58

As an honored guest of Her Imperial Majesty, Irina was required to participate in certain activities. One of her least favorite among them was attending the weekly recitals performed by the empress’s offspring.

The concert hall was stunning, of course. Located in the northwest wing of the palace, it had vaulted ceilings with tall stained glass windows, rows of velvet cushioned chairs on risers, and a massive crystal chandelier overhead. Whenever Irina entered, it always smelled of vanilla and strawberries, and it was clear that great pains had been taken to ensure that the acoustics were immaculate.

Sadly, perfect acoustics only emphasized what dreadful musicians the princes and princess were. The eldest, Prince Valentino, sawed away mercilessly at his violin, heedless of the abrasive tones it produced. The middle child, Princess Constantia, slumped over her cello with a limp despair that made it clear she, like the audience, wished she could be anywhere else. The youngest, Prince Domenico, had been given the onerous task of playing the viola, an instrument forever cursed with the role of harmony rather than melody. The little prince performed earnestly and enthusiastically, and with some skill, but in doing so completely drowned out the melody produced by the other two siblings, making the entire composition unintelligible and more or less unlistenable.

Irina sat with a fixed smile on her face. Ambassador Boz was to her left, and Captain Aguta to her right, both with similar expressions. After being subjected to these “performances” on a weekly basis for months now, they had learned to tune out the wretched affair while still appearing as enthralled as the empress. Irina did not know Her Majesty well, but thought she seemed an intelligent and astute woman. As such, she wondered if even she was faking her fondness for her children’s weekly renditions of traditional Aureumian airs that should have been recognizable but were not.

At last the ordeal was over and the guests began to rise from their seats. Irina glanced around, mostly to appreciate the quiet suffering etched onto the faces of her fellow guests, and noticed that Zaniolo was not present.

“It seems our favorite general was able to get out of this week’s recital,” she murmured to Boz.

“I’m not surprised, considering recent events,” said Boz.

“Such as?” asked Irina.

“Apparently the empire is in quite a state.”

“Oh?”

“The Uaine are currently at large, though how one hides a ravenous horde of undead is anyone’s guess. The Izmorozians, meanwhile, seem to finally be grasping the concept of national unity, making the empress’s plans for an easy reacquisition much less tenable. And most recently of course there is the shocking tragedy that took place in Colmo.”

“Shocking tragedy?” Irina felt a cold fist clench in her gut. “Nothing to do with my daughter, I hope.”

“Difficult to say, my lady, since not a single soldier at the garrison survived.” Boz’s eyes glittered. “Apparently the event has inspired tremendous unrest throughout Raíz, as if suddenly bringing centuries of buried resentment to the surface.”

“I see.” Unfortunately, that strongly suggested to Irina that Sonya was somehow involved.

“But there may be some good news for you, at least,” said Boz.

“For me specifically?”

“Yes. Apparently with all the uncertainty at home, the empress has wisely decided to recall her forces from Kante.”

“She’s giving up the campaign? Things must be dire.”

“Indeed. But I imagine that means you’ll be seeing your son again far sooner than expected.”

Irina still had no idea how the ambassador gleaned so much information. She’d proposed to Zaniolo in her report that perhaps Boz had an invisible spy in her employ. She didn’t know if that was even possible, but it seemed no less probable than the idea that Boz and Vittorio had conducted an elaborate pantomime purely for Irina’s benefit. Zaniolo had not yet offered an opinion on either theory.

“That is heartening news regarding my son,” she told Boz. “And if you come across any information concerning my daughter, I would be very grateful.”

“I am but a humble gossip hound, my lady.” Boz’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “I expect if you spoke to Zaniolo directly, he would have far more information.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” agreed Irina.

It wasn’t merely Sonya she was concerned about. She was glad Sebastian was leaving Kante, but would the empress then send him to put down this Raízian uprising that might include Sonya? Irina didn’t know if even the great city of Colmo could withstand another confrontation between her children. Surely Zaniolo would agree with her and urge the empress to keep Sebastian here at the palace.

Boz placed a gentle hand on Irina’s arm. “Good luck to you, my lady. I hope you find what you seek.”

“My thanks, Ambassador. Now if you will excuse me.”

Irina made her way out into the aisle and saw that Cloos lurked by the exit, perhaps hoping to finally drag her to his “workshop” so that she could gush over his secret “project.” As she passed, Irina made certain to be deep in conversation with an elderly count that she had briefly met a few weeks ago and whose name she could not recall. She could vaguely see Cloos attempting to get her attention out of the corner of her eye and she kept her full focus on the count so that it was believable she had not noticed his presence.

She knew she would eventually have to see Cloos’s project, if such a thing truly existed, but right now she was more concerned with explaining to Zaniolo in no uncertain terms why it was for the good of everyone that her offspring not be forced into direct conflict again.

Once Irina had extricated herself from the count, who seemed to have gotten the mistaken impression from their brief conversation that she was interested in becoming his mistress, she headed straight for Zaniolo’s office.

It was early evening, so the general might have gone back to his quarters by then. But if things were truly as tense as Boz suggested, there was a good chance that he was still trying to sort and disseminate the large volume of information coming to him from the south, north, and east.

As she hurried down the hall, she saw the unexpectedly familiar face of Sasha Rykov walking with his usual lumbering, disinterested air in the opposite direction. She had no idea why, but her son was deeply fond of the oaf. Sebastian had always been a sentimental boy, so perhaps he viewed the man as one might a beloved pet.

“Good to see you again, Private,” she said as they passed.

“Sure,” he said with his usual rudeness.

Irina thought about scolding him. While it was true he wasn’t her son’s servant any longer, such impertinence shouldn’t be allowed to pass.

But no. She had more important business, and she didn’t want to chance Zaniolo retiring for the day before she’d spoken with him. The doltish peasant probably wouldn’t understand anyway. So she held her tongue and continued on her way.

Once she arrived at Zaniolo’s office, she was glad to see his office door still open.

“General,” said Irina as she entered. “I fear I must ask—”

She stopped in mid-stride and her heart lurched into her throat.

The last time Irina had seen a dead body was when her husband was killed. This time she had mercifully been spared witnessing the actual act. But there could be no doubt that Zaniolo, slumped in his chair, his eyes wide and vacant, a sword handle protruding from his throat, had been murdered.