I tear up an undergarment and use it to strap the knives to my ankles before putting the rest of the clothes away. After that I turn to find the water basin for washing. Only there isn’t one. It takes me a half minute of searching the room before I think to try a thin door in the wall near the bed.
It’s a water closet of some sort. Similar to the one on the airship with its fixtures made of iron rather than wood, and the basin for hand washing fused to the table. This one’s larger though. I poke at the weird spigot arched above the bowl and abruptly jump back as a stream of clear liquid shoots out at me. What the—? I prod it again and the stream pours out into the basin. It’s like an indoor well pump. But the water is warm.
My gaze falls on a bigger version set into the floor. For washing the entire body? And beside it sits something akin to a waste bucket, but it too has a spigot of water over it. Considering there’s not much of a smell, it appears to be for rinsing the bowl when one’s lavatories are finished. Huh. I poke it to confirm my assumptions and am rewarded with a splash of water to the face.
“Teeth of a motherless pig!” Cursing the inventor of such an obtuse item, I use the coarse cloth on the table to wash down my body with the hand basin spigot. Once finished, I take my hair down from its thick braid and find the brush Rasha packed to run through my tangles before peering at the clothes she sent. I hold them up and wrinkle my nose. Most of them seem to be missing sections where the stomach and shoulders should be. “How on earth—?” I flip them sideways. I drop them and opt to change into my nicest pair of leathers.
I’ve just pulled my last bootie on when a commotion in the outside hall suggests it’s time to go.
I slide over to the door and press my ear against it to hear the elderly man’s voice announcing an invitation to the king’s banquet. It’s followed by a procession of taps on metal, including the door I’m leaning against.
I straighten my shirt and shoulders and, firming my jaw, open it to discover the old man is standing a few feet in front of me. He nods stiffly, and as his eyes catch mine, there’s a coldness in their brown depths. It’s so unfeeling, so unwelcoming. I glare back at him before his gaze moves on to the other delegates emerging into the hall. I shoot a quick peek around for the boy, Kel, although, of course, he’s not here. I hope he made it off the ship without getting caught.
“Good evening,” the old man says as soon as we’re all assembled. His cheeks crinkle in thick lines belying the stiffness in his tone. He reminds me of owner number two’s grandfather.
I sneak a peek at Rasha and am relieved to discover she’s preoccupied with her Cashlin guards. I inch toward Lord Myles, who smells like he fell into a barrel of cologne.
“I am Sir Gowon and I extend to you Bron’s highest welcome.” The old man raises his fist to his chest and thumps it over his heart, and my ears prick at his name. I look at him closer. He’s the man Eogan said to speak with.
“We’re honored you’ve come. And even more honored you have returned us our king, Ezeoha—or as he is known to you, Eogan—Bron’s prince long thought dead. For this you have our people’s gratitude and my personal thanks.” For a moment I swear there’s a hint of warmth in his voice.
I wonder what Eogan means to him.
Or what he meant to him. I flinch as Eogan’s comment slips into mind that by the time I told Gowon, it would be too late for him.
I turn to Myles. “We need to go do it now.”
“And assume he’d not notice your absence at the banquet? You’re jesting.”
“Eogan doesn’t have time left.” My words come out a shrill whisper.
“Patience is a skill, my dear. One best used to your advantage.”
Sir Gowon extends a hand. “Now if you’ll follow me. Tonight we celebrate the new king’s return with a banquet.”
I look back at Myles, who flicks a glance toward Rasha. She’s still busy with her Cashlin entourage. “Are you wanting Her Royal Princess to know your plansss?” he asks casually. “I’m merely wondering how long you think it’ll take her to home in on them with you acting like a skittish bolcrane cub.”
I purse my lips and inhale because he has a point. Fine. “But we go as soon as it’s done.”
Flanked by a squadron of Bron soldiers and most of our Faelen guards, we head down a series of metal corridors, each one lit by lanterns with a tiny flame contained in some type of thick glass that give off a surprising amount of light and no smoke. Like the lanterns on the airship.
I’m just contemplating how to pull Sir Gowon aside to give him Eogan’s message—What was it? Elegy 96?—and ask for his help, when Rasha says behind me, “Does this mean you weren’t in love with my dresses I picked out for you?” She sidles up with a pouty smile.