During the reign of Hesperia the Magnificent, the city built five peninsulas, collectively known as the Right Hand of Titus. The peninsulas were rugged in appearance—so as not to look out of place against the craggy coast—but their seeming roughness hid a wealth of gentle slopes and beach enclaves, around which sprang hundreds of blue-roofed villas.
Three of the peninsulas comprised some of the most expensive land in all the mage world. One was a beloved public park. And the remaining one, the ring finger, was a princely preserve upon which stood Hesperia’s Citadel.
The original citadel still rose at the center, but the complex had grown into a sprawling palace with vast gardens, ninety-nine fountains, and dozens of floating balconies.
Soon the Inquisitor would find Titus on one of those balconies.
He steered his chariot in the direction of the landing platform. He was not alone: from all points of the sky, chariots converged toward the Citadel. No turuls or Chinese water dragons this year, just the usual assortment of griffins and mock dragons.
Two young men performed flips and somersaults on a beam held aloft by four massive flights of doves. Beneath the beam hung a swing, with a young female acrobat sitting insouciantly upon it.
Titus wanted to enjoy the view—a fine view even for a prince. But already he had to work to keep his breath even and his hands steady.
The young woman recognized him. She pulled herself to her feet and performed a very creditable curtsy. Titus, as befitting his arrogant and ill-tempered public persona, ignored her altogether.
The path to the landing platform was demarcated with floating torches. Other guests had pulled aside to clear the way for their sovereign. As Titus’s chariot drew to a stop, every single person on the platform bowed.
Alectus and Lady Callista were at the front of the crowd to welcome him. Titus swept past them without slowing down. But he knew that Lady Callista raised her head from her deep curtsy and regarded him with narrowed eyes.
Her device had followed him to a London hotel where he had no business being. How would he explain not only his presence, but also his precipitous departure, leaving behind a half-consumed tray of tea?
Lady Callista caught up to him. “I see you have brought Miss Buttercup, Your Highness.”
“She is more tolerable company than most.”
Fairfax chirped obligingly.
“And how is she enjoying England?”
“Better than I, no doubt. The very air is noxious.”
“Does she like school?”
“School? One of the boys on my floor has a ferret in his trunk. A ferret. Buttercup lives in fear of her life. She is much happier at my mistress’s.”
Fairfax stopped chirping.
Lady Callista blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“What do you not understand? Surely you, of all people, know what a kept woman is.”
“I did not know that Your Highness had such an arrangement.”
“And why should you? She does not cost me nearly as much as you cost Alectus, and she does not host soirees for me. In fact, she bores me already; I plan to replace her with a livelier girl, one whose tastes in lovemaking are not quite so pedestrian. Now if you will excuse me, I need a drink.”
He pushed past her before she could summon one of the floating trays of sparkling blue beverages. Almost immediately, he was being bowed to by the prime minister and several not-so-prime ministers.
“I thought you did not care for such frivolous events,” Titus said to the prime minister.
“Indeed I do not, sire. But I hear the Inquisitor herself is going to attend, and I hope to speak with her concerning the records,” answered the prime minister. “There has been no progress at all on the talks. Unless we come to an agreement, the Inquisitory will begin to destroy records by the fourth week of June. Ten years of records, most likely including information concerning thousands of your subjects who disappeared after the uprising.”
“How awful,” Titus said, and brushed past.
Not that he was entirely unsympathetic, but what did the prime minister think fueled the Fire of Atlantis, the smoke of which rose so steadily from the Inquisitory?
He was next accosted by the current archmage and her two leading disciples, and a steady stream of matrons who wanted to know whether he would deign to appear at their charitable functions.
The first young woman to approach him was a beauty witch.
“Your Highness,” she said with a bright smile.
“Have we met?”
“Diana Fairmyth, Your Highness.”
He was wary of beauty witches; anyone who tried to seduce him could also be spying on him. “What is a girl like you doing at this dreadful party?”
She laughed. “Oh, is it dreadful? I haven’t noticed yet.”
“Alas, you are very beautiful, but I see our tastes diverge too much.”
A few more young women tried, but he dispensed of them with similar efficiency. Then came the one girl he could not dismiss so easily—Aramia, Lady Callista’s daughter.