Wrapped in her mother’s festive shawl, Zoe made her rounds through the gathered villagers, accepting their hugs, their whispered words of farewell. Doman pressed on her a blessing coin, no doubt one of his own that he had hoarded through the years. It was stamped with the symbol for courage, which seemed particularly appropriate as she was about to embark on a journey with a hunti man.
“If the king is unkind to you, return to us,” he said loudly enough for everyone, even the Serlast man, to overhear. “We will give you shelter from any cause, from any weather.”
“Thank you,” she said, leaning forward to receive his kiss on her cheek. “I have been most happy during these years my father and I lived in your village.”
“We must go,” Darien Serlast said, his impatient voice overriding their quiet goodbye. “I would like to travel some distance before nightfall.” He gave an unfriendly glance at the louring skies. “Which would be easier if it was not raining.” He said it as if he considered the bad weather a personal affront.
Zoe turned away from Doman to give Darien an incurious look. “It has been raining here for two days,” she said.
“Well, the rest of my journey was dry,” he said. “Once we get five miles east of here, we will no doubt be clear of the storms.”
“Then let’s go,” she said and, without another backward glance, climbed up the stairs.
She took her seat in the deep, soft chair that Darien Serlast suggested and felt the vehicle ease into motion before proceeding in an utterly smooth fashion. She tried to stir up some emotion at the thought that she was returning to Chialto to become the fifth wife of the king. But she simply didn’t care.
At first, Darien Serlast attempted to make conversation.
“I doubt you have seen such an amazing conveyance before in your small village,” he said. He had seated himself across from her in what Zoe realized was supposed to be a sort of parlor, with sofas and chairs and small tables. A few feet over was an area that mimicked a kitchen, with its cabinets of dishes, its central table, its stone casks that no doubt held reserves of food. The coach—or whatever it might be called—was so long and roomy that there were actually doors at either end of this central space. She wondered if they led to simple closets or additional rooms, maybe even bedrooms. One for her, one for her host.
“No,” she said.
“You must wonder what powers it,” he added. When she said nothing, he frowned slightly, but went on. “It runs on a combination of compressed gasses and a carefully controlled ignition system. The gas itself is owned and mined by the Dochenza family. There are only about a hundred vehicles so far that are equipped with this propulsion system, but more are being manufactured all the time. The Dochenzas will become exceedingly rich in a few years’ time.”
The Dochenzas, although one of the Five Families, had always been considered a little odd. Well, most of them were elay, of course, people of soul and air. The women frequently were great philanthropists and social reformers, always working to improve the lot of the poor, while the unmarried daughters often went off to serve in the temples. The men tended to be philosophers or tinkerers or writers—hopeless at running a household, so her father had always said with a laugh—but now and then one would come up with an idea so breathtaking that it redefined commerce or transportation. Zoe supposed it only made sense that a man of air would be the one to figure out how to turn a naturally occurring gas into a source of profit and innovation.
“Kayle Dochenza calls these vehicles elaymotives, but the word has not found much favor,” Darien Serlast went on. If she’d had the energy, Zoe would have been annoyed at the lecturing tone of his voice. “Everyone else calls them smokers, because they seem to run on a fuel as insubstantial as smoke. Most are so small they only seat three or four people. But because the cabin that you and I are riding in is so large, it must be pulled by a bigger engine powered by a specialized motor, and it requires the attention of trained mechanics. The three men riding in the controller car up front are experts at mixing the ingredients in just the right proportions to keep the motor functioning.”
“I only saw two men,” Zoe said.
“There is a small bunk within the controller car, and one sleeps while the other two drive,” Darien replied. “Thus, we do not have to break our journey, as we would if we were relying on horses.”
Zoe thought that the men in the front car might wish to halt from time to time, if only to step out of that confined space, but she didn’t bother to make the observation out loud. “How long will it take us to get to Chialto?” she asked.
He looked pleased that she was interested enough to ask. “If all goes well, six days.”
It had taken Zoe and her father half of a quintile to make it from the city to the village. But they had traveled on foot and in carts; they had taken detours and debated where they might settle down. From time to time they had lain in hiding when it seemed patrolling soldiers were looking for fugitives, possibly them.
When she made no answer, he went on as if she had asked another question. “When we arrive in Chialto, I will take you directly to the palace so you can meet the king.”
She gave him one slow, level look. “I have met King Vernon. Many times.”
His gray eyes were suddenly sharp. “Yes, but you were very young,” he said. “Back when your father was in favor.” When she did not reply to that, he went on. “It is the Serlasts, now, who hold the position Navarr Ardelay once had. His property belongs to us now.”
Zoe only nodded. Her father had known that, somehow; he had received news from mysterious sources over the years, and shared some of the more important bits with his daughter.
“My mother and sisters live in the house where you grew up,” Darien added. “It is a beautiful place, with exceptional gardens.”
She wondered if he was trying to be kind, offering praise of a well-loved place, or trying to be cruel, making her envision new tenants in those gardens, in those halls. Perhaps he was just trying to force her to show any emotion at all. But she had never felt much attachment to the city house. It was the place where her mother had died, where Zoe had mostly been alone because her father was always at the palace with the king. She had preferred her grandmother’s house in the northwest territories, and she had loved the small house in the small village. She would be much angrier to have a Serlast take over that little property.
Because he so obviously expected an answer, she made an effort to speak. “Do you live with your mother and sisters?”
“No, I keep a house on the western edge of town,” he said. “But I also have quarters at the palace.”
That was not so impressive; many members of the Five Families had rooms at court. Navarr and his brother each had had a suite there, and Zoe herself had spent more than one night under the palace roof. But it did mean this Darien Serlast was as powerful as he appeared. It did mean he had the ear of the king.
“Why does the king want to marry me?” she asked abruptly. “He has four wives.”
Once again, Darien bestowed upon her all the intensity of his undivided attention. “Four wives and three children, one of them an infant,” he said. “He feels the numbers are out of balance. It would be better to have five wives and three children to achieve the number eight in the proper ratio.”
“As soon as another baby is born, he will be out of balance again,” Zoe pointed out, her tone a little tart.
Darien rewarded her with a small smile, but in it she read intense amusement. “King Vernon will worry about that when the next child is announced,” he said. “Perhaps three of his wives will become pregnant at once. Perhaps two of his wives will become pregnant, and he will add three more brides, and then the palace will be full of fives and eights.”
“There are other ways to achieve balance,” Zoe said.
Darien was still smiling. “Surely you’ve heard of old King Norbert, who had twenty-four wives and seventy-one children,” he said. “Not all of his efforts could produce
that seventy-second child—a most propitious number, eight times three times three. There was a great deal of unrest in the kingdom, and famine, and skirmishes at the borders—all due to the fact that his household was out of balance. He finally appropriated an infant born to his brother and named it his own child. And all was well throughout the kingdom.”
Zoe rested her head against the pillowed back of the chair and felt a faint stir of interest. This might almost be a conversation she could have had with her father. “And do you believe that?” she asked. “That unless the numbers add up, the kingdom is in peril?”
Darien Serlast made a broad gesture with his hands. “You could say that we are a nation that lives with a specific and entrenched superstition,” he replied. “Is it true? Perhaps not. But if I believe that superstition, and I can accumulate my fives, my threes, my eights, then I feel invincible. I act from confidence and certainty instead of fear and disquiet. My own belief turns the superstition to truth. If I believe.”
“And do you believe?” she asked again.
He laughed. “Let us say, I do not go out of my way to try to disprove the notion. And I pull my random blessings anytime I need guidance.”
She regarded him for a long moment. If he had not been all wood, all hunti, she would have thought him sweela, for there was a burning intelligence behind the attitude of unshakeable certainty. She found herself offering an unsolicited observation, groping a little to get the exact phrasing correct. “My father always said it was ridiculous to believe that any random assortment of digits had control over the movements of the stars, the spinning of the planet, or the strivings of individuals, but that there existed so many documented instances of their—their felicity that it would be foolish not to heed their power.”
Darien Serlast listened closely and nodded when she was done. “Exactly. A rational man would claim his life could not possibly be influenced by fives and threes. And yet he might find a life full of twos and tens and sixes to be ragged and unfulfilling.” He held his hand out as if presenting her to someone. “Therefore, our king has determined that he needs a fifth bride.”
“Chialto is full of marriageable women,” Zoe said. “Why choose me?”
Darien Serlast was instantly serious again. “He wants an alliance with the Ardelay family. He believes it is time the old rift was healed.”
“He could marry one of my cousins instead.”
“He could,” Darien acknowledged. “It was a course of action he was willing to consider if we had been unable to locate you.”
Her father had been so certain that no one would ever be able to track him down. Zoe had not been positive that anyone had been looking for them, but now she wondered. “How did you find me?”
He gave her a smile that she was already beginning to recognize—gracious enough, but unyielding, giving nothing away. A hunti smile. “I had resources. I had informants. Eventually I learned where Navarr Ardelay had taken up residence when he fled the city ten years ago.”
“Navarr Ardelay is dead,” Zoe said bluntly.
“I know,” Darien said.
“Did you know that before or after you arrived in my village?”
“Several people mentioned that fact to me while you were gathering your things,” he said. She noticed that the carefully worded answer did not actually answer her question, but she was too exhausted to press for a more definitive response. She thought Darien Serlast was probably fairly adept at not giving away information. At any rate, he gentled his voice and added, “I am sorry he is dead.”
I am sorry, too, Zoe thought, but she did not bother to speak the words. Her little flare of interest in the conversation had drained away, her little spark of energy. She closed her eyes, not caring if it was rude, and allowed herself to fall asleep under Darien Serlast’s speculative, dissatisfied gaze.
THREE
The rain followed them for the entire length of the journey. Not that the rain was a particular inconvenience. Indeed,
Darien Serlast’s carriage was so well-constructed that Zoe had to fold back the blue shutters and peer out the windows to ascertain that the rain was still falling. Once they made it off the rutted mud road that served the village, and onto the westernmost of the paved roads that crisscrossed Welce, the rain wasn’t much of a hindrance to the elaymotive drivers, either.
Still, they kept encountering obstacles that slowed their progress. On the third day of their trip, they passed through a good-sized town that was overflowing with people dressed in festive attire and celebrating in the streets, despite the wet weather. It took Zoe a few minutes to realize that it must be Quinncoru changeday, the first official promise that spring was on its way. She smiled wistfully at the beribboned little girls tossing flowers to passersby, the teenage boys competing in footraces and feats of strength. She had plenty of leisure to observe them, since it took the drivers almost an hour to negotiate the crowded streets. But Darien Serlast didn’t suggest they pause to enjoy the holiday, so neither did Zoe.
Periodically they did make stops, especially if they were passing through some sizable town, so the drivers could refill their fuel tanks at some Dochenza-owned facility. They also took on water, since the elaymotive came with its own system for drinking and washing up. It was an unexpected and welcome luxury, which Zoe appreciated at least as much as the tiny bedroom she had all to herself.
The stops to replenish water and fuel were planned and efficient, but as the journey progressed, the drivers pulled off the road increasingly often for reasons that didn’t seem as clear. On the fifth day, they halted for the second time before the noon hour had even arrived.
Zoe and Darien were sitting together in the main cabin and he had just asked her if she was hungry. By this time, he must have realized that her answer was always going to be no, but he continued to ask the question, continued to make up plates of food for her, continued to watch her until she ate at least half of everything he served her. She could tell that her passivity was beginning to alarm him, but she didn’t care. Let him turn her into the king’s fifth wife; she didn’t care. Let him starve her, or throw her out on the road and run her over with the wheels of this monstrous, movable house. It simply didn’t matter.
She did look up, though, when the smooth, rocking motion came to a halt. Darien was frowning.
“I see we have stopped again,” he said, coming to his feet and pushing open the door to stare with reproach at the drivers’ car. There was just enough space around his body for Zoe to see that they were in another of those midsized towns—large enough to sell all the supplies they needed, small enough that a vehicle like theirs would draw a great deal of gawking attention.
Glancing back at Zoe, Darien said, “Stay here,” and took the stairs in two leaps. Zoe didn’t stir, not so much as lifting her fingers from her lap, and in five minutes Darien was climbing back inside. His hair and the shoulders of his fine tunic glittered with moisture.
“There’s some trouble with the valve on the fuel line,” he explained. “One of the drivers says there is a Dochenza shop here where it can be fixed, though it might take a little time.”
“Or perhaps they merely want a chance to step out of that tight space for a couple of hours,” Zoe said. “It seems like it would be very confining.”
Darien lifted his head, sifting for some meaning she had not intended. “Would you like to step outside as well?” he asked. “This town is too small to have a Plaza, but I saw a row of shops, and one or two places to eat. You might enjoy a stroll around.” You might regain some of your energy, she was sure he was thinking.
Zoe didn’t move. “It’s raining,” she said.
He smiled at that, and the laughing look made his stern, narrow face much more likable. “A coru woman should not be bothered by a little rain. Anyway, it’s mostly stopped. Right now it’s more like mist.”
It seemed like an immense effort to pull up out of the chair, but Zoe managed it. “Let me get my shoes,” she said.
She put on her sturdiest pair of walkers, wrapped herself in the jingling shawl, and allowed Darien to help her down the steps. The damp air was chilly and clingy but not as cold as Zoe had expected. Well, of course, it was Quinncoru now; soon enough, the warm weather would arrive again.
They had stepped out into the muddy yard of some kind of industrial housing—the place where the gas was stored or obtained, Zoe guessed. Darien left instructions with the drivers, and then hurried to her side. “I told them we will be back in two hours and I expect us to leave immediately,” he said.
“Then I hope the recalcitrant machinery behaves,” she said.
He gestured to his right and they started forward, stepping carefully until they reached the relative security of a paved walkway. “That’s the first time you’ve made a joke,” he observed. “That’s the first time you’ve shown . . . anything—at all.”
His pronouncement was so startling to her that she lapsed back into silence.
She had the sense that Darien Serlast was the kind of man who always strode through life; but here he allowed her to set the pace, and she was capable of no more than an amble. There was little to recommend the small town until they made their way past the industrial buildings and a few grim blocks of workingmen’s houses. Next came the larger houses, the places where the wealthier people lived, and then in the very center of town, one short street of commerce. There were perhaps fifteen or sixteen individual storefronts—a cobbler, a jeweler, a moneychanger, a bookseller, a dressmaker, an apothecary, a toolmaker.
A row of lampposts marched down the center of the street, flickering into light against the grayness of the day. They looked utterly new, and Zoe guessed that these were the first gas-powered lighting fixtures to be installed in this town, courtesy of that useful Dochenza fuel. Her father had told her that gaslights could be found all over Chialto by now, though smaller towns were only slowly adopting the new invention.