Troubled Waters (6 page)

This time the coin he secured was stamped with the sigil for resolve. “You have to be cheating in some fashion,” she said. “But I can’t see how or why.”

“Come here,” he said, although she was standing right beside him. He guided her over until she stood with her spine nearly touching his chest. He extended his right arm so it rested on top of hers, his open palm grazing the back of her hand. Carefully, he laced his fingers through hers and folded them down.

“
You
plunge your hand into the coins and
you
pull one out for me,” he said. “See what you choose.”

Its very oddness was irresistible. She actually smiled at him over her shoulder. “Very well, then, I will.” She narrowed her fingers and plunged them into the metallic bounty, blessings spouting up and curling away from their entwined hands. His skin was so much warmer than her own; it was almost a shock to realize that some people maneuvered through the world without the constant chill that had dogged her for the past nineday. It was tempting to back up a pace, to collect more of his heat along the other planes of her body. She was sure he had plenty to spare.

Instead, she let her fingers close over a coin—and then let it go, and chose another one. She drew their arms up before she changed her mind again, the token clutched inside her fist so she could not drop it. He released her the minute their hands emerged from the barrel, and she half turned, so they could both see plainly when she showed off the treasure she had retrieved.

Power.

He was laughing outright. “I told you,” he said.

Her own thought was so ridiculous she did not bother to voice it.
What if this was a blessing meant to fall on me instead?

T
hey were three more days upon the road, since the malfunctioning gas valve did not prove entirely amenable to repair. Darien grew increasingly impatient, but Zoe was entirely unaffected. She slept later every day in the impossibly soft bed in the impossibly tiny bedroom, turned drowsy and content by the ceaseless rocking of the smoker coach. Sometimes she tried to lie awake and imagine life at the palace as the fifth wife of a man old enough to be her father, but she couldn’t make the picture form. It was so much easier to drift back into dreaming.

On the last two days of the journey, they passed through bigger and bigger cities. The smaller towns they’d seen earlier had rarely featured a building taller than two stories, and most of the houses had been constructed of wood and plaster. In the cities, there was usually a cluster of buildings five or six stories high, and stone was in evidence just as much as wood.

By this time, they were also encountering real traffic—single riders on horseback, caravans of horse-drawn wagons, even a few other
elaymotives
, though none as elaborate as their own. Their pace therefore slowed considerably, when it did not stop altogether because of the imperfect valve.

On the seventh day of their journey, at an enforced halt, the drivers announced they would need a few hours to replace some key part. Darien took the news with relative sanguinity. He had just told Zoe they were only a day from Chialto. She assumed he could hire some other conveyance to get him that far, if he had to, which made him feel more cheerful.

They had arrived in this town in the early afternoon, and naturally it was raining. Nonetheless, Darien proposed they go shopping.

“I’d rather stay here and sleep,” Zoe said.

He appraised her. “What do you plan to wear when you meet the king?”

She gestured at her clothing. Loose gray trousers, a faded red tunic, and the ever-present beaded shawl. “This or something very like it,” she said. “By now, you have seen all the clothing I own. Pick the outfit you like.”

“I like none of them,” he said. “You should buy something else to wear.”

“I wouldn’t know what to choose.”

“I will advise you.”

She protested, but without much hope. He was not the kind of man to suggest a plan of action and then not follow through. Out into the rain they went and strolled through the respectably sized shop district. At least three small storefronts catered to women, displaying their wares in tall windows. Darien studied them critically before picking one based on criteria that Zoe couldn’t determine—perhaps current fashion, perhaps level of quality. She wondered if he had a wife back in the city, someone for whom he purchased fine ensembles in a fit of romantic affection.

She must be starting to heal a little. The very thought of Darien Serlast in the throes of desperate passion was funny enough to make her truly smile. He very likely had a wife, but she would be some carefully chosen political bride with connections to the right families and a deep well of ambition herself. Probably
sweela
, brilliant and scheming. Zoe imagined her very tall, a little homely but impeccably attired. Living in her house would be like living in a museum. If there were children—though how could two such coldhearted individuals manage the mating process?—they were kept out of sight, perhaps at a country estate, and given over to the care of well-paid servants.

“Zoe.” The sound of her name jerked her from this detailed picture and painted a flush of guilt on her cheeks. Darien was standing in the doorway and regarding her quizzically. “
Do
you have a color you prefer?”

“Green,” she said breathlessly and followed him inside.

It was not the most unpleasant way to spend an hour or two, she decided later—being fussed over by professional seamstresses who had a clear monetary incentive to please their wealthy patron. They assembled five complete outfits for her of soft, colorful trousers and various tops—a long tunic for casual wear, a tighter-fitting bodice for formal occasions, a filmy overrobe printed with a bright design. They even sold her a pair of shoes made of such fine beaded leather that she could never wear them outside for fear of ruining them. She was sure she saw the clerks exchange horrified glances at the state her feet were in—callused and rough, the nails needing a trim—but they made no comment, at least not while she was within hearing.

She didn’t care, of course. Let them whisper about her. Let them wonder what her relationship was to this powerful city man—she who was so obviously an unsophisticated west-province girl without the least hint of social grace. It amused her to think what their faces would show if she said, “I’m to marry the king once I arrive in Chialto.” But she didn’t bother. She didn’t care.

“This should see you through the first two days at least,” Darien said as they left the shop, their arms piled up with bundles. “You’ll need more, of course, but Seterre and Alys can guide you in those purchases.”

“Seterre and Alys,” Zoe repeated. “Those are the two wives who will hate me most?”

He glanced down at her, an arrested expression on his face. “Yes. Well. They will not want you to embarrass Vernon in front of company. They might scheme against you behind his back, but you can trust their taste in clothing.” And then he laughed out loud.

“I cannot wait to meet them,” she said politely.

N
evertheless, Zoe was wearing some of her oldest clothes, and her thickest pair of shoes, when she joined Darien in the common room late the next morning. He frowned as he looked her over.

“Why didn’t you put on one of your new outfits?” he asked. “That green one was particularly pretty.”

Zoe curled up in one of the plush chairs and waited for him to bring her a plate of food. He had done so every morning. She kept expecting him to make some kind of pointed remark, like, “I am not in this coach to wait on you. Why don’t you feed yourself?” But it hadn’t seemed to occur to him, even though he did not seem like the kind of man who habitually served others. He either thought she was so helpless she couldn’t care for herself, or so precious she shouldn’t have to.

Or so stupid she would waste away if no one looked after her.

Or so indifferent to life that she would just as soon starve as not.

Indeed, in about two minutes he carried over a plate of bread and eggs and sliced oranges. They had been out of fruit last night; the coach must have made a stop this morning while she was still asleep. “Also, the red tunic was very nice with those blue trousers,” he added, taking a seat across from her.

“The material is too thin,” she said. “I’d be cold. I’ll change before we get to the palace.”

“We should be there by late afternoon,” he said.

“And I’ll have to wear my old shoes,” she added.

Because of course it was raining. The new soft leather shoes would melt before she took five steps from the carriage to the door.

“Wear the new ones,” he said. “I’ll carry you through the puddles myself.”

But she hadn’t bothered to put on any of her new finery by the time they pulled into the city limits. And at that point, Zoe was too dazzled and delighted to think about going back to her bedroom and changing.

Instead, she knelt in a sturdy chair and peered out one of the windows set into the coach walls, folding the shutters back so she could see. The rain was warm and misty, shrouding the whole city in a soft, romantic fog, and she just stared.

She
remembered
that deep, murky canal that curved three-quarters of the way around the city, crossed in five places by wide bridges. She
remembered
the low, rosy-blond granite of the foothills that stood guard at the northern border of Chialto. She remembered how that landscape changed colors as the sun changed its angle, icy taupe in bright morning, warm cinnamon at sunset. She remembered the irregular horizon line of the buildings, crowded and sooty in the outer ring of the city, taller and more gracious in the center, where the wealth and commerce of Chialto were concentrated. And there was the palace, an impressive, crenellated structure of golden stone, posing on a wide plateau halfway between the mountain peak and the flat ground of the city—visible from all points, beautiful from every view.

And she remembered the river.

It plunged down the mountaintop in a spectacular fall of foaming white, calmed itself to blue in a wide pool that glittered just beyond the palace courtyard. A much more sedate drop brought it to the deep channel that lined Chialto’s eastern border, and then it made a leisurely loop to connect to the canal before it gathered its strength and hurried southward toward the sea.

“The waterfall is so beautiful,” she murmured, resting her chin on her crossed arms where they lay on the narrow sill. The air working its way inside was damp and chilly; she had wrapped herself in her warm shawl, but she could still feel the cold along her shoulders. “But it looks smaller, somehow. I remembered the river as broader and more—ferocious.”

“I told you,” Darien said. “There has been such drought for two years that the river has shrunk in its banks.”

She felt a twinge of alarm. A complicated system of aqueducts brought fresh water to every neighborhood; the Marisi River supplied all of Chialto’s needs. “Is it so low that anyone is worried?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Darien said. “And since it seems like it’s been raining for the past nineday, I expect the levels will rise.”

They had crossed the canal at one of the southwestern bridges, so they would have to traverse virtually the entire city before making it to the winding, steeply ascending road that would take them to the palace. The first couple of miles were the diciest, as they moved through the crowded neighborhoods just past the canal. Here in the southern district, the streets were too narrow, the buildings too close together. The whole place had a discarded, noisome feel, like an abandoned house where neighbors had tossed their unwanted junk to rot, and dangerous, half-broken weapons moldered in the corners. When she was a child, Navarr had made it very plain that Zoe was never to visit the southern neighborhoods, which were full of desperate women, unscrupulous men, and lost children. Even now she felt a thrill of danger as their large, ungainly vehicle made its slow passage down these undesirable streets.

She imagined that even Darien Serlast breathed a little more easily once they turned onto the broad drive of the Cinque, which served as the border between the slums and the more civilized portions of Chialto, at least in this part of town. In fact, the five-sided boulevard looped around the entire city and carried the bulk of Chialto’s daily traffic. Unfortunately, that meant it was always clogged with carts and coaches and pedestrians, and today was no exception. The
elaymotive
managed little more than a crawling forward motion, giving Zoe plenty of time to stare.

On the inner edge of the Cinque, she could spot the beginnings of the nicer neighborhoods, the houses owned by merchants and tradesmen and bankers. They were mostly tall, mostly stone, and invariably well-kept. At the northern boundary of the city, she knew, would be clustered the private houses, the sumptuous mansions where the Five Families lived. Darien’s carriage would have to drive right through that neighborhood on its way to the palace.

But first it would have to get clear of this district. Traffic had come to a complete standstill, and through the open window, Zoe could hear the irate shouts of one of their own drivers. “Out of the way! We’re on the king’s business!”

Darien came to stand behind Zoe and stare out over her shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

“I think a cart has just stopped in the middle of the road. We’re too big to drive around it like the smaller wagons can.” She glanced back at him. “I don’t think we’ll be moving anytime soon.”

“We certainly will,” he said, and strode toward the door. Quickly lowering it to the ground, he took the stairs in two hops and fought through the crowd to deliver a stern order to the men who had abandoned their wagon.

Zoe moved away from the window and stood very still for a moment, considering that open door. Then she lifted the bright scarf to protect her hair from the rain and stepped outside, carefully negotiating the unfolded steps. Darien was still arguing with the drivers. She turned away from him and mingled with the crowd, instantly becoming a part of the busy, bustling tide of humanity. Within a few paces, she knew, her figure was completely lost to view. She did not once look back.