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“Calm down, will you?” Carolle whispered. “I said I’m doing it, Luce!” They crept downstairs to the theatre’s exit to the alley. “I just want you to know where the coin comes from is all.”
“Good; I’m going with you,” Lucille replied, revealing the kitchen knife she had stuck up her sleeve. “What? I’m not letting you go on your own. You wouldn’t let me.” Lucille threw open the door. Early morning fog dampened the air outside.
Concerned, Braith stood in the doorway. “You sure you don’t need me?”
“Oh, Braith bach,” Carolle said. “We do need you. Here. If Lucille isn’t back in time for practice, tell Madame Davies you can’t find her.”
Lucille pouted curtly and tugged on Carolle’s cloak.
“Actually, tell her the same for me.”
Hauled along by Lucille, Carolle waved back to Braith. Deserted beneath the mauve sky, Theatre Row offered itself fully to the Patevians. Carolle’s plain blue woolen dress and brown cloak conjured a rush of defiance and freedom amid the columned facades. She giggled as loudly as Lucille as they raced toward Port Way.
A baker paired samples of freshly baked gingerbread with his directions to Popplewell’s warehouse in the west port. Misremembering a left for a right put them in the Temple District, in front of the water dragon’s den running down to the shore. White marble, like all of the buildings this close to Verdict Hill, the den sported a dome over its rectangular columned base. Alternating bands of lapis and azurite led up to a patinaed copper top. Carolle and Lucille lingered in reverence, wondering why a dragon, even a wingless water dragon, needed ten fully armored guards, until a costermonger opened his cart.
The street merchant steered them west, but not before Lucille coaxed him out of a salty pretzel and Carolle liberated a snippet of grapes. Sharing the nibbles, they chewed and enjoyed their stroll along the bay.
Fishermen and seagulls called out across the water in the light of dawn. “If this works out,” Carolle said, “I want a home with this view. Those gorgeous mountains. The water and all.”
Twirling a lock of blonde hair between her fingers, Lucille shot her a puzzled glance. “You never went to Trawsfynydd back home?”
Carolle shook her head.
“I grew up with a view like that.”
“Did not! Liar!” Carolle teased, though Lucille insisted with fervent nods. “Mountains with snow like that? Year round?”
Lucille flung her hair back over her shoulder and admitted, “Well, maybe just in winter.” The silence grew heavier as Lucille wore her thoughts on her brow. Finally, she said, “Diolch, for that night with Chester. In the gardens.”
Carolle put her arm around her.
They walked like that until Lucille pointed across the water. “Look over by there. He said Popplewell’s is the big one, didn’t he?” Ashlar buildings edged the western end of the bay, but one rose to five stories. After ambling to prolong their exploration of Trône d’Argent, they still arrived at the warehouse early.
Braced to argue for Lucille to go back before the ruffians sobered up, Carolle pulled her into an alleyway across the bustling street from Popplewell’s. A dockworker caught her attention as he searched about for onlookers near the warehouse’s barn doors. Carolle and Lucille ducked behind a few disused barrels and spied. The brawny dockworker knocked. Opened a sliver, the barn doors let the man squeeze through. They resealed immediately. Within minutes, six men repeated the ritual. “What are they doing in there?” Carolle asked.
A loud clack from down the alley startled them upright. Two planks fell from a stack propped against the building. Peering into the darkness, Carolle took Lucille’s hand. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows and made out a form crouching by the fallen lumber. A cloak? From beneath its gray hood, a pale mask watched them back. Carolle went cold to her core. The man dashed away from them, trailing his cloak down the alley.
They did the same, running straight into the bustling street. Carolle crossed between high-wheeled carts and accidentally cut in front of a steed hauling a farmer’s bounty. The turnip-faced farmer cracked his whip over her head and shouted obscenities at them. She leaped to get out of the street and well out of the range of his whip. His vexation led to bellowed, rude remarks a fair distance farther, drawing more attention.
“Gods, who was that?” Lucille asked, holding her knife pointed at the alley.
“I don’t know—put that away!”
“Shaddup!” a vagrant man yelled from the walkway before pulling up his blanket. Clearly, his patience had not recovered from drinking his way to the bottom of a barrel. Whiskey, by the smell of him.
With no sign of the creeper and more sober minds about, including three helmeted city sentries, Carolle asked, “You’ll be all right here, Luce?”
Knocking on the blade up her sleeve, Lucille set her jaw and urged Carolle on.
“All right,” Carolle said. “Don’t leave this spot.” Pretending to retie the pink taffeta ribbons of her cuffs, Carolle paced closely to the warehouse’s barn doors but heard little beyond what might have been sawing. She put her ear to the door.
“Oh, dear,” someone moaned behind her.
Carolle gasped. “Rodinger!” She laid her hand over her heart. She hardly recognized him, dressed as plainly in wool as she, excluding his gray velvet gloves.
“I hope you were not waiting long. I realized I was cutting it fine as I departed.”
“Not really. Where did you come from so sudden, like?”
He dabbed a kerchief to his forehead. “A secret for another time. After all, this is Trône d’Argent, my dear Carolle. A high lord cannot be seen dressed like the masses he’s meant to represent.” He winked to assure her it was in jest. “Shall we?” His cane rapped against the warehouse doors.
“Eh?” a voice screeched from inside.
“Breaking crests to mend ties,” Rodinger said to the crack between the doors.
They slid apart a few inches, then parted enough to allow Rodinger entry. An armored guard bent and backed away, revealing the indoor shipyard. Carolle followed Rodinger inside and away from the other guards hidden behind the doors. Sawdust wafted through and speckled the air where sunlight broke through poorly covered windows. Scaffolding framed a sleek vessel-to-be on tracks extending into the bay at the end of the warehouse.
“Welcome, my lord,” a wiry apprentice said. “Master Popplewell is—”
“Rodinger!” a blond pik called from high upon the scaffolding. “I’ll be right down.”
“Is this your ship?” Carolle asked.
“Yes and no,” Rodinger answered. They moved to intercept the pik descending the scaffolding. “This remarkable vessel shall carry me and—more importantly—the treaties required for the Bonded Nations. Under the auspices of Queen Ameera and Queen Valentia of Virtud Luz, mages and boatbuilders alike rotate shifts to keep the construction on target for the spring.”
In a work shirt and stained trousers, the clean-shaven pik landed with a grin. Stout with muscles, but short for his kind, he appeared even shorter next to Rodinger, standing only as tall as the middle of his thigh.
The pik extended his smudged hand up to Rodinger, who accepted without hesitation. “Master Popplewell has done us proud,” Rodinger said. “But what else should we expect from the royal engineer?”
Master Popplewell threw back the compliment with both hands. “I’m learning as I go. As I keep rippin’ reminding you, I’m no bloody shipwright, Rodinger.”
“And as I keep repeating, Willem, it’s my life on the waves out there. I prefer it to be your prototype whisking me about over the depths, if you do not mind.”
The engineer swatted Rodinger’s shin and raised a finger at him. “Don’t you pin me with pride! That’ll seal your doom for certain.” Grinning again, he asked, “What brings you my way this morning?”
“Showing my dear friend around,” Rodinger said. “I had hoped Lady Ysbryd and I could borrow your pier for some privacy.” His gloved hand moved with his introduction.
Master Popplewell wrapped himself in his arms and beamed up at the incomplete behemoth. “Try not to judge my little miss too harshly without her armor on, Lady Ysbryd. She’ll soon be the pride of our fleet, fastest ship on Cyr! We’re building her to face the wind better than a carrack and warding her against ill waves and spells alike. Gods willing, she’ll deliver our man here from port to port in a deft and boring fashion.”
“I’d trust her over a coracle any day, Master Popplewell,” Carolle replied.
“Confound it!” a whiny voice yelled from above. A Racinian mage placed his hands on his hips, puffing out his silver mantle. At his side, a Luzian in the Tower of Rosamond’s crimson knelt near the incomplete hull. “Enunciate! Enunciate! It’s a wonder your kind hold your borders at all.”
The Luzian mage rose to puff out his mantle in turn. “You think I cast a spell to seal it? This is what you think? I should seal it before it has even been warded?” He flung his arm up in a rude dismissal.
“Ay! Gag it up there!” Master Popplewell yelled. “We’ve a lady in our company today.” The royal engineer climbed. “You fizzlepots are worse than my children! I’ve already separated you once.”
The mages placated the engineer with a waved apology before the Racinian peeled away.
Master Popplewell hung by one arm from the scaffolding. “If you have time when you’re done, Rodinger, I’d like to share a few modifications we’ve made to the stern.” Rodinger agreed and headed off toward the end of the warehouse. “Pleasure to meet you, Lady Ysbryd. Come back to see her when she’s cutting waves. Legends will surround the Nymphony.” He sat on a plank to shrug. “Or she may sink within minutes. Either way, you’ll hear of her again.”
Carolle smiled, waved to Master Popplewell, and sped to Rodinger’s side. Longer than a galleon, the slender-framed ship would be quite the sight when completed. “The Nymphony?” Carolle asked, unable to keep her amusement from her lips. “Did you choose that name?”
“A lady at ease with the harmony of the seas?” Rodinger asked with a furrowed brow. “Is there something wrong with it?” Her mouth opened for an apology before he winked. “No, no. Willem names his creations. Won’t take on a project without that caveat.”
Stepping out of the lord’s way, the bulky shipbuilders chanted their song along the tracks to the sea, a lowlander tune she’d heard but didn’t know the name of. Not a one betrayed a snicker or a sneer for Rodinger.
“But the ship is yours?” she asked.
Rodinger raised a finger for her to hold the question. Approaching a series of ropes and pulleys, he selected one and let his weight do the tugging. The strident hinges of a grand folding wall bent a panel forward to reveal the bay. Enamored of the salty breeze, Carolle swept down a wooden pier to the railing at its end, so weathered it had cracked and warped. Ships of every scale filled their white sails in the bright daylight under the mountains.
“To answer your question,” Rodinger said, gathering his cloak about him, “the Nymphony is being created solely for the purpose of bringing the nations together. At the end of my voyage, I’m afraid she is meant as a gift in a stratagem poor Willem is not privy to. What shall happen to her afterward, I cannot say. Besides, I already own an oft-forgotten ship.” He grunted and rolled his eyes. “Ooh, I say, I am odious, aren’t I? Boasting like a fool when I brought you here under the pretenses of civility and candor.”
“Actually, I’m sorry,” Carolle said. “Embarrassed myself and my troupe at the gala, I did.”
“Some may view it that way,” Rodinger said. “But how many in attendance can purport Patevians are craven now?”
She laughed with little more than a hum and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps, but it’s not the way a lady is supposed to behave, is it?”
“I disagree. You were forthright. In fact, I wish more Racinian women behaved as Patevian women do. I’m sure the queen could be persuaded to trade you for Lady Leupp, if you suggest it.” His eyebrow arched jokingly, suggesting she consider it.
Carolle smirked but shook her head. “There’s lovely. But I can’t wish that on Patevia.”
“I’m sorry for even mentioning her name.” Gesturing back to the obscured ship, he said, “I, too, shall find myself battling specious nationality in unfamiliar courts. Without fellowship beyond my own confidence . . .” He leaned against the railing to exhale. “Confidence is a flighty thing, isn’t it? Ameera praises my métier for smoothing ardent arguments into guileless conversation, yet I have my doubts.” He splayed his hands. “I declined her request to take up this voyage three times.”
“Can’t imagine saying no to a queen, especially her.”
“Ameera has been patient with me,” he said. “Her father considered me a debauched thorn in his side.” No one roamed within twenty yards of them, but he lowered his voice anyway. “There was a time when I didn’t involve myself in politics, preferring to pursue sensualist, drunken endeavors. I think it was easier to live in that sickness. Thankfully, King Clyde’s daughter gained a compassionate perspective during her time in the Tower and refuses to let us temporizing arseholes hide.”
Footsteps on the pier urged Carolle to hold her questions. “My lord, my lady,” Master Popplewell’s young apprentice said, offering two saucers with steaming cups of tea. “Compliments of Master Popplewell.”
Rodinger received his and tapped the porcelain cup to hers.
A biting wind gusted the steam away for her. She took a sip and cringed at the bitter strength. Rodinger made a face of disgust behind the apprentice’s back. When the boy thudded back down the pier, Rodinger said, “I had thought you may appreciate this location more than chess and dinner. However, this tea may slay your enjoyment of the view.”
“Never,” Carolle replied, defiantly raising her cheek bones to the sea breeze. She set the saucer on the railing. “I’ve seen what Racine calls an afternoon tea. I can only guess what dinner involves. No. No, I suppose I can’t imagine anything of that nature.”
“Ah, yes, well. In my decades of experience, close friends make the best companions for High House dinners, inasmuch as the events are prone to cutting remarks and to tossing bread rolls in frustration—or once a full turkey—though amends must always be made over puddings and sherry.”
“If you put it that way,” Carolle said, “it sounds inviting. A cozy meal with the family, like.”
“In many ways, it is, for those of us who have little family remaining.” He twirled the black tea in his cup. “As a matter of fact, family is part of the reason this task with the Bonded Nations falls on my shoulders. My cousin Perry Boddlehock, the duke of Ghest in Critz, is one of the Warring States’ most influential leaders. With the aid of the Nymphony, we hope he can persuade the less governmental states to join the fold.”
“Why for did you agree to go?” Carolle asked. “What changed your mind?”
Baffled, Rodinger squeezed his bushy eyebrows together. “Why, you did, Carolle. Your performance.”
She looked away to the bay.
“It inspired me. The heart you display as Elysant reminds me of something I lost twenty years back. A purity my daughter embodied. You may have gathered this, but you remind me a great deal of her.”
Closing her eyes, Carolle released a sad moan. “I’m so sorry, Rodinger. I didn’t know you had lost her.”
“It was war,” he said. “Lekelith demanded their independence after our king’s tyrannical play for—well, never mind that. The lowlanders weren’t selective when it came to targets; anything involving Racinian nobility worked, including a passenger galleon with a high lady and her daughter.
“The men responsible became my focus. One by one, my men and I found them and stretched their necks. When it was done . . .” His attention went back to swirling his drink. “My heart contains regrets aplenty, dear Carolle. I’ve been empty and angry for a very long time.”
Rodinger didn’t speak again until Carolle forced herself to look at him. “You remind me so much of Rose,” he said. “Elegant and strong, with those cordial brown eyes.”
Carolle shifted her stance against the rail, feeling the awkward flush of the compliment. “If you hired a harlot in Deganwy, I may actually be your daughter.”
The High House noble stood erect, drawing his arm back.
Carolle’s cheeks blazed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that, really.”
Nodding politely, Rodinger resumed his lean against the railing, which creaked in protest. “I suspect I do. Sadly, I cannot claim to be your father, though I would find great pride in it.” He nudged her with his elbow. She refused to look at him, merely ran a grin over her lips. “Knowing your origin and where you stand today, can you not believe yourself worthy of the compliment? Your strength cannot be unknown to you when it’s so evident to the rest of us.”
Carolle watched the waves lap against the posts beneath them. Strength enough not to betray him? Gods, the man had become a friend, and truly believed her a confidante. And the coin . . .
Rodinger’s tea splashed into the frothing sea. “My apologies to the fishes,” he said.
She tipped her cup over with a small smile. “I should get back to the theatre for practice.” Her eyes met his adoration but swiftly swept over the bay again. “Thank you for sharing this with me.” She dipped.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
Raising her hand, she cut off his apology. “I am better for it. Ta.” She turned to go.
Rodinger said, “Elysant on the Glass owes its origins to a people long gone and gods who ignore our pleas today. Yet we understand, wordlessly, the emotions fueling the passion you embody in your dance. That sympathy—empathy, really—is the thread to bind us all. I had forgotten it, believed it beyond my reach.” He took her hand in his soft gloves and brought her around to face him. “Spreading that understanding is my calling now. If I am successful, the world should thank you.”
“Stop,” Carolle replied. “They should thank your Rose. Her memory inspired you, Rodinger.”
His brow creased. “Dinner?” he asked. “We can hide from our reputations and rubrics in my house and discuss this when the rolls are nice and hard.”
Squeezing his velvet-gloved hand, she said, “I look forward to your invitation.”
“Invitation?” he repeated. He didn’t follow her into the sawdust-covered warehouse, or at least didn’t catch up to her. She heard Master Popplewell summon him but refused to look back.
Carolle Ysbryd belonged on stage. Each time she stepped off, she found trouble with these world-molders, pulling her into realms where she didn’t belong.
The barn doors drew open. Carolle’s heart chugged when Grand Diviner Sylvester came inside. Dressed as a labor-stained farmer with a smear of muck on his cheek for good measure, the man had disguised himself well enough but missed the mark with his barn owl. Omelet’s pink muffin cap didn’t make toting around an owl less conspicuous. Carolle sidled by him, feeling the mage’s intense curiosity on her.
In the crowded street, she forced a smile as Lucille unknowingly hurried toward a fight. There was no getting past it now. She didn’t want to know the truth of Gaines’s motives for going after Rodinger and the Warring States.
Yes, it couldn’t be helped. She would send word to Gaines and return his father’s plat. Curse nobles! And curse their bloody, bloody coin!
