The Spy Princess (6 page)

“Snail. Hoola-loo! So you were gonna be executed for that?”

“Father swept me away, that's all I remember, and shoved me in the coach, and yelled at me the entire time. Then Uncle's men came and made the coach turn around, and Father was screaming about how they'd kill us.” The memory sent chilly prickles along my arms.

“And what happened when you got back to the palace?”

“I was crying and apologized as best as I could, but Uncle Darian just laughed. It's the only time I've ever seen him laugh, but it wasn't a nice laugh. Then he said, ‘Get her out of my sight,' in that winter voice of his. Lizana is always telling me I have no tact, and I sure hadn't then. Before we got out the door, I said, ‘You aren't gonna . . . hexacute me?' and he said, ‘No, you're too small.' He was joking.”

Bren whistled. “That's a joke?”

“My uncle's kind of joke. He's pretty much ignored me ever since.”

“So that ended Lilah's political career,” Peitar said. “That is, until this visit.”

Now Bren looked confused. “We're going so I can get betrothed,” I moaned.

“Well, that's pretty disgusting,” he said, making a hideous face. “Marriage! And that's another reason I'm glad I'm not a noble.”

Peitar gave him a wry look. “I'm reliably told that most people, whatever their degree in life, eventually grow up, pair off, and have families.”

“Maybe. But no one makes you when you're a kid, just because of politics.”

“There's the city gate ahead.” Peitar gestured for us to get ready for our arrival.

“Yes,” Bren said. “And a betrothal for Lilah!” He snickered all the way down the rest of the road, until we got there.

nine

T
he gates stood open. All along the walls paced armed guards. One saluted our drivers with a gauntleted fist; the blade of his spear gleamed red in the light of the sinking sun.

The buildings on the south side were crowded together, and warriors patrolled in great numbers. Everything appeared orderly, but as we headed uphill to the west side, where the nobles lived, people stared, their faces closed. Twice someone threw things at our carriages. I jumped at a loud
thok!
against the door. The second time, there was a yell, “Soul-sucking noble! You're all thieves! Go to Norsunder where you belong!”

I stayed put, not wanting to see the angry face behind that voice—or what the warriors would do if they found the shouter.

Many of the fine mansions along the west side were empty. Nobles preferred to stay on their country estates during the summer, where it was cooler, if they weren't invited to the lake palaces.

At long last we neared the royal palace, on the highest hill overlooking the lake. Bren peered intently at the slate roofs and ironwork rails until we were waved through the palace gates. Our carriages rolled past the great flagstone parade court, through the carefully tended gardens, and came to a stop in the secluded, tiled entrance to the family wing.

“Once I'm out, take my desk,” Peitar said to Bren. “Keep it with you. It's important. Don't let any of the king's or my father's servants near it.”

Bren nodded, then opened the door and went to let down the stairs.

Father was just getting out of his coach, and his valet fluttered around him, making sure that the folds of the traveling coat draped properly over the jewel-chased sheath of the dress sword and twitching the side curls of Father's wig into place. I could hear Father complaining as another handed him his ensorcelled handkerchief of pure lace.

I followed my brother down the steps as a damp wind gusted off the lake, pulling at my hair and skirts. Bren, clutching Peitar's lap desk tightly, sent me a last, nervous look.

A steward bowed to Father. “You are requested to wait upon His Majesty at once, Your Highness, if that pleases you.”

My father turned up his nose as he undid his baldric and handed his sword to his valet. “Well, then, I needn't keep that.” No one went armed to private interviews with the king. He beckoned impatiently, and we took the wide, curving stair, our steps muffled by the thick violet and blue carpet until we reached Uncle Darian's informal parlor. Old, gray-haired Steward Halbrek opened the door, his face blank as he bowed us in.

Father swept a low courtly bow, for there was the king, standing by the window with its view of bleak sky and wind-ruffled lake. Everyone was supposed to dress formally, according to rank, but Uncle Darian wore a plain tunic and sash of dark violet with hints of gold—the Irad colors—long trousers, and riding boots.

The light on the king's face made him look very much like a grown version of Peitar, which was unsettling because I never really could think of him as an uncle, as family. At least Father did care for us in his way, despite his frowns and fusses. Uncle Darian was too remote, too cold, too dangerous in his moods—too much
the king
and never
our uncle
.

He gave a careless wave toward the fine chairs.

Father was, as usual, clearly disturbed by the king's impatience with what he considered proper courtly manners. Or maybe it was because Uncle Darian was in a bad mood. Still, he sank into the chair with a grateful sigh and mopped his brow.

The light then shifted on my uncle's stern face; it was our turn. I dropped my best curtsey. “Good evening, Uncle Darian.” And I retreated to the farthest chair.

Peitar bowed, also murmuring his greeting.

Uncle Darian's mouth tightened. “Put that thing in the fire,” he said, gesturing at Peitar's crutch. “Leaning on it will never make you straight. You are not yet too old to learn strength of will.”

Peitar's expression did not change. He did as ordered. Then, as the crutch began to burn, he made his painful way to the chair next to mine.

The king turned his attention back to Father. “Tasenja and his boy are here. You've explained?” I sat up straight as Father bowed his head in agreement. “Do you understand what's expected of you, Lilah?”

“Yes, Uncle,” I bleated.

His brows contracted in a slight frown. “The betrothal ceremony will take place next month, but you and the boy will meet now.”

I knew what he meant: he wanted us to meet in private now, in case I made a fuss. Though my last mistake had been made when I was barely old enough to talk, he'd clearly never forgotten it. I couldn't help but grimace.

He almost laughed as he said, “Prospect of a betrothal turns your stomach?”

“She'll do what she's told, Your Majesty,” Father said.

“Yes, she will.” Uncle Darian pulled the cord for the steward. “Bid Lord Tasenja and his son join us.”

Peitar caught my eye and lifted his chin:
Courage
, he was saying, plain as anything.

Meeting this boy didn't mean I was marrying him—now or ever. If Derek had his way, the choice would be never. Until then, I could play along. Wear a mask, as Peitar had said.

Lord Tasenja was vaguely familiar—short and plump, with blond hair carefully curled at the sides and back.

The son was also short, blond, and stocky. He strutted forward and tossed back his wrist-lace before bowing expertly before Uncle Darian, and then—in just the right degree—to my father. Two half-bows for Peitar and me, and then he stood, courtly nose in the air.

At a look from my father, I rose and made my curtseys. Lord Tasenja surveyed me, from the hair bows trying to hold back curls that were already unraveling to my embroidered slippers, which had grown tight since our last visit here. He did not appear impressed.

“Lilah Selenna,” Uncle Darian said, stripping all the etiquette out of the introduction—which was actually rather a relief. “Innon Tasenja.”

Their name, like ours, was the same as their holding. That meant a very old family.

“Come along,” my uncle said to the two fathers. “We have much to discuss. Let them get acquainted.” Peitar trailed behind, one hand surreptitiously resting against the wall every time he had to put weight on the bad leg.

I sat down on the fine sofa and busied my hands with smoothing out my skirts. What my uncle had done to Peitar filled me with rage. But I had to hide that! Here was my future, standing three paces away.

Then Innon spoke. “You aren't one, either.”

That was an ordinary voice, not a snobbish drawl.

I stared. Despite the embroidered silk coat and the ruby shoe-fastenings, he looked just like an ordinary boy—as I must have looked like an ordinary girl, instead of a simpering courtier, while I was watching my brother struggle behind Uncle Darian and Father.

“A what?” I asked.

“A Court doll.”

“Fheg!”

“How do you feel about romance?” he asked, his pale brows rising.

“Phoogh!”
I exclaimed even more heartily.

Innon put his hands to his forehead as though about to faint. “And here my father's spent the entire ride south trying to force a lot of love poetry into my head so I could spout it at you. Hoo, what stuff!” He held his nose. “‘Your lips, my love, are sweeter than blossoms in the spring. . . .'”

I made gagging noises, and Innon's light brown eyes were crescent moons of mirth. “Does anybody really like that muck?” I demanded.

Innon made a
who knows?
face. “My father said Mother was right fond of that one when they were courting. And I'm very sure that Thiannah Ferrad would lap it up as well. Until the king told my father that you and I were supposed to get hobbled, our parents had been forcing us on each other, hoping, I guess, to round out the estates someday.” He looked skeptical. “And here I thought girls hadn't a thought in their heads beside gabbling about romance, and who's in fashion and who's out, all the day long.”

I retorted promptly, “And I thought
boys
hadn't a thought in
their
heads beside gabbling about their stupid sword-fighting lessons and who's stronger, and hoola loola loo.”

“Well, the only girls I've ever met are like that. I spend all my time in our wood when they come visiting.” Then he brightened. “That's why I was so glad when you made that face after the king shut the door.”

I laughed. “Whew! Well, I roamed our garden, until I met . . .” I stopped.

“Met?” Innon asked.

“Well, some village boys and girls,” I said hastily. “They have great games.”

“No one plays games in Tasenja.” Innon sighed. “Everyone works. It's this drought, and the king won't let us have mages.”

“We had a mage just a couple of years ago, to renew the cleaning frames and the heating spells for the baths and the fire sticks for the stoves and hearths. But that was only at Selenna House. I don't understand why we don't have them fix the village near us.”

Innon flung himself down on the other end of the couch and tapped one of his fancy blackweave shoes. “It's the king,” he said. “Doesn't like mages because one of 'em spoke out against his taxes.”

“Everybody complains about taxes.”

“Not to the king's face.” Innon leaned forward. “My mother said this mage is real powerful. That is, he's old and as rickety as a bad fence, but he's been around since Sartor was free, and he knows enough magic that the king kicked him out, saying if he crossed the border without invitation, it would be his last move. And there's been no welcome for any mage since.”

“I didn't think you could do anything with magic besides fix glowglobes and fire sticks and cast spells on water barrels and buckets to keep the water pure.”

“Well, with the bad kind of magic, the kind they use in Norsunder, you can do anything. My father says the king is convinced this mage is just as dangerous.”

“So
that's
why our mage had guards. Father said it was to protect her, but I thought mages were good at protecting themselves.”

Innon shook his head. “She was an exception. The people at court complained, so the king permitted one to visit just the palace and the homes of nobles. I don't know what'll happen when the last fire stick won't light or the last cleaning frame won't take the dirt out of clothes. We'll be all right, because we have servants. But what will the common folk do?”

“Well, maybe they won't have to worry about that,” I said. My heart thumped.

Innon's eyes rounded. “How?”

I hesitated. So far, Innon was the opposite of what I'd expected—just as I'd turned out to be the opposite of what Bren had expected. Maybe I'd been unfair about court kids myself.

I leaned toward him and whispered, “Revolution.”

“What?” Innon stared in surprise.

“If I tell you more, you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

He shook his head. “No one I'd want to tell! My father would either not believe me, or he'd feel it his duty to go to the king.”

“The other boys here?”

“Army-mad.” Innon grimaced. His face was so round and good-humored that his expression made me want to laugh. “Just like you said. They don't care about anyone else—more'n half of 'em come from holdings where the people are starving, or nearly. They just want to be good enough in the competitions to catch the king's eye and get promoted to the officers' training up at Obrin. That's why they're here.”

“You don't want any of that?” I asked, testing.

Innon said, “Don't want to kill anybody. Oh, if the Norsundrians really do come, sure. Except I won't be any good at it. I'm slow, and judging from my father, I'll always be slow. Slow and short doesn't make much of an officer.” From his expression he didn't seem to care. “'Sides, I prefer figuring.”

“Figuring? What's that?”

“Numbers.” Innon twiddled his fingers. “Less messy than people. You always know where you
are
, with numbers. And you can find out where things will be. I love numbers!”

“Well, maybe you can help,” I said. I was doubtful, but I tried to be encouraging. “I mean about the numbers. Derek must need some of that.”

“Derek?”

Here was the moment.

Should I trust him? From what he said, most of the court kids were exactly the way I thought they were. And I knew that some of the Riveredge kids would have hated me if they'd found out about my disguise. But Innon was different, that much was clear.

I wondered if this was what Bren had felt like when he recruited me.

“Be quiet and listen.” I began to tell him more, leaving out Bren and Deon's names, when we were interrupted by a whirring sound from the wall beside the fireplace.

Innon blanched. I fell silent as a panel slid smoothly behind the panel next to it, leaving an open gap in the wall.