The Lyre Thief Page 40

  She realized they might well be pirates, ready to toss them overboard as soon as they hit open water, but so might any other crew on the docks.

  The most compelling reason for sailing with the Sarchlo, however, was that it was due to sail on the high tide at midnight the following day, unlike every other ship’s captain they’d spoken to, who had given their crews a few days off, because that was easier than trying to fight the free food and wine on offer thanks to this wretched royal wedding.

  Better yet, Captain Berin agreed to let them sleep on board tonight in the cabin they’d booked for their journey to Calavandra in the Trinity Isles.

  Mica handed over almost all the remaining coin they’d earned for selling Sophany’s earrings in Bordertown for their passage so they disembarked after they’d settled their passage to find a hostelry prepared to buy their horses and their saddles, and to find some dinner.

  By the time the moon rose overhead, Rakaia was settled into their narrow but surprisingly comfortable bunk on the Sarchlo, making love to Mica as the ship rocked gently at its berth.

  When they were done, and Mica collapsed on top of her with a whimper of pleasure, she sighed—not just with the euphoria of their lovemaking, but the welcome thought that in less than a day from now, she would be gone from Hythria forever.

  Chapter

  57

  “HOW DO I look?”

  Charisee’s new handmaiden eyed her mistress up and down with a critical eye, and then nodded her approval. “You are stunning.”

  “You’re not just saying that, are you, Tazi? Because you think it’s what I want to hear?”

  Tazi was the slave gifted to her by Rodja and Selena Tirstone—a plain, middle-aged woman with a stern face that utterly belied her cheerful personality. She had been the handmaiden of Selena’s recently deceased grandmother, she told Charisee. To go from an uncertain future as the personal slave of a dead mistress, to the security of being made handmaiden to a princess in the royal household was a stroke of fortune for the slave Charisee could well understand. She had been this woman once. And she was determined to make certain Tazi never regretted having the Princess Rakaia as her mistress.

  The older woman met her eye without flinching. “Would I lie to you, your highness?”

  Charisee turned to examine herself in the mirror, with just as critical an eye as her servant. “Probably. If you thought I’d punish you for the truth.”

  “Are you going to punish me for being honest, your highness?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then I will tell you the truth. You are stunning.”

  Charisee smiled, prepared to concede that she did look very much the part of the traditional Fardohnyan bride. She wore her hair down, and it hung past her waist in a honey-colored fall of silken waves, as was the tradition for all Fardohnyan brides. Her dress was red, heavily embroidered in gold thread around the hips, flowing out into a glistening shimmer of skirts. The gown was in two pieces. The bodice was made of deep red lace, threaded with gold, with long narrow sleeves and a low neckline that offered a tantalizing view of her breasts and left her midriff bare. The skirt sat snugly on her hips, the same shade of red as the bodice, made up of layer upon layer of transparent silk that flowed like a waterfall against her legs and was belted with a layer of gold mesh. In her navel sat a large ruby loaned to her by Adrina.

  Around her neck she wore a small fortune in rubies, garnets, and pearls, also loaned to her by her half-sister, who’d been appalled to realize Charisee had arrived without any bridal jewelry to speak of. Charisee decided it would be unwise to tell Adrina where the bridal jewelry Rakaia brought to Hythria really was—that would involve an explanation about things much better left unsaid. She turned back to the slave. “You must always tell me the truth, Tazi.”

  “I will, your highness. I promise.”

  A knock at the door saved Charisee from having to think too closely about the hypocrisy of demanding the truth from a servant when she was just one big walking lie herself. Tazi hurried to the door to admit Princess Adrina, with Julika, Marlie, and Jazrian in tow. They were all dressed for the wedding. Marlie and her cousin, Julika, were to be her attendants, and were dressed in matching red—albeit far more modest—costumes. Jaz was dressed in white pants and jacket, and with his hair combed down, a child-sized sword at his side, looking rather unhappy at the prospect of spending the day dressed so formally. Julika wore the same expression. Apparently she was no more enchanted with the idea of attending this wedding than her cousin.

  “We have a present for you!” Marlie announced before anyone could say a word. She was having a ball. “Mama says all Fardohnyan brides have one.”

  “Thank you, Marlie,” Adrina said. “I was hoping you’d spoil the surprise.”

  “Oh, Mama, just give it to her!”

  Adrina shook her head at her daughter’s impatience and smiled at Charisee. “You look lovely, Rakaia. And Marlie is right. We do have a gift for you.”

  She held out a small dagger in a jeweled sheath. Charisee accepted the gift, a little awed by her sister’s generosity.

  “It’s a Fardohnyan bride’s blade,” Marlie explained, almost jumping up and down with excitement. “All Fardohnyan brides are supposed to carry them. You might as well have it, because Mama says Nana Marla would allow Medalon to invade Hythria before any granddaughter of hers has a Fardohnyan wedding.”

  “Yes, thank you, Marlie. That will be enough.”

  “I know what it is, Marlie,” Charisee said, examining the exquisite workmanship with admiration. Centuries ago, Fardohnyan brides had carried a sword, so the story went, but it was still a tradition to carry a bride’s blade. The blade was more ornamental than practical. It was sharp, though, as Charisee quickly discovered when she tested the edge with her thumb. “Thank you.”

  “I won’t promise it will bring you luck, but it has quite a history, that little knife,” Adrina explained as she helped Charisee secure it in the mesh belt she wore. “It belonged to my mother, who is your half-aunt, so it’s a family heirloom of sorts, even though Hablet and my mother weren’t married long, because he . . . well, beheaded her.” The blade secure, she stepped back to examine her handiwork. “I carried it in both my weddings, too. One of them has worked out so far. In fact, I’ve only had to use it once.”

  “Did you use it on Uncle Damin?” Julika asked, interested now that the conversation had turned to weapons, apparently, even the ornamental kind.

  “No, Julika, I used on Prince Cratyn. He slapped me. I don’t take kindly to being slapped. One day, when you have a wife, Jazrian, if you slap her, you can expect the same treatment.” She turned to Charisee. “You shouldn’t put up with that sort of treatment either, Rakaia. Remember that.”

  “I will.”

  Adrina nodded approvingly at her sister’s attire. “You’ve done a good job, Tazi. Selena was right to speak so highly of you.”

  “You sister is a delight to serve, your highness.”

  “Then you may go,” Adrina said. “I’ll help Rakaia with her veil. I want you to go downstairs and find Strayan. Selena was expecting him back last night. She said she’d send him over this morning, but he hasn’t arrived yet. When you find him, you may both have the rest of the day off—as is the tradition in Fardohnyan weddings—while Rakaia is escorted to her wedding by her family.”

  Tazi curtseyed respectfully and let herself out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Once they were alone, Adrina took Charisee by the hands. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel so nervous I want to vomit.”

  Adrina laughed. “Well do it now, or after the ceremony. You’ll never live it down if you do it in public. I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t include the twins in the wedding party today. It will be insane enough as it is, without adding a couple of excited four-year-olds to the mix.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. Will I have time to say goodbye to them before I leave for Highcastle?”
<
br />   “We’ll make time,” Adrina promised. “The wedding feast is back here at the palace and I promised them they could come to that. Do you know what you have to do?”

  “Say yes,” Julika suggested helpfully. “Not cry. Or cringe.”

  Adrina frowned at her niece. “Yes, thank you, Julika. That was very helpful.”

  “Just saying . . . ,” she replied with a shrug.

  Charisee got the distinct impression Julika wanted to be involved in this wedding party even less than she did.

  The High Princess turned to Charisee. “We’re taking a carriage to the Sorcerers’ Collective,” she explained, walking to the bed to pick up the long, diaphanous veil designed to cover her head and the lower half of her face. “If this was a proper Fardohnyan wedding and my husband hadn’t so recently been attacked by an assassin, we’d walk. A carriage and a large honor guard will be safer.”

  “Can I ride on top with the driver, Mama?” Jaz asked.

  “Of course not,” Adrina said, without even looking at him. She kept working on the veil, making sure it was pinned in place while Julika untangled her train. The veil trailed ten paces behind, and was meant to float on the slight current of air created by her passage. “After the ceremony, we’ll take a carriage back to the palace and disembark at the gate. You and your new husband will then mingle with the crowd for a time, handing out coin to anyone who takes your fancy. Darvad has checked the credentials of all the performers, and everyone permitted in the palace forecourt, so it should be safe enough.”

  “Does that mean we can join the carnival too, Mama?” Marlie asked, her eyes alight at the prospect.

  “Yes, but only if you stay with your guards.”

  “We will, won’t we, Jaz?”

  “Of course.”

  A few more adjustments and Adrina was done with the veil. She stepped back to study Charisee for a moment and then nodded her approval. “Try to make the most of today, Rakaia. It may be the last time for a while that you are the center of attention.”

  “I don’t need to be the center of attention to be happy, Adrina.”

  Her sister nodded. “I’m sure you don’t. But just remember this, too. Not all arranged weddings are complete disasters.”

  “Are you talking about your wedding to Papa?” Marlie asked. Before Adrina could answer, she turned to Charisee, bursting with the need to share everything she knew. “Mama didn’t want to marry Papa. She hated him. It was the demon child who forced them to get married.”

  “Who told you I hated your father, Marlie?”

  “Nana Marla.”

  Adrina rolled her eyes. “That woman will be the death of me, I swear.”

  “Is it true?” Julika asked. “The demon child actually forced you to marry Damin?”

  Adrina nodded. “Sort of. I wanted to kill her at the time. Now . . . well, now I just wish I knew where to start looking for her, because until we find her, I doubt Damin is going to get any better.”

  The demon child saved Rakaia in the Widowmaker Pass, Charisee wanted to tell her, pained by the strain in Adrina’s voice. She was there a couple of months ago and now she’s in Medalon somewhere. Jakerlon had told her that.

  But to admit she knew that would require her to admit how she knew.

  “I wish I could tell you where she is, Adrina,” she said. The best lies of all, after all, are the stone-cold truth.

  “That’s sweet of you, Rakaia, but don’t let my problems get in the way of you enjoying your day. Marlie? Julika? Are you going to be all right with that veil? Like we practiced?”

  “Yes, Mama,” Marlie said, moving around behind her to scoop up the excess fabric.

  “Then lead on, Jazrian,” Adrina commanded with a smile at Charisee. “We have a wedding to attend.”

  Chapter

  58

  WHEN RAKAIA WOKE the following morning, she was alone and the sun was well up in the sky from what she could tell from the small porthole over the bunk. She stretched luxuriously for a moment, thinking this was going to be her life for the next few weeks. Sleeping late, making love to Mica, and not a care in the world.

  Nobody could find her here on the Sarchlo. Mica had let go of his urge for vengeance.

  They had nothing but the future to look forward to, whatever it might hold.

  The need to relieve herself got her out of bed. Her clothes were still on the floor where she’d left them the night before, in her haste to remove them. Their few remaining belongings were packed into the saddlebags they’d carried with them since Bordertown. She was half dressed before she noticed the saddlebags had been tampered with.

  There was an art to packing everything they needed in them, but someone had obviously been rifling through the bags, as if looking for valuables. Rakaia pulled on her blouse and looked around. Mica’s lyre case was missing too. So was his ridiculous red Medalonian officer’s jacket.

  The missing lyre and the jacket might be explained by Mica’s absence—after all, he rarely went anywhere without them—but not the saddlebags.

  A quick inventory of the contents and she realized only one thing was missing, which also meant only one person could have taken it.

  The letter the Warlord of Krakandar had written in the Pickpockets’ Retreat, recommending Mica to the High Prince of Hythria, was gone.

  With a muttered curse, Rakaia pulled on her shoes and hurried topside. The first person she encountered was the captain’s sister, who was tipping the vegetable scraps from the galley into the harbor, much to the delight of the fish gathered below, waiting for their bounty.

  “Tritinka, have you seen my husband?”

  “He left a couple of hours ago, miss,” the young Denikan told her. “Said he had one last performance to take care of before he left Hythria.”

  I will kill him. Slowly. Painfully. Over and over.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, miss. But I suppose he’s at the palace for the carnival.” She pointed to the unusually quiet docks. “That’s where everyone else is today.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and hurried to the gangplank.

  “Miss!” Tritinka called as she stepped onto it.

  “Yes?”

  “We sail at midnight,” the girl reminded her. “The tide don’t wait for nobody, and neither does my brother.”

  “We’ll be back before then, I promise,” she assured the girl, and then she took the wobbly gangplank almost at a run, anger and fear for Mica lending her feet wings.

  THE STREETS NEARER the palace were lined with people waiting for the royal wedding party to return from the Temple of the Gods where the High Arrion was officiating over the ceremony. The rumor had got about that the newlywed couple would be tossing gold from the carriage on their way back to the palace, so the route was packed with every hopeful in Greenharbour in need of some extra cash.

  Rakaia knew the story was nonsense. The bride and groom did hand out coins at a Fardohnyan royal wedding, but it would happen in the confines of the palace grounds to the select few chosen to attend.

  That’s where Mica was, she knew, without a shadow of a doubt. He had taken his letter of introduction, used it to get inside the palace walls, and would take his vengeance as soon as a member of the Wolfblade family got within listening distance of him. He might not kill them outright. He might sing them into wanting to kill themselves—something he was more than capable of doing—but his song was indiscriminate. Even if she didn’t care about the fate of the Wolfblades, Charisee was in there and likely to be in range of whatever dire song he chose to glamor his victims with. She didn’t deserve to be caught up in Mica’s vengeance, no matter how much the others may deserve it.

  Rakaia took a moment to curse her sister for demanding a Fardohnyan wedding as she pushed her way through the crowd toward the palace. What was Charisee thinking? Had she embraced being a princess so wholeheartedly that she wanted to throw her weight around, just to prove she was royal?

  Why couldn’t she j
ust be content with a regular Hythrun wedding like any normal princess coming to a foreign country to marry a cousin of the High Prince would have done?

  It got harder to move the closer she got to the palace. Rakaia had to elbow her way forward. Not only was the crowd denser, there were soldiers lining the streets. They wore the livery of Greenharbour, the province ruled by her half-brother Gaffen. Or rather, Adrina’s half-brother. Rakaia had to constantly remind herself she was no longer a part of Hablet’s extended family. She and Charisee weren’t even sisters, when it got down to it, although she was related to Adrina on her mother’s side. She didn’t know what that made Gaffen, or if, indeed, she was related to him at all.

  It didn’t matter. Rakaia finally reached the gate as a roar went up from the crowd. A carriage was approaching. It was a white landau carriage, drawn by four beautifully matched golden sorcerer-bred horses. The soft folding roof lay perfectly flat so the crowd could see the lucky couple. On the raised driver’s seat a guard wearing the livery of Highcastle sat, scanning the crowd for danger. Two more blatantly armed guards stood on the groom’s seat, which was sprung above and behind the rear axle.

  Rakaia pushed closer to the curb, but the guards held her back. As the carriage passed by, turning into the palace gates, she finally caught sight of Charisee.

  She almost didn’t recognize her former slave. Dressed in the full regalia of a Fardohnyan bride, she was a vision of youth and beauty, sitting opposite a wrinkled and decrepit old man who appeared to be constantly nodding off. On one side of Charisee sat a young girl, also dressed in red. Probably Princess Marlie, Adrina’s daughter. The little girl was smiling, waving to the crowd, having a high old time, as many of the crowd waved back to her. Another attendant, a pretty girl of about sixteen, looked as if she would rather be anywhere else. The bride was waving too, but far less confidently than Princess Marlie. She wore an expression Rakaia knew well. It was the look she always wore when Rakaia cajoled her younger sister into doing something she didn’t want to do.