23

THE REMAINDER OF OUR VOYAGE WAS UNEVENTFUL, BUT WITH the eerie calm of a silence we all knew was imposed by wide swaths of water, not reflective of the reality in Galitha. There would be no news until after we reached the summit. Would reports of sedition wait for us? Red Caps recalled to action by the refusal of local nobles to implement reform? Chaos erupting once more in the capital city as debates broke into violence?

No pressing news awaited us when we docked in Isildi, and there was little time to search out any rumors of unrest from home. We were expected at welcome meetings within hours of docking, and I tried to block the uncertainty of Galatine affairs from my mind and focus, instead, on the dizzying prospect of maintaining a good face with dozens of delegates.

The summit was held in a diplomatic compound, once a large army fortress but repurposed and expanded. The reddish stone walls were built like the layers of a cake, with newer construction of brighter stone and at keener angles than the faded historic structure. We separated within minutes of arriving, Theodor and the admiral whisked off to the first of dozens of important gatherings, and Lady Merhaven, Annette, and I shuttled to a welcome reception for the retinues of the official delegates.

We were received on a wide loggia, well shaded with thick-trunked trees. A breeze swept across the gardens bearing a faint hint of salt and, fainter, some coolness. I was grateful for the lightweight cotton chemise gown I wore, decorated with a red silk sash. It was simpler than what some of the other women had chosen for this informal reception, but the Serafan women and the women from the Allied Equatorial States wore lightweight clothing suited to the heat. I tried not to stare at the women and their clothing, but I couldn’t help but notice the elaborate draping of the Serafan gowns and the bright colors chosen by the Equatorial women. I wished I could understand everyone’s position and motives as easily as I could mentally deconstruct their gowns, made plain into patterned grids and draped silk in my mind.

“I hope they serve something cold and liquid fairly soon,” Lady Merhaven said, fanning herself slowly with a sandalwood fan. Perspiration dotted her forehead and made curls of her dark blond hair stick to her neck. “Once this is over, I’m looking forward to nothing more than a cool bath. I do hope the porters arrive soon with the trunks—I’ll want my goat’s milk soap.”

Annette made a face that indicated what she thought of Lady Merhaven’s soap, and I forced back a laugh that was half nerves.

“I hope I’ll have a chance to explore a bit,” I replied.

Lady Merhaven started and then regained her damp composure. “Don’t get in the way, dear. The gardens are fine for strolls, and there are public areas inside, too, but keep out of the official business, hmm?” Don’t embarrass us, she said as clearly as if she’d used the precise words.

I scanned the gardens, spreading out on all three open sides of the loggia like a controlled jungle. Galatine gardens tended to be formal, with carefully shaped hedges and long avenues paved in pale stone or bricks. These were wilder, giving themselves over to the natural spray and fan of the plants they featured. They also seemed to favor heavily scented flowers; occasionally the salt scent of the breeze was accompanied by something intoxicatingly heady.

“Ah, the Kvys,” said Lady Merhaven with thinly veiled derision. The small group arrived quietly but somehow still obtrusive, dark wool gowns and starched veils out of place among the color and movement of the rest of the party.

“I believe we are all arrived.” A Serafan woman stood by the center columns of the loggia, her brilliant orange gown fluttering in the breeze of her slightest movement. “While the delegates are in their discussions every day, there is a light schedule for the rest of the delegations.” She distributed a stack of heavy ivory paper printed with a list of events that looked, for the most part, like social gatherings. I forced a pleasant expression onto my face, but if I had been nervous about Galatine social functions, the thought of the complexities here was unnerving. “The vast majority are, of course, optional,” she continued, “but you should consult with the rest of your delegations on which require your attention.”

Optional social gatherings requiring attention—I digested this quickly to mean that alliances and relationships were made here, as well as in the delegation chambers. Already I perceived the divisions and hierarchies, that each of the women here represented not merely herself but a host of other interests. What would they think I represented, I wondered? Galitha, its government, the reform? Given Pellia’s clear absence, would I stand in some way for that ignored nation despite having never so much as seen its shores?

A servant in pure white wheeled a cart to the loggia laden with fresh fruit, icy glasses full of various colored liquid, a dozen kinds of cheeses, and a creamy slush that Annette chose swiftly but looked like curdled milk to me.

“Traditional Serafan nooning meal,” Annette said, handing me a glass. “Pureed goldenfruit. It’s delightful. And try the cheese even if you don’t want a butter pudding.”

“That’s what it’s called?” I asked, pointing to the shallow dish of pale slurry Annette ate with a tiny spoon.

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded, mouth full. I selected a few cheeses. Modern Serafe was descended from nomadic herdsmen, unlike primarily agrarian Galitha. Its curve of coastline supported orchards and some farming, but inland the ground grew rocky and more suitable for goats than farms. Across the mountain ranges in East Serafe, the land was drier and more desolate, but, according to my books, still supported traditional Serafan herding practices. And, I discovered as I tasted a ball of fresh cheese sprinkled with fresh herbs, delectable cheese making.

Lady Merhaven drifted away, greeting the Serafan woman who had welcomed us. She was, I knew, a high-ranking woman from a high-ranking clan given the honor of serving as a hostess, not an official delegate to the negotiations. Those, from East and West Serafe, were all male, made up of Ainirs, clan heads, whose long-standing families were the nobility of Serafe. Lady Merhaven was swiftly impressing herself on the delegation as representative of Galitha; as the hostess moved away from her to give a coolly cordial greeting to the Kvys women, Lady Merhaven attached herself to a gray-haired Equatorial woman with enormous diamond earrings. I nibbled at a wafer coated in sesame seeds as I surveyed the crowd; Annette returned to the cart for a second dish of butter pudding and found herself face-to-face with our West Serafan hostess. The two conversed as I finished my wafer and immediately regretted the choice, as seeds had lodged themselves in my teeth.

“Well, ask her yourself,” Annette said to the hostess, forcing cheer into her voice as she nudged me subtly with a foot. My fingers burned impressions into the frosted glass.

“You must be the prince’s consort.” The West Serafan hostess in her blinding orange silk assessed me. Next to her, a wisp-thin Equatorial woman in delicately tailored white cotton and with regal bearing subtly turned her shoulders away from a nearby table of fruit and cheese to join our conversation.

“I—yes, I am here with the Galatine delegation on the invitation of the Prince of Westland,” I said.

The Serafan smiled knowingly, almost patronizing. “Is consort a term the Galatines do not use? I can admit my ignorance,” the Equatorial woman said.

“No, it’s a—we use the term,” I confirmed. “We are betrothed,” I added, showing them the gold bracelet as though they needed some kind of proof.

“I am Ainira Siovan ad Rhuina,” the Serafan woman said, and I was grateful for the tutelage about titles present in the books I’d studied—Ainira meant the wife of a clan head, but she identified herself by her natal clan, Rhuina.

“Dira Mbtai-Joro,” the other woman said. Her status was less clear—the Allied States did not have the defined orders of nobility that Galatines and Serafans did, but princes ruling each island and a spate of high-ranking families that were, in any given decade, favored or out of favor. The books I had been given had not, unfortunately, given me any indication on the current ranking families.

“It’s a pleasure to meet both of you,” I said politely, then remembered to add, “I’m Sophie Balstrade.”

“Of course,” Dira said coolly. She assessed me with a knowing, not entirely comfortable, scrutiny.

Siovan leaned in. “Now. Do tell—the story is that you were actually at the palace when the assassins broke into the ballroom.”

“I—yes,” I said, flushing.

“You should be warned, the whole revolt is the reigning topic of gossip currently. That, and the Ainir of the East Serafan Dar clan’s bastard son,” laughed Siovan before I could rush to explain that our attention in Galitha had turned to reform. Had she cut me off on purpose? Were political topics too heavy for an opening reception? Or did she simply not want to hear about weighty topics from me?

“Only among Serafans,” Dira replied.

“He has a harelip and some say a tail.”

“In truth?” Annette set her empty dish down. “Poor fellow if so.”

Siovan shrugged. “At any rate, he isn’t here, so we can’t confirm either rumor.”

“How would you confirm the tail? Follow him into the bathhouse?” Annette said.

“I can think of other methods,” Dira replied. “I am given to understand that your… arrangement with Oban is off,” she added.

Annette flushed at the implied connection—she had been in the final stages of marriage negotiations with Prince Oban of East Serafe before the Midwinter Revolt. Now that she was no longer of the royal family, and Prince Oban no longer an appropriate alliance, a bastard was still far below her station.

“You are correct,” she replied. “I don’t believe that anyone with a tail is on the rolls for consideration.”

“Of course not,” Dira demurred. A glimmer of something—humor or hostility?—passed in subtly narrowed eyes, but she turned and took a glass of pureed goldenfruit instead of speaking further.

“Miss?” A servant in white, a girl of perhaps twelve, waited at my elbow. “Your chambers have been prepared. Would you like me to show you?”

I glanced at Dira and Siovan. “Please excuse me,” I said.

Dira bowed her head. “Of course, yes. We’ll see more of you, I’m sure.”