“Send in the next,” Ursula said with a chuckle. The meeting with the fisherman had put in her a surprisingly good mood after all.
“Iase Pendrahul of Ibria,” Flotsam announced.
With rather more sureness than she liked, the ambassador—spy—sauntered calmly into the room. Now that’s a powerful gait, the sea witch thought. His skin was clear and his cheekbones high, his hazel eyes lit from within like an ember you thought you had put out. Thick, curly brown hair attacked the air around his head, barely contained in a riotous ponytail.
“My dear Iase,” Ursula whispered indicating the only other chair—a stool, really, with no back, set there for the express purpose of making the other person feel lesser. Yet the representative from Ibria took it and sat arrogantly at ease.
“I’ve heard you have a cold. A thousand blessings on your health,” he said, touching his heart.
“Forget about it, it’s nothing,” she whispered. “Let’s talk about our alliance.”
“We can talk—or at least I can,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “but I do not see any advantage to our siding with you. Your fleet is still short three of the warships you swore to provide—six, I believe, was the original promise. Your land skirmishes have been of questionable success at best. Burning down defenseless villages isn’t really much of an accomplishment—I’m fairly certain Gaius Octavius would agree with me on that one. Ibria is wealthy enough. We have no reason to spend resources on a war that doesn’t directly lead to our advantage.”
“Oh, but it will,” Ursula whispered, putting a hand on his arm.
Iase stared at her fingers with distaste.
“I’m sorry, what?” he asked.
“It will,” she hissed louder.
“You’ll forgive me, Your Highness, but you have given me no proof of that. I see no reason to make deals with a princess who dresses prettily but lacks any strategic ability.”
“You refuse to deal because I am a woman?” Ursula growled, perhaps a little loudly, in her own voice.
“On the contrary,” Iase said, patting her hand and then removing it from his arm. “I have had many dealings with fine women I respect. Including at least one pirate captain. It is you, personally, Princess Vanessa, whom I am hesitant to entrust the resources or future of my country with.”
The two were silent for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. His were steady and dark; hers glittered strangely.
Ursula wished she were underwater. She wished she had her tentacles. She wished she had her old necklace. She wished she had anything she could smite him with—frankly, a large piece of coral would have done nicely.
First she lost her stolen voice, and with it the charm and forget spells that made dealing with the humans around her easier. Now it looked like she was losing a potential—and very powerful—ally. Not only would this be a severe setback for her war plans, but her failure would be the talk of the court. She would look weak and pathetic and incapable of mustering the help they needed to conquer their neighbors. And the weak were devoured. It was the way of the world.
“Thank you for your honesty,” she finally whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, never mind. I need some tea for my throat. Join me?” She indicated the bubbling teapot: this gesture was perfectly clear, even if what she said was not. Flotsam was suddenly at the desk, laying out a pair of beautiful Bretlandian teacups, golden spoons, a fat little jar of honey, and some lemon slices.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Iase said carelessly. “Feel a tickle in my throat myself.”
She put the pretty gold strainer—not silver, no no, never silver; when prepared properly the metal had the power to negate certain desired effects of a potion—over his cup and poured, and over her cup, and poured. Strangely grey liquid came out, neither opaque nor completely translucent. It was precisely the same color at different depths.
Each person doctored the drink the way he or she liked: lemon, two lumps…Ursula put a candied violet in hers—one that had a silver dragée as its center.
“Good for the throat, eh?” he asked, holding the cup up to toast her. “To life!”
“To friends,” Ursula whispered over the rim of her teacup.
He raised his cup again before bringing it to his mouth—but waited until she sipped before taking a draught himself.
She watched him, the grey liquid pouring over his lips and into his mouth…and he swallowed…