Father flips his sleeves, then smooths them. “My apologies, my lord. I am not yet accustomed to the formal manners of a palace and the stately customs by which every nightly meal is embarked upon.” No agitation mars his tone or manner.
Lord Gargaron’s frown lifts as he joins Father at the window. “It is just as well you’ve lingered here because there is a small matter I wish to speak of while we still have privacy.”
“My lord.” Father inclines his head obediently.
Lord Gargaron leans out to examine the courtyard, then steps back as if fearing arrows will pierce him from out of the night. “On the road, it is likely you will be joined by your wife’s brother.”
“Likely? Is there some doubt of it?”
“His grandmother insists he be given one final chance to prove he can make something of himself running the Fives, even though I am altogether opposed. Still, I have given my word to allow him a last trial. If he can win at your victory games, he may devote himself to the Fives. If he loses I will finally be allowed to send him into the army as has been my intention all along.”
He rubs a cheek with a finger, as if rubbing a gloating smile off his lips.
“My lord.” The acknowledgment offers nothing and betrays nothing.
“I expect you to keep him close. Let him see how a campaign is run. Give him a chance to prove himself in protected circumstances, with you making the important decisions. Above all else, keep him safe.”
“What manner of temperament may I expect to be dealing with, my lord?” Father asks with the patience of a man who has overseen any number of hapless lordly whelps sent out to endure their first and possibly only campaigns.
“He’s a smart boy but naïve. He needs seasoning and experience. The one thing you must cure him of is that he wants people to like him. He is inappropriately friendly toward those who are not of his station. He believes he can rescue forlorn wretches. He has a bad habit of doing favors for people to win their approval.”
Father is far too disciplined to glance my way but the twitch of his shoulders and the cant of his body betrays that he is abruptly wondering how I got here and who might have helped me.
“Cleanse him of that desire for camaraderie, if you can. But above all, I need him back sound in mind and whole in body. A few brave injuries would not go amiss to mark him as a good soldier. Your fortune will rise with his, I promise you.”
I rock back a step to catch myself.
“My gracious lady wife speaks little of her brother,” Father remarks. “I am not sure she has mentioned him even once within my hearing.”
“Though close in age, they are not much alike.” Lord Gargaron looks around to see me standing like a statue by the door. He flutters a hand. “Out! These creatures! Too stupid to take initiative.”
Father’s gaze flicks toward me, then back to his lord. “Good soldiers undertake their duty and accomplish all that they have been ordered to do,” he says as I depart.
The words are meant for me.
My head is buzzing. The stone steps slip away, like they are falling farther and farther from my feet, and by the time I reach the bottom I am halfway to flying. Only my trained reflexes keep me from slamming into one of the guards.
“Slow down!” he barks.
Panting, I duck my head and slide away at a more measured pace although my heart stumbles.
The corridor is awash in a locust cloud of voices. Because I do not know the layout of the villa, I miss the route taken by the servants and find myself in a large atrium in which a company of finely dressed Patron men and women are gathering. Across the room I see Lord Kalliarkos, Lord Thynos, and General Inarsis chatting amid a circle of brightly dressed courtiers, and although Kalliarkos glances around the room, my mask protects me as I creep along the wall like a shadow.
Lords and ladies mingle, chattering and laughing. The women wear linen sheaths, the fabric covered with embroidery and tiny beads to create flowers and vines and butterflies. Bright ribbons tiered in clusters and waterfalls in their hair swirl and swing as their heads move.
At the still center stands Prince Nikonos. No adornment gilds his gold keldi and sleeveless jacket; unrelieved gold silk is all he need wear to mark his status as the younger brother of the king. No one stands close to him, leaving him alone in a sea of laughter. He looks up at a woman with her back to me. Their gazes cross like sparks spitting and, making the gesture a deliberate snub, she greets a woman with an effusive smile and a cheek touched one to the other’s.
I have seen that face before, so striking with decorative kohl artistry turning her eyelashes into the spine of wings drawn onto her cheek. The architecture of ribbons in her hair spreads like a fan to frame her round face. She is the young woman who was peering out of the carriage at the Ribbon Market the day Coriander’s brother was arrested and Kalliarkos saved me from the same fate. Kalliarkos got into the carriage because she is his sister, and now my father’s wife.
