Some of the generals nodded. But the King’s advisers, Os Alta’s noblemen and bureaucrats, looked skeptical and sullen. To them, war was parades, military theory, little figures moved around on a map. If it came to it, these were the men who would ally themselves with Vasily.
Nikolai squared his shoulders, the actor’s mask descending over his features once more. “Peace, brother,” he said. “We both want what’s best for Ravka.”
But Vasily wasn’t interested in being soothed. “What’s best for Ravka is a Lantsov on the throne.”
I drew in a sharp breath. A deadly stillness descended over the room. Vasily had as good as called Nikolai a bastard.
But Nikolai had regained his composure, and now nothing would shake it. “Then let us all say a prayer for Ravka’s rightful King,” he said. “Now, shall we finish our business?”
The meeting limped along for a few more minutes and then came to a welcome close. On our walk back to the Little Palace, Nikolai was uncharacteristically silent.
When we reached the gardens by the pillared folly, he paused to pluck a leaf from a hedge and said, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper that way. It just pricks his pride, makes him dig in his heels.”
“So why did you?” I asked, genuinely curious. It was rare for Nikolai’s emotions to get the best of him.
“I don’t know,” he said, shredding the leaf. “You got angry. I got angry. The room was too damn hot.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“Indigestion?” he offered.
But I wasn’t going to be put off by a joke. Despite Vasily’s objections and the council’s reluctance to do much of anything, through some magical combination of patience and pressure, Nikolai had still managed to push through a few of his plans. He’d gotten them to approve relief for the refugees fleeing the shores of the Fold, and requisitioned Materialki corecloth to outfit key regiments of the First Army. He’d even gotten them to divert funds for a plan to modernize farm equipment so that peasants could manage something other than subsistence. Small things, but improvements that might make all the difference in time.
“It’s because you actually care about what happens to this country,” I said. “The throne is just a prize to Vasily, something he wants to squabble over like a favorite toy. You’re not like that. You’ll make a good king.”
Nikolai froze. “I…” For once, words seemed to have deserted him. Then a crooked, embarrassed smile crept across his face. It was a far cry from his usual self-assured grin. “Thank you,” he said.
I sighed as we resumed our pace. “You’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?”
Nikolai laughed. “I’m already insufferable.”
* * *
THE DAYS GREW LONGER. The sun stayed close beneath the horizon, and the festival of Belyanoch began in Os Alta. Even at midnight, the skies were never truly dark, and despite the fear of war and the looming threat of the Fold, the city celebrated the endless hours of twilight. In the upper town, the evenings were crowded with operas, masques, and lavish ballets. Over the bridge, raucous horse races and outdoor dances shook the streets of the lower town. An endless stream of pleasure boats bobbed through the canal, and beneath the glimmering dusk, the slow-moving water circled the capital like a jeweled bangle, alight with lanterns hung from a thousand prows.
The heat had relented slightly. Behind the palace walls, everyone seemed in better spirits. I’d continued to insist that the Grisha mix their Orders, and at some point, I still wasn’t sure how, uncomfortable silence had given way to laughter and noisy conversation. There were still cliques and conflicts, but there was also something comfortable and boisterous in the hall that hadn’t been there before.
I was glad—maybe even a little proud—to see Fabrikators and Etherealki drinking tea around one of the samovars, or Fedyor arguing a point with Pavel over breakfast, or Nadia’s little brother trying to chat up an older and decidedly disinterested Paja. But I felt as if I were watching them from a great distance.
I’d tried to talk to Mal several times since the night of our argument. He always found an excuse to walk away from me. If he wasn’t hunting, he was playing cards at the Grand Palace or haunting some tavern in the lower town with his new friends. I could tell he’d been drinking more. Some mornings his eyes looked bleary and he sported bruises and cuts as if he’d been in a brawl, but he was unfailingly punctual, relentlessly polite. He kept to his guard duties, stood silently in doorways, and maintained a respectful distance as he trailed me around the grounds.
The Little Palace had become a very lonely place. I was surrounded by people, but I almost felt like they couldn’t see me, only what they needed from me. I was afraid to show doubt or indecision, and there were days when I felt like I was being worn down to nothing by the constant weight of responsibility and expectation.