorted. “He’d be even more determined to be miserable if I tried.”
Lore pressed her lips to a thin line.
Bastian turned from the roses, leading her again to their seats. Lore tried to tuck down the froth of chiffon around her ass, as much to make more room as to avoid eye contact with her tablemates.
Bastian made introductions, and she tried to keep them all straight in her head. The Viscount of Something, the Marquise and Marchioness of Or Other, even an admiral. The names slipped away, but they were enough for Lore to realize that Bastian had purposefully put them at a table with all the courtiers left in the Citadel who hated him most. Here were those who vocally despised the tax hikes, who derided the ideas of citizen payments, who thought Bastian Arceneaux was unsuited for the throne.
Fantastic.
The marchioness broke the tense silence once introductions were over, sipping broth from a delicate spoon. “Your Highness,” she began, almost a simper. “Some of the other ladies and I have been wondering if summer progress is still happening this year? I understand that many of the estates typically visited are… are hosting… I mean, they’re under extraordinary circumstances—”
“Like house arrest?” Bastian grinned widely and took a long drink of wine.
Her face blanched, but the marchioness kept her smile. “Precisely. However, those of us who are still loyal would so love to continue the tradition.”
Gods dead and dying, this place and their traditions. They’d probably all jump off the Citadel Wall squawking like seagulls if their great-great-grandparents had done it first.
The marquise glowered at his wife, and she pretended not to see it, her fixed smile strained at the edges.
Bastian swirled his spoon in his soup without eating. Lore recognized the part he was playing. The careless layabout, the feckless Prince, the person all of these nobles were used to. She could see through the act so easily now, it surprised her how thoroughly fooled she’d been when she first met him.
“It could perhaps be arranged,” he said finally, with a shrug. “There are a few estates that aren’t housing traitors left. And who knows? Maybe by that point we’ll have cleared a few out.” He turned to Lore. “We’ll discuss it.”
The smile stayed, permanently affixed to her face, but the marchioness went a bit paler, her eyes flicking between the King and his deathwitch.
Lore didn’t say anything. She took another sip of her wine. This was a show, she knew, just like reading that Tract at the coronation. Letting the courtiers know she was part of this new paradigm. She understood, but she truly hated it, and hated even more that the best way she could play her role was to stay silent.
“Well,” said the marchioness, “I hope you find the idea to your liking, my lady. All of us used to look forward to summer progress as children. The apartments in the Citadel are grand, but being in the center of the city, surrounded by all those streets—somehow, it makes the heat even worse.” She laughed, light and airy. “Where did you spend the summers?”
“The streets,” Lore answered.
Silence at the table. Well, silence other than Bastian’s single snort of laughter.
Not entirely true. There was always a bunk in the warehouse for her if she wasn’t on a job. But Lore couldn’t pass up that kind of opening.
“Admiral Legrande,” Bastian said, changing the subject and turning to a portly man seated on his left. “The last report I received said a new ship should be ready by the end of the month. How goes the progress?”
Despite the fact that Legrande had been loudly complaining of the increased tax on his acres of farmland to all with ears to hear, he seemed pleased to talk about a new ship. “It’s coming along quite nicely. Once she’s out on the waters near the Isles, the Kirytheans will think twice about cruising so close.”
“Is that so?”
“Certainly. The cannons on her could knock out a vessel from a mile away.” The admiral hitched up his belt. “We’ll have nothing to fear from the filthy imperials come fall.”
“That’s certainly the hope,” Bastian replied.
