The Councillor Page 10

  “Can you keep the snake in check?” she said.

  “Of course.” Luca stroked the snake’s head. “He is a spitting cobra, but he never spits on the floor, which is more than can be said of the Valderrans.” Several of the Rhimese ladies and lords smirked.

  Luca’s eyes remained fixed on her, but she matched his gaze in strength. Without further comment, he walked onward and joined the Rhimese table, where his party had left a seat in the very middle of their ranks.

  To let the most powerful man in Rhime bring a snake to a feast seemed like some kind of madness—and Lysande was aware of the Axium Guards surrounding her, their hands on their hilts. She was also aware of the queensflower in her pocket, cut off at the stem, and of the looks flying back and forth between the Lyrians and Valderrans, who had not calmed since the queensflower incident.

  She was keeping an eye on Luca’s elegant figure, too, though not necessarily for a purpose.

  Lysande took a deep breath, stepped forward, and raised the Councillor’s staff. “Ladies and lords, we make the city-rulers welcome in the capital. There will be five courses tonight: a taste of our land’s tapestry.”

  The crowd applauded dutifully, though many people were still staring at Luca and his cobra. The musicians struck up a regal air and the four city-rulers got up from their seats, whilst Lysande and Derset led the way to the high table. For a moment, there was nothing but bustling.

  As Derset pulled out Lysande’s chair for her, he leaned down by her ear. “Remember, my lady, the hand behind Queen Sarelin’s murder may be at this table.”

  Lysande watched as the city-rulers seated themselves around her. Dante Dalgëreth’s frame looked even larger in a high-backed chair. Jale Chamboise’s ring glittered in the candlelight, and Cassia Ahl-Hafir had one hand on her sword-hilt, while Luca Fontaine’s cobra nestled into his neck, rubbing its head against his skin. She took her seat slowly.

  The first course turned out to be a traditional Axium pie, coated in flaky pastry and decorated with swirls of dark butter-sauce, far more extravagant than anything she had eaten as palace scholar. As the attendants put down dishes of honeyed carrots and began to serve, Lysande wondered if she should make a speech. She had been too busy staring at Luca, taking in his easy confidence, to find the right words. Sarelin had told her once that it was better to let your guests start a conversation, so that you could figure out what they wanted before you spoke. She had not said whether that applied to royal banquets. Maybe there was some kind of ritual Lysande should have looked up; some custom to observe.

  The problem was solved for her when Dante leaned across the table to Jale and began speaking. The young prince laughed, closing the gap between them. His face glowed, and not only thanks to the torches, Lysande thought: all the briefings in the world could not prepare you for a moment like this. The two princes’ geniality seemed to thaw something in the hall, and the rest of the guests began to eat. A few Axium Guards drew closer to the high table, and Lysande glanced at them, acutely aware of their movement.

  She leaned over to Derset, leaving a gap for an attendant to spoon some carrots onto her plate. “I thought the north and south were ill friends.”

  “Mostly. We all know how it’s been for centuries. And after Ariane Chamboise nearly started a war with Raina Dalgëreth, a decade ago, the envoys say bad blood spread anew . . . but despite their parents’ grudges and the feelings of their own people, these two seem to keep a peace,” Derset said.

  Interesting, she thought, watching Dante cut Jale a slice of pie. A softness had swept over the First Sword’s face for the first time since he had entered the Great Hall, yet she did not have the impression that anyone else had noticed. Dante’s whole person had turned toward his younger colleague like an ice-rose growing toward the sun.

  Before long, Derset was pulled into conversation with Cassia Ahl-Hafir, voicing his interest in Pyrrhan wrestling, and Lysande had no desire to be left alone in conversation with Luca Fontaine, whose black eyes were making her neck prickle. She was well aware that she had not raised the matter of the brief detention of the Rhimese envoy after Sarelin’s death, and that for all the talk of flowers and languages, the prince might be expecting an apology. Or perhaps he thought she was too timid to address the table. As she darted a glance at him, he met her stare again. Lysande felt a swirling sensation in her stomach and told herself that it was merely indecision.

  Summoning her courage, she took her spoon and tapped the side of her goblet, gaining the attention of the city-rulers while the rest of the room feasted on. She felt the burn of their eyes upon her skin, and swallowed.

  “You all know why you are here,” she said, with the slightest tremor in her voice, “so I will not attempt to dress the matter in silver cloth. Queen Sarelin left no heir behind. In the event of her tragic death, it has fallen to me to choose between the four of you for the crown.”

  “A tragic death, indeed,” Luca remarked.

  They turned to look at him. The Rhimese prince only wrapped his long fingers around a goblet and gazed back.

  “Do you mean to imply something, Fontaine?” Dante said.

  “I merely think it unlikely that the woman who defeated the White Army would suddenly expire from an animal’s scratch.”

  “And why not?” Cassia demanded. “Was she not mortal, like the rest of us?”

  Luca looked at them with indifference. “Sarelin Brey took three blows during the White War. She was stabbed through the ribs with a longsword on the Mud Field, ripping her side open like a hunted stag. Elemental flames scalded her neck as she charged into the White Queen’s fire, and as Axiumites never cease to remind us, the fire died around her. A battle-wound to the jaw—she survived that, too. The populace chose her nickname well. One has to admire the sheer stubbornness of iron when it is reforged.” Luca glanced around the table. “Ask yourself: if the whole White Army could not finish her, do you really think a panther could?”

  There was silence as they all considered this, and Lysande met Luca’s gaze. He knows, she thought. Whether he killed her or not, he knows it was poison.

  “If the queen did not die from a wound,” Dante Dalgëreth said, slowly, “then she might have been murdered.”

  “Excellent reasoning, for a northerner. I had every confidence you would get there.”

  “Very well,” Lysande said, quickly, for Dante looked as if he would like to answer Luca with his sword, “I think we have speculated enough. Forgive me, Your Highnesses, but Sarelin wanted a queen or king on the throne immediately after she died. Rather than trading words like grain-sellers over the manner of her death, we should be thinking of the realm.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Jale, with a reproachful look at Luca.

  Cassia Ahl-Hafir raised her goblet. “To the realm,” she said.

  “And to Queen Sarelin,” Dante added.

  Lysande felt a tightness in her throat. “Yes,” she said. “To Sarelin.”

  They had scarcely downed their wine before the second course arrived: great tureens of stew, containing something which looked suspiciously like tree-bark but which Dante insisted was a northern delicacy. As it was being ladled out, Cassia leaned over to Lysande.

  “Do you care much for weapons, Councillor Prior?” she said.

  “I can throw daggers in the Axium style, Irriqi, and do a little with a longsword.” She attempted to chew a piece of the bark-like substance but, after a moment, spat it into her hand. “Sarelin always said my quill was my sword.”

  “We have three royal armories in Pyrrha, each the size of this hall.” Cassia gestured at the room. “If you ever come west of the hills and into the jungle, there is an ancient longsword from Hiraz that would suit you well.”

  Lysande met the Irriqi’s assured stare. She stammered out her thanks, conscious that she had never been given a gift by any of the Axium nobles, and reminded herself of her
purpose here. As Cassia called for another goblet of wine, she felt a nudge at her elbow.

  “That is what we call a handsome bribe, my lady.” Derset was wearing a wry smile. “Come, now, do not look so surprised.”

  Her glance at Cassia’s face told her little. It was a face of royalty hard-won, not softened by years of cushioned chairs. She let her gaze wander to each of the city-rulers.

  It was not difficult to gain Jale’s attention while the Lyrian course came out, for he struck up a conversation about dancing while they waited for the food to cool—the plates of pale yellow noodles, garnished with little red flakes, were still steaming from the griddle—yet they had not been talking long about the Lyrian sapphire waltz when Jale turned and whistled to the Lyrian party.

  A pair of men, their shirts almost transparent in the candlelight, set a golden box down beside Lysande. It thudded on the table. Peering down, she saw that its sides were encrusted with dozens of sapphires.

  “For you, Councillor,” Jale said. “A little token of Lyria’s support.”

  She opened the box. Slabs of gold winked at her—at least twenty bars, gleaming.

  “Your Highness, I cannot accept this.” There was more gold in that box than all the coin she had possessed in her life. The thought of touching it made her quail. “To give away something so rare, to one who only holds a short office . . .”

  “Rare in Axium, perhaps. But not on the delta.” His pretty smile turned catlike.

  She gave the slightest nod and returned the lid to its position. She thought of Charice, and of everyone whose name did not sparkle, all the rag-and-polish children and the ink-trade women and men, who would never hold a chest of gold bars in their hands, nor sit at a high table like this one. The schoolroom of the orphanage appeared in her mind.

  It was too easy to compare this gift with the chest of plain, brittle, meager sweets that had served as the students’ monthly reward.

  But before she could reflect on what Sarelin could have done to even out the two situations, Dante Dalgëreth engaged her in conversation. While the First Sword might seem like a silent warrior, Lysande saw that Dante could rise to the same heights of eloquence as the others when he spoke of quarrying in the northern mines. His tale of a blizzard that covered Valderos in a shroud of pure white fascinated her, and she thought what scholarly interest a collection of his anecdotes might make.

  So little was written about the north; were there not aspects of the weather she might note down, for military strategy? Could she not add them to the string-bound booklet of notes she had begun on the cities, next to the compilation on Bastillón and Royam? There were pages of quotes, dates, and illustrations, but there were still so many pages to fill.

  “If I may ask, First Sword: does the summer in Valderos last long enough to counter the extremities of winter?” she said, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Jale was watching her.

  “We claim to have a summer. In truth, it is as if the peaks of our mountains are given just long enough to thaw before the bitterness creeps back. A week, or two at best.”

  She had been wrong: Jale’s gaze was directed at Dante, and he was drinking in the sight of the First Sword as if he could not slake his thirst. That was interesting. Lysande remembered that she was meant to be replying to Dante. “Your people must possess real fortitude from enduring such harsh conditions.”

  “Queen Sarelin put it slightly differently. But yes. They are no easy targets.”

  Lysande, who had heard Sarelin putting it differently on more than one occasion, repressed a smile. “Tell me, how do you diversify your crops, with so little warmth?”

  “You ask more questions in a minute than anyone I have ever met, Councillor.” Dante poured them each some wine. “It is largely thanks to our resourcefulness in growing vegetables beneath the ground, you see, and our skill with salt preservation. . . .”

  When the Rhimese course was brought to the table, however, Lysande put aside her interest in Valderos. An oval dish in the middle bore a wheel of flat bread topped with tomatoes, baked cheese, pumpkin, and all kinds of herbs. Around it, a ring of smaller dishes held cheeses streaked with blue veins or crusted with red rind. The final ring of dishes, filled with gleaming black balls, made her gasp.

  “Rhimese olives!” she cried, picking up one of the little dishes.

  “These are prodigiously rare,” Luca said, looking at her over his wine.

  I tried them, once, she thought. With Sarelin. On my sixteenth gift-day. It hurt to even think of sharing the memory of Sarelin tossing the olives toward her mouth; there were certain pieces of a person that you wanted to keep, greedily, to yourself.

  “If Rhime traded more freely, the Rhimese would not make so much profit,” Dante said, with a glare at Luca.

  “Making next to no profit is Valderos’ specialty.” Luca stroked Tiberus’ head. “I shouldn’t like to tread on your territory.”

  “You’re a clever man, Fontaine.”

  “From you, I suppose, that’s an insult.”

  Dante turned away. As the buzz of conversation resumed, he addressed Lysande. “Do you know why the commoners call Fontaine the ‘red prince,’ Councillor?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  The dislike engraved on Dante’s face made Lysande aware once more of the risk of having four city-rulers at one table—and of how much Sarelin had juggled, dealing with them. They were like children in a schoolyard, only armed with weapons and soldiers.

  “Luca Fontaine murdered his brother. The whole realm knows. It is said that he stabbed him so hard that the blood spurted from his body, painting Fontaine’s chest and hands. When his father found him, he looked like he was wearing a red shirt.” Dante’s voice gave the word red a deep resonance. “Do you really want a man like Fontaine on the throne?”

  “That depends.” She studied Dante. “How do you describe ‘a man like Fontaine’?”

  “Unnatural. That’s how I describe him.” Dante’s eyes spat fire. “He spends half his time locked up in his castle in Rhime, inventing things and looking at formulas . . . all sorts of queer habits, our envoys say. Keeps a huge library for himself, like a damned scholar—begging your pardon, of course, Councillor—but he doesn’t hunt or ride out like a prince should. Any man who carries a snake around cannot be well in the head.”

  Across the table, she saw Luca feed an olive to Tiberus from the palm of his hand. As he looked up, his gaze sliced through her again. Something about it made her skin tingle.

  “May Cognita guide your choice,” Dante said, bowing his head slightly. “But I promise that if the task should fall on me, you will never have cause to regret it.”

  “I thank you, Your Highness.”

  A northerner’s word held true, she had heard Sarelin say, once, and she reflected on the adage as the attendants began to clear away the dishes. Certainly, Sarelin had never forgotten how quickly Valderos committed their troops when the White War began. But there were so many other factors to consider in making her choice of ruler. Some could not be mentioned to anyone in the palace. Even now, Lysande required vigilance to keep her thoughts on elementals guarded; she craved the solace of blue flakes to calm the torrent inside her mind.

  Derset caught her eye, and she was relieved to have her attention pulled away. He did not speak, and for the first time, she remembered that he, too, must feel himself a small star beside the brightness of all this royalty. When Dante had leaned over to address Jale again, Derset shifted closer to her, and they spoke in lowered voices of the city-rulers. There was something in the way that she and Derset moved around each other that was unlike her movement with any other Axiumite; it was as if the stiffness of the motto everything in its place melted, a little, when they sat together or stood side by side.

  The next course arrived in a stream of dishes, and whispers flew around the Axiumite tables. Had there been a
mistake? Why were twenty plates dotted across the tabletops? Lysande remembered Sarelin telling her that a traditional Pyrrhan dessert was served in many small pieces, each of which was to be swapped from place to place before it was uncovered, much to Sarelin’s discontent. She saw that none of the city-rulers appeared to object.

  “We must all trade plates,” Cassia ordered, pushing a plate to Derset. “My neighbor who shares my food pledges unity.”

  “How fitting,” Luca said. “We are such a united party.”

  He was looking at Lysande, and something in his gaze was inviting her, but to what, she could not be certain. There was no action, only a kind of waiting.

  She had never felt such interest in another person before, driven by something in his posture, his deliberate stillness. Her fingertips tingled again as he shifted his body to face her. Perhaps he was noticing her height, her posture, or the glinting lock of hair that had always marked her out to the palace as Lysande Prior, foundling scholar and queen’s companion, colored by a queerness that seemed, to others, at least, to infuse her entire life . . . but she had the feeling that this regard went beyond surfaces.

  Meeting his stare, Lysande pushed her plate over to him. Soon they were all sending plates back and forth. Her own dessert turned out to be a slice of yellow cake soaked in wine. She could smell sweets swimming in rose water and pastries drizzled with honey. There was nothing but chewing for a minute as they devoured the food.

  She was nearly ready to take a second plate and set to work on a truffle when Cassia began to cough.

  The Irriqi rose, spluttering so loudly that heads turned in her direction.

  Lysande put down her fork. “Are you ill, Irriqi?”

  Cassia was making gargling noises now. She strained for air. The Pyrrhans were standing up, staring at their leader—yet they hesitated, as if they did not dare to touch her.