Page 11 of The Ragpicker King
“Do not mind him,” said the Maharam. “One must have patience with those who are not ready for her return yet.”
“Some people accept change more easily than others,” said Lin, matching the Maharam’s bland tone with her own. There was no use in saying that if the Maharam himself were not such an obvious doubter, things would be different for her in the Sault. He knew that; and besides, she did not entirely blame him.
He was not wrong to doubt.
“The Sanhedrin are coming,” said the Maharam rather abruptly. “In a week.”
Lin caught her breath. Everything in the garden seemed suddenly too vivid: the brightness of the flowers, the precise, sharp-edged black shadows cast across the dusty earth. Even the scent of the honeysuckle seemed suddenly cloying. “I thought you said it would be several months before they arrived—”
She cut herself off, but the Maharam looked pleased nonetheless. Too late. He said, “They move at their own discretion. Perhaps they have taken a special interest in you.”
“How flattering.”
“One week,” the Maharam mused. “That would mean they are not so close that it would be impossible for me to send them a message and tell them not to come. If, perhaps, you had changed your mind about the test.”
Why would I do that?Lin almost said, but she could not deny that her heart had leaped at the suggestion. Not to have to stand before the Exilarch and his court, not to have to lie to the Sanhedrin... She did not have a miracle in her pocket this time—a once-in-a-lifetime bit of knowledge regarding the burning of a fleet of ships, a coincidence of timing...
She had only herself, and what she had learned. She knew it would not be enough.
And yet.The Maharam was looking at her with kindness. The look of the old man who presided over weddings, blessed babies, and fed sparrows and sunbirds from his own hands. If she asked him to tell the Sanhedrin not to come, that she had been wrong about who she was, then he would be kind about that, too.
But the rest of the Sault. Her friends, neighbors, patients. They would always regard her as a liar. She would escape exile, but she would be shunned. Those who had doubted would be vindicated, but that did not bother her as much as the knowledge that those who had believed would be heartbroken.
And there was still Mariam. Mariam, who was not yet healed. But a week was not nothing; a week was time...
A sunbird had alighted on the Maharam’s shoulder. It cheeped thoughtfully. “Let me know what you decide, Linnet,” said the Maharam. “I assure you, it is your choice.”
Well, of course it is,Lin thought. The Maharam was too canny to want the weight of the decision, or its consequences, on him.
“Many thanks, Maharam,” said Lin, who had finally freed her skirts from the cactus. One of her fingers, pricked, had begun to bleed; a small drop of blood rose against her skin, bright as the Prince’s rings. “I shall think on it carefully.”
Kel arrived at the Caravel alone on Asti. He had left Conor in the Star Tower, flanked by Lilibet and Mayesh, still finalizing the arrangement for the Kutani Princess’s arrival. “I suppose Montfaucon will be annoyed I’m not there,” Conor had said, though he did not seem terribly bothered about it. “But this is more important.”
Kel found himself feeling oddly bereft as he set off down the Hill. It was better in many ways, he told himself, to have a Conor who found his responsibilities more compelling than his enjoyments. And yet—Kel missed him, especially with the prospect of a night spent with the nobles of the Hill in front of him. Conor was the only one of that group he truly liked—save for Falconet, sometimes.
Kel determinedly set himself to enjoying the clear bright night regardless. The stars were a fisherman’s silver net flung across the sky; the air was still, translucent enough that he could see the dark profile of the Orfelinat, his first home, perched on its sheer cliff above the ocean.
He found the Caravel alight, windows and doors flung open, the sounds of merriment spilling onto the street. Passersby looked on, curious, as Kel left Asti with the footmen and ducked inside. Wondering who he was, no doubt: a nobleman, even a Chartermember? Or perhaps they’d noted his Marakandi colors: green velvet trousers, celadon silk shirt, and figured waistcoat studded with green gems—though they were not real emeralds, only colored paste. False as his name, his relation to the Palace.
The interior of the Caravel had been decorated in the colors of House Montfaucon, which happened to be silver and violet. The courtesans wore versions of the Montfaucon livery, and their eyelids were colored with metallic lavender. They darted among the guests with liquor and food, trailing silver scarves. Montfaucon, in purple moiré silk, was moving through the crowd, clearly in his element: greeting some, snubbing others. Since it was his own guest list, Kel could only assume Montfaucon had invited them in order to snub them, which did seem like something he would enjoy.
Kel let his gaze drift over the crowd and saw only familiar faces, save for a few of the courtesans. It had been a long time since he’d visited the Caravel, he realized. Nearly four months. The feel of the place was strange to him now, in a way he could not quite describe. On stage, a group of workmen were hammering together a sort of wooden structure that Kel couldn’t identify.
Kel swept his gaze across the room and saw familiar faces from the Hill; most already seemed to have gotten well into the plentiful wine on offer. He did not see Ji-An or Jerrod anywhere, but he did spot Merren in conversation with Alys on a red settee. Kel did his best not to look at them too closely—a goal made easier when Ciprian Cabrol and Joss Falconet approached him. Both carried silver goblets of a milky liquor. Joss wore black velvet, Ciprian a modest gray that did not suit him.
“What are they building up on the stage?” Kel asked, trying to sound drawling and unconcerned.
“Perhaps he wishes to show this Gray Serpent off against some sort of fanciful backdrop,” Joss said. “Montfaucon has always had a theatrical disposition.”
“Is this truly his debut?” Kel asked. “Montfaucon has not so much as brought him out for a card game before?”
Ciprian shook his head. “Montfaucon has never been so secretive about a lover before.”
It was odd, Kel thought, how Ciprian spoke of them all with such familiarity, as if his family had always been on the Hill.
Joss took a sip from his cup, his dark eyes thoughtful. “Apparently, he used to be an Arena fighter, before it was outlawed. He killed so many in combat that they started calling him the Gray Serpent, because he sent souls to the underworld.”
Ciprian frowned. “Excuse me. I must pry my sister Beatris from the grip of Esteve. He constantly corners her and lectures her about horses.”
