Presently Yates returned with the two men behind him. Braymer had turned out rather well, she thought. He was dark haired and complexioned, as many Rhovans were, with smooth handsome features and brown eyes. His frock coat of jet and cream-colored silk waistcoat held an understated elegance. He was plainly rich, but not ostentatious. Some merchants had a knack for flaunting their wealth in gaudy colors and jewels, but she was glad to see that the Coyle family was not of this ilk.
He grinned broadly as he approached and she decided she liked his smile. He moved easily up the steps and presented himself to her in traditional merchant fashion, with a hand over his heart and a deep bow.
“Greetings, Karigan G’ladheon. I am Braymer Coyle, at your service.” His command of the common tongue was flawless.
For one panicked moment, Karigan was caught between bowing and a more ladylike curtsy. A bow might send her off balance and headlong down the steps. Maybe Braymer or Yates would catch her. Thinking it better to avoid a spectacle, she compromised between the two, dipping and curtsying.
“And I’m at yours,” she said.
He then took her gloved hand in his and kissed it, and rather suddenly, she was quite caught up in a fancy of being a princess, and he her prince. Even the people around them bowed and curtsied.
Bowing? Curtsying? She glanced around, her heart fluttering, only to discover King Zachary and Lady Estora, flanked by somber Weapons in black, joining her on the top step.
Something withered inside her. The castle grounds grew uncommonly quiet, except for the stray scrape of a hoof down on the drive and the shuffle of feet. For a long-drawn-out moment, everything stilled until Karigan regained enough sense to curtsy for her monarch.
The man who had told her he loved her.
Braymer, still holding her hand, fell to his knee upon realizing he was in the presence of Sacoridia’s high king.
King Zachary filled her vision with his autumn colors as the sun struck the fillet that crowned his head of amber hair. They stared at one another as though stunned by the light of day.
It was Lady Estora who broke the silence. “Karigan!” She strode over—with ease, Karigan noted—and clapped her hands together. “Your dress! You! Absolutely beautiful!”
It took a moment for Karigan to unglue her gaze from the king and to give Estora more than a passing glance, and she nearly snorted, for Estora was her usual radiant self, the great beauty of Sacoridia, with her hair of spun gold. Karigan, by comparison, was a peasant girl in rags.
“Karigan?” the king said as if disbelieving his eyes. “I mean, Rider G’ladheon?”
Her cheeks and neck were burning, and she’d probably gone blotchy across the exposed portion of her chest.
The king cleared his throat. “I–I did not know you would be attending Lord Meere’s garden party this afternoon.”
Karigan tugged on Braymer’s hand so he would rise. “We’re not, sire.” She glanced significantly at Braymer.
The king drew his eyebrows together, bemused, and he stroked his beard.
Yates, sensing undercurrents ebbing and flowing, but not knowing exactly what or why, interceded. “Excuse me, Your Highness, but if any of the carriages are to move, we must get Master Coyle’s out of the way first.”
It wasn’t entirely true, but Karigan blessed his quick thinking.
The king, as if stunned by the sight of Karigan in anything other than green, made a weak gesture. “Of course. Proceed.”
With another bow, Braymer led Karigan down the steps and over to his waiting carriage, the older gentleman, his servant, falling in step behind them. Karigan was relieved, with that audience looking on, that she hadn’t floundered too badly in the idiotic shoes, or fallen. The carriage driver and Braymer made her ascent into the carriage as effortless as possible.
When all were seated, the driver snapped the reins and the horses stepped out smartly. Karigan glanced once more at the king watching them from atop the steps. He must wonder why she was dressed up, where she was going, and who the young man was that accompanied her.
Good, she thought, not without a certain amount of spiteful satisfaction.
The carriage ride proved stiff and awkward with Styles, Braymer’s manservant, watching Karigan down his nose. He queried after Karigan’s chaperone, for surely the young lady must be accompanied by one, and when she informed him that she indeed had none, he grunted with an expression of displeasure, and spoke in rapid Rhovan to Braymer. Braymer’s reply was sharp.
Karigan did not know much Rhovan, but she caught the gist of the discussion. Rhovanny was a far more conservative country in regard to its beliefs and customs, and a woman’s place in society, than Sacoridia. The women might toil in the fields, bear endless children, or manage a husband’s lands and household while he attended to “business” elsewhere, but it was rare for a woman to own a business, and unheard of for a woman to serve the king in a uniformed capacity, as Karigan did. Women bearing swords were considered immodest; those who admitted to such aspirations were regarded as ill of mind, and were treated as such.
Rhovanny tolerated the larger role women played in Sacoridian society. It had to if it wanted to participate in commercial and political endeavors with its neighbor. Rhovanny also knew Sacoridia’s history: women, and even children, had taken up arms during the Long War to defend the decimated country from the legions of Mornhavon the Black when so many of the menfolk had been slain on the field of battle. It had widened the role of women forever after, and though women could choose to continue on in traditional roles or to operate businesses or to serve the monarchy in many capacities, those who chose to carry swords remained in the minority.
Rhovans were polite about Sacoridia’s perceived oddities, but they didn’t necessarily like them or approve of them. Styles certainly did not, and Karigan was sure the absence of a chaperone placed her in the category of “loose women” as defined by Rhovan culture. She wondered what Styles would think if he saw her in uniform with her saber girded at her side. She smiled at the image that came to mind, and thought that this was going to be an interesting afternoon.
The carriage rumbled over cobblestones off Sacor City’s main thoroughfare, the Winding Way, onto Gryphon Street, one of the city’s more artistic districts. Here bookbinders and jewelers practiced their crafts, and sculptors and painters exhibited their work, hoping to attract the attention of wealthy patrons. Music wafted from an open, top story window, floating down to the street below. Fine harp music it was, music of the heavens, followed by a clamorous clash of strings and a wail.
“It is rubbish! Everything I compose! Absolute rubbish!”
Karigan winced at the anguish in the harpist’s voice. The music had sounded nice to her.
Gryphon Street was lined with bookshops and the workshops of luthiers, tailors, weavers, and potters; pubs, tobacco shops, and the occasional fortune-teller. It was also said that no less than forty poets lived in rooms above the shops. Karigan could not verify this, for she did not follow the trends in poetry.
A man leaned in the doorway of his music shop playing a jaunty tune on a pipe for passersby while two men beside him argued philosophy.
The scents of spicy foods drifted into the street from tiny eateries and mingled. There was a growing population from the Under Kingdoms now residing in the city, bringing with them the sounds of their ringing accents and the flavors of their exotic foods.
The horses skittered around an oblivious fellow who crossed the street with his nose in a book. A man and woman, gaudily dressed and painted, juggled rings and balls for a collection of youngsters and their parents.
The colors, smells, and sounds of Gryphon Street were an enlivening feast for one who had been spending far too much time on castle grounds. Mara was right: it was good to get out and see something different. When Mara was well enough, Karigan vowed to bring her here to Gryphon Street, and maybe to other parts of the city as well. There was so much to see, but it seemed like she never had the time. Until
today.
Along the way, Braymer spoke little. Perhaps he was shy, or maybe just content to absorb his surroundings, looking from side to side as the carriage rolled down the street. Karigan supposed that if she were playing more the part of a lady, she’d engage him in some meaningless conversation, or flirt, or something. She just didn’t feel like making the effort.
Presently the carriage pulled up to a bright storefront under the sign of the teapot and cup.
“Ah, this is the place,” Braymer said, an expression of delight on his face. “Mistress Lampala’s Tea Room. I understand it is very good.”
Fortunately, when one was in “lady mode,” the gentlemen were quite willing to assist one in disembarking from the carriage. They even opened doors!
Karigan teetered on the uneven cobblestones. “Ridiculous shoes,” she murmured to herself. Only Braymer and Styles prevented her from falling face-first into horse droppings. No wonder some perceived women as weak—it was the clothes!
She had to admit that the solicitous attention was nice. She rarely received such courtesy when in uniform.
The tea room was dark after the bright sunshine on the street, the sound muted. There were eight tables inside, mostly occupied by couples. One young woman sat alone by a window scrawling furiously on a sheaf of papers, crossing out most of what she had just written with dramatic sweeps of her pen, and pausing only to sip from her teacup. One of Gryphon Street’s forty poets?
The aroma of delicious baked treats drifted in the air, mixing with something more exotic. Kauv. Kauv was a hot, bitter drink imported from the Cloud Islands that was all the rage among the nobles.
The tea room was not the fancy, formal place Karigan feared it might be, the type of place where noble matrons nibbled on sweet dainties and gossiped the afternoon away. Rather, it catered to the artistic denizens of the neighborhood, as well as a healthy mix of everyone else, from the common laborer to a pair of stylish aristocrats.
Just as Karigan’s feet began to go completely numb in the bloody shoes, a voluptuous woman burst from a back room, seeming to suck in the energy from all those around her.
“Hello, hello, my dears,” she said.
This would be Mistress Lampala no doubt, Karigan thought.
“Be seated, be seated.” She swept them to an open table, Styles scowling all the way.
Judging from Mistress Lampala’s accent and deep bronze skin, she hailed from the Cloud Islands, a likely connection that allowed her to serve kauv in her tea room. Not only did the beans that made kauv grow on the islands, but so did sugarcane, and in Karigan’s opinion, one needed lots of sugar to make kauv palatable, otherwise it tasted rather like burned bark. It was a winning situation for Mistress Lampala who charged an exorbitant price for both, but currency was of no consequence to the wealthy Coyle family, and Braymer ensured there was plenty of kauv, sugar, cream, and sweet treats to go around.
Braymer smiled tentatively at Karigan while she sipped her kauv, but seemed unable to find anything to say. Styles sighed with a roll of his eyes and said something in Rhovan to his ward who straightened his posture and cleared his throat, and then said in a stiff, formal way, “You are very lovely.”
Karigan nearly spewed her kauv, but swallowed hastily, only to have it scald the back of her throat and induce a most unladylike fit of coughing. “Thank you,” she rasped, more amused than flattered. The deadpan way in which he had delivered his compliment made it obvious he had practiced the words many times in front of a mirror.
Styles rolled his eyes again.
“What have I done wrong?” Braymer asked, his forehead crinkled.
Styles spoke quietly to Braymer again in Rhovan, and the young man reddened. “I…I am sorry. I am recently come from the monastery, and I find this awkward.”
Karigan raised both eyebrows in surprise. “Monastery?”
“Yes. My elder brother, you see, was to take over the business from my father, but he, alas, disgraced the family by running off with a harlot and getting her with child.”
Styles groaned and dropped his face into his hands.
“What have I said now?” Braymer asked, clearly bewildered.
“The lady! An indelicate subject—the family embarrassment.”
Karigan’s mouth twitched as she fought laughter.
Braymer glanced from Styles to Karigan. “M–my apologies. You see? I was given to the monastery at a very young age, and I’ve not been outside for many years and certainly…certainly not among,” and here he whispered, “young women.” He blushed madly. “Silence was the rule of the monastery. We spoke only in prayer, and now I do not know what to say.”
Awkward was an understatement. To save Braymer further embarrassment, Karigan decided she’d better redirect the conversation. “Perhaps you could tell me about your life at the monastery.”
Styles brightened and nodded.
Braymer, seeing his approval, smiled in delight. “Of course.” What started as an initially interesting description of the daily life and rituals of the monks in the service to the goddess Aeryon turned into an endless torrent of one-sided conversation. It was as if his years of silence had been uncorked and all the words bottled inside cascaded out.
The torrent lasted all the way from Mistress Lampala’s to the Sacor City War Museum. Karigan hoped the change of venue would dam the constant stream, but it only seemed to open a whole new freshet. Apparently both the monastery and the Coyles owned vast libraries, and Braymer had done his share of reading about Sacoridia and its wars.
Karigan drifted away from Braymer, who seemed not to notice, he was so engrossed in a display of heraldic emblems. The stone exhibition hall had high vaulted ceilings and a marble floor causing Braymer’s voice to echo to all corners. If he said anything of importance, she would hear it. At this point, she didn’t care what Styles thought of her, and he seemed to have given up on his ward himself, after a few interjected instructions about polite conversation went unheeded.
The museum covered the war history of Sacoridia but was devoted largely to arms and armor. There were racks and racks of spears and swords, and numerous suits of armor stood stiffly along the walls. Frankly, she had seen better specimens in the castle. Until, that is, the armor had magically come to life and the king ordered it locked away. She had noticed of late, however, that some of the suits were slowly repopulating the castle corridors, which had seemed strangely empty without them.
Glass cases contained more fragile items, such as documents and bits of uniforms, with cards labeled in hard to read cramped script. She gave up trying to decipher the writing and gazed at the objects with only cursory interest.
Among the artifacts that did interest her were those the museum claimed had belonged to the Arcosian Empire, which tried to crush and enslave Sacoridia a thousand years ago. There were some fragile scraps of parchment with faded, foreign script on them, some rusted weapons and bits of twisted metal that looked like articulated pieces that had once fit together. The label could only tell her: Metal pieces excavated on shore of Ullem Bay, believed to have originated in Arcosia.
There was a belt of silver links embossed with gold, pitted and discolored, with a lion’s head on the buckle. Here the label was more explanatory: Officer’s belt, elite Lion Regiment, Arcosian Empire.
Karigan had traveled to the time of the Long War and saw some of the empire’s forces firsthand. One of her ancestors, in fact, had hailed from Arcosia, a brutal man intent on subjugating the Sacoridians who had, in the end, betrayed Mornhavon to stop the war and suffering. It was difficult to believe that all that remained of the Arcosian occupation were these few rusted artifacts. Considering the alternative, she supposed it was a good thing.
She glanced Braymer’s way and caught Styles yawning while his ward examined some shields mounted on the wall. There were a few other visitors poking about, gazing into cases, and an attendant making sure no one touched anything.
Karigan slipped into a side hall, hoping to find
a more interesting display, only to come face-to-face with King Zachary, his bared sword held high.
THE MAN IN THE SILK MASK
Karigan’s compressed lungs emitted only a squeak upon the menacing sight. She backed away, her hand on her heaving chest.
There was a soft chuckle beside her, and she whirled to find a red-coated attendant there.
“Lifelike, isn’t he?” he asked.
Karigan swallowed hard and looked upon the king again, feeling rather stupid. It was a wax figure made to look like the king. The effect was hauntingly realistic, from the silver fillet crowning its head of amber hair to the sword it gripped, a replica of the king’s own.
The figure was part of a tableau with banners hanging on the wall behind it, and the traitor Lord-Governor Tomastine Mirwell kneeling at the block, a basket ready to receive his head. Mirwell was as Karigan remembered him on that day, an old, crusty man with a bear pelt draped over his shoulders, who had needed the aid of servants to hobble onto the platform to meet his end. Certainly a piteous sight that was, perhaps, even worse punishment for such a proud man than the execution itself had been.
The figure of the king was attired in black, just as the real king had been the day of the execution. It had been a terrible thing to witness, and she knew it had lain heavily on King Zachary for a long time. As far as Karigan was concerned, old Mirwell got what he deserved. He had nearly succeeded in handing over the kingdom to Zachary’s villainous brother, Prince Amilton. Unfortunately, some of their conspirators were still at large, concealing themselves well enough to evade king’s law.
“Originally the artists set up the scene for just after decapitation,” the attendant said, “but too many people had not the stomach for it. Too realistic.”
Karigan gave him a sidelong look. He sounded disappointed.
He moved off to chat with a couple gazing at other figures in the hall. She turned her attention back to the “king,” and shuddered. His expression was wrong. He looked crazed, when all she could remember from that day was resolve. And remorse. Gazing more closely, she noted other inaccuracies. His chest and shoulders, for instance, were not the breadth to which she was accustomed, and his hips—