Tamar Kir-Bataar had looked at him with hard golden eyes and said, “Your country needs you.”
But it had been Genya with her scarred mouth who had swayed him when she’d added, “And so does your king.”
Isaak said yes. Of course he had said yes. It was his duty as a soldier and the least he could do for the king who had done so much for him and his family.
So it had begun—the lessons in deportment, in elocution, in how to sit and stand correctly. It was not just that Isaak had to pretend to be a man of wealth and means; he had to pretend to be a king. And not just a king, but a boy king who had become a legend. Nikolai was everything that Isaak was not. Confident, assured, cosmopolitan. Isaak’s only gift was a facility with language—and even that had become something of a liability, since he spoke Shu better than the king and had a cleaner Zemeni accent.
But the strangest of all these processes was the time he’d spent here, beneath this glass dome, sweating through his clothes in the presence of Genya Safin with her single amber-colored eye and her sunset hair. Though Isaak knew she was only performing a task, it was hard not to feel that she was studying him, lavishing her attention upon him, and he’d found himself falling a bit in love with her. It was a silly infatuation. She was clearly in love with David Kostyk, the brilliant Fabrikator who sat silently through many of their sessions, reading from stacks of documents and scribbling on a giant tablet of drafting paper. But her apparent taste for unassuming men made him like her all the more. One of her scars tugged the left corner of her mouth down slightly, and he would catch himself daydreaming about kissing her there. He was rapidly brought back to reality by the sharp poke of her finger to his shoulder. “Sit up straight, Isaak,” she would say, or, “You’re blocking my light, Isaak.”
Sometimes the others came to read to him from a book on Kerch history or quiz him on trade routes while Genya worked. Other times they talked strategy, and he was expected to do nothing but sit there like a lump of clay.
“We can sneak him out of the palace through the tunnels after dark,” Tamar said, twirling one of her axes in a way that made Isaak sweat even more, “then stage the king’s return from his pilgrimage the next morning. It will look like he just made a stop at Count Kirigin’s estate.”
“How do we account for Zoya’s absence?” Tolya asked.
Genya leaned back to examine the work she was doing on Isaak’s chin. “We’ll say she stayed behind to journey to Os Kervo.” She rubbed her eyes and reached for her teacup. “I don’t understand it. No one just vanishes.”
“Leave it to Nikolai to do the impossible,” said Tolya.
“Maybe he just wanted a vacation,” said Tamar.
Tolya grunted. “Maybe Zoya finally got sick of him and buried him beneath a pile of sand.” But Genya did not laugh. “Or maybe this was the Apparat’s doing and he’s back in the business of staging coups.”
“If that’s the case,” said David, “he’ll come for us next.”
“Thank you, my love. That’s very encouraging.”
Tamar slowed the twirling of her axe. “If the Apparat orchestrated this, I’d have expected him to make a move to expose the king’s disappearance by now.”
“Either way,” said Tolya, “we’ll have to keep him away from Isaak. The priest is too canny not to realize the king … isn’t himself.”
Genya slumped down in a chair and rested her head in her hands. Isaak had never seen her look so defeated, and it hurt his heart. “Who are we kidding? This isn’t going to work.”
“It will,” said Tamar. “It has to.”
“He’s already almost identical to the king,” said David, peering at Isaak’s face. “I’d say it’s your best work.”
Genya cast away the compliment with a wave of her hand. “It’s not just the features. It’s the way Nikolai inhabits them, the tilt of his mouth, the cant of his head. We might fool the guests, maybe even a few of the courtiers, but the servants? The royal ministers? People who see him every day, who have dined with him and danced with him? Forget it. This is hopeless.”
“I’m sorry,” Isaak said. He hated to think he was failing his country and his king as well as the talented girl before him.
Genya threw up her hands. “That’s what I mean. Nikolai would never lower his head that way or apologize with such sincerity.”
“I’m sorry,” Isaak said again without thinking, and then winced.
“We’re out of options,” said Tamar. “We cancel the party and risk Nikolai’s absence being discovered, or we take this risk.”
“And if we’re found out?” Tolya asked.
“I’m not even sure what we’d be guilty of,” considered David. “Is impersonating a king treasonous if you’re doing it for the king’s benefit?”
Isaak swallowed. Treason. He hadn’t even thought of that.
“We could be handing the Apparat an easy way to eliminate all of the Grisha leadership in a single move,” said Tamar.
Genya released a sigh. “Isaak, I know you’re doing your best, but we’ve asked too much of you. This was madness from the start.”
Isaak hated to see these brave people lose hope. He remembered Nikolai Lantsov perched beside his infirmary bed, thought of his mother’s smile and his sisters’ plump cheeks the last time he’d returned home.
He leaned back, draped an arm over the top of his chair, and said with all the easy, drawling arrogance he could summon, “Genya, my love, ring for brandy. I can’t be expected to tolerate certain doom when I’m this sober.”
They stared at him.
David tapped an ink-stained finger to his lips. “Better.”
“Better?” cried Genya, clapping her hands with glee. “It was perfect! Do it again.”
Isaak felt a moment’s panic, then arched a brow. “Are you giving the orders now? I hope this means I can indulge in a kingly nap.”
Tamar grinned. Tolya whooped. Genya leaned down and pressed a huge kiss to Isaak’s cheek—and Isaak did what Nikolai Lantsov never would have done.
He blushed.
THE SKIFF WAS ABANDONED, and the sands carried Nikolai, Zoya, and Yuri to the giant palace, the dunes sliding beneath their feet in a way that made Nikolai’s stomach lurch. He prided himself on adapting easily, but it was one thing to implement a new technology, adopt a new fuel, or dare to wear shirtsleeves at dinner without a waistcoat. It was quite another to see your understanding of the natural world smashed to bits in an afternoon.
“You look unwell, boy king,” rumbled Juris, who had resumed his dragon form.
“A novel means of transport. I don’t suppose you’d consider carrying us on your back.”