The Priory of the Orange Tree Page 5

  “Of course,” Zeedeur said. “Even so, our master believes that the origin of the pearl does nothing to dull its beauty.”

  “Perhaps your master is right.” Sabran settled back into her throne. “We hear His Royal Highness was training to be a sanctarian before he was High Prince of Mentendon. Tell us of his other . . . qualities.”

  Titters.

  “Prince Aubrecht is very clever and kind, madam, possessed of great political acumen,” Zeedeur said. “He is four and thirty, with hair of a softer red than mine. He plays the lute beautifully, and dances with great vigor.”

  “With whom, we wonder?”

  “Often with his noble sisters, Your Majesty. He has three: Princess Ermuna, Princess Bedona, and Princess Betriese. They are all eager to make your acquaintance.”

  “Does he pray often?”

  “Three times a day. He is devoted most of all to the Knight of Generosity, who is his patron.”

  “Does your prince have any faults, Oscarde?”

  “Ah, Majesty, we mortals all have faults—except for you, of course. My master’s only flaw is that he tires himself with worry for his people.”

  Sabran grew serious again.

  “In that,” she said, “he is already one with us.”

  Whispers spread through the chamber like fire.

  “Our soul is touched. We will consider this suit from your master.” A smattering of tentative applause broke out. “Our Virtues Council will make arrangements to further this matter. Before that, however, we would be honored if you and your party would join us for a feast.”

  Zeedeur swept into another bow. “The honor would be ours, Majesty.”

  The court undulated with bows and curtsies. Sabran made her way down the steps, followed by her Ladies of the Bedchamber. The maids of honor walked in their wake.

  Ead knew Sabran would never marry the Red Prince. This was her way. She strung her suitors along like fish on a line, accepting gifts and flattery, but never surrendered her hand.

  As the courtiers dispersed, Ead left by another door with her fellow chamberers. Lady Linora Payling, blonde and rosy-cheeked, was one of the fourteen children of the Earl and Countess of Payling Hill. Her favorite pastime was dabbling in gossip. Ead found her a thorough vexation.

  Lady Margret Beck, however, had been her dear friend for a long time now. She had joined the Upper Household three years ago and befriended Ead as quickly as her brother, Loth, who was six years her senior. Ead had soon discovered that she and Margret had the same sense of humor, knew from a look what the other was thinking, and shared the same opinions on most people at court.

  “We must work fast today,” Margret said. “Sabran will expect us to show our faces at the feast.”

  Margret looked so much like her brother, with her ebon skin and strong features. It had been a week since Loth had disappeared, and her eyelids were still swollen.

  “A suit,” Linora said as they walked down the corridor, out of earshot of the rest of the court. “And from Prince Aubrecht! I had thought him far too devout to be wed.”

  “No prince is too devout to marry the Queen of Inys,” Ead said. “It is she who is too devout to wed.”

  “But the realm must have a princess.”

  “Linora,” Margret said tightly, “a little temperance, if you please.”

  “Well, it must.”

  “Queen Sabran is not yet thirty. She has plenty of time.”

  It was clear to Ead that they had not heard about the cutthroat, else Linora would look more serious. Then again, Linora never looked serious. For her, tragedy was merely an occasion for gossip.

  “I hear the High Prince is rich beyond measure,” she continued, not to be put off. Margret sighed. “And we could take advantage of their trading post in the East. Just imagine—having all the pearls of the Sundance Sea, the finest silver, spices and jewels—”

  “Queen Sabran scorns the East, as all of us should,” Ead said. “They are wyrm-worshippers.”

  “Inys won’t have to trade there, silly. We can buy from the Mentish.”

  It was still a tainted exchange. The Mentish traded with the East, and the East idolized wyrms.

  “My worry is affinity,” Margret said. “The High Prince was betrothed to the Donmata Marosa for a time. A woman who is now the crown princess of a Draconic realm.”

  “Oh, that betrothal is long since dissolved. Besides,” Linora said, tossing her hair back, “I doubt he liked her overmuch. He must have been able to tell she had evil in her heart.”

  At the doors to the Privy Chamber, Ead turned to the other two women.

  “Ladies,” she said, “I will take care of our duties today. You should go to the feast.”

  Margret frowned. “Without you?”

  “One chamberer will not be missed.” Ead smiled. “Go, both of you. Enjoy the banquet.”

  “The Knight of Generosity bless you, Ead.” Linora was already halfway down the corridor. “You are so good!”

  As Margret made to follow, Ead caught her by the elbow. “Have you heard anything from Loth?” she murmured.

  “Nothing yet.” Margret touched her arm. “But something is afoot. The Night Hawk summons me this evening.”

  Lord Seyton Combe. The spymaster himself. Almost everyone called him the Night Hawk, for he snatched his prey under cover of darkness. Discontents, power-hungry lords, people who flirted too often with the queen—he could make any problem disappear.

  “Do you think he knows something?” Ead asked quietly.

  “I suppose we shall find out.” Margret pressed her hand before she went after Linora.

  When Margret Beck suffered, she suffered alone. She hated to burden anyone else. Even her closest friends.

  Ead had never meant to be among those friends. When she had first arrived in Inys, she had resolved to keep to herself as much as she could, the better to protect her secret. Yet she had been raised in a close-knit society, and she had soon ached for company and conversation. Jondu, her sister in all but blood, had been by her side almost since she was born, and to be suddenly without her had left Ead bereft. So when the Beck siblings had offered their friendship, she had given in, and could not regret it.

  She would see Jondu again, when she was finally called home, but she would lose Loth and Margret. Still, if the silence from the Priory was anything to go on, that day would not be soon.

  The Great Bedchamber at Ascalon Palace was high-ceilinged, with pale walls, a marble floor, and a vast canopy bed at its heart. The bolsters and coverlet were brocaded ivory silk, the sheets were finest Mentish linen, and there were two sets of drapes, one light and one heavy, used according to how much light Sabran wanted.

  A wicker basket waited at the foot of the bed, and the chamberpot was absent from its cupboard. It seemed the Royal Laundress was back to work.

  The household had been so busy preparing for the Mentish visit that the task of stripping the bed had been postponed. Opening the balcony doors to let out the stuffy heat, Ead removed the sheets and the coverlet and slid her hands over the featherbeds, checking for any blades or bottles of poison that might be stitched inside them.

  Even without Margret and Linora to assist her, she worked fast. While the maids of honor were at the feast, the Coffer Chamber would be empty. Now was the perfect time to investigate the familiarity she suspected between Truyde utt Zeedeur and Triam Sulyard, the missing squire. It paid to know the affairs of this court, from the kitchens to the throne. Only with absolute knowledge could she protect the queen.

  Truyde was noble-born, heir to a fortune. There was no reason she should take any great interest in an untitled squire. Yet when Ead had insinuated a connection between her and Sulyard, she had looked startled, like an oakmouse caught with an acorn.

  Ead knew the scent of a secret. She wore it like a perfume.

  Once the Great Bedchamber was secure, she left the bed to air and made her way to the Coffer Chamber. Oliva Marchyn would be at the Banqueting House, b
ut she had a spy. Ead crept up the stair and stepped over the threshold.

  “What ho,” a voice croaked. “Who comes?”

  She stilled. Nobody else would have heard her, but the spy had keen hearing.

  “Trespasser. Who is it?”

  “Wretched fowl,” Ead whispered.

  A bead of sweat trailed down her spine. She hitched up her skirts and drew a knife from the sheath at her calf.

  The spy sat on a perch outside the door. As Ead approached him, he tilted his head.

  “Trespasser,” he repeated, in ominous tones. “Wicked maiden. Out of my palace.”

  “Listen carefully, sirrah.” Ead showed him the knife, making him ruffle his feathers. “You may think you have the power here, but sooner or later, Her Majesty will be in the mood for pigeon pie. I doubt she would notice if I wrapped you in pastry instead.”

  In truth, he was a handsome bird. A rainbow mimic. His feathers blurred from blue to green to safflower, and his head was a brash pink. It would be a shame to cook him.

  “Payment,” he said, with a tap of one claw.

  This bird had enabled many an illicit meeting when Ead had been a maid of honor. She tucked the knife away, lips pressed together, and reached into the silk purse on her girdle.

  “Here.” She placed three comfits on his dish. “I will give you the rest if you behave.”

  He was too busy hammering at the sweets to answer.

  The Coffer Chamber was never locked. Young ladies were not supposed to have anything to hide. Inside, the drapes were drawn, the fire stanched, the beds made.

  There was only one place for a clever maid of honor to conceal her secret treasures.

  Ead lifted the carpet and used her knife to pry up the loose floorboard. Beneath it, in the dust, lay a polished oak box. She lifted it onto her knee.

  Inside was a collection of items that Oliva would have merrily confiscated. A thick book, etched with the alchemical symbol for gold. A quill and a jar of ink. Scraps of parchment. A pendant carved from wood. And a sheaf of letters, held together with ribbon.

  Ead unfurled one. From the smudged date, it had been written last summer.

  The cipher took moments to break. It was a touch more sophisticated than the ones used in most love letters at court, but Ead had been taught to see through code since childhood.

  For you, the letter said in an untidy hand. I bought it from Albatross Point. Wear it sometimes and think of me. I will write again soon. She picked up another, written on thicker paper. This one was from over a year before. Forgive me if I am too forward, my lady, but I think of nothing but you. Another. My love. Meet me beneath the clock tower after orisons.

  Without dwelling for too long, she could see that Truyde and Sulyard had been conducting a love affair, and that they had consummated their desire. The usual moonshine on the water. But Ead paused over some of the phrases.

  Our enterprise will shake the world. This task is our divine calling. Two young people in love could not possibly describe such a passionate affair as a “task” (unless, of course, their lovemaking failed to match their poetry). We must begin to make plans, my love.

  Ead leafed through pillow talk and riddles until she found a letter dated from early spring, when Sulyard had gone missing. The writing was smeared.

  Forgive me. I had to leave. In Perchling I spoke to a seafarer, and she made me an offer I could not refuse. I know we planned to go together, and perhaps you will hate me for the rest of our lives, but it is better this way, my sweetheart. You can help where you are, at court. When I send word of my success, convince Queen Sabran to look kindly upon our enterprise. Make her realize the danger.

  Burn this letter. Let none of them know what we are doing until it is done. They will hail us as legends one day, Truyde.

  Perchling. The largest port in Inys, and its principal gateway to the mainland. Sulyard had fled on a ship, then.

  There was something else beneath the floorboard. A thin book, bound in leather. Ead skirted one finger over its title, written in what was unquestionably an Eastern script.

  Truyde could not have found this book in any Inysh library. Seeking knowledge of the East was heresy. She would get far worse than a scolding if anyone found it.

  “Somebody coming,” the mimic croaked.

  A door closed below. Ead hid the book and letters beneath her cloak and returned the box to its nook.

  Footsteps echoed through the rafters. She fitted the floorboard back into place. On her way past the perch, she emptied the rest of her comfits into the dish.

  “Not a word,” she whispered to the spy, “or I will turn those lovely feathers into quills.”

  The mimic chuckled darkly as Ead vaulted through the window.

  They were lying side by side under the apple tree in the courtyard, as they often did in the high summer. A flagon of wine from the Great Kitchen sat beside them, along with a dish of spiced cheese and fresh bread. Ead was telling him about some prank the maids of honor had played on Lady Oliva Marchyn, and he was laughing so hard his belly ached. She was part poet and part fool when it came to telling stories.

  The sun had lured out the freckles on her nose. Her black hair fanned across the grass. Past the glare of the sun, he could see the clock tower above them, and the stained-glass windows in the cloisters, and the apples on their branches. All was well.

  “My lord.”

  The memory shattered. Loth looked up to see a man with no teeth.

  The hall of the inn was full of country-dwellers. Somewhere, a lutenist was playing a ballad about the beauty of Queen Sabran. A few days ago, he had been hunting with her. Now he was leagues away, listening to a song that spoke of her as if she were a myth. All he knew was that he was on his way to near-certain death in Yscalin, and that the Dukes Spiritual loathed him enough to have set him on that path.

  How suddenly a life could crumble.

  The innkeeper set down a trencher. On it sat two bowls of pottage, rough-cut cheese, and a round of barley bread.

  “Anything else I can do for you, my lords?”

  “No,” Loth said. “Thank you.”

  The innkeeper bowed low. Loth doubted it was every day that he hosted the noble sons of Earls Provincial in his establishment.

  On the other bench, Lord Kitston Glade, his dear friend, tore into the bread with his teeth.

  “Oh, for—” He sprayed it out. “Stale as a prayer book. Dare I try the cheese?”

  Loth sipped his mead, wishing it was cold.

  “If the food in your province is so vile,” he said, “you should take it up with your lord father.”

  Kit snorted. “Yes, he does rather enjoy that sort of dullness.”

  “You ought to be grateful for this meal. I doubt there will be anything better on the ship.”

  “I know, I know. I’m a soft-fingered noble who sleeps on swansdown, loves too many courtiers, and gluts himself on sweetmeats. Court has ruined me. That’s what Father said when I became a poet, you know.” Kit poked gingerly at the cheese. “Speaking of which, I must write while I’m here—a pastoral, perhaps. Aren’t my people charming?”

  “Quite,” Loth said.

  He could not feign light-heartedness today. Kit reached across the table to grasp his shoulder.

  “Stay with me, Arteloth,” he said. Loth grunted. “Did the driver tell you the name of our captain?”

  “Harman, I think.”

  “You don’t mean Harlowe?” Loth shrugged. “Oh, Loth, you must have heard of Gian Harlowe. The pirate! Everyone in Ascalon—”

  “I am patently not everyone in Ascalon.” Loth rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, enlighten me as to what sort of knave is taking us to Yscalin.”

  “A legendary knave,” Kit said in hushed tones. “Harlowe came to Inys as a boy from far-off shores. He joined the navy at nine and was captain of a ship by the time he turned eighteen—but he bit the hook of piracy, as so many promising young officers do.” He poured more mead into their tankar
ds. “The man has sailed every sea in the world, seas that no cartographer has ever named. By plundering ships, they say he had amassed wealth to rival the Dukes Spiritual by the time he was thirty.”

  Loth drank yet again. He had the feeling he would need another tankard before they left.

  “I wonder, then, Kit,” he said, “why this infamous outlaw is taking us to Yscalin.”

  “He may be the only captain brave enough to make the crossing. He is a man without fear,” Kit replied. “Queen Rosarian favored him, you know.”

  Sabran’s mother. Loth looked up, interested at last. “Did she?”

  “She did. They say he was in love with her.”

  “I hope you are not suggesting that Queen Rosarian was ever unfaithful to Prince Wilstan.”

  “Arteloth, my surly northern friend—I never said she returned the love,” Kit said equably, “but she liked the man enough to bestow on him the largest ironclad ship in her fleet, which he named the Rose Eternal. Now he calls himself privateer with impunity.”

  “Ah. Privateer.” Loth managed a slight chuckle. “The most sought-after title in all the world.”

  “His crew has captured several Yscali ships in the last two years. I doubt they will take kindly to our arrival.”

  “I imagine the Yscals take kindly to very little nowadays.”

  They sat in silence for some time. While Kit ate, Loth gazed out of the window.

  It had happened in the dead of night. Retainers wearing the winged book of Lord Seyton Combe had entered his chambers and ordered him to come with them. Before he knew it, he had been bundled into a coach with Kit—who had also been marched from his lodgings under cover of darkness—and shown a note to explain his circumstances.

  Lord Arteloth Beck—

  You and Lord Kitston are now Inysh ambassadors-in-residence to the Draconic Kingdom of Yscalin. The Yscals have been informed you are coming.

  Make enquiries about the last ambassador, the Duke of Temperance. Observe the court of the Vetalda. Most importantly, find out what they are planning, and if they intend to mount an invasion of Inys.