Returning her attention to the history book, she made a note to herself to be very careful when dealing with the Aragothic border lords, for they had long been at odds with their Célestial counterparts. During the century of occupation by the Skaladin hordes, Célestial barons had wasted no opportunity to gobble up Aragothic lands on the pretext of keeping them out of the hands of the heretics. Most of those territories l’Empire still held, even a hundred years after the Skaladin had been driven out.
She tapped her finger on the name of a province, El Bosque de Dolores, and tried to remember where she’d heard it before. Perhaps if the hour were not so late and the surface of her mind not so turbulent, the information would have come to her. According to the text, it had been wrested from l’Empire before the Skaladin invasion and was rightly proud of never having yielded to the endless enemy. There was a précis of a decisive battle, the death of someone called the Silver Baron, and then nothing much else. On the next page was the start of another war. She combed the fingers of her good hand through her short shock of unbound hair and tried to be interested.
A rapping on the door intruded into her thoughts. Valérie’s voice squeezed through the cracks: “Highness. Don Divelo has returned, and he has brought Queen Margareta.”
*
Flanked by Jean-Claude and Vincent, Isabelle paused outside Don Divelo’s cabin door to catch her breath. She smoothed her hastily donned skirts, nudged the combs that held her white wig in place, made sure her veil was fixed, and tried to keep panic from her heart. She had anticipated a swift response to her ill news about Duque Diego, but she had not expected a visit from the queen herself. She had planned to present herself to her future royal in-laws with grace, dignity, and all due ceremony in one of Aragoth’s fabled mirrored halls, not rushed, crushed, and crammed into Divelo’s cabin aboard a man-o-war.
A guard in Aragoth’s royal livery stood before the door. His eyes were Glasswalker silver. He said, in poor la Langue, “Leave weapons.”
Vincent bristled. “I am Princess Isabelle’s guard.”
“I am Queen Margareta’s,” the guard rumbled.
Jean-Claude shrugged, handed over his rapier, and thankfully refrained from saying anything sharp. Vincent reluctantly followed suit.
The guard opened the door and announced, “La Princesa Isabelle.”
Isabelle glided in, though she had to duck under the low lintel to do so.
The queen had taken the captain’s chair as her throne. She wore full skirts of royal purple silk and satin, a like-colored bodice, and a short velvet jacket of a style Isabelle had no word for. Somewhere under there, a leviathanbone corset struggled mightily to keep an obviously matronly figure squeezed into a maidenly shape. Perhaps that was why she looked so dyspeptic … or perhaps the straining corset was soul distortion. Representing what state of mind? A silver net veiled her dark hair and every inch of her costume was festooned with constellations of silver embroidery, stitched opals, and river pearls so that she looked like a goddess of night. She also wore her golden coronet, tilted aggressively forward, making this an official state audience.
At her flanks stood two more royal guards, fully armed and armored with polished cuirasses of alchemetal steel, astronomically expensive but bulletproof. Before her, in courtly attendance, were all the remaining ship captains, their officers, and Don Divelo. No pickles had ever been packed so tightly.
Space was cleared for Isabelle, who curtsied demurely, eyes downcast, to Queen Margareta. She did her best not to droop, or worse, drip, in the sweltering dark. She fought with the nervous thickness in her chest and breathed, “Your Majesty. I am honored by your visit.”
Margareta’s voice was dry. “Really? I should think you would be terrified. So much of your future depends upon my goodwill, after all.”
The queen’s observation struck deep and sharp, like a needle lancing a boil; Isabelle’s greatest fear was falling under the sway of another tyrant like her father.
Isabelle gathered her wits and forced her unwilling mouth to move. “Honor is distinct from fear, Your Majesty, but not opposite to it.”
“Kantelvar told me you were clever,” Margareta said. “He did not mention silver-tongued. Rise, girl. Let me get a look at you.”
Isabelle stood and took the opportunity of being examined to return the scrutiny. Margareta’s skin was flawless, pale, and glowing. The queen’s silver eyes were flat in this light, and though her words had been friendly, her expression was closed. There were more etchings of anger around her eyes than of laughter, and her mouth was set in an unbending line.
Margareta said, “In your own words, tell me of this assassin who affrighted you.”
“I did not see him,” Isabelle said, “but I am made to understand that he gained access to the ship through a mirror placed aboard by an agent of Duque Diego.”
The queen’s brow darkened. “And how do you come by that information? Begin at the beginning, leave nothing out.”
In the stuffy, sweltering cabin, Isabelle told the story from the moment Jean-Claude had burst into her tour of the aetherkeel until his return from his mission to l’?le des Zephyrs.
“And who was Diego’s Célestial agent?” Margareta asked when Isabelle failed to identify her brother.
Isabelle’s pulse raced and she looked to Jean-Claude.
“His name is … or rather was Hugh le Petit. He was a merchant, down on his luck and deep in debt.” Jean-Claude made a dismissive little wave as if that was all the explanation that was necessary.
“I take it he is now beyond the reach of questioning,” Margareta said.
“He did not respond well to interrogation,” Jean-Claude said.
Margareta’s lips pursed and then she returned her attention to Isabelle. “It is a peculiar guest gift you have brought into our house, not at all customary. Most people bring poetry, or artwork, or quondam artifacts, but you, fair Princesa, lay at our feet a grave accusation against one of our great lords.”
Isabelle did not miss Margareta’s usurpation of the royal pronoun; this was not a woman who looked forward to ceding power. Isabelle kept that thought to herself and said, “My apologies if I have acted inappropriately. I only provided the information I received.”
“And do you trust the source of this information?” She pointed to Jean-Claude with her nose.
Isabelle lifted her chin. “With my life.”
“But is your life his only priority? He is a royal musketeer, his Célestial master’s personal lackey, and what better way to discommode us than to cast doubt on one of our most trusted nobles?”
Jean-Claude’s brows drew down in a scowl, but he kept his tongue.
Outrage on his behalf flared in Isabelle’s heart, and she had to tamp down her tone of voice. Stick to logic. It was her only tool. “This marriage is meant to sweeten relations between our nations, not sour them.”