“Because you will be keeping your tongue still and smiling ever so sweetly.”
Thorn raised her brows at that. “Doesn’t sound much like me. You sure?”
Yarvi’s narrowed eyes slid across to hers. “Oh, I am sure. Wait, now.”
Thorn’s jaw dropped at the sight of six strange monsters crossing the street, each fastened to the one behind by a silver chain, necks long as a man was tall swaying mournfully.
“We’re a long way from Gettland,” she muttered as she watched them plod off between white buildings so high the crooked lane was like a shadowy canyon. She remembered the damp, dark stone of Gettland, the morning mist over gray Mother Sea, her breath smoking on the dawn chill, huddling about the fire for warmth in the long evening, her mother’s voice crooning out the night prayer. It seemed another life. It seemed another world. One Thorn had never thought she might miss.
“Yes we are,” said Yarvi, setting briskly off through the sticky, stinking heat of the First of Cities. Thorn knew the year was wearing on, but autumn here was far hotter than midsummer in Thorlby.
She thought of the hard miles they’d traveled. The months of rowing. The slaving over the tall hauls. The constant danger of the steppe. Not to mention the brooding presence of Prince Varoslaf across the path. “Could the empress give us any help even if she chose to try?”
“Perhaps not in steel, but in silver, most definitely.” Yarvi murmured an apology in some unknown language as he stepped around a group of women in dark veils, their paint-rimmed eyes following Thorn as if she was the strange one.
“The odds at home will still be long.” Thorn counted the enemies off on her calloused fingers. “The High King’s own men in Yutmark, and the Inglings, and the Lowlanders, and the Vanstermen, and the Islanders—”
“You may be surprised to learn I had thought of this already.”
“And we’ve got only the Throvenlanders on our side.”
Yarvi snorted. “That alliance is milk left in the noon heat.”
“Eh?”
“Won’t last.”
“But King Fynn said—”
“King Fynn is a bloated bag of guts with little authority even in his own kingdom. Only his vanity will bind him to us, and that will melt before Grandmother Wexen’s wrath in due course like snow before Mother Sun. That little trick only bought us time.”
“Then … we’ll stand alone.”
“My uncle Uthil would stand alone against the world and insist that steel is the answer.”
“That sounds brave,” said Thorn.
“Doubtless.”
“But … not wise.”
Yarvi gave her a smile. “I’m impressed. I expected you to learn swordsmanship, but never prudence. Don’t worry, though. I hope to find other ways to shorten the odds.”
AS SOON AS THEY stepped through the towering bronze doors of the palace Thorn went from embarrassment at being dressed like a princess to shame at being dressed like a peasant. The slaves here looked like queens, the guards like heroes of legend. The hall in which they were received was crowded with jewel-encrusted courtiers as brightly colored, as pompous and, as far as Thorn could tell, every bit as useless as the peacocks that swaggered about the immaculate gardens outside.
She would happily have shrivelled away into her new boots but they had great thick soles, and she had grown the past few months, and she stood taller than Father Yarvi now, who was taller than most himself. As always she was left with no choice but to push her shoulders back and her chin up and put on that bravest face of hers, however much the coward behind it might be sweating through her absurd crimson tunic.
Duke Mikedas sat above them in a golden chair on a high dais, one leg slung casually over its carven arm, his fabulous armor covered with gilded swirls. He was one of those handsome men who fancies himself more handsome than he is, dark-skinned and with a twinkling eye, his black hair and beard streaked with silver.
“Greetings, friends, and welcome to the First of Cities!” He flashed a winning smile, though it won nothing from Thorn but the deepest suspicion. “How is my mastery of your tongue?”
Father Yarvi bowed low and Thorn followed. Bow when I bow, he had said, and that seemed to mean whenever possible. “Flawless, your grace. A most welcome and impressive—”
“Remind me of your names again, I have the most abysmal memory for names.”
“He is Father Yarvi, Minister of Gettland.”
The woman who spoke was long and lean and very pale, her head close shaven. Elf-bangles rattled on one tattooed forearm, ancient steel, and gold, and broken crystal glittering. Thorn curled her lips back from her teeth, and only just remembered in time not to spit on the highly polished floor.
“Mother Scaer,” said Yarvi. “Every time our paths cross it is a fresh delight.”