Luvian Fen
“Damn him.” Sorrow raged at the morning circular in her hand, terrifying the girl who’d been serving her tea. “Sorry,” she muttered, waiting until the servant had scurried out of the room before she continued. “He’s done it again.”
Across the breakfast table, a slim young man, wearing a sharp charcoal three-piece suit and silver-rimmed spectacles, paused in the act of smearing butter along a slice of bread, his knife held aloft like a baton. “I assume you mean Mael? What has he done again?”
“Released another statement that’s the same as one of ours.” Sorrow brandished the thin newspaper at him. “Fourth day in a row. Exactly the same.” She used the paper to gesture at the wall, where Irris had pinned up the list of ideas that she and Sorrow had written back in Istevar, all those weeks ago.
“It’s word for word what we wrote – appoint judges to make decisions about criminals, and stop the Decorum Ward from doing it. I’m telling you, Luvian, we have a spy. Someone here is telling him our plans, and he’s making sure he gets them out there first so people think they’re his.”
Luvian Fen shrugged. “OK,” he said calmly, before continuing to butter his bread.
“Luvian!” Sorrow waited until he looked back at her. “You’re supposed to be my advisor. Shouldn’t you be a little concerned about this? He’s putting our ideas out there before we have a chance to. You should let me release statements too.”
Luvian put down the knife with an exaggerated air of tolerance. “Firstly, as I keep telling you, it will be a thousand times more powerful if you introduce your plans as a whole at the presentation next week, and then publish the entire thing in one go. The mourning period for your father ended three days ago; people are going to be preoccupied with what that means. As far as the people of Rhannon are concerned, the election campaigns will officially begin with your respective presentations. I suspect the only people reading your brother’s statements are us, and the Jedenvat.”
“Don’t call him my brother; we still don’t know if he is or not,” Sorrow reminded him.
“My apologies,” Luvian said blandly. “Secondly, of course we have a spy. Do you think I don’t have spies in their camp?”
Sorrow blinked. “Wait – do you?”
“Obviously. Where do you think all my information comes from? And, yes, they will have spies here, who’ve probably read your manifesto.” He nodded at the wall. “You have to admit, it was a little naive to pin it up where anyone could see it. But be assured there’s nothing on there that they won’t have thought of too – it’s not that far-fetched that he had the same idea – he’s taking advice from Vespus, after all, and that’s how it’s done in Rhylla. Lawkeepers make arrests, suspects are tried, a jury decides, and a judge determines the punishment, or not.”
“But—”
“And if I thought your list could be used against us, I’d have taken it down. Luckily for you, it’s predictably mediocre, and, if I’m honest, darling Sorrow, more than a touch idealistic. Though that’s simply my opinion.”
Fighting to stay calm, Sorrow replied, “Well, all your so-called information has turned up is the fact he prefers lemon curd to lime, writes with his left hand, and likes to sing while he bathes, despite having a terrible voice. Which is also predictably useless, in my opinion.”
Believing she’d made her point, Sorrow took a large sip of coffee.
But Luvian was ready for her. “I’ve been meaning to ask, does that run in the family?”
Sorrow choked.
“I’m kidding!” Luvian tossed a napkin over to her as Sorrow scrabbled for a nasty enough insult to lob at him. “Lighten up, lovely.” He paused again, and looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “Seriously, Sorrow, what did you expect? A servant conveniently overhearing Vespus and Mael laughing evilly together about how he absolutely isn’t really the lost boy? Vespus isn’t an idiot – he’s been working on this for a long time – but the closer we get to the election, the more likely he is to make a mistake, because he won’t be able to control it. You need to be patient. Gossip and rumours travel on swifter winds than truth does.”
“The election is in seven weeks,” Sorrow fumed. “I don’t have time to be patient. We’ve already lost four weeks mourning.”
“I can tell the loss of your father has devastated you.” Luvian raised an eyebrow, and Sorrow glared at him. He knew perfectly well how things had been between her and Harun. Undaunted, he continued. “As I keep reminding you, you don’t need to prove Mael is an imposter to win the election. That’s why you hired me. You said, and I paraphrase, ‘I will automatically win if I can prove he’s an imposter, but I want to win because I love Rhannon and he doesn’t.’ Then I said, ‘You will win, because I am brilliant.’ ” Luvian smiled widely and went back to his breakfast. Sorrow had to stop herself from throwing the marmalade at him.
“Good morning, team.” Irris swept cheerily into the room, carrying a small pile of papers and envelopes, and a large package, which she deposited in front of Luvian. “Your records arrived. And I have an exciting piece of news.”
“Thank the Graces,” Luvian muttered. “Someone needs it.”
Irris turned immediately to Sorrow. “What’s wrong?”
Sorrow shot Luvian a dark look as she replied, “The news circular is reporting today that Mael plans to introduce a judge and jury of peers system to Rhannon if he wins.”
Irris’s eyes narrowed. “But that’s our…”
“Yes, yes,” Luvian interrupted, seeing where the line of conversation was heading. “We’ve dealt with it. What’s your news?”
Irris smiled, something that Sorrow, after four weeks of increasing smiles, was still not used to seeing so often. “You’ve been invited to a party.” She handed an envelope to Sorrow.
As she opened it, Luvian came to stand behind her, reading over her shoulder.
“A Naming celebration for new princess Aralie, in Rhylla. How lovely.”
“Well, I can’t go,” Sorrow said.
“Why not?”
“I…” Sorrow stopped, frowning.
Over the years, Queen Melisia had invited Harun, Sorrow and her grandmother to many festivals in Rhylla, and the dowager had always sent back polite refusals, knowing Harun would react badly to the idea of any celebrations, anywhere. But now…
“Can I go?” Sorrow twisted to look up at Luvian, hope swelling in her chest. “Shouldn’t I be here, doing election stuff?”
Luvian raised an eyebrow. “‘Election stuff’,” he repeated.
Sorrow’s cheeks heated. “I meant…” She trailed off.
“Please don’t say ‘election stuff’ in front of anyone in Rhylla. Not to mention, my politically ignorant darling, that the queen will have invited leaders and representatives from every country on Laethea. Leaders you’ll need to work with once you’re chancellor. So, technically this is ‘election stuff’.”
“You can stop saying it now,” Sorrow muttered.
“It also gives us a chance to be in Rhylla. In the castle. Where Mael spent the last two years. Where he will have been seen and heard. So it ties into both of your interests nicely: beating Mael, and uncovering his true identity. This couldn’t be better if I’d planned it myself.” He patted her shoulder and returned to his seat, a sleek smile on his lips.
“Wait, ‘us’?” Sorrow glanced back at the invitation. “Plus guest,” she read.
“Obviously me,” Luvian said instantly.
Sorrow looked at Irris, who was staring at Luvian too.
“It has to be me,” he said.
“Why does it?” Sorrow asked. “I want Irris to come.”
“Ouch.” Luvian raised a hand to his heart. “But in all seriousness, it has to be me. It’s going to be a hotbed of tension, with all the world leaders, and Mael and Vespus, there. This is what you pay me for. To help steer you. To be the captain of your ship.”
Irris sighed. “He might be right. Not about the captain part.”
Sorrow couldn’t say why she wanted Irris there – needed her there – to face the one person she didn’t think she could face alone now.
“Anyway,” Luvian said, as though the matter was settled, “enough party chatter. You have a presentation to prepare for.”
Sorrow groaned.
“You’ll thank me after.” He winked.
The look Sorrow gave him would have soured cream, but she let Irris lead her from the room.
“Have fun,” Luvian called after them, pushing his spectacles back up his nose and picking up the bundle Irris had given him.
Sorrow hadn’t known what to make of Luvian Fen when they’d first met. He was barely out of his teens, though he had the sharp, shrewd eyes of a man who’d already seen and done a lifetime of deeds. He was dressed in grey – deliberately choosing the same shade she’d worn to her father’s funeral, she realized later – his clothes all sharp lines: slim-cut trousers, a frock coat that flared over his narrow hips, a paler grey shirt beneath, only revealing itself at the starched cuffs and collar. His dark hair was longer on top, shorter at the sides, the longer part constantly bearing the trails of fingers passing through it as he brushed it back off his face. He didn’t look how she’d pictured a political advisor when Charon had suggested she employ one.
Luvian had completed his diploma at the Institute in the East Marches, one of Rhannon’s two universities, passing not only with honours in politics but with the highest grade in the college’s history. But when Sorrow, impressed by his credentials, had written to his tutors for a reference, all of them told her he had a reputation for being cocky and arrogant.
Irris struck him from the small list of interviewees because of it, but he’d sent a bird to Sorrow directly, pointing out his educational records were exceptional, and telling her that his “unconventional approach was what she needed, in this most unconventional of elections”. Irris had criminal records searched for his name, but nothing came up, so Sorrow, having not taken to either of the other applicants, and with no other option, agreed to see him.
He’d arrived at the North Marches estate, where Sorrow was basing her headquarters, an aristocratic-looking man with golden skin, black eyes behind spectacles, and finely carved features. From his reputation Sorrow had expected someone bullish, tall and broad, in the vein of Meeren Vine, but Luvian was lithe and not much taller than her. He’d seemed nervous at first, asking lots of questions about the role, and she’d tried to reassure him. Until she quickly realized he was interviewing her, and not vice versa.
He’d quizzed her on her ideas for the future of Rhannon and her thoughts on the past, and she’d dutifully recited her hopes and recounted her grandmother’s stories and how they’d fed her plans. He’d asked her in what order she planned to approach the embassies of other countries, and what trade lines she planned to open, or close. What she planned to overturn, and what she hoped to reinstate and introduce.
She wasn’t prepared for it, and answered off the top of her head, with no way of knowing what he thought of her responses until he’d sat back in his chair, looked at her from over the top of his glasses, and said, “Very well. I’ll be your advisor.”
“There’s one other thing you should know,” she said, and he’d tilted his head, waiting. “I’m not convinced the man running against me is Mael Ventaxis. I think it’s more than likely he’s an imposter, and a puppet for Vespus Corrigan. I plan to find out who he really is, and expose him.”
Luvian had given her a long look before taking off his glasses and cleaning them methodically on his sleeve. “Because if you can prove it, you’ll automatically win?”
“Yes. No.” Sorrow paused. “Yes, I’d automatically win. But … I don’t think he’s running for election because he cares about Rhannon. He’s doing it because Lord Vespus told him he should, and because he thinks it’s his place to. He said as much the first time I met him; he wants to belong, and Vespus has convinced him he belongs here.” She took a deep breath. “But how can he belong here when he doesn’t know it? He thought he was Rhyllian until two years ago, and everything he’s learned about since Rhannon has come from books, or been taught by Rhyllians.”
“But you’ve only known Rhannon as it is,” Luvian said. “All you know of what went before is from books, and your grandmother’s stories. So how does that make you more qualified than him?”
She looked down at her clothes, the grey tunic over darker trousers. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “I tried on a dress two days ago. A green one. I’d worn colours before, my grandmama’s old clothes. Locked away in my room, knowing no one would ever see me. A rebellion, if you like. One I expect a lot of young men and women have taken part in, hidden in attics and bedrooms.”
She’d looked up to find him watching her.
“But this time I knew people would see me in it. That was the point, so I’d know what I looked like. And do you know what happened to me, as I imagined them looking at me in my green dress? I broke down. My heart went haywire; I was shaking and sweating. I got a rash, all over my chest. I thought I was going to be sick. Mr Fen, I’ve dreamed my whole life of wearing colour, and when it came to it I panicked because every fibre of my body told me it was wrong. Dangerous, even. He can’t know how terrifying it is, that moment when someone knocks at a door and you realize the curtains are open. He can’t understand the guilt that comes from smiling, because it’s not how his life has been. The cultural changes he’ll have to undergo to learn to be Rhannish aren’t the same ones the Rhannish people will be going through. He won’t be like them; their problems won’t be his problems. Their fears won’t be his fears. I don’t think he’d be a worse chancellor than my father, but he’s not the chancellor Rhannon needs right now. I really believe that.”
“And you think you can do better?” Luvian asked.
“Yes,” Sorrow said simply. “I can build the Rhannon the people deserve, because I’m one of them too.”
He’d stared at her for a long moment, lips slightly parted, before they’d widened into a wolfish grin that both thrilled and frightened Sorrow in equal measure. “Well, Miss Ventaxis, it doesn’t matter who Mael really is, or why he’s doing this. With me on your team, you’ll win anyway.”
He was undoubtedly cocky, sly and incredibly arrogant, but he hadn’t put a foot wrong yet.
And as for Irris… Sorrow didn’t know what she would have done without Irris over the past five weeks. Irris had been steadfast throughout, helping her to convince the Jedenvat that a state funeral was inappropriate. She’d held her hand as a dry-eyed Sorrow watched her father’s coffin be interred in the vault in Istevar, three days after he’d died. When Mael had stared at her across the room, Irris had moved to block her from his view, echoing the way he had stood between her and Vespus once. Protecting her.
Once the funeral was over, and an official mourning period of four weeks set, Irris had cheerfully handed her place on the council back to her brother, Arran, and moved with Sorrow to a new base in the North Marches. The Jedenvat ruled no one could campaign from the Winter Palace, and Sorrow had fought to be based in the north, close to the bridge. She wanted to know who came over it, and how often.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sorrow had told Irris while they were packing up their things at the Winter Palace, worried her friend was once again sacrificing herself for some greater good. The idea of Irris not being by her side pained her, especially with Rasmus gone, but she wouldn’t force her. “If there’s something else you wanted to do instead, you have to. I don’t want you to stay out of duty. I know how much university meant to you.”
Sorrow needn’t have worried, though.
“I can go once you’ve won,” Irris had beamed at her friend. “Unless you plan to fire my father and make me your vice chancellor. In which case I accept.”
“You rumbled me,” Sorrow had replied. “Don’t tell Charon yet, though.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“We’d better get started, then.”
And so they had.