“On that note.” Rou turns to Eloise. “Have you had any better luck with Prince Iano? I meant to check with you yesterday, but I’ve been wrapped up with Queen Isme.”
“Well—some,” she says. “He’s still being . . . difficult to interact with.”
I can hear the reluctance in her voice—Eloise isn’t one to speak badly of others. I admire her for that, but I can’t deny that she’s dramatically downplaying the ill temper of the Moquoian prince. My work has mostly been at Rou’s side, since Eloise’s grasp on the language is better than his, and from what I’ve witnessed of their stilted interactions, I don’t envy her in the slightest.
“He just . . .” She pauses, then begins again, pursing her lips and pondering her words. “He seems . . . well, sad, to be honest. He keeps to his rooms so much, he talks to almost no one in court, and he certainly never smiles. And I know it’s not a language barrier—he’s more fluent in Eastern than I am in Moquoian, but having a conversation with him is like . . .”
Talking to a brick wall, I finish silently for her.
“Well, it’s challenging,” she says.
“Did you get this impression of him when you exchanged letters last year?” Rou asks.
“Not at all. Did you, Veran?”
She’s being kind, asking for my opinion. She’s the one who drafted all the letters to Iano—I merely proofread them for grammar. I shake my head. “He seemed perfectly friendly in his letters, and ready to negotiate.”
“That’s right,” Eloise agrees. “He had all kinds of ideas on partnering with the university, funding the Ferinno Road, transitioning industrial labor away from bond labor, all that. But since we’ve gotten here, any time I bring up policy, he almost pretends not to hear me.”
“Hm.” Rou frowns in thought. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, but herein lies our biggest challenge with this Moquoian effort. All the courts back east are familiar to us—we share a language, and borders, and cultural groundwork. But the sea and desert routes have distanced us from Moquoia for centuries. These are new steps we’re taking, and it’s likely there are norms in place we don’t understand yet. If I had my way, we’d have a year just to familiarize ourselves with the Moquoian people before broaching policy at all. But the trafficking uptick in the Ferinno has accelerated everything, and instead of a year, we have eight weeks—and we’ve already used up four of them.”
A golden gleam breaks through the dark cedar trunks and turquoise lanterns. Up ahead, the Hall of the Ashoki is brimming with light and noise, threaded with the spicy scent of hot cream tea. Rou eyes the approaching doors, and he slows down, patting Eloise’s hand.
“Tell you what, Lady Princess,” he says. “What if Veran joins you this morning, instead of coming with me? It might come across as more casual—a pair of friends instead of a lone diplomat.”
A spark of unease flares in my stomach. “I’m not trained in policy, though.” Not to mention that alongside people like Eloise and my oldest sister, Viyamae, both heirs to their respective thrones, I’m generally as helpful as a toddler playing make-believe. Eloise may only be two years older than me, but I’ve always felt she’s on a rung I’ll never quite reach.
“Let’s leave policy alone for the morning—though you’re better than you think you are, V.” Rou bumps my elbow reassuringly and then gestures at the turquoise banners hanging from the trees. “It’s the first day of the new si—a day for celebration. Perhaps we haven’t been striking the right chords. Just be friendly, and maybe the prince will warm to negotiations. You can even try the junior delegate route, if you think it might work—maybe Iano will open up if he thinks he’s mentoring somebody.”
Eloise doesn’t look convinced, casting a doubtful glance at her father. “Can you manage with Queen Isme without Veran translating for you?”
He closes his eyes, pained. “Once again, lolly, I am offended—”
“Two days ago you told her Moquoia is like a verdant tumor,” she interrupts with reproach. “Whatever that was supposed to mean!”
I snort and then stifle it. Rou had said that, with a completely straight face, and I had to keep from laughing while I offered the similar-sounding paradise to the scandalized courtiers.
“Ah, but there are so many worse mistakes I could have made,” Rou says, half wincing, half grinning. “And I still maintain that there is absolutely no difference between those two words.” He waves at us both as we jump to insist on the subtle inflection. “I’ll manage for the morning. Her courtiers think my slipups are amusing, and I plan to mostly listen to the gossip about the new ashoki, anyway. What do you say, Veran? Join Eloise for a little while, see if you can warm Iano up?” He gives a quick nod to Eloise. “Not that I think you haven’t done a supreme job already . . .”
“No, I’d be glad for your company, Veran,” she says. “If I’m honest, talking to Prince Iano has been the most vexing thing I’ve ever attempted. Perhaps he’ll be more interested in you than in me. Just as long as you don’t start an international incident, Papa.”
Rou grimaces. “I’ve done that before, and it’s exhausting. My revolutionary days are over—that’s your responsibility now.”
He gives a bark of laughter at the absurdity of his comment given his present company—the exemplary diplomat and the tagalong interpreter—and shepherds us toward the gleaming doors.
Lark
“There you go, Whit.” I tighten the last strap on the little girl’s feet. The traveling boots I took off the bearded man in the stage are miles too big for her, but she’s outgrown her last pair of shoes and has been padding around with her toes sticking out. I’ve used leather thongs from an old bridle to cinch them to her feet. Not pretty, but it works.
She mumbles a thank you, the th sound distorted by her cleft lip, and shuffles away, leaving tracks in the dirt. I sit back on my heels and take off my broad-brimmed leather hat. The creases are lined with dust, and I beat it against my calf a few times. Nearby, Rat lifts his head at the noise, his bat ears perked up.
“Dust, dust, dust,” I say to him. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re all really purple or green underneath, but we’ve all turned the color of dust.”
He yawns and shakes his head, flapping his ears. A dirty cloud drifts from his fur.
Saiph emerges from the bushes, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, toweling himself off with a piece of sacking. “Seep’s free, Lark.”
“About time.” I get up and head through the scrub oak. Rat follows at my heels.
The seep sits against the wall of the canyon, deeper than a puddle but not enough to be a real pool. It’s born from our water pocket, the natural well in the rocks above that provides all our daily water. The pocket was how Rose and I first found our way into Three Lines Canyon, following the old three-lined petroglyph carved down near the mouth that proclaimed a source of water. The top of the pocket sits high up the canyon wall, and it takes a burning climb to get up to it, but in my four years holing up here, it’s never run dry. The water is cool and sweet, and as it trickles down the rock face, it leaves slick black streaks that attract clouds of yellow butterflies and dozens of sandy lizards that snap up flies.