“Dinner with Malgasi and Sarthe,” said Kel. “Two countries that loathe each other. How could I resist?”
“You’ll be fine,” Conor said, and Kel knew that, of course, there was no question of resisting. If Conor wanted him to go, he would go; it was his purpose, his duty. He thought briefly of the Ragpicker King and their discussions of loyalty. To the Ragpicker King, Kel’s loyalty was a quality that simply made him useful. Andreyen saw that loyalty, but he did not understand it. He did not live in a world of loyalty and vows. He lived in a world of trickery and extortion, a world where power balanced on a knife’s edge, ready to tip this way or that. Of course, one could say the same of the Hill, or international diplomacy for that matter. But that, too, was part of Kel’s purpose: to be a shield for Conor against invisible arrows as well as visible ones.
Conor had not seemed to notice Kel’s silence; he was grinning. “Look what Falconet gave me,” he said, and handed Kel the book he’d been reading. It was a slim tome, bound in embossed leather. Conor watched with a look of amusement as Kel flipped it open and perused the contents.
For a moment, he thought it was simply the same collection of loose portraits Mayesh had shown them the previous day, bound into book form. Then his eyes adjusted. Here indeed were Floris of Gelstaadt, Aimada d’Eon of Sarthe, Elsabet of Malgasi, and many more, but instead of being painted in their finery, they had been depicted stark naked. Princess Elsabet had been drawn draped over a brocade sofa, eating a persimmon, her long black hair brushing the ground.
“Where did Falconet get this?” Kel said, staring.
“He had it commissioned, to amuse me,” said Conor. “Leave it to Falconet to know exactly the list of royals Mayesh considers eligible. The images are reliant, of course, on the artist’s imagination, but they do say there are spies in every Court.”
Kel looked at him. “Every Court?”
Conor looked thoughtful. “Are you suggesting there are spies here at Marivent drawing naked pictures of me?”
“I have seen some of the servants lurking in the shrubberies. Planning to peek through the windows, perhaps?”
“Well, let them bask in my nude glory, then. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” Conor flipped a page, revealing an illustration of Princess Aimada of Sarthe, wearing only a few strategically placed peacock feathers. “Not bad.”
“She has lovely eyes,” Kel said, diplomatically.
“Only you would be looking at her eyes.” Conor turned the next page, and there was Princess Anjelica of Kutani. The artist had drawn her with one hand feathered across her bare breasts, half covering them. Her eyes were the same as they had been in Mayesh’s portrait: amber-gold, unfathomable. Kel turned the page quickly.
“Give me that back.” Conor flipped the book out of his hand and grinned. “Gray hell, look at Florin of Gelstaadt. That tree cannot compete with his absolutely enormous—”
“Bank account,” Kel said gravely.
“Surely those proportions can’t be accurate,” Conor said. He stared once more, then tossed the book onto the nightstand. “Falconet may be a bit mad.”
“All the best people are,” said Kel. “He knows your sense of humor, Con.”
But Conor wasn’t smiling now. He was looking at Kel through his eyelashes; it was something he did when he wanted to hide the evidence of his thoughts. He said, “What would you say if I told you that I no longer needed a Sword Catcher? That you were free to go where you wanted to go, and do what you liked?”
Something deep in Kel’s belly tightened. He was not sure if it was anxiety or relief, lightness or heaviness. He was not sure of anything anymore. He had not been since that first meeting with the Ragpicker King. Slowly, he said, “What makes you ask?”
“Something Mayesh’s granddaughter said.” Conor flopped back down on the bed and regarded Kel through the tangle of his dark hair. “When I was escorting her out of the Palace.”
“You didn’t need to ban Lin Caster from the Palace, Con,” Kel said. “She wasn’t plotting some sort of coup. She’s a physician. She feels a sense of duty toward her patients.”
“She’s maddening,” Conor said, moving restlessly on the bed. “I’ve met sharp-tongued women before, but most know to temper their blades. She speaks as if—”
“As if you weren’t her Prince?” said Kel. “The Ashkar have their own banished ruler, you know. The Exilarch.”
“I don’t think I recalled that,” Conor murmured. “Either way—”
“She is Mayesh’s granddaughter,” said Kel, not sure why he was pushing against this so hard. He often felt it was his purpose not only to protect Conor physically, but to recognize the ways in which he had been given principles to follow only irregularly—a word from Jolivet here, a bit of advice from Mayesh there—and left in neglect to attend them as best he could in an atmosphere that rewarded neither virtue nor empathy nor restraint. Perhaps it was merely that he felt there was no one else to define goodness for Conor, though he was no expert himself. “Do you want her to be afraid of you?”
Conor pushed the hair out of his eyes and fixed Kel with a sharp look. “Afraid of me? She is the furthest thing from afraid of me, Kellian.”
“And it bothers you?”
“When I see her, I feel as if I have stood too close to a fire, and hot cinders have flecked my skin with little burns.” Conor scowled. “I tried to pay her, the night she healed you. She refused to take the reward I offered—” He held up his hand, showing Kel the blue signet on his right ring finger—“and I cannot help but feel that if she had, my irritation would cease. I dislike owing her.”
“Think of it as owing Mayesh,” Kel suggested. “We are all used to that.”
Conor only scowled more, and Kel decided it was past time to change the subject.
“So,” he asked, “what would you say, if I told you I no longer wished to be Királar? That I wanted to leave Marivent?”
“I would let you go,” said Conor. “You are not a prisoner.”
“Then there is your answer,” Kel said. “If I wanted to leave, I would leave. If you no longer want a Sword Catcher, that is your decision, but not one you ought to make for my benefit.” Conor was silent. “I have trained for this, nearly all my life,” Kel added. “I am proud of what I do, Conor.”
“Even though hardly anyone knows about it?” Conor said, with a crooked smile. “Even though you must be heroic in secret?”
I wouldn’t say hardly anyone, Kel thought darkly. Too many people knew his secret for his liking, but that was not something he could share with Conor. “It isn’t that much heroism,” he said. “Mostly it’s listening to you complain. And snore.”
“That is a treasonous statement. I do not snore,” Conor said, with great dignity.
“People who snore never think they snore,” said Kel.
“Treason,” Conor repeated. “Sedition.” He stood up and stretched, yawning. “As it turns out, I barely remember a word of Malgasi. Fortunately, I’ve a new cloak of black swan feathers that ought to distract the ambassadress.”