30
GLISSELDA SPOTTED US at once across the sparkly crush of courtiers; she smiled, but something in our expressions rapidly changed hers to quizzical. “Excuse us,” she said to the bevy of gentlemen surrounding her. “Important affairs of state, you know.”
She rose imperiously and led us into a little side room furnished with a lone Porphyrian couch; she closed the door and gestured for us to be seated. “What’s the latest from the city?” she asked.
“Curfew. Lockdown,” said Kiggs, seating himself gingerly, as if he had an old man’s aches and pains. “I’m not looking forward to tomorrow if news spreads that Comonot killed a citizen in the cathedral—never mind that it was self-defense.”
“You can’t suppress that information?” I asked, lingering near the door, not wanting to sit beside him, not knowing what to do with myself if I didn’t sit down.
“We’re trying,” he snapped, “but the citizenry found out about Imlann and the petit ard awfully fast. The palace is full of leaks, apparently.”
I had an idea who one leak might be. I said, “I have a lot to tell you both.”
Glisselda grabbed my arm and wedged me onto the couch between her and Kiggs, smiling as if we were the happiest, coziest grouping ever conceived. “Speak, Phina.”
I took a deep breath. “Before Comonot was attacked, I saw the Earl of Apsig at the cathedral speaking with a hooded priest who I believe was Thomas Broadwick,” I began.
“You believe,” said Kiggs, shifting in his seat, his very posture skeptical. “Meaning you’re not completely certain. I don’t suppose you heard what was said?”
“I also saw Josef in town earlier, reciting St. Ogdo’s Malediction with a group of the Sons,” I continued stubbornly.
“If he’s joined the Sons, that’s serious,” said Kiggs, “but here’s the hole in your reasoning: either he’s a Son of St. Ogdo or he’s a dragon. You can’t have it both ways.”
Thanks to my conversation with Comonot, I was ready for this argument. I explained how fiendishly clever it was to get the Sons involved, adding, “Orma said Imlann would be where we least expect. Where less than with the Sons?”
“I still don’t see how it would be possible for a dragon to live here at court—for more than two years—and not be sniffed out by other dragons,” said Kiggs.
“Obviously he pretends to despise them so that he can quit the room whenever they enter,” said Glisselda.
“He could mask his scent with perfume easily enough,” I said, feeling miserable. Here I was, monstrous and wedged in between the pair of them, and they had no idea. I squeezed my hands between my knees to keep myself from fingering my wrist. “But listen,” I said. “There’s more.”
I explained what I suspected about Imlann and the cabal, simply omitting my maternal memory: that Imlann was here to determine how dysfunctional the dracomachia had become, and that the cabal surely had an interest in seeing Comonot dead. “Maybe it’s over, maybe that one attempt was their best, but I don’t think we can chance it. I think they’ll try again.”
“‘They’ being whom?” asked Kiggs. “This cabal you’ve suddenly pulled out of thin air? The Sons? Imlann, in a mysterious new plurality?”
“Lucian, stop being a pedant,” said Glisselda, putting an arm around me.
I continued. “Much of this is extrapolation, but it would be unwise to ignore the possibility—”
“Extrapolation from what?” said Kiggs. Glisselda reached around behind me and smacked the side of his head. “What? It’s an important question! What’s the source of this information, and how reliable is it?”
The princess lifted her chin defiantly. “Phina is the source, and Phina is reliable.”
He didn’t argue, although he squirmed, clearly wanting to.
“I would tell you if I could,” I said. “But I have obligations of my own, and—”
“My first obligation is the truth,” he said bitterly. “Always.”
Glisselda straightened, shifting a little away from me, and I realized the mention of my “obligations” had brought my own loyalties into question beyond the point where she could still defend me. She spoke evenly: “Whether this cabal really exists or not, the fact is that someone tried to kill the Ardmagar and failed. There isn’t much time left for another attempt.”
Kiggs exhaled noisily through his lips in frustration and ran a hand down his face. “You’re right, Selda. We can’t afford to do nothing. Better too cautious than not cautious enough.”
We set aside our quibbles and put our heads together, formulating a plan, circumventing the Queen and Comonot, taking all the weight of the peace upon ourselves. We just had to keep the Ardmagar safe for one more night, to make it through Treaty Eve without anyone dying, and then Comonot would return home. If this cabal really existed and killed him in the Tanamoot, well, that would be out of our hands.
Kiggs would tighten palace security, although it was already nearly as strong as he could make it, unless we intended foreign dignitaries to dance with members of the Guard at the ball. He would also inform Ambassador Fulda that he believed real danger to Comonot lurked here at home, and would request that Eskar and the petit ard be recalled so they could help. They’d been many miles away at last report; it was unclear whether they would make it back in time. Glisselda was to stick to the Ardmagar as best she could; she complained that she’d have no chance to practice the Tertius before the concert, but I could tell by the gleam in her eye that intrigue interested her more than music.
I had duties, of course, assisting Viridius and preparing the entertainments. That would be my focus until the ball itself, when I’d take turns babysitting the Ardmagar.
Privately, I set a few additional tasks for myself. I wanted all three of my fellow half-breeds present. We were going to need all the help we could get.
I looked for Abdo in the garden of grotesques as soon as I returned to my rooms. He was hanging upside down in his fig tree, but he leaped down at my approach and offered me gola nuts.
“I glimpsed your troupe today from afar,” I said, seating myself cross-legged on the ground beside him. “I wished I could have introduced myself because I feel awkward asking for your help when I haven’t even met you.”
“Do not say so, madamina! Of course I will help if I can.”
I told him what was afoot. “Bring your whole troupe. I will make space for you on the performance docket. Dress . . . er . . .”
“We know what is appropriate for the Goreddi court.”
“Of course you do. Forgive me. There will be others of our kind there, other . . . what was the Porphyrian word you used?”
“Ityasaari?”
“Yes. Do you know Loud Lad and Miss Fusspots, from the garden?”
“Of course,” he said. “I see everything you permit me to see.”
I suppressed a shudder, wondering whether he could taste my emotions in the wind as Jannoula had. “I will want you all to help each other and work together, just as you help me.”
“Yours are the orders, madamina. Yours the right. I will be there and ready.”
I smiled at him and rose to go, dusting off my skirts. “Is madamina Porphyrian for ‘maidy,’ like grausleine in Samsamese?”
His eyes widened. “No, indeed! It means ‘general.’”
“W-why would you call me that?”
“Why did you call me Fruit Bat? I had to call you something, and every day you come here as if reviewing your legions.” He smiled sheepishly and added: “Once, long ago, you told someone here—that girl with beautiful green eyes, the one you sent away. You said your name aloud, but I misheard it.”
All around us, an astonished wind blew.
I did not know where Lars slept at night, but there had been enough broad hints from various quarters that I feared I might end up seeing more of Viridius than I cared to.
I waited until morning, made myself a fortifying cup of tea, and went straight to the garden. I took Loud Lad’s hands, whirling out into a vision. To my astonishment, the whole world seemed spread below me: the city, glowing pink in the light of dawn; the shining ribbon of river; the distant rolling farmland. Lars stood upon the crenellations of the barbican, each foot on a separate merlon, playing his pipes for the dawn and for the city at his feet. My ethereal presence didn’t stop him; I let him finish, secretly relishing the feeling that I was flying above the city, buoyed by his music. It was exhilarating to be so high up and not fear falling.
“Is thet you, Seraphina?” he said at last.
It is. I need your help.
I told him I feared for the Ardmagar, that I might need him at a moment’s notice, that others of our kind—Abdo and Dame Okra—would be there to help, and how to recognize them. If he was astonished to hear there were other half-dragons, Lars’s Samsamese stoicism didn’t let it show. He said, “But how will this danger come, Seraphina? An attack on the castle? A traitor within the walls?”
I did not know how to tell him whom we suspected. I began cautiously: I know you don’t like discussing Josef, but—
He cut me off. “No. I hev nothink to say about him.”
He may be involved. He may be the one behind everything.
His face fell, but his resolve did not. “If so, I will standt with you against him. But I am sworn not to speak of what he is.” He fingered the chanter of his war pipes absently. “Perheps,” he said at last, “I come armedt.”
I don’t think Kiggs will allow anyone but the palace guard to arrive armed.
“Always I hev my fists and my war pipes!”
Er . . . yes. That’s the spirit, Lars.
It would be a memorable evening, if nothing else.
I knew better than to contact Dame Okra with my mind. I didn’t need my nose all black and blue for Treaty Eve.
I worked fast and crabby all morning, directing the hanging of garlands, the placing of chandeliers and sideboards, the moving of the harpsichord—which looked like a coffin as four men carried it through the door without its legs—and countless other last-minute details. All the while I conscientiously attempted to get Dame Okra’s attention without contacting her. My attempts to will her into appearing, to project fake need—my sighing and fretting and muttering, “I sure could use Dame Okra’s help!”—met with universal failure.
I barely had time to rush to my rooms and dress for dinner; I had already set out the scarlet gown Millie had given me, so I didn’t have do any thinking and only had to switch my outer garment. No risky nakedness for me: a maid might show up any minute to arrange my hair. Glisselda had insisted upon this point, going so far as to threaten me with Millie if I didn’t swear not to do my own hair.
The maid arrived; my hair was beaten into submission. My first reaction, upon seeing myself in the mirror, was shock at how long my neck was. My hair usually obscured that fact, but when it was all piled up on my head, I looked positively camelopardine. The décolletage of Millie’s gown wasn’t helping matters. Feh.
I hung Orma’s earring from a golden chain around my neck, more to settle my nerves with something treasured than because I thought it could be useful; who knew where he was or whether he could even receive its signal. It made an intriguing pendant. I no longer feared the Ardmagar recognizing it. Let him say two words to me about Orma; let him try. He would get more than he bargained for.
Surely no one would try to do him in while I was there, excoriating him.
I’d never attended a feast of such magnitude. I was seated as far as possible from the high table, of course, but I had an unimpeded view of it. The Ardmagar sat between the Queen and Princess Dionne; Kiggs and Glisselda sat on the Queen’s other side, both of them scanning the room anxiously. I took this as simple vigilance at first, until Glisselda spotted me, waved eagerly, and pointed me out to her cousin. It took him a moment to see me, even so, because I didn’t look quite like myself.
He did smile eventually, once he stopped looking astonished.
I can barely recall the kind and number of dishes; I should have taken notes. We had boar and venison and fowl of all kinds, a peacock pie with its great tail fanned out, sallats, soft white bread, almond custard, fish, figs, Zibou dates. My tablemates, distant relations of the dukes and earls at the other end of the room, laughed gently at my impulse to try everything. “Can’t be done,” said an elderly fellow with a goats beard. “Not if you hope to walk away from the table under your own power!”
The feast ended with a towering, flaming, six-tiered torte representing the Lighthouse of Ziziba, of all things. Alas, I was truly too full—and by this point, too anxious—to have any.
Thank Heaven I could rely absolutely upon my musicians, because I got caught in the crush of people heading for the Great Hall and never could have gotten there fast enough to get everyone in place. By the time I entered, the symphonia was already scraping out the overture, one of those infinite-cycle pieces that could be played over and over until the royal family arrived and the first dance could begin.
Someone grabbed my upper right arm and whispered in my ear, “Ready?”
“As ready as we can be for the unknown,” I replied, not daring to look at him. He smelled almondy, like the marchpane torte.
I discerned his nod in my peripheral vision. “Selda’s stowed a flask of Zibou coffee for you somewhere onstage in case you start getting drowsy.” Kiggs clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Save me a pavano.”
He disappeared into the crowd.