“Would you marry me, then? Tie the sea to the land and bind us together in misery?” Cardan gazes at her with all the scorn he once reserved for me. It feels as though the world has been turned upside down.
But Nicasia does not back down. Instead, she takes a step closer. “We would be legends,” she tells him. “Legends need not concern themselves with something as small as happiness.”
And then, without waiting to be dismissed, she turns and goes out. Without being ordered, the guards part to let her by.
“Ah,” says Madoc. “That one behaves as though she is queen already.”
“Out,” says Cardan, and then when no one reacts, he makes a wild gesture in the air. “Out! Out. I am certain you wish to deliberate further as though I am not in the room, so go do it where I am not in the room. Go and trouble me no more.”
“Your pardon,” says Randalin. “We meant only—”
“Out!” he says, at which point even Fala heads for the door.
“Except Jude,” he calls. “You, tarry a moment.”
You. I turn toward him, the humiliation of the night still hot on my skin. I think of all my secrets and plans, and of what it will mean if we go to war with the Undersea, of what I’ve risked and what is already forever lost.
I let the others leave, waiting until the last of the Living Council is out of the room.
“Give me an order again,” I say, “and I will show you true shame. Locke’s games will be as nothing to what I make you do.”
With that, I follow the others into the hall.
In the Court of Shadows, I consider what moves are possible.
Murder Balekin. Mikkel wasn’t wrong that it would make it harder for the Undersea to wrest the crown from Cardan’s head.
Marry Cardan to someone else. I think of Mother Marrow and almost regret interfering. If Cardan had a hag’s daughter for a bride, perhaps Orlagh wouldn’t have engaged in such martial matchmaking.
Of course, I would have had other problems.
A headache starts up behind my eyes. I rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose.
With Taryn’s wedding so close, Oak will be here in mere days. I don’t like the thought of it with Orlagh’s threat hanging over Elfhame. He is too valuable a piece on the strategy board, too necessary for Balekin, too dangerous for Cardan.
I recall the last time I saw Balekin, the influence he had over the guard, the way he behaved as though he were the king in exile. And all my reports from Vulciber suggest that not much has changed. He demands luxuries, he entertains visitors from the sea who leave puddles and pearls behind. I wonder what they’ve told him, what promises he’s been made. Despite Nicasia’s belief that he won’t be necessary, he must be hoping just the opposite.
And then I recall something else—the woman who wanted to tell me about my mother. She’s been there the whole time, and if she’s willing to sell one kind of information for her freedom, maybe she’s willing to sell another.
As I think over what I’d like to know, it occurs to me how much more useful it would be to send information to Balekin, instead of getting information out of him.
If I let that prisoner believe I was temporarily freeing her to tell me about my mother, then I could drop some information in her ear. Something about Oak, something about his whereabouts or vulnerability. She wouldn’t be lying when she passed it on; she would believe she’d heard true and spoke truth.
I puzzle further and realize, no, it’s too soon for that. What I need now is to give the prisoner simpler information that she can pass on, information I can control and verify, so that I can be sure she’s a good source.
Balekin wanted to send Cardan a message. I will find a way to let him.
The Court of Shadows has begun to formalize the scribing of documents on the denizens of Elfhame, but none of the current scrolls deal with any prisoners in the Tower but Balekin. Walking down the hall, I go to the Bomb’s newly dug office.
She’s there, throwing daggers at a painting of a sunset.
“You didn’t like it?” I ask, pointing to the canvas.
“I liked it well enough,” she says. “Now I like it better.”
“I need a prisoner from the Tower of Forgetting. Do we have enough uniforms to dress up some of our new recruits? The knights there have seen my face. Vulciber can help smooth things over, but I’d rather not risk it. Better to forge some papers and have her out with fewer questions.”
She frowns in concentration. “Whom do you want?”
“There’s a woman.” I take a piece of paper and grid out the bottom floor as well as I can. “She was up the staircase. Here. All on her own.”
The Bomb frowns. “Can you describe her?”
I shrug. “Thin face, horns. Pretty, I guess. You’re all pretty.”
“What kind of horns?” the Bomb asks, tilting her head to one side as though she’s considering something. “Straight? Curved?”
I gesture to the top of my head where I remember hers being. “Little ones. Goatish, I guess. And she had a tail.”
“There aren’t that many Folk in the Tower,” the Bomb explains. “The woman you’re describing…”