26

MY TEACUP, BALANCED ON A SAUCER SO THIN I COULD SEE THE shadow of my finger through its pearlescent porcelain, rattled almost imperceptibly. If someone had taken Viola’s salon, its character as vibrant and warm as a summer morning, and sent a Kvys blizzard wind through it, it might have provided the only parallel I could imagine to the Summit Ladies’ Tea. While the delegates opened their first session of negotiations on the Open Seas Arrangement, the ladies in the delegations’ retinues gathered for one of the few scheduled events that was, in no uncertain terms, mandatory for all of us. I almost wished that I, like Annette, had developed a migraine from the thick humidity and taken to my bed. Sadly, I was as hale as a Pellian ox even in the heat.

“I understand, Ainira Duana, that the tea harvest in East Serafe is under siege by poor weather this year,” Lady Merhaven said to the East Serafan woman seated near us.

She raised her cup to her lips, as though sipping the East Serafan tea we were all drinking would bolster her point. “The weather has been wet and less conducive to a highly flavored tea in our southernmost plantations,” she said, “but we do not anticipate that this affects the market overmuch. Our tea is aged over a year, and we release only certain percentages of each year at a time.”

“A wise strategy for a fine tea and to guard against fluctuations,” Dira Mbtai-Joro chimed in from across the settee.

I smiled in agreement, but she simply stared at me and turned to the Ainira. “We would of course be most disappointed in any shortage of your best teas. Then again, we anticipate disruptions of trade of all kinds, given the current… climate.”

Was the weather poor enough to affect agriculture in so many nations, I wondered? But no—Lady Merhaven shifted uncomfortably next to me, assuring me that the climate Dira alluded to was political, not meteorological.

“I certainly hope things aren’t so bad as all that,” Duana replied, but Siovan, lingering behind us, joined our conversation. As hostess of the summit, she pulled attention with her, dragging a dozen sets of ears into our conversation.

“If the unrest spurs a shortfall or even disruption of the labor working on the agriculture of the noble landholders, we can certainly expect shortages of grains and fruits this year, and of wines and ciders in the coming years,” Siovan said, and I finally understood, my ears reddening as I struggled to keep my teacup from shaking—they were worried about Galitha.

Lady Merhaven shot me a look, her meaning clear—I shouldn’t say anything. I didn’t need the warning.

“Grain!” Dira shook her head. “Meaning no offense to the Serafans, we could live without tea but not without grain.”

“Workers’ riots shouldn’t have been permitted to cause such a disturbance to begin with,” Siovan said, then stopped herself. As hostess, she was probably required to remain as neutral and accommodating as possible.

Too late—another West Serafan woman, in blinding blue silk shot through with gold, agreed loudly. “No amount of protest ought to be worth interrupting vital trade.”

A quiet snort drew everyone’s attention to a slight Kvys woman, her hair completely covered by her white veil. “The rights of working people are worth a brief inconvenience to your wine cellar,” she said, her piercing blue eyes pinning the Serafan woman. “This is not a mere question of a few ill-tempered men complaining, but of vital liberty and the right to govern.”

“The right to govern!” Duana replied. “That right is well established in each of our nations, is it not?”

“Yet in each nation it is different,” the Kvys woman replied. Her tone was even, deliberate, and disarmingly calm. “Any one of us could be mistaken in our self-granted rights and be in violation of those rights that ought to be held universal.”

I felt, briefly, that I was in the middle of one of Kristos’s books, one of the better ones that melded philosophy and governance and economics into a cogent theory.

“Universal rights—as the Kvys enjoy under the thumb of the Church?” Duana asked, raising a calculating eyebrow.

If she expected the Kvys woman to lash out, she was disappointed. “We articulate our rights as being borne out of the Creator’s will,” she replied. “That gives the Church the responsibility to uphold them.”

“At any rate,” Duana said, “East Serafe certainly cannot afford—for the sake of our people—to support any regime that does not hold up its trade responsibilities. We import most of our grain from Galitha, and I know that West Serafe does as well.”

“There is no reason,” Lady Merhaven said in a strained voice, “to anticipate any reductions in grain output from any estate I am acquainted with.”

“You’re acquainted with many?” Dira asked, the question barbed to wound.

“Yes, of course I am,” Lady Merhaven replied, a bit too hurried.

“You could, of course,” the Kvys woman replied, “import more barley from Fen.”

“You know as well as I that the costs are greater for that,” Ainira Duana replied crisply.

“Ah, yes. I know as well that the Ainirs control the imports and gain the profits from those imports in both East and West Serafe,” the Kvys woman replied. The air felt thin in the room. I couldn’t fathom the combination of polite tone and cutting commentary that the Kvys woman was managing to maintain. I thought, for a moment, that this might be normal for the Kvys—that they were a blunt, plain-speaking people—but the shock and even outrage on some of the faces surrounding me told me that she was pushing boundaries even if this were true.

Dira set her teacup down, elegant hands drawing no sound from porcelain that I rattled merely holding it. “Lady Merhaven, it seems that one of the Galatines is not here.”

“Annette is not well this afternoon,” Lady Merhaven replied.

“Too bad. I had hoped we might have some discussion that regards her.” Dira leaned to pick up her teacup, then stopped, turning back to Lady Merhaven. “Unless, of course, you are able to speak to her prospects yourself?”

My stomach clenched, sour with too much tea. Prospects. Viola’s charge came rushing back to me, that I should help Annette in whatever way I could, but she wasn’t here to guide me, and I had no idea how to steer a conversation between powerful women away from a topic they were both determined to discuss.

Lady Merhaven smiled with little emotion. “I would be pleased to have a preliminary discussion,” she said, smooth as a polished stone. Nearly rehearsed. Of course—she knew before setting sail that this would be part of her duties here.

“The Allied Equatorial States are eager to affirm our good relationship with Galitha,” Dira said. Somehow diplomatic jargon sounded natural, comfortable as it rolled off her tongue. “Especially given recent events. We are now, and have always remained, neutral in the affairs of other nations.” She inclined her head, pointed, toward where the Kvys woman and Siovan compared the embroidery on their respective pocketbooks, having retreated to safe conversation about needlework.

“And for that, Galitha has always respected the Allied States.”

“In the interest of continuing our mutual respect, there are several young men from prominent houses who have expressed some interest.”

“They would, of course, need to be from quite prominent houses,” Lady Merhaven said, a subtle reminder folded into an agreement. Annette had been a princess and was still a cousin of the royal family, after all. I watched in horror as each woman silently assessed Annette’s value like a pair of fishwives sizing up one another’s mackerel.

“Of course. I imagine that any of our high-ranking families would be delighted. And the Lady Annette in turn,” Dira said. “Even our lesser houses are of greater prominence than any prospect from Pellia or Fen,” she said with a rehearsed laugh. I stared at my hands—was there an insult layered into her assessment, suggesting Theodor was marrying far under his station not only to a commoner but to an insignificant foreigner, as well?

She didn’t elaborate, and I bit back an impulse to argue that I was not from Pellia, that I was as steeped in Galitha and as invested in her future as any noblewoman.

Siovan interrupted before the conversation could continue. “It seems that our menagerie keeper has arrived a bit early to begin the tour of our collection,” she said. “We have both Serafan native and imported animals on display, including a Serafan mountain wildcat and the only leviathan salamander in captivity.” She continued listing caged creatures like a menu as she escorted a large clutch of women toward the door.

I set my teacup down on the cart laid out for that purpose, spilling a bit of the deep brown liquid on the pure white cloth. The walnut-hued stain spread quickly. I wavered between wanting to daub it up and knowing that this was work for the servants. The Serafans probably wouldn’t care about the ruined tablecloth that would result if the stain wasn’t treated immediately, I chided myself. I wasn’t in my leaky row house, scrupulously caring for every dishrag and trencher, haunted by their replacement costs every time I chipped or stained something.

Leaving the room, I slipped out onto a quiet balcony overlooking the fountains at the front of the gardens. The spray caught the sunlight and bent it into rainbows.

“I am sorry.” I turned, startled, to find the Kvys woman already seated on the other end of the balcony. “I was careless with my consideration of the Galatine attendees today.”

“It’s no matter now,” I replied. “You’ve every right to speak, and they’ve moved on to wildcats and salamanders.”

“Wildcats and salamanders—now, that’s a fair metaphor for most of these delegates,” she said. “Half of them bare their teeth and snarl, the other half burrow into the mud until their quarry comes close enough. And there I am again, forgetting I am not in Kvyset.” She smiled. It transformed her, the cold blue eyes suddenly sparkling with suppressed laughter. “I am Sastra-set Alba, a daughter of patrician house Preata, vowed to the Order of the Golden Sphere.”

“I—I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” I replied.

She laughed in earnest now. “Silly titles, aren’t they? Your word for Sastra-set—well, it wouldn’t exist, you don’t have religious orders in Galitha. But I’m a high sister. That may clarify things slightly.”

“Like a priest?”

“Nothing like those perennial bores. I am the head of my house within my order—the closest parallel you have is akin to a noble with his estate. The religious orders are barred from formal discourse here, so I am part of my brother’s retinue.”

I nodded, then realized I hadn’t introduced myself. “I am here as part of Prince Theodor’s delegation, Sophie Ba—”

“I know, of course,” she said, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes. “Everyone knows the Seamstress-Sorceress Sophie Balstrade.”

I bit my lip and edged toward the balcony’s white columns. I couldn’t forget the strict bans on charm casting in Kvyset, the deep distrust most Kvys had for the practice. But Alba didn’t pull away in revulsion or distrust. “You’ve pegged me fairly,” I replied.

“And revolutionary?” Alba’s smile was patient and kind, but I felt trapped by the question.

“Not terribly active,” I hedged.

“Your prince is a reformist, your brother a leader of a revolt—you seem steeped in revolution,” she said. Your prince—not meaning, merely, the prince of the country I resided in. “I should not speak so boldly, in a place so full of… wildcats and salamanders. But Kvyset—and my house—supports your reforms. We could not openly support treason and revolt, but your ideals are true.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. This wasn’t an official meeting, not part of the summit, but Alba spoke as though her words had great importance.

She wormed a finger under her starched veil, relieving an itch. “To think, I’m missing the Kvys birch forests in summer to sweat in this hellhole,” she said. “Let them plan the next summit for Midwinter in Kvyset and see how the Serafans like it. And serving us hot tea—bah. I’ll order us some iced citronade, how does that sound?” she asked, and I agreed, wondering what kind of unlikely alliance I might be building.