That evening Catherine was escorted by Boris to a banquet in her honor. She had not thought she would tire so quickly of such things. As she entered the great hall, Prince Tzsayn was standing across the room talking to two elderly lords. The prince was dressed immaculately and elaborately in fine pale blue leather trousers and a silk jacket that seemed to be made of plaited ribbon and decorated with tiny silver beads. The material of the right side of his jacket was slashed, exposing Tzsayn’s skin, which was painted a deeper blue. Catherine had thought her new dress with its short sleeves and low-cut bodice was daring, but she felt conventional in comparison to Tzsayn. The prince noticed her staring and turned and bowed to her. Catherine froze, then curtsied, blushing. She felt ridiculous, as if she’d been trying to attract his attention and charm him in some way, which she definitely was not trying to do.
Boris muttered, “Hopefully they won’t keep us waiting long so we can eat and get out of here.” He glanced around, saying, “Each woman is more ludicrously dressed than the last, but I have to say your future husband excels in the attention he pays to his appearance. As if that’s going to fool anyone.”
“Fool anyone?”
“His scars cover his whole left side. We had a full description of his wounds—Father demanded it.”
So that was why he wore his sleeves long and his collar high—to hide his skin.
“I heard it was an accident in his childhood,” Catherine commented.
“Running through the kitchens, and a cauldron of hot oil spilled on him. I assume the kitchen staff were boiled in oil themselves for that.”
“And his illnesses?”
“Oh, he’s a typical weakling. The thought of a hot day probably fills him with fear.” Boris chuckled. “Perhaps it reminds him too much of his skin being on fire. I suspect that’s why he didn’t come to meet us. Too soft, too used to having his every whim for silk and blue bloody body paint pandered to.”
Before Catherine could ask more, they were guided to the table for the banquet.
Catherine was seated to the left of King Arell. Prince Tzsayn was seated to the king’s right, with Boris on his other side. Catherine glanced at Tzsayn as he spoke with her brother, his voice too low for her to make out the words. From this position, she saw his scarred side. She glimpsed his ear, which was small, as if most of it had shriveled away in the heat of the fire. His eye drooped and looked tired, though the prince’s upright posture showed no signs of fatigue.
He is slightly unwell, Sir Rowland had said upon her arrival in Charron. He certainly didn’t look it now. Perhaps Boris was nearer the truth of it and Tzsayn simply couldn’t be bothered to make the ride to meet her. Catherine felt a stab of anger that even though she was to be Tzsayn’s future wife she was considered unimportant. However, she soon forgot those feelings and relaxed a little. King Arell was a good host, telling stories about his court and the history of Pitoria, but never dominating the conversation as her father would have done. Catherine responded with anecdotes from her books on Queen Valeria and comparisons of the fashions of Brigant and Pitoria.
“And what are you hoping for, Catherine, from this match that your father and I have cooked up?”
Catherine was shocked that the king would ask her opinion at this late stage, and replied formally.
“My concern is to ensure I represent Brigant well.”
“You do that, princess. Everyone is quite charmed by you.”
Catherine smiled and glanced over at Prince Tzsayn, who hadn’t seemed to look her way all evening. Now he was describing something to Boris in great detail and with much florid hand-waving. Catherine strained to hear the conversation and caught enough to learn that he was describing the process of making the silk for his jacket. Boris’s face seemed a mix of revulsion and boredom, and Catherine smiled but then wondered if her own expression would be similar when she was married to the prince.
The evening continued as had all the evenings before, with speeches and dancing. The prince did not dance, and Catherine had to stifle a yawn as nobleman after nobleman dedicated their dance to her. After that, Catherine was introduced to many more lords and ladies, smiling through the same conversations about her travels and Brigant and how lovely Pitoria was.
Finally the king took his leave, which meant that she could go too. Tanya and Sarah led her back to her chambers, so tired she could barely stand. Before the door to her sitting room waited a servant holding a silver plate with a small envelope on it. Inside was a note.
You might find the gardens more interesting than the dancing.
Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock, on the terrace?
“Who sent this?”
“Prince Tzsayn, Your Highness. He asked for a reply.”
Catherine hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to meet him alone before the marriage, and she definitely didn’t want a lecture on the manufacture of silk. On the other hand, Boris and Noyes certainly wouldn’t approve. That decided her.
“Tell Prince Tzsayn . . . yes.”
TASH
NORTHERN PITORIA
TASH LAY dozing in the back of the wagon, warm in the sun. Gravell was up front, sitting by the driver, who was returning to his farm having sold his load of vegetables at the Dornan fair. It would have been quicker to travel on horseback, or even by the daily coach service that was put on for the fair, but they didn’t have enough money, so they’d agreed with the wagon driver on ten kopeks each to take them as far as he was going north. From there, they’d walk.
The wagon was slow, but the farmer traveled from dawn to dusk. They had passed through several roadblocks that had been set up to stop the murderer, but as they were manned by unpaid locals Tash didn’t think they would be very effective. The old men and boys were more interested in taking bribes than catching fugitives. Sheriff’s men were highly visible in each town, warning the populace against harboring the villain, Edyon Foss, though that seemed unlikely, given that the general view was that he was a fearsome killer.
Toward nightfall, as they stopped at the latest roadblock, Tash and Gravell got down from the wagon. The farmer was almost home and could take them no farther. Pasted clumsily to the pole that barred the road was a poster.
Gravell scanned it.
“Wanted. For murder. Edyon Foss. Seventeen years old, tall, slim, brown hair. Reward: twenty-five kroners.” He moved to the side so Tash could see and said, “Nice picture too. Is it a good likeness?”
Tash nodded. The picture of Edyon was totally accurate.
“He’s worth half a bottle of smoke, which seems generous to me. Though the reward and my smoke back would suit me nicely.”
“But you wouldn’t hand him in to the sheriff, would you? I told you, he didn’t kill the sheriff’s man; Holywell did. If Edyon’s arrested, they’ll hang him.”
“No, you’re right. He’s only a thief who hangs about with murderers. He shouldn’t lose his life, just his hand, and maybe some other parts of his anatomy too.”
Tash smiled at Gravell. “You’re joking, right? I mean, we just want the smoke back.”
But Gravell had wandered away, muttering, “They’ll all think they can steal from me if this idiot gets away without punishment. They’ll all be at it.”
EDYON
SPURBECK, NORTHERN PITORIA