The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 19 TEA POLITICS 333 AR WINTER

Leesha watched through a crack in the curtain as they passed through streets of Fort Angiers. People gathered to point and stare at the procession; even Jongleurs on the street paused in their acts as their audiences turned their attention away.

Many of them whispered to one another as the carriages rolled past. Others cried out as if they had no idea she might hear.

“It’s the ward witch and her fiddle wizard!”

“Neo-countess of the Hollow!”

“They make you sound downright ominous,” Jizell said.

“Oh, yes,” Leesha said, waggling her fingers and giving her best cackle. “Beware the ward witch, lest she turn you into a toad!”

Jizell laughed, but Vika shook her head. “It’s funny now with the sun above us, but those demons that attacked you on the road weren’t laughing. It was more than a pinch of Bruna’s blinding powder and flamework that kept them at bay.”

“Woman’s got a point,” Jizell said.

The procession came to a halt before Jizell’s hospit, and Leesha watched with envy as Jizell and Vika left the carriage. What she wouldn’t give to go back to the time when her greatest worry was the next case in Jizell’s hospit.

She rapped on the side of the coach, and Wonda appeared. “Pick two Cutters to guard the hospit, and ward off any unwanted visitors.”

“That’s not necessary …” Jizell began.

“Humor me, please,” Leesha said. “The men will answer to you, but I’ll sleep more soundly knowing they’re here.”

Jizell sighed. “If it’s to be Cutters, I’ll take women. This is a hospit after all.”

Leesha nodded, and in a moment Wonda had two brawny Cutter women selected. Both could thread a needle with their crank bows, but were better known for their willingness to fight demons in close. Magic had made them larger and stronger still, and they would be as imposing as any man if they stood at the door with their arms crossed.

Leesha was left alone in the carriage for the rest of the journey. Wonda sat up in front, watching all around for signs of threat. She’d blamed herself for the ambush on Leesha, and hadn’t let Leesha out of her sight for more than a privy visit since. Even then, she waited only steps away. Close enough to hear things best kept private.

A weight seemed to descend on the carriage as Leesha was left alone with her thoughts for the first time in days. She used to need time alone like others needed water, but lately it led her to dark places.

Arlen, it seemed, had truly abandoned her. Jardir was gone, and Thamos would never be hers. The demons and Inevera wanted her dead, and soon enough, the Duchess Mum would likely want the same.

It was a relief to finally see the duke’s palace up ahead. Had it only been six months since her last visit? The whole world had changed. As she took Wonda’s hand and descended the steps of her coach, back arched with dignity in her best traveling gown, she felt the weight on her shoulders ease in the midday sun. Araine was not one to waste time with idle words. Whatever was coming, they would have it out before the sun was set, and that was for the best.

First Minister Janson was waiting for them in the courtyard with his son Pawl. It would be unseemly for the Royals to wait outside. He bowed at Thamos’ approach.

“Highness, it is good to see you again.”

Thamos clapped him on the shoulder. “And you, my friend.”

“I trust your journey was uneventful?” Janson asked.

“Hardly,” Thamos said. “Demon attacks on the road, and your nephew has left a black mark on the throne’s reputation.”

“Night, what has that idiot boy done now?” Janson grumbled.

“Later,” Thamos said. “I know you wanted a chance for him as herald, but he may be better suited to the opera house than diplomacy.”

Janson’s nostrils flared, but he nodded, turning to Leesha with another bow.

“It is good to see you looking well, mistress,” he said, glancing meaningfully at her belly. “Her Grace invites you and your bodyguard to afternoon tea, once you’ve settled and had a chance to refresh yourselves.”

Rojer eyed Janson warily as he and his wives approached, wondering, not for the first time, just how well the man knew his nephew. Ill fortune was common amongst the minister’s enemies as well. What Jasin had done might not surprise the man, or turn him from his kin, but it was likely he knew only that Jasin and Arrick had been old rivals.

The first minister’s eyes were unreadable as he gave a shallow bow. “Master Halfgrip. Fortune has smiled upon you since our last visit.” He turned to Amanvah, bowing much deeper. “Highness. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I am First Minister Janson. Please allow me to welcome you to Angiers. Her Grace the Duchess Mum invites you to sup with her tonight at the royal table.”

Amanvah gave a shallow bow in return. “I am honored, Minister. I had thought good manners lacking in the green lands, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Janson smiled. “Apologies, Princess, if you have been treated with anything less than the respect you are due. Please call upon me if there is anything you need during your stay.”

The first minister escorted them quickly inside, signaling servants to lead them to their chambers. They were barely through the great hall when Rhinebeck appeared, his younger brothers Prince Mickael and Shepherd Pether flanking him a step behind, all three so alike in size and manner, and so different from Thamos, many years their junior.

“Thamos!” Rhinebeck boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. He caught his brother in a great bear hug. He kept an arm around Thamos’ shoulders as he turned to punch Gared on the arm. “And you. Last time you were here it was captain. Look at you now! Baron general!”

“Mother is nearly giddy with the thought of finding you a bride,” Mickael said. “The Baron’s Ball is all anyone around the palace has talked about for weeks.”

“And so wise men are getting out of the palace while we can,” Pether said.

Rhinebeck tightened his arm around Thamos’ neck, forcing his littlest brother to stoop under it. “We’re off to the hunting fort on the morrow. You and your new baron will have to come.”

Thamos frowned, caught between family and duty. “Brother, there are important matters …”

Rhinebeck waved the words away. “Matters best discussed away from prying ears.” He gave a slight nod of his head to one of the servants moving about the hall, this one in Milnese livery. Euchor already had a presence at court, it seemed.

The duke turned to Gared. “What say you, Baron?”

Gared rubbed the back of his neck, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Never been too good at huntin’ …”

“It’s true,” Rojer stepped in. “Your new baron is better suited to knocking trees over than tiptoeing around them.”

Rhinebeck’s guffaw was a raw gasping sound. The man was overweight, and his lungs strained. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Mickael. “That’s no problem. My brother couldn’t hit a tree in the middle of the forest.” Mickael glared at his back as he went on. “There will be ale as well, and food.” He winked. “And a few pretty things to look at.”

“You’re not married yet,” Shepherd Pether noted.

“Bring your Jongleur as well!” Mickael cried. “We’ll see if he can truly charm the pants from a demon!”

“I can’t,” Rojer admitted. “At least, I’ve never had opportunity to try. Getting the pants on them is difficult, you see.”

All the men laughed at that. In true Angierian fashion, the Royals spoke as if the women were not present, though they eyed them openly enough. Amanvah and Sikvah waited with patient silence two steps back. Krasian women must be used to this sort of thing, but Kendall, a step behind them, looked less tolerant.

“We’ll be glad to go,” Thamos said, though he did not sound glad at all.

“Leesha, welcome,” Duchess Araine said, rising from her tea table as Leesha and Wonda arrived in the women’s wing of the palace.

The woman even embraced her, and Leesha found herself savoring it. She had great regard for the Duchess Mum, and more than a little fear of becoming her enemy.

“And Wonda,” Araine said, turning to the big woman and offering her jeweled hand for her to kiss.

Wonda had been practicing her etiquette since their last meeting, and while she still chose the wrong fork as often as the right, she was smooth and graceful as she dropped to one knee and pressed her lips to Araine’s fingers. “Y’Grace.”

“Wearing some of the clothes I sent,” Araine noted. “Stand up and let me have a look at you.” Wonda complied, and the duchess circled her appraisingly. Her pants were loose from waist to knee, giving the appearance of a skirt, but fading to close cuffs that tucked into a pair of thick but flexible leather boots. Her blouse, too, was loose over her broad chest and thick arms, giving a soft look to limbs that could snap most men in half. Bracers kept the sleeves out of her way, protecting the silk—and her arm—from the snap of her bowstring. “My seamstress outdid herself. Elegant, yet practical. You can fight in these, yes?”

Wonda nodded. “Ent never felt so fine, but I move like I’m naked.”

Araine looked at her, and Wonda blushed furiously. “Sorry, Y’Grace. Din’t mean …”

Araine whisked a hand. “For what, girl? An apt metaphor? You’ll have to do far worse to offend me.”

“What’s a metta for?” Wonda asked, but the duchess only smiled, running her fingertips over the delicate wardwork stitched in thread-of-gold on Wonda’s fine wool jacket.

It was an Angierian officer’s jacket with a distinctly feminine cut, but instead of the emblem of the Wooden Soldiers, this one had held Araine’s personal crest, a wooden crown set over an embroidery hoop.

Wonda had removed the crest, replacing it with Leesha’s mortar and pestle. Araine tapped the crest lightly. “If I were the sort to be offended, I might take it amiss that you’ve removed my crest, after all I’ve done to finance the Hollow’s fighting women.”

Wonda bowed. “Yuv done so much for us, Y’Grace. The fighting women of the Hollow wear your crest proudly, and shout your name as they charge into battle.” She looked up, meeting the duchess’ eyes. “But I’m sworn first to Mistress Leesha. If the cost of my new armor and clothes is that I can’t wear her crest, you can have it all back.”

Leesha expected the duchess to be angry, but Araine looked at the girl as if she had passed some sort of test.

“Nonsense, girl.” With Wonda bowing, she and the diminutive woman were nearly the same height, and Araine laid a hand on her shoulder. “If I could buy your loyalty so easily, it would be worthless. Your armor and uniform are yours, and you honor your mistress.”

Wonda bowed her head, breathing deeply at an obvious swell of emotion. “Thank you, Y’Grace.”

“And let’s dispense with all this ‘Grace’ business,” Araine said. “Fancy titles are fine for the crowd, but grow tiresome in private. You will address me as ‘Mum.’ ”

Wonda smiled. “Ay, Mum.”

“Leesha and I have matters to discuss in private, dear,” Araine said. “Do wait outside and see we are not disturbed.”

“Ay, Mum,” Wonda said, moving swift as a deer from the hunter. She might have professed to serve Leesha, but she was quick to obey the duchess’ commands.

Leesha felt a twinge of something akin to jealousy. Leesha had done everything she could to discourage the girl when she’d first appointed herself Leesha’s bodyguard, but seeing Wonda comfortably following Araine’s commands made Leesha realize just how much she’d come to depend on her.

Leesha and Araine sat. There were no servants present, but a silver tea service had been set on the table along with a selection of edibles. Bruna may not have taught Leesha enough about politics, but she had been quite strict about tea etiquette. Younger and lower of rank, Leesha served, filling the duchess’ cup first. Only then did she fill her own and take a small plate.

“How far along is the child?” Leesha was taking a bite of a tiny sandwich when the duchess spoke, and nearly choked.

“I beg your pardon?” Leesha coughed.

Araine gave her a look on the very edge of patience. “This will go more smoothly if you don’t treat me as a fool, girl.”

Leesha snatched a napkin to cough into and wipe her mouth. “Perhaps four months.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t precise, either. Time enough for the child to be Thamos’, or not. She’d expected the topic to come up, but once again was caught by surprise by the Duchess Mum’s blunt manner.

Araine tapped a painted nail on her delicate porcelain teacup. “Am I right in assuming it’s no relation of mine?”

Leesha only stared, but Araine nodded as if she had spoken. “Don’t look so surprised, girl. I’ve eyes in all my sons’ courts, and you can’t expect to keep something like that secret. You and Thamos went from being inseparable to estranged the moment your condition was known. Doesn’t take one of your mind demons to see what happened.”

Araine shook her head. “Another hope for the throne, gone. My dimmest son Mickael is the only one to have produced anything resembling an heir, but none of his idiot brood would hold the throne long enough to warm the seat.”

Her foot began to kick, reminding Leesha of a cat’s tail as it readied to pounce. Leesha glanced around, but they were still alone. The sharp, jerking motion of one old woman’s slippered foot should not threaten her so, but it seemed to promise violence.

Araine sipped her tea. “I ordered Thamos to court you the moment you returned to the Hollow. My youngest son has a talent when it comes to women, but even I didn’t expect you to tumble the first night.” She looked down her nose at Leesha. “Still wasn’t quick enough, it seems.”

Mesmerized by the twitching foot, it took a moment for the words to register. Leesha looked up. “Ordered?”

“Of course,” Araine said. “Thamos has his uses, but he spent more time in the practice yard than the library. He needs a countess with something between her ears, and your courting legitimized him in the eyes of the Hollowers.”

She pointedly placed her empty teacup on the table, and Leesha moved quickly to refill it. Araine took a sip, grimacing. “You needn’t be stingy with the honey, dear. I’ve lived a long time, and earned it.” She took a delicate silver spoon, putting a generous dollop of honey into the cup.

“It’s less bitter than learning everything Thamos and I shared was on his mother’s orders.” Leesha felt her vision cloud, and blinked furiously to drive off threatening tears.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Araine said. “I pointed him at you, ay, but I’ve pointed that boy at many a good match. He wouldn’t have stuck if he wasn’t interested.”

She pointed her tiny spoon at Leesha. “And you, child, hardly required me to come hold your legs open. You needed a husband, that much was clear the moment I met you. You’ve a weakness where powerful men are concerned, and it’s going to get you into trouble … if it hasn’t already.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Leesha demanded.

“Whose is it, then?” Araine demanded. “One of the would-be Deliverers? It’s no secret you shined on Arlen Bales. He was seen coming and going from your cottage at all hours.”

“We were just friends,” Leesha said, but it sounded defensive, even to her.

Araine arched a brow. “And then there’s this business with the demon of the desert. The Jongleurs put you in the pillows with him, as well.”

“There was only one Jongleur in Ahmann Jardir’s palace,” Leesha said, “and he tells no such tales.”

Araine smiled. “I have other sources in Fort Rizon.”

Leesha waited, but the duchess did not elaborate. “Who I take to my bed and carry in my belly is my own business, and none of yours. It’s no heir, so you can keep it out of your plans and find a better match for your son.”

“Giving up so easily?” Araine asked. “I’m disappointed.”

“Is there a point to fighting on?” Leesha asked wearily.

“You think this is the first bastard to complicate a royal match?” Araine tsked. “An Herb Gatherer should know better how these things can be handled.”

“Handled?” Leesha was at a loss.

The duchess’ foot stopped twitching. “You and Thamos announce the child and marry immediately. When the child comes, you deliver in private, and your Gatherer announces, alas, the child is born still.”

Leesha’s hands began to tremble, cup and saucer rattling. She set them on the table, leveling the duchess with a hard glare.

“Are you threatening my child, Your Grace?”

Araine rolled her eyes. “I told you before to keep up with the dance, girl, but you keep missing steps. I’ve four of my own, and know enough not to come between a mother and her child. I might as well declare war on the Hollow.”

“Not a war you’d be likely to win,” Leesha noted.

Now it was Araine who glared. “Don’t be so sure about that, dear. I’ve seen all the pawns you can play, but you’ve not seen all of mine.”

She waved her hand, as if to dispel an unpleasant stench in the air. “But none of that is necessary. Easy enough to bundle a loaf of bread and bury it, and find a place to hide the child. Announce a few days later that to ease your grief you’ve decided to wet-nurse an orphan to fill the void in your heart. Creator knows the Krasians have left mudskin bastards from here to the desert flats. Make a show of inspecting a few before you choose, and none will be the wiser. Then you and my son can make a legitimate heir.” She lifted her teacup. “Preferably more than one.”

Leesha stroked her belly thoughtfully. “So I can never truly claim the child as my own?”

“You’ve missed your chance at that, I’m afraid,” Araine said. “You’d have enemies to the north and south, and your own people would doubt your wisdom.”

“Perhaps they should have a wiser leader,” Leesha said. “Perhaps your son deserves a wiser wife.”

“Point me to this better woman, and the job is hers,” Araine said. “Until then, it falls on you.”

She reached up, flicking a finger against the lacquered wooden crown she wore, set with bright jewels. “The commoners think it easy, to wear a crown. But leaders must make sacrifices. Women, most of all.”

She sighed. “At least Thamos loves you. It’s more than I ever had. After his grandfather bought his way onto the throne, the Royals were on the brink of a coup. Euchor moved soldiers to Riverbridge, ready to crush the battered victor and name himself king. My marriage to Rhinebeck’s son was the only thing that held the city together.”

“I never knew,” Leesha said. The Duchess Mum had never been so open with her before, and she was afraid to say anything more, lest she break the spell.

“It seemed like the end of the world at the time,” Araine said. “Rhinebeck the First did not sit the throne long, and his son had no aptitude or interest in ruling. He visited the palace just long enough to put children in me, and spent the rest of his time in that cursed hunting fort, chasing boar and harlots.

“I was left pregnant and alone with the reins of the city. Did I cry and bemoan my fate? Ay. But I had work to do.” Araine pointed at Leesha. “And I’ll give myself to the night before I let Euchor take the city I’ve dedicated my life to rebuilding.”

“So this is a Northern palace,” Amanvah said. “It is not impressive.”

The strangest thing was that Rojer could see what she meant. Rhinebeck’s palace fortress had once seemed the grandest building in the world, but after seeing how Krasian royalty lived in Everam’s Bounty, suddenly he noticed that the carpet could be softer, the drapes thicker, the ceiling higher.

It was amazing, how quickly he had become accustomed to luxury after spending more than a decade checking for fleas before bedding down in haylofts and two-klat inns.

“Am I the only one thinks the duke needs a slap on the face?” Kendall asked. “Eyeing our bums without so much as a How d’you do?”

“Rhinebeck and his brothers are like that,” Rojer said. “And to be honest, the rest of the Angierian noblemen aren’t much better. Only interested in women as servants and lovers. They’ll do all the formal introductions tonight at dinner under their mother’s glare.”

“I look forward to meeting this mysterious Duchess Mother,” Amanvah said.

Rojer shrugged. “You’ll find her as vapid and shallow as her sons. None of them has any real responsibilities. Janson’s the one who really runs things.”

Amanvah looked at him. “Nonsense. The man is a puppet.”

“It’s true,” Rojer said. “He paints a dim look on his face when the duke and princes are about, but it’s as good as any Jongleur’s mask. The man underneath is cunning and ruthless.”

Amanvah nodded. “But still not in command.”

“Your dice told you this?” Rojer asked.

“No,” Amanvah said. “I could see it in his eyes.”

“I want you to stick close to Leesha while I’m gone,” Rojer said.

Amanvah tilted her head. “Is that for our protection, or hers?”

“Both,” Rojer said. “These people need not be enemies, but neither are they friends.”

“Now,” Araine said, “if we’ve spoken enough of your wandering affections, it’s time for more pressing matters.”

It wasn’t the lemon that made Leesha wrinkle her mouth as she sipped her tea. “You want to know if the duke is seedless.”

“We both know he is,” Araine said. “I didn’t ask you to come all this way for that. What I want to know is if you can fix it.”

“Will he consent to be examined?” Leesha asked.

The Duchess Mum’s mouth soured as well. “He is being … difficult in that regard.”

“I can only guess so much without that,” Leesha said. “I can brew virility herbs …”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” Araine snapped. “Jessa’s had him on every stiffener and fertilizer under the sun for years now.”

“Perhaps I can come up with something your … Weed Gatherer has yet to try.” Leesha kept the bitterness from her voice, but the duchess picked up on it anyway.

“No doubt Bruna ranted at length on the evils of weed gathering,” Araine said, “but she never had more than a few hundred children to care for, and, as I recall, was never shy about dosing folk without their knowledge.”

“Always to help,” Leesha said. “Never to hurt.”

“Oho!” Araine said. “So she was helping when she threw blinding powder in someone’s face? Or hit them with her stick?”

“Always for their own good,” Leesha said. “She didn’t poison.”

“Perhaps.” Araine smiled over the rim of her delicate cup. “But you have, haven’t you? All the Sharum in your caravan this summer, as I hear it.”

Leesha felt her face grow cold. How had the duchess heard of that? “That was a mistake. One I won’t repeat.”

“A promise like that makes you a fool or a liar,” Araine said. “Time will tell. You have power, and a day will come when you have to use it, or be destroyed.”

She set down her tea, picking up an embroidery hoop. Her nimble fingers belied her advanced years as she worked. “Regardless, Mistress Jessa was trained by Bruna herself, and has the royal libraries at her disposal. I’ll wager she’s forgotten more about herbs than you know. If she says she’s tried everything, then she has.”

“Then what do you need me for?” Leesha asked.

“Because you have tools she doesn’t,” Araine said. “Jessa knows her herbs, but she’s less skilled with the knife.”

“And if Rhinebeck needs a cut between the legs to let his seed flow?” Leesha asked. “How are we to arrange that, if he won’t even let me examine him?”

“If it comes to that,” Araine said, “we’ll put tampweed and skyflower in his ale and keep him out till it’s done. Tell him he drank himself stupid boar hunting and took a tusk between the legs.

“But now there’s a third option.” Araine kept her eyes on her hoop. “Magic.”

“It doesn’t work quite like that,” Leesha said. “The body heals itself, magic just speeds the process. If Rhinebeck was born with a … defect, there isn’t much I can do.”

“What about the white witch you brought with you?” Araine demanded.

“You want to involve her in this?” Leesha asked.

“Don’t be stupid,” Araine said. “We tell her it’s some other nobleman, and have her teach you what you need.”

“If such a thing exists,” Leesha said.

“You’d best hope it does,” Araine said. “Time’s running out. If Melny isn’t pregnant by midwinter, we go to the backup plan.”

“And that is?” Leesha asked.

Araine smiled. “Get Thamos to seed the young duchess.”

“What?” Leesha felt like she had swallowed a heavy stone. For a moment it was hard to breathe, and then it sat aching in her stomach.

“Melny may not be the sharpest spear, but she’s got paps to turn the head of any man,” Araine said. “Not that it will take much to convince Thamos he can save the entire duchy by cuckolding you and Rhiney.”

“And Melny?” Leesha asked. “Is she just a womb with no say in the matter?”

Araine snorted. “She’ll put her legs in the air and thank the prince when it’s done. Girl isn’t the sharpest axe in the shed, but she’s not entirely dull. What do you think will happen to her if she can’t get pregnant before the Krasians turn north and Euchor forces our hand? Princess Lorain of Miln is already in the city with five hundred Mountain Spears, bribing Royals and eyeing poor Melny like an owl eyes a mouse. Her very presence is a slap in the face of the ivy throne.”

She tied off a thread, snipping it with a tiny pair of silver scissors. “Thamos looks just like his grandfather. None will doubt the child is Rhiney’s.”

“Why Thamos?” Leesha demanded.

“I could argue that Mickael is already wed,” Araine said as she started a new stitch, “and Pether a Shepherd vowed to chastity. But truer is, neither would be able to keep from crowing about it. Rhiney would find out, and do something stupid.”

She looked at Leesha. “As justices go, it’s not without poetry. If you want to keep Thamos’ spear dry, then you fix his brother’s. If not, you can both have a bastard to hide as you start your life together.”

“Princess Amanvah of Krasia,” Jasin called loudly, his voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling for all to hear. “Firstborn daughter to Ahmann Jardir, Duke of Fort Krasia.”

Amanvah bristled at that. “Duke? Fort? My father is as far above one of your pathetic dukes as they are a peasant’s dog, and his empire stretches …”

Rojer tightened his hold on her arm. “He’s just doing it to get a rise from us. Everyone knows precisely who your father is.”

Amanvah gave a slight nod, her dama’ting serenity returning.

Jasin cast a dim eye at Rojer as they stood in the doorway. “And her husband, Jongleur Rojer Inn, of Riverbridge.”

It was Rojer’s turn to bristle. Normally as husband, he would have been announced first, but the chasm between his and Amanvah’s ranks made it impossible. That, he could accept.

But Rojer was a Jongleur master now, and his stage name, Halfgrip, known throughout land. He had written The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow and the Song of Waning. Jasin made him sound like a juggler brought to entertain the guests between courses.

Amanvah squeezed his arm in return. “Breathe, husband, and add it to the tally to be avenged.”

Rojer nodded as they paced into the room, allowing time for them to see and be seen. Their lackluster introduction did little to quell interest, as they were approached by a seemingly endless stream of nobles eager for introduction to the Krasian princess and fiddle wizard who could charm demons.

“Princess Sikvah of Krasia,” Jasin called, “niece of Ahmann Jardir, Duke of Fort Krasia. Jongleur Kendall Inn, of the famed fiddle wizards of Hollow County.”

Rojer grit his teeth.

Sikvah steered Kendall in another direction after their introduction. Her rank demanded she be invited, but Amanvah had forbidden her and Kendall from sitting with them. Apparently it did not do for a man to attend a formal dinner with his Jiwah Sen.

A small group approached them, led by a man with bright red hair, dressed in subdued heraldic motley in the colors of Duke Euchor. He made a smooth leg before Amanvah, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder in a flash of color. “Your Highness,” he looked to Rojer, “Master Halfgrip. I am Keerin, royal herald to Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Guardian of the Northland, Lord of Miln.”

He waited for Amanvah to offer a hand to kiss, but men and women did not touch in Krasia, especially married women, and dama’ting most of all. Amanvah gave only the slightest nod of her head, as if to a servant who had brought her refreshment.

Keerin cleared his throat. “Please allow me to introduce Her Highness, Princess Lorain of Miln, youngest daughter to Duke Euchor.”

The woman stepped forward, and Rojer saw immediately the rumors were true. Euchor’s daughters were all said to take after him in appearance, and Lorain’s square face had much in common with the one stamped on Milnese coin.

Her frame, tall and wide-shouldered, had much in common with a man’s as well. She looked fit enough to wrestle Wonda. Her hair was still gold with no signs of gray, but her face had none of the softness of youth. She was the shady side of thirty-five, at the least. Old for a political bride.

Amanvah bowed, but it was shallow—an act of respect, but not equality. “It is an honor to meet you, Lorain vah Euchor. I am pleased to see I am not the only princess in a strange city.”

It was unclear if Lorain registered the slight. The politics of Krasian bowing were a language all their own. But her return bow mirrored Amanvah’s in depth and duration—a statement of equality, and a challenge to Amanvah.

But then she did something that put them all off guard.

“The honor is mine, Amanvah daughter of Ahmann,” Lorain said in Krasian.

Amanvah blinked, switching immediately to her native tongue. “You speak my language?”

Lorain smiled. “Of course. A properly educated lady can make dinner conversation in all the dead languages, though none of us has ever had the chance to speak with a native. I’m sure you will be flooded with invitations to tea from those of blood eager to practice.”

“Dead languages?” Amanvah asked.

“Ruskan, Limnese, Albeen, and Krasian,” Lorain said.

“My language is hardly dead,” Amanvah said.

Lorain gave a slight bow. “Of course. But it’s been centuries since we’ve entertained one of your people at court. From the Northern perspective, the language is no longer spoken.”

“Your education will serve you well,” Amanvah said. “The dice foretell a great resurgence of Krasian speakers in the North.”

Lorain’s smile was dangerous. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

A man cleared his throat, breaking the tension between the women.

“Allow me to present my escort, Lord Sament,” Lorain said, switching to Thesan as she indicated the last member of her party. The man wore his rich clothing comfortably, but he looked more bodyguard than escort, his eyes hard. He bowed.

“We’ll leave you to mingle,” Lorain told Amanvah. “I just wanted to make your acquaintance. No doubt we will have time to get to know each other after dinner in the women’s wing.”

With that, the Milnese swept off as quickly as they had come.

“Escort?” Amanvah asked.

“Chaperone, more like,” Rojer said. “Rhinebeck has been through several wives, but none has been able to give him a child. Lorain is the next hopeful.”

“She will likely fare no better, if several have gone before her,” Amanvah said. “It sounds as if the problem is with him.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it in polite company,” Rojer said. “Lorain has two sons to prove her fertility at least.”

Amanvah looked at him. “The Duke of Miln sends his rival an aging bride who is not even a virgin? What happened to her sons’ father?”

“Euchor divorced them, and sent her south,” Rojer said.

Amanvah snorted. “A desperate attempt to form an alliance against my father.”

“Can you blame them?” Rojer asked.

“No,” Amanvah said, “but it will make no difference in the end.”

It was pointless to debate the topic. Amanvah was wise about many things, but where her father was concerned, she saw only what she wanted to see. He was Shar’Dama Ka, and his rule was inevitable.

“Little Rojer, now a married man,” a voice said, and Rojer turned to see the Duchess Mum approaching with Duchess Melny. “How old were you when I caught you climbing the shelves in the royal library?”

Rojer swept into a low bow. “Five, Your Grace.” His backside ached as he recalled the incident. The Duchess Mum had only huffed, but it might as well have been a command, for Jessa had a strap in hand the moment she left.

Amanvah ignored the young duchess, meeting the old woman’s eyes. Something passed between them, and Amanvah’s bow was deeper and longer than before. “It is an honor to meet the famed Duchess Mother.”

Melny, technically outranking her mother-in-law, might have been offended at that, but she seemed to take it in stride. Araine had little real power in Angiers, but while Rhinebeck’s wives came and went, his mother was constant, and the vapid noblewomen at court all took their cues from her.

“I trust you’ve refreshed yourself from your long journey?” Melny asked when the introductions were complete. “Your rooms are satisfactory?”

Amanvah nodded, surprising Rojer. Amanvah never felt rooms satisfactory, but apparently that was something best communicated through servants. “Of course.”

“I trust the princess from the North was able to mind her manners?” Araine asked.

“It was most refreshing to learn my language is spoken at court,” Amanvah said in Krasian.

Melny’s cheeks colored, and Rojer realized she had no idea what Amanvah had said. Amanvah picked up on it as well, and bowed.

“Apologies, Duchess. I was given to understand by the Princess of Miln that all of royal blood learned to speak Krasian as part of their studies.”

Melny’s blush spread, splashing her pale and prodigious bosom with pink. Her eyes found Lorain and her entourage working the room, watching with ill-disguised unease. “Yes, well …”

Araine cleared her throat. “Baron!” she called, spotting Gared a few yards away. “Come, let’s have a look at you.” She soon had Gared turning like he was modeling the latest fashion, the giant’s blush as deep as the young duchess’.

Araine gave a low whistle. “This won’t be difficult at all. The girls will be taking numbers, waiting for a turn to dance with you while their fathers whisper dowers in my ear.”

“I, ah, ’preciate it, Y’Grace,” Gared said. “Hope I don’t step on any toes. Don’t know any dances for big rooms like this.” He waved a hand at the high-vaulted ceiling.

“Wait until you see the ballroom,” Araine said with a chuckle. “As for the dancing, we’ll find something you can muddle through. Can’t have you looking ill at your own Bachelor’s Ball.”

Rojer bowed. “If it please Your Grace, my quartet would be honored to handle the music. No doubt we can manage something to make the baron more comfortable.” He slapped Gared on the back, and some of the big man’s tension eased.

“A delightful idea!” Araine said. “You’ll be the envy of every bachelor in the city, Baron. We’ll find you a bride in no time.”

Gared looked ready to faint.

“I thought …” Melny began. All eyes turned to her, and she wilted under the collective stare.

“Yes, dear?” Araine asked.

“Well, that is,” Melny squeaked, glancing to Amanvah, “it was my understanding that music and dancing were against …”

“Evejan law?” Amanvah asked. “In my land, yes. But I am Hollow tribe now,” she chuckled, “and jiwah to a Jongleur. It has necessitated some … change of view.”

She smiled. “The Baron of Cutter’s Hollow is a great kai’Sharum, and his seed is being wasted on the ground. The sooner he has a Jiwah Ka to give him sons, the better. It is an honor to be part of your Northern courting ritual. At my husband’s side, I may study it without impropriety.”

Araine spotted Jasin Goldentone—doing his best to keep his distance—and beckoned him over with a crooked finger.

“You’re off the hook for the Bachelor’s Ball, Jasin,” the Duchess Mum said when the herald scurried over. “Rojer and his wives will handle the music.”

“But Your Grace,” Jasin sputtered, “surely I am more qualified.…”

Araine laughed. “More qualified than Halfgrip, fiddle wizard of the Hollow? Be glad that’s the only job he’s taking from you.”

Jasin’s eyes widened, but he knew better than to argue. Araine might be a dim old bat, but when it came to royal parties, her power was absolute.

“I think it’s time we took our seats,” Araine said. “Come, Melny, help an old woman.” The duchess took her mother-in-law by the arm, and Araine leaned on her as they made their way to the table.

Others took the cue and made for their seats, but Rojer could not resist twisting the knife. “Look on the sunny side,” he told Jasin, “at least they’ll stop calling you Secondsong in the guildhouse now.” He smiled. “Secondfiddle tumbles so smoothly from the tongue.”

Jasin bared his teeth, but Rojer affected not to notice, tightening his arm around Amanvah’s and leading her to their seats.

“Provoking your blood enemies is unwise, husband,” Amanvah said. “Better to let them think your hatred cooled before you strike.”

“Nothing about vengeance is wise,” Rojer said. “But I don’t trust the afterlife to make Jasin pay for what he’s done to me. I want to see him suffer in this life, and that means destroying the thing he holds most dear.”

“His pride,” Amanvah guessed.

“His reputation,” Rojer said. “Nothing will cut Goldentone deeper than being known as second best.”

Dinner was long and tedious, with endless speeches and false claims of friendship as the Milnese and Angierians glowered at each other, and all cast mistrustful eyes at Amanvah and Sikvah.

But as always in Rhinebeck’s palace, the wine was free flowing, and Rojer had been seated next to the Duchess Melny, who laughed easily, her bosom jiggling so hypnotically Rojer almost forgot the punch lines.

Amanvah dug nails into his leg, bringing his attention back to her as she leaned close to his ear. “If you are done amusing the harlot, husband, I have questions.”

“That ‘harlot’ is Duchess of Angiers,” Rojer said.

Amanvah gave Melny a dismissive glance. The duchess smiled back, oblivious. “I’ve seen this before. A man who cannot sire having his Jiwah Ka bring him younger and stupider brides year after year, more interested in the act than the result. The only difference here is that his mother,” she nodded to Araine, “acts as Jiwah Ka, and he shames his brides by divorcing them before taking new ones.”

“That’s …” Rojer paused. “Actually quite apt. But not something you want to be heard saying aloud. We Northern ‘savages’ are not so blunt about these things.”

Amanvah caressed his arm, but it felt condescending, like one would stroke a pet. “Then it will be our job to civilize you.”

Rojer changed the subject. “What questions?”

Amanvah nodded to the far end of the table. The dessert plates had been cleared, and servants were pouring after-dinner wine. A few courtiers not ranking enough to secure a seat at the table had been granted entrance to the dining hall. Coliv appeared, putting his back to the wall behind Amanvah. He had not been allowed to carry weapons openly at court, but Rojer knew that made him no less able to protect his mistress.

At the end of the table, Jasin Goldentone had been joined by a group of sycophants, but he was now flanked by a large, familiar pair that put a heavy lump in Rojer’s throat.

“Those two wear the motley, but they are bodyguards, yes?” Amanvah asked.

Rojer nodded. “Abrum and Sali. Passably competent musicians at their best, Jasin has them sing his harmonies and break bones.”

Amanvah showed no surprise. “And were any of my honored husband’s bones among those broken by this pair?”

“You’ve seen my scars, Jiwah Ka,” Rojer said. “Not all come from alagai wounds.”

A few minutes later, Araine stood, followed in short order by the rest of the table. Leesha and Melny supported her on either side, sweeping up all the women in their wake as they made their way toward the door.

“What is this?” Amanvah asked.

“The Duchess Mum will entertain the ladies for the rest of the evening,” Rojer said. “The men will take their wine into the duke’s drawing room and smoke.”

Amanvah nodded, allowing Rojer to pull back her seat. “Take Coliv with you.”

“Absolutely not,” Rojer said. “Creator love him, but the man will severely inhibit my ability to play the crowd, and these are powerful people, Jiwah Ka. They need to be played just right.”

Amanvah looked doubtful, but Gared appeared a moment later, and Rojer was happy for the save. “Count says we’re gonna go smoke.”

Gared waited expectantly for Rojer to join him. He’d been seated between hopeful young noblewomen all night, but Rojer had seen little apart from uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll be with Gared Cutter,” he told Amanvah. “Only a fool will threaten me.”

Satisfied, Amanvah moved to join the women, scooping up Sikvah and Kendall as she went.

Gared let out a deep sigh.

“That bad?” Rojer asked.

“Kareen’s perfume gave me a headache,” Gared said. “Like she dumped a bucket of it over herself. And talks like a mouse. Had to keep leaning in to hear, catchin’ a noseful o’ stink.”

“Probably whispering to let you lean in and ogle her neckline,” Rojer said.

“And Dinny was worse,” Gared went on. “All she wanted to talk about was poetry. Poetry! Night, can’t even rippin’ read! What do I got to say to fancy ladies like them?”

Rojer laughed. “It doesn’t matter. Those women were probably desperate to impress the Bachelor Baron of Hollow County. Say whatever you like. Brag about all the demons you’ve killed, or talk about your horse. It doesn’t matter. They’ll laugh and sigh all the same.”

“If it doesn’t matter what I say, what’s the point of talkin’ at all?” Gared asked.

“Passes the time,” Rojer said. “These people ent done a hard day’s work in their entire lives, Gar. Nothin’ but time on their hands for poetry and perfume.”

Gared spat. One of the servants gave him a look, but wisely kept silent. Gared had the decency to look embarrassed, at least.

“Don’t want a wife like that,” Gared said. “May not be smart or know my letters, but Creator my witness, I break my back all day and night. Don’t want to come home and have to listen to a bunch of ripping poems.”

“You want a woman who’s waiting with an ale,” Rojer guessed, “ready to lift her dress on a moment’s notice.”

Gared looked at him. “Don’t know me as well as you think, Rojer. Break my back for Cutter’s Hollow, and I need to know my woman’s done the same. I can get my own ripping ale.”

He dropped his eyes. “Like the sound of that last part, though.”

In Rhinebeck’s drawing rooms, men were smoking and drinking, debating politics and religion, and generally trying to impress one another. There were several Succor tables with men clustered about them, sipping brandy and acting not the least affected as more money than most Angierians saw in a lifetime changed hands with every throw of the dice.

Jasin was present, but the herald had claimed a corner and was surrounded by a knot of sycophants that made an unexpected encounter unlikely.

“Gared! Rojer!” Thamos called, waving them over to where he stood with his brothers and Lord Janson. “Join us!” Keerin, Duke Euchor’s herald, was there as well, but with the air of a man trying to join a conversation where he is not entirely welcome.

“Are you refreshed from the road, my sons?” Shepherd Pether asked. “Thamos was telling us how your caravan traveled at night as well as day, slaying corespawn as you went. A most impressive feat.”

Gared’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Same as any other night, I guess. Killin’ demons is sweaty work, but it’s not like choppin’ a tree. Arlen Bales warded my axe himself. Don’t get tired when I swing it at a demon. Feel stronger with every hit.”

The men all grunted and nodded knowingly, but Rojer could see through the façade. Odds were none of them had never even seen a demon up close, much less fought one.

“And you, Rojer?” Janson asked. “As I understand it, you gain no such advantage when you charm the corelings with your fiddle. Playing through the night must be taxing.”

“Calluses, my lord,” Rojer smiled, holding up his eight fingers. The men were too on guard to flinch, but he could see the shock in their eyes. His crippled hand was a harsh reminder of what lay beyond their wardwalls at night.

“As Gared says, we’re used to such things in the Hollow,” Rojer went on. “I think my fingers could limber a bit more with a spot of Succor …”

“Don’t bother,” Keerin said. “I’ve already tried. They all know better than to dice with a Jongleur.”

“The Duchess Mum raised no fools,” Janson said. Rhinebeck and his brothers looked his way and laughed, acting as if Keerin had not spoken at all.

The herald laughed along uncomfortably, desperate to find some bit of acceptance. In the moment of silence that followed, he pressed his suit. “I, too, have some experience with demons. Perhaps you’ve heard the tale of how I cut the arm from a rock demon?”

Something about that tickled Rojer’s memory, but that was all. The other men groaned.

“Not this ale story again,” Rhinebeck said.

“Must’ve been a little one,” Gared said. “Don’t look like you could reach the arm of a decent-sized rock. What’d you use? Axe? Pick mattock?”

Keerin smiled, seeming to come alive at the words. “Therein lies a great tale.” He swept a bow to Rhinebeck. “With Your Grace’s permission …”

The duke put his face in his hand. “Had to ask, ay Baron?” He swept the hand at Keerin. “Very well, Herald. Sing your song.” Keerin swept into the center of the room calling for attention while the duke signaled for more wine. He had a fine lute, and while he was unlikely to be counted among the great singers, neither was Rojer. Keerin’s voice was rich and clear, washing over the room as he cast his spell.

The night was dark

The ground was hard

Succor was leagues away

The cold wind stark

Cutting at our hearts

Only wards kept corelings at bay

“Help me!” we heard

A voice in need

The cry of a frightened child

“Run to us!” I called

“Our circle’s wide,

The only succor for miles!”

The boy cried out

“I can’t; I fell!”

His call echoed in the black

Catching his shout

I sought to help

But the Messenger held me back

“What good to die?”

He asked me, grim

“For death is all you’ll find

“No help you’ll provide

’Gainst coreling claws

Just more meat to grind”

I struck him hard

And grabbed his spear

Leaping across the wards

A frantic charge

Strength born of fear

Before the boy be cored

“Stay brave!” I cried

Running hard his way

“Keep your heart strong and true!

“If you can’t stride

To where it’s safe

I’ll bring the wards to you!”

I reached him quick

But not enough

Corelings gathered ’round

The demons thick

My work was rough

Scratching wards into the ground

A thunderous roar

Boomed in the night

A demon twenty feet tall

It towered fore

And ’gainst such might

My spear seemed puny and small

Horns like hard spears!

Claws like my arm!

A carapace hard and black!

An avalanche

Promising harm

The beast moved to the attack!

The boy screamed scared

And clutched my leg

Clawed as I drew the last ward!

The magic flared

Creator’s gift

The one force demons abhor!

Some will tell you

Only the sun

Can bring a rock demon harm

That night I learned

It could be done

As did the demon One Arm!

The last words struck Rojer, and suddenly he realized why the tale was so familiar. How many times had Arlen told of the one-armed rock demon that pursued him for years after he cut its arm off as a boy? What were the odds this tale happened twice on the road to Miln?

Keerin ended with a flourish, and there was applause throughout the drawing room, but the sound was noticeably absent from Jasin’s corner, and the duke’s circle.

Rojer’s claps were loud and slow, designed to echo off the room’s high-vaulted ceiling. They continued when the rest of the applause had died away, drawing all eyes to him.

“A fine tale,” Rojer congratulated loudly. “Though I knew a man who told it differently.”

“Oh?” Keerin asked imperiously, knowing a challenge when he heard it. “And who might that be?”

“Arlen Bales,” Rojer said, and there was chatter throughout the room at the name.

He looked at Keerin with mock incredulity as the color drained from the man’s face. “You realize, of course, that the boy in your song grew to be none other than the Warded Man, himself?”

“Don’t remember a Jongleur in that story,” Gared said, and there was more chatter at that. “You want to hear a true story?” He slapped Rojer on the back, knocking him forward a step. “Rojer, play The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow!”

Thamos put his face in his hand. Rojer turned, bowing to Rhinebeck as Keerin had. “Your Grace, I need not …”

“It’s already being played in every alehouse from here to Miln,” Rhinebeck said with a wave. “Might as well hear it from the source.”

Rojer swallowed, but he took out his fiddle and began to play.

Cutter’s Hollow lost its center

When the flux came to stay

Killed great Herb Gatherer Bruna

Her ’prentice far away

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

In Fort Angiers far to the north

Leesha got ill tiding

Her mentor dead, her father sick

Hollow a week’s riding

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

No guide she found through naked night

Just Jongleur travel wards

That could not hold the bandits back

As it did coreling hordes

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

Left for dead no horse or succor

Corelings roving in bands

They met a man with tattooed flesh

Killed demons with bare hands

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

The Hollow razed when they arrived

Not a ward left intact

And half the folk who called it home

Lay dead or on their backs

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

Warded Man spat on despair

Said follow me and fight

We’ll see the dawn if we all stand

Side by side in the night

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

All night they fought with axe and spear

Butcher’s knife and shield

While Leesha brought those too weak to

The Holy House to heal

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

Hollowers kept their loved ones safe

Though night was long and hard

There’s reason why the battlefield’s

Called the Corelings’ Graveyard

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

If someone asks why at sunset

Demons all get shivers

Hollowers say with honest word

It’s ’cuz we’re all Deliverers

Not a one would run and hide,

They all did stand and follow

Killing demons in the night

The Warded Man came to the Hollow

Keerin seemed to shrink as the song went on. Gared roared the refrain along with Rojer, and others in the room took up the song. By the end, the Milnese herald’s haughty look was gone.

The applause was louder at the end of Rojer’s song, with Gared leading the crowd with piercing whistles and his booming claps and cheers. Thamos joined him, and even his brothers clapped politely, save for Shepherd Pether, who merely sipped his wine.

But from Jasin’s corner, there was silence until the rest died down, and then he, too, began a slow clap, walking toward the center of the room.

“Your Grace—” he began.

“Not now, Jasin,” Rhinebeck cut him off with a wave. “I think we’ve had enough of singing for one night.”

Jasin’s jaw dropped, and Rojer flashed him a smile. “Not even Thirdsong tonight, ay? Perhaps we’ll call you Jasin Nosong from now on.” Before the herald could react, Rojer turned his back and rejoined the duke’s entourage.

“And where is this Warded Man?” Pether’s mouth was a tight line. Not surprising, since Arlen Bales represented a direct challenge to his authority. Should Arlen be acknowledged openly as Deliverer, Pether’s position as the head of the church in Angiers would be effectively meaningless.

“Over a cliff with the demon of the desert, as I told you all in my letters,” Thamos said immediately. “I was there, and have not heard credible tale of any seeing him since.”

“He’ll be back,” Gared said, oblivious to the look Thamos shot him, or the way Pether’s lips soured. “Sure as the sun rises.”

“You believe he is the Deliverer, then?” Pether demanded.

All around them, other conversations died as everyone in the room waited on Gared’s response. Even Gared picked up on it, realizing that the entire relationship between Hollow County and Angiers might hinge on his response.

“Was for me and mine,” Gared said at last. “Can’t deny the world’s changing, and it started with him.” He looked up, meeting Pether’s eyes with an intensity that broke even the Shepherd’s glare. “But I know Arlen Bales. He dun’t want a throne. Dun’t want to tell folk how to live their lives. All Arlen Bales cares about is killing demons, and that’s something every one of us ought to be able to get behind.”

“Hear hear!” Thamos said loudly, raising his glass. His brothers all looked at him in surprise, but the count kept his eyes on Gared, avoiding their stare. The rest of the room responded instinctively at the motion, raising their glasses with a cheer.

Rhinebeck, Mickael, and Pether, sensing the mood, drank the toast with practiced smiles, but Rojer could sense the unease that lay beneath.

Leesha continued to be amazed at Araine’s masterful performance as a doddering old woman. She had one arm through Leesha’s and another through Melny’s, no act to the weight she put on them.

There was no denying the effectiveness of the tactic. All the men at court, from the lowest scullery boy to Rhinebeck himself, were trained to leap to her bidding, lest the crone strain herself to exhaustion with the act of crossing the room.

Leesha looked at Thamos as they passed, but the count affected not to notice.

Nothing is settled, she reminded herself. Not until I make right with Thamos. She of all people should know that a mother’s marriage agreements were meaningless without the child’s consent.

Wonda had the door. “Let an old woman lean on one of those magnificent arms,” Araine told her.

“Ay, Mum,” Wonda said. Melny broke off with practiced ease, smiling as she took the lead of the crowd of women in the hall, escorting them to the evening salon.

They approached the end of the hall where two large women stood at attention to either side of a great set of double doors. They were dressed almost identically to Wonda, and wore tabards bearing Araine’s crest. They were unarmed, but did not look to need arms to keep out most unwanted visitors. When they moved to pull open the doors, Leesha could see the barest impression of a short club hanging from the back of their belts, hidden by the loose tabards.

They saluted as Araine approached, but their eyes were on Wonda.

“You’ve become something of a legend in Angiers, dear,” Araine told Wonda. “Since your last visit, I’ve made some changes in the palace guard.”

Another pair of women on the opposite side closed the doors, but these were clad in lacquered wooden armor and carried spears.

Araine ignored the discomfort on Wonda’s face, turning to Amanvah and Sikvah. She surprised Leesha again, slipping effortlessly into Krasian. “Be at peace, sisters, and lower your veils. We are in the women’s wing of the palace. No men are allowed beyond these doors.”

Amanvah bowed slightly, lowering her pristine white veil and undoing her headscarf. Sikvah followed suit. Unmarried, Kendall’s face was uncovered, but she wore her hair in a motley headscarf and removed it with a bow.

The salon was filled with ladies of the court by the time Araine shuffled up the steps and down the hall. Women drank and lounged, discussing art, music, theater, and poetry. Princess Lorain commanded a knot of women, as did the Duchess Melny, the tension between the groups palpable.

A trio of female Jongleurs in the court heraldic motley performed near the center. Two of them, young and beautiful, plucked harps, filling the rooms with soothing sound.

The third was older, tall and thickly set. The motley patchwork of her gown was made of smooth elegant lines of colored velvet, embroidered in gold. Her voice permeated the room, bounced expertly off walls and ceiling designed to amplify those in the center of the room. The high soprano aria from Scaletongue, the opera about the mythical Messenger Jak Scaletongue, who could speak to demons, and delighted in tricking them.

Amanvah’s eyes locked on the singer in that sharp, predatory way Krasian women had, Sikvah and Kendall’s heads swiveled as one to follow, like a flock of birds turning in unison.

Amanvah and Sikvah raised their hands slightly, wiggling fingers in their secret language while continuing to watch the Jongleur. Leesha still had no sense of what the movements meant, but she knew from experience the Krasian women could speak as intricate a conversation with fingers and facial expression as they could with words.

Pretending to adjust her hair, Leesha slipped on a warded earring. It was a tiny silver shell, molded around a curved bit of dried ear cartilage from a flame demon.

She tilted her head slightly, and caught Kendall’s whispered words, even amidst the music. “Who’s that?”

Sikvah leaned close to Kendall, her words the barest breath on the young woman’s ear, but Leesha’s earring caught them all. “She is the one who killed Master Jaycob.”

Leesha’s stomach tightened. She had written the report to the city watch after the crime. Leesha prided herself on a sharp memory, but it cut both ways, as the image of Jaycob’s swollen and bloody body flashed in her mind, bones broken like kindling. He had been beaten to death by someone using their bare hands.

From the size of the bruises, Leesha had always assumed the killer had been a man. There had been a purple handprint on Jaycob’s shoulder—where the assailant had gripped him to pull him into their blows. Leesha remembered measuring her own hand against it, like a child measuring against an adult.

One look at the singer’s big hands, though, and she knew.

“What do we do?” Kendall whispered.

“Nothing, save the dama’ting command it,” Sikvah said. “This woman owes our husband a blood debt, but until he calls it due, we must endure.”

The Core we must, Leesha thought.

“Creator, that singing is giving me a splitting headache,” she said. Not loudly, but not quietly, either.

Araine immediately picked up on it. “Sali, quit your warbling!”

The Jongleur had taken a great breath for her next verse, but choked on it instead, coughing with great convulsion. She punched herself in the chest, trying to regain composure, and behind her, Leesha head Kendall give a tiny giggle.

Leesha raised her voice. “If the ladies of your salon are as sick of another tired rendition of Scaletongue as I, Your Grace, perhaps the Princess Amanvah will bless us with something newer.” She glanced at Amanvah, whose eyes shone with gratitude.

At a nod from Araine, Amanvah and her Jiwah Sen swept in on the unfortunate royal troupe, forcing them to stumble awkwardly from the center of the room.

Kendall had her fiddle out, playing a few notes to warm the strings as Amanvah addressed the crowd.

“In days long past, my people used music to drive back the alagai, turning them from their unholy purpose.” Her trained voice easily mastered the acoustics of the room, and her accent, rolling and musical, sent shivers through the crowd, commanding the attention of all, even the displaced Jongleurs.

“It is time,” Amanvah said, “to return that power to all Everam’s children. Listen well.”

With that, she began to sing, Sikvah and Kendall rising to join her, the three of them nearly as powerful alone as with Rojer at their lead. The song was in Krasian, but the melody wrapped them all close, and soon she could see women around the room mouthing the refrain as best they could, excitement on their faces as they remembered childhood lessons in the desert tongue.

And in the corner, Sali stood with crossed arms, seething.