Kel could hear Sena Anessa muttering that her eyes hurt. It was a great deal to take in, Kel thought, but it was also a display of power—a reminder to the Sarthians present that in taking on Castellane with this alliance, they took on the Charter Families as well, each one a fiefdom in their own right. The party might look like a carnival, but the message was clear: Reckon with our kingdom.
“Sena Anessa? Senex Domizio?” One of the serving girls was approaching their party, her head bent respectfully. She had on a red silk shift, the kind noblewomen wore under their gowns as a layer between the expensive fabric of their gowns and their skin. Her arms and legs were bare, save for a pair of white lace stockings. If she had been on the Ruta Magna, she would have been arrested by the Vigilants for public nudity. “Sieur Roverge craves the honor of an audience with you.”
The two Ambassadors exchanged quick whispers with each other in Sarthian. As they did, the girl looked up, and Kel realized with a shock to his gut that he knew her. Knew her well, in fact.
It was Silla. Her red hair had been braided around her head, her lips lacquered dark scarlet. She winked at him before composing her features again into an expression of blank politeness.
Conor knocked his shoulder into Kel’s. “Look,” he said, under his breath. “Roverge must have emptied out the Caravel.”
Kel looked, and cursed himself silently for his previous lack of observation. The servants were all as scantily dressed as Silla—in light shifts for the women, tight breeches and flowing shirts for the men—and all were courtesans. He recognized the young man who had been telling fortunes the last time they had been at the Caravel. The night Kel had met the Ragpicker King.
Their brief conference finished, the Sarthian Ambassadors decamped without a word, following Silla across the room toward an alcove where Benedict Roverge was holding court from an armchair of violet brocade. Vienne, watching them go, shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, those idiots,” she said. “Always their own interests first, never Luisa’s—”
“Oh, hello, hello,” piped up a cheerful voice. Antonetta was sailing toward them, and Kel had never been so relieved to see anyone. She wore a close-fitting gown of teal-green silk, cut daringly low in the back. Her hair was spilling out of the jeweled clips meant to restrain it, loose curls falling to cup her cheeks and brush her bare shoulders. When she bent to smile at Luisa, Kel saw the gleam of her gold locket, swinging on its chain. “Are you the darling little Princess?” she said, in passable Sarthian. “You look just lovely.”
“I see Demoselle Alleyne’s mother is no longer selecting her clothing,” Conor said, in a low voice, as Antonetta handed a sparkling hairpin to Luisa （while Vienne looked on, bemused）。 “A marked improvement, I would say.”
Kel felt a prickly tightening of his skin. Antonetta turned briskly toward Kel and Conor. “Now,” she said. “Why don’t you let me bring her around, make the introductions? I know just the girls for her to meet and, really, I’m not sure you can say the same.” She turned to Vienne. “Boys,” she said. “They’re just impractical.”
Vienne looked stunned, as if the prospect of being asked to consider the Prince of Castellane and his cousin “boys” might be too much for her. “Luisa is a bit shy—”
“Oh, don’t worry, all she needs to do is smile, and if she can’t do that, everyone will just assume she’s intellectual,” said Antonetta, in a bright tone that belied the cynicism of her words. “Now, I swear I saw a tray of sweets around here somewhere, delightful cakes and things; I’m sure one of the rather naked servants had one. Come along, we’ll find them.”
“Interesting,” said Conor, as Antonetta set off, Luisa tugging her by the hand. Vienne followed, looking more than a little dazed. “I wonder if Ana sees something of herself in the girl. She, too, will have little say over who she marries. Ana might be flighty, but she’s got enough of her mother in her to be a force of nature when she likes.”
Now that Conor was no longer with the Sarthians, party guests were beginning to sidle closer—Cazalet was lurking, no doubt hungry for tidbits about any new trading deals with Sarthe, and a group of young noblewomen stood not far away, casting glances at Conor. Since the Princess from Sarthe had turned out to be a child, the position of mistress to the Crown Prince was clearly an open one for at least the next eight years.
She’s not flighty. But all Kel said was, “She enjoys saving people, I think. At least, she used to. Remember she always like to lead the rescue expeditions when we played pirates. She even saved Charlon when we buried him in that pit.”
“That was a good time,” said Conor. “Come—it appears we’re being summoned. And I have a plan for the evening.”
They started off in the direction of Montfaucon, Joss, and Charlon, who were waving toward them from a cornflower-blue silk divan.
“What plan is that?” Kel said.
“I want to get so drunk I entirely forget who I am.” They had reached the blue divan. Joss was lounging among the textiles, while Montfaucon and Charlon perched on the back. Joss slid over—a movement that caused a tidal surge of colored pillows—to make room for Conor and Kel.
“I see you’ve rid yourself of the child,” said Charlon, who was wearing a yellow-and-black-striped suit that made him resemble a gigantic bee. He spoke carefully, which meant he was tipsy, but not yet slurring-his-words drunk.
“Excellent,” said Montfaucon, who was not drunk at all. His dark gaze roamed the room with a restless curiosity; his posture said, I am waiting for something interesting to happen. “Now we can enjoy ourselves.”
“I thought we were enjoying ourselves before,” said Joss. He plucked a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant. Flicking open the clasp on his ring, he tapped three drops of poppy-juice into the pale-red liquid and handed it to Conor. “Drink,” he said. “I’d imagine it’s been a while since you’ve been . . .” He paused as if searching for the right word. “Tranquil.”
Conor stared down at his own fingers, silver-tipped, wrapped around the stem of the glass. Kel wondered if he were hesitant—but it seemed not. A moment later, he had downed the contents, licking a spilled drop from his thumb.
Charlon had signaled another servant. Montfaucon and Falconet both took glasses; Joss looked over at Kel, indicating his own ring. “And for you?”
Kel refused the poppy-drops, taking only the wine. It was one thing to drink alongside Conor （always carefully, always less than he did）。 That was a sort of protective camouflage; to refuse wine would only bring questions. But poppy-drops made all the world seem as a dream, as if everything were happening at some distance, behind a wall of glass. As a Sword Catcher, they would render him virtually useless.
Conor sighed and relaxed back into the cushions. “You are always there in my time of need, Falconet.”
Joss grinned. One of the serving girls sauntered by dressed in a shift of saffron silk with indigo stockings. As she bent to pluck the empty wineglass from Conor’s outstretched hand, Kel recognized Audeta, the girl whose window Conor had broken at the Caravel.