Shadowrise (13 page)

The four young women that the king’s mistress Ananka had sent to wait on her (to spy on her, Briony felt certain) seemed nice enough, but she found it hard to talk to them, let alone trust them, even the youngest, little Talia, who was not even twelve years old. Briony had been so lonely those first weeks after Shaso’s death and her escape from Landers Port that she had dreamed of just such homely pleasures as this, having her hair brushed, chattering of this and that, but either these young women were far more foolish than her favorite maids Rose and Moina had been at home or Briony had lost her taste for such conversation. Excited speculation about this ambitious courtier or that romance, pointed comments about who was aiming above his or her station, and the endless speculation about Prince Eneas and his romances and adventures did not much interest her. Briony had thought the prince impressive when she saw him, of course, but all she wanted was help for her people and her family’s throne; she could think of no decent way even to approach him, let alone ask him for help. As for going to the king himself—well, Lady Ananka had already made it clear that she considered King Enander her private territory.

Marooned in her island chambers like a lost mariner, Briony found herself longing for something with more substance than Syannese court gossip and for better companionship than the ladies of the court could offer.

Then one morning Agnes, one of the ladies-in-waiting, came to Briony with great excitement in her pretty young face. “Your Highness, you will never guess who is here!”

“Here where?” But Briony sat up straighter. Was it the prince, come to see her on his own? If so, how could she lead the subject around to Southmarch and its needs?

“Here at the court,” the girl said. “He just rode in last night—all dressed up in furs like a Vuttish merchant captain!”

“I can’t guess.” It wasn’t the prince, that was certain, since he was already in residence. It must be some other noble, some legendary object of Syannese court gossip. If Perin himself came down to earth waving his holy hammer, Briony thought, all these people would talk about would be his shoes. And maybe whether or not he was wearing colors appropriate to the season.
Sweet Zoria, and my brother and I thought the nobles of Southmarch were shallow . . .

Agnes was practically bouncing up and down. “Oh, but you should be able to guess, Highness—he is one of your countrymen!”

“What?” For an instant her heart leaped impossibly to Barrick, and then to Shaso, and even Ferras Vansen, all lost in different ways, but all lost beyond question. A sadness struck her then so swiftly and so deeply that for a moment she feared she might break into tears. It took her a long moment to regain her breath. “Out with it, quickly. Who is it?”

“His name is Jenkin Crowel!” The girl clasped her hands across her bodice as though she could barely control herself. “Do you know him?”

For a moment the name meant nothing to Briony—it had been so long since she had thought of any of those folk or the world she had shared with them . . . but then it came and the sadness turned to something more sour.

“Oh. Yes, I do. Brother of Durstin Crowel, Baron of Graylock, although I’m sure Durstin’s more than a baron now since he’s long been one of Hendon Tolly’s most determined lickspittles.” The thought of the Crowels made her want to kick something over. “Why is Jenkin here?”

“He is the new envoy here at Broadhall from your brother Alessandros.”

Briony snorted. “Alessandros is less than half a year old. Envoy from the bloody-handed usurper Hendon Tolly, you mean.”

The young lady’s eyes widened. “Of course, Highness. As you say.” Briony did her best to control her temper. The treachery of the Tollys was not this girl’s fault, even if she was one of Ananka’s spies. “Thank you for telling me, Agnes.”

“But what are you going to do, Highness? He has asked to see you.”

“He has? Truly? By all the gods, these people must have solid brass . . .” She stopped herself. Using language appropriate among strolling players would only cause more talk about her here in Syan. The sourness in her belly became something worse, almost dread, but she felt a strong, hot surge of anger as well. “Very well. Yes, of course we will see him. If he is the Tollys’ man we have much to talk about, he and I. But let me make some arrangements first.”

After all, she had learned all the lessons she needed about the trustworthiness of Crowel’s master. If she was going to talk to the man, she wanted King Enander’s guards inside the room as well as outside.

 

Someone who knew neither of them might have thought that Jenkin Crowel was the one doing a favor and Briony the one gratefully accepting it. He brought two guards of his own and a thin, sour-faced cleric dressed in black, as though a contract were being negotiated.

Crowel himself was fleshy without being fat, with a ruddy face, prominent nose, and dimpled chin. He was dressed in what he obviously believed was the height of current Syannese style: when he made an elaborate bow his stiff pantaloons and frilly, oversized sleeves rustled and creaked.

“Your Highness, this is a delightful and most unexpected surprise! I could scarce credit it when I was told. Your people will be thrilled to hear that you are alive and well. How did you come here? I will at once send a message home of your survival that will put joy into the hearts of a grieving populace!”

Briony looked to her maids. All were sewing assiduously. Compared to this idiot, the childish obsessions and subtle cruelties of the Syannse court suddenly looked much better. Still, if that was the game Crowel wished to play, then Briony could have her sport as well.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “I have missed my home so much, Lord Crowel. Tell me, how is my infant brother Alessandros? And my stepmother, Anissa? And of course, dear Cousin Hendon, who is taking such good care of all of them?”

He hesitated. “Is the steward . . . is Hendon Tolly truly your cousin? I, ah, I did not think the family relationship quite so close.”

Briony waved her hand. “Ah, but the Tollys have always been closer than family to me. That is why I call Hendon ‘Cousin.’ Why, do you know, the night I left Southmarch we had the most illuminating conversation. Hendon told me all that he had planned for me and my family and the throne. I was touched that he had expended so much thought and effort on our behalf—oh, yes, touched. In fact, it has grieved me so terribly I cannot tell you that I still have not shown him my gratitude. But I have considered
very
carefully how Lord Tolly and his supporters should be rewarded, you may be sure. Yes, I have given it much thought, and I believe I have come up with a few rewards so unusual even Hendon himself cannot guess at them.”

Crowel stared, his mouth slightly open. “Ah,” he said at last. “Ah. Yes, of course, Highness.”

“So when you write to dear Hendon, be sure and tell him that. As you will discover, I have many friends here in Syan, many powerful friends, and they all agree that such noble, loyal stewardship as his should be suitably rewarded.”

 

Of all the hundreds of men and women living in the court of Enander, only a very few went out of their way to speak to Briony or seek anything beyond a passing acquaintance. One such was Ivgenia e’Doursos, the young daughter of the Viscount of Teryon, a small but important territory in the middle of Syan, south of the capital. The fact that it was she who reached out to Briony meant that she couldn’t be trusted—the chances were too great that she was acting on behalf of the king’s mistress—but Briony discovered she enjoyed Ivgenia’s company anyway.

They met at one of the uncomfortable meals in the main hall, with dozens of tables and hundreds of servants, the room absolutely throbbing with the clamor of voices. Ivgenia was seated across from Briony, who had been put next to an older nobleman who drank too much wine and kept trying to look down the front of Briony’s dress. Late in the meal he fell off his seat and had to be helped up by servants. The dark-haired girl leaned across the table toward Briony as the baron stumbled off to bed and, with a properly serious face, said, “We provincials have so much to learn from these sophisticated Tessians.” Briony laughed so hard she almost choked on a piece of bread and their friendship began that night.

Ivgenia had been sent to the court to receive an education and she had certainly learned to pay attention to what was going on around her: she was a fountainhead of gossip and amused observation, her sensibility almost as dry as Barrick’s. Ivgenia was an outsider herself, not because of her breeding, which was perfectly good, but because of her wit, a quality not much valued in Syannese girls, at least not in those young and pretty enough not to need it. Wit, as the popular saying explained, was a tool for ambitious men or ugly women.

Syan was in some ways more licentious than home—the women showed far more skin and the men far more leg than did the courtiers in Southmarch—but in others it was more conservative, perhaps because of the strong local influence of the Trigonate faith. The famous temple of the Trigonarch himself sat on a stony hill in the heart of Tessis, its towers looming even higher than Broadhall Palace, and the church’s influence was everywhere. Everyone wore the Triskelion, and nearly every day seemed a holy day of some sort. And just as King Enander was flanked always on his left by Lady Ananka, he was companioned on his other side by the Trigonarch’s most powerful priest, Hierarch Phimon, of whom it was said that the only ones who could get a word into the Trigonarch’s ear more quickly were the three brother gods themselves.

“If you want to get something done around here, your Highness,” Ivgenia said one day in Briony’s chambers, “you really need to have the hierarch on your side. They say the Trigonarch will usually do as he asks. Maybe he would help you get your kingdom back!” Ivgenia, like everyone else in Broadhall Palace, knew at least a little of Briony’s situation: a princess chased out of her own country was not the kind of thing that happened every day, even in a city as large and important as Tessis.

Briony felt a moment’s chill—was she being manipulated? Was Ivgenia going to take what she said directly back to Ananka? “I’m certain Hierarch Phimon has better things to do,” she said carefully. “I will wait until King Enander decides what he wishes to do about Southmarch. I am certain he will make a wise choice.”

Ivgenia shrugged. “Just as well, Highness, since you’re not the type who interests the hierarch anyway. They say that the only three kinds of people Phimon cares about are young boys with pretty voices, old women with lots of money, and trigonarchs.”

“But, Ivvie, there’s only one trigonarch!” Briony protested, laughing.

“Yes, that does make the last one a small category,” said Ivgenia. “And you’re not a young boy, although I heard you tried to pass yourself off as one. So you’d better find a way to get your hands on some money, Grandmother.”

“Oh! You!” Briony threw a cushion at her. If Ivegnia was a traitor she was a very skillful one, and even having a false friend as entertaining as Ivegnia e’ Doursos was far better than living in isolation. Still, each night Briony Eddon slept in Tessian luxury far from her stolen country, it took her longer to fall asleep.

 

“I’ve heard several people mention Kallikans again today,” Briony asked. “What is a Kallikan?”

Several of the ladies-in-waiting made little noises of dismay, but not Ivgenia. “Do you want to see some? You’d find them quite interesting, I’m sure.”

They were all leaving the Flower Meadow, the biggest marketplace in Tessis, and Briony was quite overwhelmed. The sheer size of the market was boggling—there seemed to be more folk here today, filing past the rows of stalls and blankets, than lived in all of the March Kingdoms, and the fabulous variety of goods on offer made Briony feel not just poor but ignorant: she hadn’t heard of half the things for sale or half the places the things came from.

“Interesting . . . ?” she repeated slowly, turning to watch an oxcart piled high with gold-painted shrines. Greater Zosimia was only a few weeks away, a popular festival celebrating the end of winter. Back home it was mostly an excuse to drape vines and sprinkle dried flowers on the statues of the gods, but apparently the celebration here in Syan was much more elaborate. “I’m worried that if I see any more interesting things my head will swell up and pop like a bubble . . . but I suppose we could. Will our guards mind?”

Ivgenia looked at the four soldiers in blue tabards and rolled her eyes. “They’re here to spy on you, not tell us where to go,” she said. “They’ll follow where we lead them.”

Briony leaned closer to her friend. “Do you think that’s true?” she asked in a low voice.

“What? That they’ll follow, or that they’re here to spy on you?” Ivgenia made a face. “All of them may not be spies, your Highness, but I can assure you that at least one of them is going back to the king’s favorite and telling her where you went today. Might as well give them something to tell.”

Her skirts held up so they would not drag in the muddy road, the dark-haired girl led Briony, the ladies-in-waiting, and the soldiers away from the market, but instead of heading back toward the palace they crossed wide, bustling Lantern Broad near Devona Fountain Square and turned down what looked to Briony like an ordinary narrow street, although judging by the line of rooftops it was higher than the streets on either side. Only when they had pushed their way through the eddying crowd did Briony see that the high street was actually a bridge across the river, lined on both sides with shops and houses.

“Over there,” Ivgenia said. “On the far side of the Ester. They call it Underbridge.”

“Who calls it that?”

“You’ll see. Come on!” Ivgenia led Briony, the stoic soldiers, and the anxious girls into the flow of human traffic on the bridge. It was still cold, windy Dimene, less than two months since the beginning of the year, so where did all these people come from? Briony couldn’t help wondering what the place would be like in Hexamene when the sun was warm and fresh fruits, vegetables, and flowers filled the market.