She laughed, holding out the gown for me to step into. “Are you suggesting I take up the sympathizer banner, Pénélope? Your father would have me dispatched to the labyrinth within the hour of him discovering I’d been anything less than loyal.”
I glanced in the mirror, seeing the ensemble for what it was: a tool. My gown was innocent and sweet and entirely appropriate for the day, while the garment beneath constricted and molded my body, the effect subtly but undeniably alluring. “I don’t think he would,” I said, considering the young woman behind me in the reflection, only a handful of years older than I was myself. “Bastard or not, you’re still the King’s daughter.”
“I doubt my father would even notice I was dead, much less care.” Lessa’s voice was glib, but there were traces of an old hurt in it, buried deep but not forgotten.
“You’re wrong.” I started toward the door. “Neither my father nor my grandmother invest time or money in anything that doesn’t pay dividends, and you cost a great deal of both. Which leads me to believe that the King cares far more about your fate than you’ve been led to believe, and that one day, my family will use that power to their advantage.” I hesitated with my back to her, thinking of myself as much as the half-blood behind me. Lessa had done what she had to in order to make a life for herself.
For the sake of my sister, and for the sake of myself, it was time I did the same.
* * *
The markets were teeming with activity, dozens of human traders arriving with their wares to sell in exchange for Trollus gold. Many were the fair-skinned men and woman hailing from the Isle, but just as many bore the darker complexions from the continent and beyond, the gold we paid worth the perilous journey across the seas. All were oath-sworn – bound by magic to keep our existence a secret – and were experienced in our ways, my accoutrements recognizable to them, if not my face, and each of them bowed or curtseyed as I passed, eyes remaining fixed on the paving stones.
My destination was the clearing house, where the crown arranged the purchase of nearly all the goods brought into the city, which were in turn sold to the merchants who used them or sold them to the rest of those living in Trollus. The process was, ostensibly, to maintain control over prices and to prevent humans not authorized to trade from doing so, but most believed the true reason was because the crown turned a tidy profit as the middleman. I believed the real motivation was control. Control over what was bought and sold, who did the buying and selling, but most importantly, over the exchange of information between the inside and outside world. Nothing happened in Trollus that the Montignys didn’t know about. If Tristan intended to overthrow his father, then he might be in communication with human allies outside of Trollus, and for that to be happening, Marc had to be helping him.
Which was why I was here.
The clearing house was packed to the brim with those conducting business, but occupied as they were, more than a few commoners raised their eyebrows at the sight of me as I passed through the large hall, climbing the stairs to the offices of the trade magister, where I knew I’d find Marc in the thick of things.
The Comte de Courville was the King’s right-hand man, holding the key to the labyrinth and control over everything that entered and left Trollus. Marc was destined to inherit the role, but he’d taken on many of the duties early due to his father’s ailing health.
Two large guards stood outside Marc’s office, but neither made a move to stop me as I knocked on the heavy doors engraved with the Montigny crest.
“Yes?”
The sound of Marc’s voice, muffled or not, sent a thrill of anticipation racing through me, and I pushed inside. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
At the sight of me, he rose, banging into the desk with enough force that water sloshed out of the cup sitting on it. I caught the liquid with magic before it could damage any of the paperwork, returning it to its original receptacle as I nodded at the two humans standing across from him.
“Pénélope, I…” Marc trailed off, then coughed and straightened his shoulders. “Lady Pénélope, this is Monsieur Girard and his son Christophe. Their family has supplied grain and other foodstuffs to Trollus for several generations.” Then he gestured at me. “Her ladyship is the daughter of the Duke d’Angoulême.”
Both men bowed low, but I didn’t miss the slight stiffening in their shoulders at my name, suggesting they were not unaware of my father’s stance against their kind. “Do you wish for me to wait outside?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “We’re very nearly finished.”
I smiled and took a seat in the corner. “Pretend I’m not even here.”
They continued with a discussion of the price of some late season goods, the elder human doing the talking while his son listened on. Which was just as well, because the young man’s eyes kept drifting in my direction, then jerking away again as though he feared I’d burn them from their sockets if I caught him staring. He was blond and blue-eyed, skin ruddy from exposure to sun and elements, though I judged him to be of similar age to Marc and me. They both bore the faint scent of hay and horses, and I imagined him walking or riding through fields, the open sky over his head.
“I need you to retrieve something from Trianon,” Marc said. “You’d be compensated for the transport, and I’m able to provide the capital required up front.”
My ears perked up, but I hid my reaction, instead using threads of magic to pluck a blank piece of paper from a pile, as well as a pot of ink. It was a trick I’d used often: pretending to be engaged with my art while I listened to conversations going on around me.
“When would you be needing it, my lord?”
“As soon as possible.”
Creating a flat pane of magic, I set the paper atop it and then formed a pen of silvery blue, which I dipped in the ink. The boy’s image formed on the page beneath my hand, hair in disarray from an imagined wind, a faintly bashful smile on his face as though he’d been caught looking at a girl he fancied.
“Is the contact an associate of Trollus?”
“No, this is the first time we’ve dealt with them, so discretion will be paramount, as always.”
The boy’s body took shape beneath my hand, clothing modest but well-made, stained with clean earth rather than poor habits. The shoulders beneath still bore the slenderness of childhood, but were broadening and thickening as no troll’s would with the strength gained from hard labor.
“We could have it back to you within the week, if that suits, my lord.”
“It does.” Marc shifted on his chair. “It’s sensitive, so be certain to take care in the shipment.”
Why is he being so vague, I wondered, shading the boy’s sleeve. What is he trying to hide?
“As you say, my lord.”
“How do you wish to take your payment?”
“Regent’s mark in silver, if you would, my lord.”
My gaze twitched to the chest that floated up to Marc’s right. He counted the silver swiftly, pushing the stacks across the table. Then he added a modest stack of gold without comment. A bribe?