Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Lin did not protest. There was no point; her grandfather did as he liked and always had. It was a relief to see Kel, though. He was smiling—that smile of his that always seemed to have a hint of reserve to it. She suspected it had something to do with always playing a part, and never quite being able to be himself. Every smile had to be weighed and calculated, like goods for sale in the market.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, bowing over her hand. It was a nice custom, she thought. He looked handsome and formal in a deep-green velvet cutaway coat, with gold buttons in the shape of flowers. Marakandi green, she thought, for the Prince’s Marakandi cousin.

“My grandfather thought it would be a good idea for me to know a bit more about those he spends his days with.”

Kel raised his eyebrows. “But he didn’t remain to introduce you around?”

“I do not think you will be surprised,” Lin said, “to hear that he believes in teaching children to swim by tossing them into deep water.”

“And these are deep waters indeed,” Kel said. She followed his gaze and saw that he was looking at Antonetta Alleyne, who looked stunning in a teal creation of Mariam’s. She was still with the small Princess from Sarthe, Luisa, and her guard, the tall, elegant woman with the burnished hair. This did not surprise Lin. She had learned in her short time with Antonetta that she was someone who liked to take charge of a situation, especially when it came to looking after people.

“That’s the girl the Prince is going to marry, then,” Lin said. It was not a question. She had already been introduced to Luisa. It had been strange to put a face to the tale: the trick of Sarthe, the little Princess nobody wanted. “That poor child.”

“I hope there is pity in your heart,” Kel said quietly, “for both of them.”

Lin glanced over at the Prince, who had not moved from his seat since she’d arrived. She’d wondered for a moment if he might come to greet her, but had dismissed the thought quickly enough. He was settled among his friends—a threesome whose names Mayesh had given her when they had entered the room. Falconet. Montfaucon. And Roverge.

Roverge. The family whose house and party this was; the family who had driven the Cabrols to dreams of revenge. She had thought it would not trouble her to stand in this house and know that the Roverges faced the destruction of some portion of their fleet, but she found it made her uneasy. And yet it was impossible for her to tell—and who would believe her, even if she did? Who was she? A little physician from the Sault.

She was no one. There was no reason for the Prince to go out of his way to speak to her, either. Not wanting to betray that she had even thought of it, she looked at him only out of the corner of her eye. He did stand out: Among all the bright rainbow of colors, he wore gold and silver, the shades of metal. Like a steel blade, she thought, laid among a display of colorful flowers.

“It is hard to pity a prince,” Lin said, and she might have said more—that the Prince himself had told her he was not to be pitied, that instead she should pity his intended—but at that moment, the Prince’s ginger-haired companion—Roverge, son of the House—jumped down from the divan he’d been perched on and strode toward the center of the room.

There was a screen there, painted with a design of herons in flight. As the young Roverge approached, the screen slid back, revealing the musicians who had been playing through the evening. Beside them stood two rows of what Lin could only guess were singers, their hands folded. They wore gold slippers and what Lin at first thought was smooth gold cloth. She realized, as the firelight flickered over them, concealing and revealing with its touch, that it was not cloth at all, but paint. They were naked, men and women both, painted head-to-toe with gold paint that mimicked, on their skin, the clinging folds of silk.

A murmur ran around the room. Guests craned their heads to get a better look at the entertainment. Vienne d’Este pulled the little Princess, Luisa, closer to her side, her mouth a thin line of annoyance.

It was quiet now, everyone watching; Charlon Roverge made a flourishing gesture, and the gold-painted vocalists burst into song.

It was a low tune, and sweet. An auba, a song meant to evoke lovers parting at dawn.

“Well,” Kel said, in a low voice, “at least they can sing decently.”

“Would anyone have noticed if they couldn’t?” Lin whispered back.

Kel smiled a little but said, “You’d be surprised. It takes a great deal to shock this bunch—or even to intrigue them.”

“I see,” Lin said. She stole another glance at the Prince, sideways. He was looking at the singers but—indeed—without a great deal of interest. “That’s—rather sad.”

The song ended. There was a smattering of light applause. Charlon Roverge cast a glance across the room; he was looking at his father, Benedict, who seemed to be observing the entertainment with a peculiar intensity. They both had an unpleasant look about them, she thought, and recalled her grandfather saying that even the other nobles of the Hill mistrusted them.

“Tonight,” Charlon said, loudly enough for his voice to ring off the walls, “we herald the dawn of a new alliance. Between Castellane and her closest neighbor, the honorable land of Sarthe.”


The hairs on the back of Kel’s neck prickled. He could not have said why, precisely, but he did not like this—did not like Charlon giving the welcome address, instead of Benedict. Did not like the tone of his voice when he spoke. The words were polite enough—Kel would have bet Prosper Beck’s ten thousand crowns that Benedict had forced his son to memorize them—but there was an expression on Charlon’s face Kel knew, and disliked. A sort of gloating look.

“Indeed,” Charlon went on, “the haste and eagerness of Sarthe to cement this union, which has surprised us all, must certainly lie with the many advantages that will accrue to both our lands when we are joined in political matrimony. Sarthe, for instance, will have access now to a harbor. And we . . .”

He let his voice hang. There were a few titters; Kel could see the Sarthian Ambassadors, some distance away, glaring daggers.

“Did he just imply there’s no advantage to Castellane in this marriage?” Lin murmured.

Kel wondered for a moment if he should run at Charlon, knock him over. He could plead terrible inebriation. He would garner some sympathy; he doubted there was anyone at this party who hadn’t wanted to hit Charlon at some point or another.

But it would not stop things, he knew. Conor was the only one who could prevent this, and he was stonily silent, arms extended along the divan behind him, staring straight ahead.

“Well,” Charlon smiled, “we will have the opportunity to learn more of the arts and culture of Sarthe. Who among us has not admired their music, their poetry?”

There was a confused murmur. If this was an insult, it was a poor one. Even Senex Domizio looked more puzzled than enraged.

“In that spirit,” Charlon said, “please approach, Princess Luisa d’Eon.”