Much conversation, both literal and literary, has been expended on the economic and temporal investment made by individuals before they present themselves in public. Whole industries depend on it, from cosmetics and clothiers, who recognize a lucrative opportunity when they see it and attempt to cultivate that market, to comedians and pundits and religious figures (often difficult to distinguish from one another), who find their own profit in mockery of individuals who expend their time and effort in what are often called vain pursuits. The irony in this phrase is the assumption that such pursuits are vain—which is to say, that they are wasted effort.
A princess knows better, though it is only the wiser princesses who understand that clothing and presentation are as much a weapon as an expression of conformity to public expectation. Messer Rupert and her mother had, over the years of her adolescence, impressed upon Rory the need to present an appropriate face and figure, not for social conformity, but for camouflage.
You must control their focus, Messer Rupert had said. Show them what you want them to see.
Grytt had said, Be like a mantis-lion. Match the foliage. People want to see a leaf, let them see a leaf. Surprise is your ally.
That latter advice had, in Rory’s childhood, led to an attempt to wear nothing but green for a fortnight and long hours spent in the gardens, leaping out of the foliage at inopportune moments and startling the groundskeepers. It was shortly after that incident that Messer Rupert explained metaphor. But the lesson had stuck.
Today, she needed to be a mantis-lion. The Regent needed to believe she was Rory-the-leaf, until she ate his head. Well. Perhaps not that, exactly: until she demonstrated, through nonviolent means, that she was an ally whose goodwill he needed, as much as—no, more than—he needed her mother’s.
She also needed to be able to lie today, because although Messer Rupert had taught her that personal honesty was a virtue, he had also said political dishonesty was a necessity.
So before she got dressed, Rory took a guilty detour into Messer Rupert’s quarters. He had not brought much in the way of personal items. A Kreshti fern. A small embroidered pillow. And a small personal trunk which was fortunately not hexed, so that she needn’t feel even more wretched for breaking into it.
Messer Rupert was both an arithmancer and a historian by training; but he was a politician’s advisor by profession, and as such, Rory knew he kept odd hours and, on occasion, resorted to alchemy to maintain his alertness. She was not the slightest bit surprised to find a small packet of stimulant capsules in the corner of the trunk, wedged beside an innocuous bottle of painkillers and an unopened bottle of aftershave.
Having acquired—she refused to think of it as stolen—the capsules, Rory retreated to her own quarters, to the mirror, and assessed her condition. She currently looked like someone who had not slept more than three hours in the past twenty-four. She needed to look like a fully-rested someone unconcerned with the absence of her two closest advisors.
There were not enough cosmetics in the world for that, though a Winter Nights mask might suffice, if seasons mattered on a void-station, if the Free Worlds bothered with such things.
Rory chose dark items from her wardrobe, strategically close-fitting in some places and draping in others. She coiled her usual braid into a knot on the back of her neck, as Kreshti women do when they’ve achieved majority. She wore an elaborately embroidered vest and a wide belt, and blacked the rims of her eyes and turned the dull smudged exhaustion into grey-painted shadows.
The Vizier, had he been present, would have caught his breath, seeing Samur in her daughter. Grytt, had she been there, would have raised her remaining eyebrow and nodded approval, for the same reason. Rory, having only a mirror and her own perception, thought she made an excellent leaf.
The three black-clad security were waiting at the end of the tiny corridor that led to the official Thorne compound on Urse. It was three blonds, this time, strong-featured and long-limbed and conspicuously armed. They had clearly been waiting awhile; they were looking everywhere but down the corridor, shifting from one foot to another, heads tilted together in a private conversation. Stary and Franko had emerged from their quarters and stood just inside of the corridor, armed and armored and, from the shade of red on the back of Franko’s neck, very angry.
“Hell,” said Zhang.
Thorsdottir said something more scatological.
Rory said nothing. Her first impulse was to go right back inside, which of course she could not do, because she was no longer five and the Tadeshi would not go away if she pretended they were not there.
“Thorsdottir,” she said. “Back inside. Now. Wait until we’re gone, and they’re gone. Then go find Jaed, and tell him what’s happened.”
Thorsdottir did not look at all surprised, which indicated she had either expected something like this, or she was becoming accustomed to Rory’s improvisations. “And then?”
“I may need a rescue,” said Rory. “Use your judgment.”
“Princess,” said Thorsdottir, and ducked back into the flat.
Rory took a breath deep enough to feel, and thus reassure herself, that the tiny Kreshti knife was where it belonged, tucked in the band of her undergarments, where the wires inherent in the garment’s structure would (according to Thorsdottir and Zhang) conceal the extra metal. Its placement also rendered it ineffective for urgent defense; but Rory did not expect violence from Tadeshi security in a public area, not against the Princess of Thorne, darling of the social networks.
Which meant she needed to get herself out into a public area, and quickly.
“Follow me. Stay behind,” she said to Zhang.
Rory plastered a very practiced, public smile across her lips. “Good morning, messers,” she sang out, and increased her pace.
The Tadeshi turned their heads as if controlled by the same puppeteer. The foremost—who seemed the most relentlessly medium of the three, adorned with the two-pip insignia that marked his superior rank—opened his mouth to possibly return the greeting, and more likely issue a command. When he realized that the Princess was coming at him at ramming speed his mouth remained open and empty. Whatever plans he’d had for this encounter, a royal charge was not among them.
He locked eyes with Rory, holding her gaze for a heartbeat before turning his head and issuing orders to his own men. They yielded ground and backed up into the main thoroughfare, so that the midmorning traffic broke and eddied around them, leaving a small area unoccupied and demarked by a triangle of black uniforms.
“The Regent requests your presence at once,” Two-Pips said. His vowels were stiff, his tone condescending and, worse, utterly confident of compliance.
Rory tilted her head. Her smile hardened a fraction. “You’re mistaken, messer. I requested his presence, to which you are here to escort me. But you have arrived unexpectedly early, and so I will need to stop along the way, to procure breakfast.”
The three looked at each other. Evidently the care and feeding of the Princess had not been part of their briefing. Nor, evidently, had they been briefed to expect a princess who was less than accommodating and gracious. They had likely been told to fetch her, escort her, expect no difficulty—because Rory had not, in her tenure on Urse, shown that tendency.
Rory tossed her head back and took a step forward—conservatively, this time, in case the Tadeshi were done with retreat for the morning.
They were. Rory found herself an uncomfortable half arm’s length from a uniformed chest. She suffered a sharp, irrational stab of annoyance that the Tadeshi were, as a general rule, taller than average, even at their most medium.
“I’m sorry, Princess, but we must insist,” said the chest’s owner. “The Regent’s command was very specific. We are to deliver you to his office at once.”
As if she were an order of take-out. Rory stared at a speck of lint on the unbroken black and wished for laser beams in her eyes. She knew she should acquiesce. Leaves did not argue, and after all, the Regent’s office was her intended destination as well, and she had been concerned he would refuse to see her. But her nerves were raw and her temper threadbare and she disliked Two-Pips’ tone.
She lifted her chin and stared past the tip of her nose, dismissing her smile. “You forget your place, messer, and mine. I take no one’s commands. If you wish to drag me, bodily, to the administrative offices, then you are of course free to try. But you will attract attention. And you will likely find it more costly than you are prepared to pay.”
Zhang inhaled, sharp and quiet as a knife. Perversely, it was a comfort.
Rory’s smile returned, sudden and false as sunlight during a rainstorm. “So I recommend that you wait until I procure my breakfast, at which point you may escort me to the Regent, or we will create an incident in which you will not appear sympathetic. Clear?”
Two-Pips looked as if all his breath had been stolen out of his lungs. Red crawled up from his collar, staining his neck and cheeks, creeping across his forehead. He clamped his teeth together as if he meant to crack them. “Yes, Princess.”
Zhang let her breath go.
Rory raised a hand, flicking her fingers as if at a persistent insect. The Tadeshi uniforms parted like curtains. She walked between them briskly, to better conceal the fledgling tremor in her knees. There was a pastry vendor nearby, who sold passable crêpes. She pointed herself that direction and hoped her stomach would cooperate.
The Tadeshi remained where she had left them, talking amongst themselves in low voices. Probably with the Regent, too, over comms.
“They will either arrest us forthwith,” muttered Rory, “or we will be permitted to carry on as if nothing at all is amiss. So. What would you like for breakfast?”
Zhang looked as if she had a mouthful of observations. She swallowed them. “Princess.” Another breath. “They’re coming.”
“So they’re not looking at the apartment anymore.”
The corner of Zhang’s mouth lifted, just a little. “No.”
“Then let’s keep their eyes on us, shall we? Because I suddenly don’t feel like crêpes. But there’s an excellent patisserie two sections up-ring from here. What do you think?”
“I think the Regent is going to be annoyed.”
“Tragic.”
Zhang chuckled, and matched Rory’s pace.
Thorsdottir felt a bit like a child, holding the door propped a crack, using a mirror to peer down the corridor, as if she were playing hunt-and-hide with her brothers, dreaming of the day when she would join the Royal Guard and acquire all manner of exciting equipment. Bolt slingers. Hex-casters. Spybots. Some of which she had, and others of which Stary and Franko did, in their much smaller apartment (which would now be much less crowded, once she and Zhang had officially relocated to Rory’s flat). They had the best Thorne could provide, within treaty, and a little without, because Grytt had proven herself an able smuggler, with a false-bottomed trunk in her room that housed several pieces of wartime equipment. And still, here Thorsdottir was, crouched in the doorway so as to leave no silhouette, with Rory’s silver hand mirror.
Sometimes the simplest tools worked best. She watched Rory and Zhang step through the security escort, heading toward the refreshment vendors. She watched the security escort huddle together for a moment before they moved, in formation, to follow. And it was following, rather than pursuit, because they weren’t moving fast. No urgency.
Thorsdottir let her breath go. She eased back into the apartment. The Princess had said, use your judgment. Thorsdottir knew her judgment was exactly why she was here—both on Urse, and on the Princess’s personal guard detail. Grytt had told her as much. But judgment was easier to define when it was a matter of detecting threats and managing the Princess’s personal space out in public. This version of use your judgment involved mental muscles Thorsdottir hadn’t used since her hunt-and-hide days.
A soldier learns, during her basic training, to robe and disrobe with great haste and efficiency. Thorsdottir was out of her uniform and into a pair of unremarkable trousers and a dark sweater of Lanscottar wool in the same time it took most people to open a drawer. The sweater had been intended for her brother, back on Thorne, and as such, was too large for her, which made it perfect for concealing the very small, very illegal ’slinger, taken from Grytt’s stash of contraband, muzzle down at the small of her back. Its cartridges were unmarked, which was worrisome; if she was forced to use it, she and her opponents would both be surprised at the force and content of the charge.
She checked the corridor again before exiting the flat. No Tadeshi security team. She took her time getting up that corridor, staying close to the bulkhead, observing the crowds for any sign of alarm or unusual distraction. Nothing. She was not entirely surprised, when she poked her head into the main thoroughfare, to see no sign of Rory, Zhang, or the Regent’s men. She only hoped their absence was due to the Princess’s plan—whatever it was—and not the Regent’s impatience.
I might need a rescue.
Thorsdottir hoped not, if that rescue somehow involved Jaed Moss. She didn’t like her Princess’s apparent trust in him. He was Tadeshi. He was a Moss. And he was, unfortunately, the closest thing to an ally Rory had on Urse, outside of her own dwindling household.
Thorsdottir set her worry aside. Her mother had said there was little sense in borrowing trouble before it arrived at your door. Her mother had also said, when Thorsdottir enlisted, that there was even less sense in looking for it. But that was the point of hunt-and-hide, wasn’t it? Looking for trouble, or trouble looking for you, depending which side of the game you were on.
Thorsdottir stopped at a public terminal four intersections down-ring of the Thorne quarters. She keyed in Rory’s pass-string, which Rory had insisted she and Zhang memorize (“Grytt knows it. So should you.”). Then she typed a text message into the keypad, one finger at a time. She’d participated in the crafting and sending of several such missives, over the course of Rory’s alliance with Jaed. She thought it sounded authentic.
Meet me at the observation porthole by the recreation center, 1130. -RT
It would get him out of the umbrella of his father’s security, at least. There was something to be said for un-royalty, that it could go wherever it liked without escort. And he would come. If he didn’t she would find him and drag him bodily to Rory’s aid. Thorsdottir was fairly certain that was not Rory’s intent; but she found herself hoping for an opportunity, nevertheless.
Thorsdottir herself did not expect to make it more than two intersections before discovery and apprehension, and was somewhat surprised, therefore, when she made it to the observation porthole without incident. She had imagined herself something of a celebrity: clips of her sparring match with Jaed were all over the network, and yet here she was, walking the Ursan mid-first-shift corridors with scarcely two glances from passersby. But she had been in her uniform, then, hadn’t she? And now she was just another woman walking through the station.
Jaed arrived at the rendezvous two minutes early, hair still damp and curling, clothes sticking to him in the places that were most likely to be wet, if one had been rushed with a towel. He leaned against the railing, breathing a little hard, and let his head hang from his shoulders as if it were too heavy for his neck.
Thorsdottir detached herself from her hiding-in-plain-sight patch of bulkhead. She could have approached obliquely, allowing him time to notice. She came from the back instead.
“Thought you’d be late, did you? You are.”
Jaed spun quickly, one hand still on the railing, the other dropped loose at his hip. Thorsdottir noted the improvement in balance, the way his knees stayed under his hips. The speed with which he turned.
And he looked tired. Bruise-blue under his eyes, pastier than usual, even for a station-boy. Thorsdottir, whose skin bore a permanent scattering of freckles from a childhood in the sun, thought he looked like milk. Bloodless. At the commencement of their acquaintance, Thorsdottir equated appearance with actuality; but she had spent almost as much time around him as Rory had, and exchanged bruises with him, and had revised her estimation of his worth as an opponent, if not quite as a human being.
He frowned at her. “Thorsdottir?”
It was Thorsdottir’s experience that, having asked an obvious question, people did not expect an answer; and if one wasn’t forthcoming, would answer it themselves, and save her the trouble of follow-up conversation. She raised a brow.
“It’s the uniform,” he said. “Or the lack of it.” His frown deepened. “What’s going on? Where’s Rory? Where is your uniform?”
“In reverse order: the flat, possibly under arrest but more probably leading your father’s men on a merry chase through Urse, and that is what Rory’s trying to discern.”
“Under arrest?”
“Possibly. Can we please move this conversation elsewhere?” She made an idle flourish with her fingers. “’Bots have ears.”
Jaed’s frown sunk all the way to scowl. He closed his eyes. Thorsdottir watched his hands clench on the railing, the muscles lock all the way up his arms. Arithmancy, she guessed, though he seemed to expend more effort at it than Rory.
“Now they don’t,” he said, after a moment. He sounded like he’d forgotten to breathe. “We’re safe.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.” His eyes opened, wide and pale and indignant. He didn’t like to be challenged. She knew that. It was exactly why she did it. They were of a height, another thing he did not like. It took effort for him to stare down at her. “Now where’s Rory?”
“Your father sent security to collect her. She’s stalling. It’s working, for now.” Thorsdottir cut her glance sideways, toward one of the public monitors. “Don’t see any breaking news about the arrest of the Princess of Thorne. I take that as a good sign.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“Orders.” She grimaced. “Rory wanted me to tell you what she found out last night.”
He frowned. “Her Highness.”
“Only when she’s being unwise. So to me, right now, she’s Rory, even though she asked me to find you. Now listen, my lord. Will you?”
Color smeared across his cheeks. But he kept his teeth together. Nodded, once and sharply.
Thorsdottir gritted her own teeth. There was no time for storytelling. “Grytt didn’t come home last night. Rory stayed up checking all the hospitals and security reports. She found reports of a fight in a shuttle bay, and dead security. She also found Prince Ivar’s medical records and hexed her way into them. He’s a clone. Or he’s been cloned. Point is, the man she met here on station wasn’t the real Ivar. He’s on Beo, if he’s even alive. She thinks Grytt might’ve found out, and that’s maybe where she was going. She wanted to ask your father about it, but his men were waiting for her this morning and what is wrong with you?”
Jaed’s face had evolved as she spoke, shifting through phases like a moon. The final phase was a disturbing shade of grey, as if he were already dead and cold. It reminded Thorsdottir of her brother’s face, the time he’d run to town for a power convertor and bear-cats had gotten into the sheep. He might not’ve been able to stop a bear-cat, but he hadn’t been there to try, either.
Thorsdottir recalled an incident in her childhood when a cow had kicked her twelve-year-old self in the chest. She felt exactly like that now: as if she might never draw a full breath again.
“You knew.”
“No. Not about the Prince.” Jaed held up a hand. “Listen to me, all right? I knew about Grytt. That was my . . . fault. They were moving the Vizier last night. I told Grytt. I, ah, gave her my father’s pass-string, so she could do something about it.”
Thorsdottir had never been this angry before. She had also never been this calm. “Where were they moving him?”
“Beo.”
Of course. “When did you tell Grytt about it?”
“Early second shift. She was a little late leaving detention. I intercepted her maybe two cross-corridors up-ring from there.”
Thorsdottir chewed over the information. It was a good explanation for Grytt’s absence, and for the bodies in the shuttle bay. Not for the shuttle’s current location, however, or its passengers.
“And how did you know about the Vizier’s transfer?”
Jaed pressed his lips together. “I was poking around my father’s files.”
Thorsdottir had brothers, and she had learned to sniff out the truth in much the same way she learned to cross a barnyard. Lies, in her experience, had a great deal in common with cowpats. They stank, and you didn’t want to step in them.
She wished for a good pitchfork.
Jaed’s gaze had slunk sidelong, and was roaming the vista on the porthole’s other side with practiced disinterest. Thorsdottir considered arguing with him. She considered grabbing him by the neck and shaking him. She said, instead:
“The Regent told you about the transfer, didn’t he?”
Jaed folded his arms and hunched. He found something on the floor to stare at, and did so with determination. “He said moving the Vizier would make it easier to control Rory. He didn’t suggest I tell Grytt. That was my idea. I think he wanted me to tell Rory. Or he thought I would. At the time, I just thought he was telling me his plans. Confiding in me.” Jaed closed his eyes. The bitterness was palpable. “I told Grytt because I was afraid to tell Rory. I thought she’d do something stupid.”
Thorsdottir couldn’t argue with the logic. She and Zhang could have your Highnessed until they were hoarse: if Rory thought the Vizier was in danger, she’d have done something. Grytt had saved everyone the argument and just . . . acted.
Thorsdottir sidestepped an upwelling of panic. It was one thing to suppose they were Gryttless on Urse. It was another thing to know it. Rory was down to her and Zhang for advice, and desperate enough to send to Jaed for help.
But if Jaed was right, then the Regent hadn’t expected Grytt’s actions. Which meant he hadn’t expected Jaed to tell her. He’d expected Rory to find out, and to do something precipitous, and to be in a great deal of trouble, and thus at a disadvantage, which Jaed had spared her.
“You did the right thing,” Thorsdottir said.
Jaed’s eyes popped open. He stared at her as if she’d grown wings.
“I’m serious. If you’d told Rory, then you’re right. She’d’ve done something. Then the Regent really could arrest her. He may have even planned on that. But you told Grytt, and she—I don’t know what she did. I bet your father doesn’t, either. All he knows is that three of your security are dead, the shuttle’s missing, and Grytt and the Vizier are probably on it.”
“You think they’re alive?”
Thorsdottir thought about it. “Yes. No help to Rory, now—oh, stop it. That’s no criticism. They’re not dead. That’s most important. She’ll think so, too.”
Jaed’s brows drew together. He would be awful at poker, Thorsdottir thought. Every thought that went through his head traveled across his face. She hadn’t realized he had that many thoughts. It was an encouraging revelation.
“He must think Rory’s responsible. That she ordered Grytt to attack. That’s an act of war.”
“Until she tells him otherwise. Then it’s going to be your act of treason.”
He lifted his gaze and his chin together. “Better he blames me.”
Perhaps there was hope for Jaed yet. Thorsdottir directed her gaze through the porthole where Bielo hung, pale and monstrous. Two of its moons tracked across its face like mobile freckles. One of those might be Beo. Grytt and the Vizier could be on it. Ivar, or a part of him, certainly was.
“Listen. Rory showed me the files about Ivar. Your father’s been cloning him.”
Jaed gaped at her. “What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No. No. That makes no sense.”
“It makes all kinds of sense. Clones have a short lifespan. Rory thinks the Regent means to marry her to one of them, wait until it dies, and then marry her to—now what?”
“My father said the marriage shouldn’t happen. Hers and Ivar’s. That it couldn’t. That we should try and stop it.”
“Your father said that to you? Then he does want you dead. Listen.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “Rory needs to be queen, Jaed. Which she won’t be unless she marries your Prince. Her second husband can be a jumped-up Minister’s son, sure. But not her first.”
Jaed looked as if he might incandesce spontaneously. “He encouraged me to make sure Ivar didn’t marry her.”
“Your father did?”
Jaed’s chin jerked up and down. The cords in his neck stood out like steel cables. “He said she was trying to use me. That she wanted me to rescue her from Ivar. He said—that the marriage shouldn’t happen. That if it did, Rory was his. Ivar’s.” Color flared on his cheekbones, then drained. “And if she didn’t, then . . . I could. You know.”
“Marry her and live happily ever after, with your father ruling through the both of you.”
Jaed looked at her miserably.
Thorsdottir weighed the merits of strangling him here and now, or letting Rory do it, and determined he might still serve a purpose. Besides, she was beginning to pity him. A child tried to trust its parents. It wasn’t Jaed’s fault his father loved power more than offspring.
“And how were you going to save Rory, then?”
“I had thought—maybe challenge Ivar. To a duel.”
Thorsdottir stared at him.
He flushed. “Look. I know I’m not the best fighter, I know you can beat me, but Ivar can barely lace his own boots.”
Thorsdottir found her voice again, and convinced it not to shout you’re an idiot. Instead, she kept it low and reasonable. “A duel to what, the death?”
“First blood.”
“And when the Prince used a proxy? Someone from security? Then what?”
Jaed blinked. “I—hadn’t thought of that.”
“That’s because you’re thinking royalty are normal people. They don’t fight, unless it’s each other. If you hurt Ivar, you’d be committing treason. Best case, prison for life. You actually kill him, you’re dead. But if Ivar’s proxy kills you, then Rory marries Ivar anyway, and he dies in a fortnight, and—”
“And then she marries Merrick. I am an idiot.”
Jaed’s expression was halfway between disgust and self-loathing. It did not look particularly comfortable from the outside. Thorsdottir imagined the inside felt much worse, but she had no leisure for kindness. Grytt was missing, and Rory in jeopardy, and both of those could be credited to Jaed’s poor judgment and paternal misfortune. He had not quite betrayed Rory, but he had been fool enough to let himself be used. He had also been her best hope for help. In Thorsdottir’s estimation, Jaed’s usefulness would end the precise moment his father learned he’d assisted in the Vizier’s escape, which had probably already happened.
She also knew that Rory did not measure people’s worth by their usefulness to her. Whatever Jaed’s errors—and there were several to which Rory would take offense—she would not leave him to his father’s mercy.
“Let me help her.” Jaed ground the words out. “Please.”
Thorsdottir pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think Rory needs rescuing. I think you do.”
As it happens, Thorsdottir turned out to be only half correct.