“Ethnocentric bias.”
“Right.” She nods down the next staircase, and we keep going. Clip clop, clip clop.
Four flights later, we reach the main landing and the roots of the cedars. The shade would be nearly impenetrable if not for the galaxy of lanterns hanging along the path. Glowing sconces illuminate ornate wooden planters—until yesterday they had been filled with thick green ferns and hostas. This morning they’re overflowing with cascades of teal-tinted orchids. The palace must have been an absolute anthill last night—all the green draperies swapped out for turquoise ones, the gardens replanted, the colored lanterns replaced. Despite this, I can’t help but notice that we’ve hardly seen any servants beyond the ones who bring us our meals. It’s another strange anomaly I can’t quite wrap my head around.
Ethnocentric bias, Colm whispers.
Standing in the light of the closest constellation of lanterns, studying a creased sheet of parchment, is Eloise’s father, Ambassador Rou Alastaire. At the first clap of my hobnails on the hardwood floor, he looks up.
“By the Light, it’s about time—I thought I’d have to come hunt you down.” He kisses Eloise’s forehead. “You look perfect, lolly, and you’re not half bad yourself, Veran. We’ll have to commission a portrait before we leave, or your ma will never believe it.”
I gesture to his wardrobe, a Cypri-style vest and loose trousers. “How come you’re not in Moquoian dress?”
He pats the wide sash around his waist, the same teal as his ascot. “I’m the old, out-of-touch ambassador, so I get to pass off my outlandish—but ultimately harmless—cultural practices as charming eccentricity. But you two are the young, trendy liaisons who are up on all the latest court fashions.”
“You just don’t like wearing the pants,” I accuse.
“I hate wearing the pants,” he agrees. “And nobody wants to see me in them, anyway. Maybe twenty years ago, when I was a handsome stripling like you, but not now.”
Eloise groans and passes a hand over her eyes. “By the Light, Papa.”
He grins and offers her his arm. “Now come on—they’ll be starting soon, and I need to brush up on my terminology before I cause another international incident.” Rou has a passing grasp on the Moquoian language, but his accent is absolutely terrible, and he has difficulty with a few important inflections. Eloise is better, but not fluent—which is why I’m here. Rou nods at me. “Say the name of the month for me again?”
“Mokonnsi,” I say as we start down the path. “Keep the k in the back of your throat, otherwise it means garbage.”
“Right. And the color is turquoise, not green like last month, and the meaning is—serenity.”
“That’s Bakksi, Papa—October,” Eloise says. “Mokonnsi celebrates friendship.”
“Correct,” he says, ducking under a lantern hanging too low in the path. “I was testing you.”
Eloise sighs and catches me chuckling. “Of course you were. Do you need to test me on what this morning’s ceremony is all about?”
“I’m offended, lolly,” he says with exaggerated affront. “Of all people to know about court jesters, none should be more well versed than your father. Ambassador was always my second career choice.”
“I hope you haven’t referred to the ashoki as court jesters,” Eloise says. “They’re more like storytellers.”
“The closest translation is actually truth teller,” I say. “Sort of a cross between a jester and a bard. From what I’ve read, they’re the only ones who can publicly poke fun at politics, the monarchy, the court—they’re sort of a catharsis for everybody.”
“And today Prince Iano names a new one,” Rou says, grinning at our hurried efforts to correct him. “I know. This is an important day—we might be the first Easterners to witness the start of an ashoki’s career. By my understanding, an effective ashoki can alter the entire political climate of the court. We should hope whoever is appointed is in favor of our work in the Ferinno. Speaking of.” Rou gestures to the folded parchment in his free hand. “We got a letter from your uncle Colm this morning. He was attacked by bandits outside Snaketown.”
Eloise gasps, whipping her head to her father. “Is he all right?”
“It sounds like he was just robbed, and not hurt,” I say absent-mindedly, distracted by a tiled pool filled with wending fish—dyed a startling shade of teal. They dye their fish.
“How do you know?” Rou asks in surprise. “That is—you’re right, but how did you know?”
I jerk my gaze away from the pool. Well, that was hardly discreet. Both he and Eloise are looking at me, confused. “Uh . . . he . . . he sent me a letter, too. Just to say . . . that I should write to my parents.” I shrug. “You know, updating me on what’s happening at home.”
“What’s happening at home?” Eloise asks.
“Nothing.” I instantly flush at the stupid comment, realizing I should have made up something harmless. “But uh . . . about Colm.”
Eloise fortunately shifts her focus back to her father. “Yes, about Uncle Colm. Is he really all right?”
“The two guards came away with some injuries, but either Colm came away unhurt or he’s purposefully not telling us.” We round a bend in the path, and golden lamplight shines in slices through the dark cedar trunks. The buzz of voices filters toward us. “I’m wondering if I can get in touch with the coach driver—I’d be highly interested to know who waylaid them.”
I glance at him, Colm’s tidbit about the Sunshield Bandit rushing back to me. “Why’s that?”
“Because right now the Ferinno is one big boiling pot of trouble—if we’re going to lay a real road through it, it’d be nice to know which bandits claim which territory,” Rou says. “That section along the South Burr is going to be a crucial stage to keep passable. There’s no other water for fifty miles.”
I relax a little. He’s obviously not thinking about his oldest daughter’s abduction a decade and a half ago, or the possibility that she may be in some outlaw’s camp in the middle of the desert.
So, of course, my thoughts slide to Moira Alastaire—which is strange, because I don’t remember anything about her. I’ve seen a portrait of her exactly once, when I crept along at Mama’s side in Queen Mona’s chambers while visiting Lumen Lake. The picture was tucked inside the rolltop of the queen’s writing desk, and I spotted the two identical brown freckled faces and cascading curls gazing out from their childhood portrait. I haven’t thought of that picture in years. As we enter the glow from the hall up ahead, I glance surreptitiously at Eloise.
I guess Moira would look the same now, if she’s still alive. I frown at the somber thought, but I can’t see how she’s not dead.
That said, neither Eloise nor Rou have any cause to connect the attack on Colm’s stage to the Sunshield Bandit or long-lost Moira. I try to follow Rou’s previous comment back into safer territory.
“We should get good insight to bandit activity near the border if we can get conversation moving in court,” I suggest.