From behind one of the curtains, the first trills of music began to play, and the girl set down her fork. Rising to her feet, she inclined her head once in Silas’s direction, then began to dance, a slow and seductive set of movements that seemed more appropriate for a bedroom than a dining room, but hardly anyone at the table paid her any notice. Except for the short man to Coralyn’s right, who watched the young woman with undisguised lust.
Clever.
“This nonsense of a salad looks like a garden topiary,” Coralyn said, knocking the architectural feat of lettuce and cucumber over with a violent blow of her fork. “Do you have gardens in Ithicana?”
“We do.” Aren swallowed a mouthful, thinking of the courtyard in his house at Midwatch. Even if he had the fortune to return, he’d raze that place to the ground before ever sleeping in the bed he’d shared with her. “But not cultivated like your gardens here. One must let the plants grow as they will or the typhoons destroy them. Wild things better off untamed. More beautiful because of it.”
“Sounds like a child I once knew.”
Aren’s teeth clenched, and he watched the dancing girl sway past, her blonde hair grazing the spy’s shoulder. The music was loud enough to drown out conversation from the other end of the table, and while Silas didn’t turn his attention away from the ambassadors, Aren could see the muscles in the man’s jaw were tense with irritation.
“She was a determined child. I’m not surprised she succeeded at what she was set to do.”
Discussion of Lara was inevitable. Any chance of the harem helping him was predicated upon their resentment of Silas for taking their daughters, of which Lara was one, and for Aren to reveal how deeply he loathed his wife would do more harm than good. “She’s not fool enough to come here and fall into his trap, if that’s what you fear.”
“Are you so certain?”
No. “Yes.”
Coralyn exhaled softly. “What of our other flowers?” Despite how well she played the game, Aren detected the anticipation in her voice. And the fear.
“One was clipped,” he said, pausing as a servant took the plate from in front of him, along with his damnable fork. “The gardener has his sights on the others.”
“The gardener.” She hesitated. “We’ve another name for him.”
“So your nephew tells me.”
“Somewhat less vigor,” Silas snapped at the musicians. “I can barely hear myself think!”
Coralyn’s hand stilled on the stem of her wineglass, moving only when another servant brought out the soup. At least for this, Aren could use his spoon. Except his throat was dry and the thought of eating made him sick.
Giving up this information would mean risking his people, but if it worked, it would mean stopping them from throwing away their lives in a futile attempt to rescue him.
He had to take the chance.
The music was fading, the dance nearly finished, and from across the room, the skinny man had reentered. Aren said, “I understand you aren’t fond of the scent of the flowers that have recently been planted in your garden.”
“No,” Coralyn replied, picking up her soupspoon. “I am not.”
“Perhaps you might consider asking the supplier to desist in sending them.”
She was silent, but Aren didn’t dare look at her. Didn’t dare draw any attention to this conversation that could turn the tide of his imprisonment.
“That’s an idea. Sadly, I’m not certain where to find the man.”
“Woman,” he corrected, his chest tightening. What if he was wrong about Coralyn? What if this was all just a ruse to capture more of his people? What if he was playing into Silas’s hands?
Countless uncertainties, but there was no doubt in Aren’s mind what would happen if he didn’t take this chance.
“Do you visit the Sapphire Market on the east side?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Obviously.” She lifted one jeweled wrist. The Sapphire Market catered to the elite of Vencia, its streets lined with shops full of jewels, fine fabrics, and other costly merchandise, exotic flowers included.
“The florist you seek is on the corner of Gret and Amot,” Aren said, giving the address. Not a florist, but a jeweler—the same who’d crafted his mother’s necklace, which he’d last seen hanging around Lara’s cursed neck. The woman was an Ithicanian spy, and she’d contact her handler, whom he prayed knew where to find whichever of his commanders was ordering these rescue attempts.
“The flowers are being sent for the king,” she said. “There would be consequences if it were discovered I canceled the order. Seems a great deal of risk to take over a smell. Why should I bother?”
The skinny man was circling the table. It would only be seconds before he was in earshot, and there was no time left for this roundabout conversation. “Revenge.”
“Won’t bring our flowers back. Nor will it do anything to keep them safe from the elements that threaten them.”
Aren had nothing else to offer. This wasn’t a woman who could be bought, and he was in no position to offer protection to Lara’s sisters, which was the only thing that might have tempted her. All he had was a chance that Coralyn’s loyalty to the wives of the harem and their children would extend to the only woman who’d escaped its clutches. To the spy who’d returned to Ithicana and remarried. Who’d had a son who wed a queen, who’d given birth to a king.
“Enough!” Silas shouted at the dancing wife. “Sit down!”
Aren said, “Visit the florist, my lady, and tell her Amelie Yamure’s grandson sent you.”
14
Lara
The sisters were staying in small groups throughout Vencia to avoid attention, but their meeting place was the workshop in the rear of a jewelry merchant’s store, the Maridrinian proprietor also a spy for Ithicana.
They slowly filtered in out of the rain, dressed in their various costumes, some pretending to be highborn patrons, some fellow merchants, and others servants or suppliers. The room was soon full, damp cloaks draped over the backs of chairs and the wooden floorboards tracked with mud and water. Once everyone was seated around the table, including Jor and Lia, Sarhina raised her hand, calling for silence.
Which meant they all heard the door to the shop slam open and an old woman snap, “Anyone could walk in here, Beth. At least lock the goddamned door when you have a meeting with the most wanted women in Maridrina going on under your roof.”
“Shit,” Lara muttered, her eyes flicking to Jor’s in accusation.
He only shrugged.
“Where is that traitorous little bitch we call a queen? I saw ten blue-eyed princesses waltz their way inside, but not her. Has fate delivered me some luck and killed her off?”
Sarhina’s shoulder bumped against Lara’s. “Whoever she is, she doesn’t appear to be your greatest admirer.”
Swallowing hard, Lara turned to the doorway to the front of the shop, watching as Nana appeared, resting age-spotted hands on her hips, water dripping from her clothes to pool at her feet.
“You didn’t honestly believe I was going to let you handle this job without supervision, did you, you conniving little twit?” The old healer pulled off her cloak and tossed it at Jor. “Not given your prior history of botching things up.”