She looks across the table, noticing me for the first time. “He had one glass of port.”
A servant scuttles over to refill the Princess’s glass, and he’s nearly trembling with nerves. He won’t look her in the eye. I begin to wonder if we missed a lesson on protocol somewhere. How do I even address a royal? Do they still cut off people’s heads here for looking at a king the wrong way? Someone should have been a bit clearer with us before this moment, seated at this elaborate table, Arrin about to sink his own ship in the usual spectacular fashion.
But he finally deigns to acknowledge my presence. “I’m not drunk, Lieutenant Erelis. But you should be, because you’re clearly not a winning personality when sober.” He turns back to the ample curves. “Your Highness, the Lieutenant’s still a rookie in the ways of war. He doesn’t yet realize that all of this”—Arrin gestures at himself—“could be buried and forgotten tomorrow.”
Good God, is that one of his lines?
“And as a matter of fact,” he continues, “what are you doing here anyway, Lieutenant? Go sit with your own kind.” He gestures at Garrick and Cyar and the rest. “That’s an order.”
“Sir,” I say with a submissive nod, standing.
It nearly burns my whole tongue off.
“And good evening, Your Highness,” I add to the Princess, attempting to recover some manners, but she doesn’t even hear me.
Oh well.
I try to scout out Father in the sea of uniforms. There’s a bump against my shoulder, a Landorian colonel giving me an annoyed look as he passes. I don’t apologize.
Why should it be me?
After wandering a bit more, I find Father leaning against the farthest balcony of the pavilion, the sunset sea behind him. He’s standing with a man who doesn’t look local. Brown-skinned, with sharp, lean features. Southern? The man laughs and tells some story, clutching a wine glass in each hand, his arms linked around the same number of women. Father listens carefully.
When I near, the man urges the ladies away. He looks me up and down. “Who’s this?”
“My youngest,” Father says, which is suspicious. If Father’s introducing me honestly, then this man is in on the game, and this isn’t idle conversation.
Then again, Father’s conversations are never idle.
“Stars, another son? They don’t end. Ah, what are you? Fifteen? I know exactly how it is to be the youngest. I bet you’re only here to smile and serve the food.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m almost eighteen, actually, and—”
“Yes, just here to serve the food,” Father interrupts. He hands me an empty plate. “Get Ambassador Havis more of the dessert pastries. Those women left nothing. Bring another glass of red wine, too.”
Me?
“Do I need to ask again, Lieutenant?” There’s an edge of impatience in Father’s voice.
I shake my head and turn.
“They can be quite temperamental at this age,” the Ambassador says, vaguely smirking.
I clench the plate in my fist and resist the urge to hurl it back at him.
Fifteen? That’s just insulting.
At the dessert table, I grab small cakes and stack them haphazardly. As many as can fit, crumbling beneath my fingers. I fill a wine glass with cranberry juice. It all looks the same anyway. My mistake.
I swing from the table and stop in my tracks.
There’s Arrin and the Princess, leaning close enough now he’s got a very fine view of the ample assets. And she’s lit with a smile, her hair rich with the sun’s glow, listening as he demonstrates some trick with a coin, leaning closer every second.
How the hell does he do that?
Kalt materializes from the crowd beside me, also watching. “Quite a gift, isn’t it?”
“The gift of having the face of a god and the morals of a port-side sailor?”
“Yes, well, if it gets her to sing our praises to Gawain, then who gives a damn?” He crosses his arms. “No matter how much people want to strangle Arrin, they still want to claim him as their own. Father. Evertal. Even this Windom.”
“I mostly just want to strangle him.”
That earns me a slight smile. “Did you know one of the rebel militia units in Karkev asked to shake his hand after they surrendered? They were that impressed by his fight. God, it’s almost mythological.”
There’s sincerity in his voice. Genuine, bittersweet. At least I don’t care about living in Arrin’s shadow. In or out makes no difference to me, but it’s not the same for Kalt.
I offer him a pastry. “If only Gawain had a prince, right?”
It takes a moment, the joke seemingly lost, or perhaps an inch too far, but then he begins to chuckle. Both of us do. It feels good to laugh, for real, in this overstuffed circus.
“Not enough servants are there, Lieutenant?” Garrick says on his way by, stealing from my plate. He’s outfitted in his full dress uniform, armed with medals from Karkev. On a mission for fancy Landorian beds, no doubt. “Thanks for the dessert, rookie.”
His first officer, Ollie Helsun, follows behind, giving a snort. Ollie’s the very best wingman. He’ll laugh at any unfunny quip if it’s made by Garrick.
“Your arm looks rather lonely tonight, Captain,” I observe.
“Haven’t found a lady yet worth my stamina,” Garrick replies in Savien. He sounds charming, like we’re sharing bawdy humour, pilot to pilot, but the fact that I beat his Academy record simmers between us. It’s going to for a while.
“Perhaps you can take a lesson from the Commander,” I say, equally charming.
He glances at Arrin, absorbing the scene—the porcelain girl of perfection tracing medals on my brother’s chest. His expression sours. In Savient, being a captain counts for something. Here, he’s just another one of us.
Another meaningless Safire uniform.
He marches off, Ollie trailing after, and I want to call, “There are some targets too high for even you, including my score!”
But I don’t. Because I’m a lieutenant now.
“Pilots are cocky bastards,” Kalt observes. “If you’d like, I can shoot him out of the sky with my ship. Friendly fire happens.”
“Please. By the way, do I look fifteen?”
“What? No.”
I leave my brother, continuing back for Father and Havis. They’re deep in conversation, alone. Father’s presence has a magnificent way of discouraging anyone not invited.
The Ambassador grins when I offer the desserts. “Very well trained, aren’t you?”
I bite my tongue, and Father waves the plate away. I set it on the balcony beside us.
“As I was saying,” Havis continues, “I quite miss the years based here in Landore, but my reassignment has proved invaluable.”
Father nods. “Etania.”
“It was an unexpected change, but a welcome one.”
I raise my brow. “From the greatest empire in the North to that little kingdom?”
“Your point?”
“It sounds like a demotion, Ambassador.”
“It was a reassignment,” Havis repeats.
“Then congratulations. I’m sure you’ve earned it.”
Father gives me a warning glance.
“You must know, General,” Havis continues, like I’m not worth his time, “I was truly shocked by the news of your tragic loss.”
“It was the act of a coward,” Father says tightly.
“Indeed. It has stunned the world, felt by everyone in the North, even in the little kingdoms.”
“Yes,” Father agrees, “there does seem to be much regret and fear, what with the condolences sent to me.” Father lowers his voice. “But of course I don’t quite believe this could happen to just anyone. I believe my wife was a carefully chosen target.”
“It’s possible.”
“And I believe your enemy is the same as mine.”
“Also possible.”
They’re dancing around the name they won’t say out loud.
Sinora Lehzar.
It’s not time to speak it, not yet, but the danger of even discussing the possibility here makes my palms sweat. Maybe that’s why they’re doing it.
Who plots regicide at a royal gala?
Havis smiles faintly. “You needn’t tell me these things. You know what I’ve lived through.”
“Yes. Your brother was a good man, a loyal fighter, before—”
“My family hasn’t been as lucky as yours, General.”