“I’m not truly an expert on these things, I’m afraid, Vessel,” the high priest continued. “And, I’m afraid that Lord Lightsong is not either. If you press him, he could very well just start making things up.”

“Scoot!” Lightsong said indignantly. “That’s slanderous. Oh, and by the way, your hat is on fire.”

“Thank you,” Siri said. “Both of you. This has actually been rather helpful.”

“If I might suggest . . .” the high priest said.

“Please,” she replied.

“Try a professional storyteller, Vessel,” the priest said. “You can order one in from the city, and he can recite both histories and tales of imagination to you. They will provide much better information than we can.”

Siri nodded. Why can’t the priests in our palace be this helpful? Of course, if they really were covering up the true reason their God Kings died, they had good reason to avoid helping her. In fact, it was likely that if she asked for a storyteller, they would just provide one who would tell her what they wanted her to hear.

She frowned. “Could . . . you do that for me, Lightsong?”

“What?”

“Order in a storyteller,” she said. “I should like you to be there, in case I have any questions.”

Lightsong shrugged. “I guess I could. Haven’t heard a storyteller in some time. Just let me know when.”

It wasn’t a perfect plan. Her servants were listening and they might report to the priests. However, if the storyteller came to Lightsong’s palace, there was at least some chance of Siri hearing the truth.

“Thank you,” she said, rising.

“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast,” Lightsong said, raising a finger.

She stopped.

He drank from his cup.

“Well?” she finally asked.

He held up the finger again as he continued to drink, tipping his head back, getting the last bits of slushy ice from the bottom of the cup. He set it aside, mouth blue. “How refreshing. Idris. Wonderful place. Lots of ice. Costs quite a bit to bring it here, so I’ve heard. Good thing I don’t ever have to pay for anything, eh?”

Siri raised an eyebrow. “And I’m standing here waiting because . . .”

“You promised to answer some of my questions.”

“Oh,” she said, sitting back down. “Of course.”

“Now, then,” he said. “Did you know any city guards back in your home?”

She cocked her head. “City guards?”

“You know, fellows who enforce the law. Police. Sheriffs. The men who catch crooks and guard dungeons. That sort.”

“I knew a couple, I guess,” she said. “My home city wasn’t large but it was the capital. It did attract people who could be difficult sometimes.”

“Ah, good,” Lightsong said. “Kindly describe them for me. Not the difficult fellows. The city watch.”

Siri shrugged. “I don’t know. They tended to be careful. They’d interview newcomers to the village, walk the streets looking for wrongdoing, that sort of thing.”

“Would you call them inquisitive types?”

“Yes,” Siri said. “I guess. I mean, as much as anybody. Maybe more.”

“Were there ever any murders in your village?”

“A couple,” Siri said, glancing down. “There shouldn’t have been—my father always said things like that shouldn’t happen in Idris. Said murder was a thing of . . . well, Hallandren.”

Lightsong chuckled. “Yes, we do it all the time. Quite the party trick. Now, did these policemen investigate the murders?”

“Of course.”

“Without having to be asked to do so?”

Siri nodded.

“How’d they go about it?”

“I don’t know,” Siri said. “They asked questions, talked to witnesses, looked for clues. I wasn’t involved.”

“No, no,” Lightsong said. “Of course you weren’t. Why, if you’d been a murderer, they would have done something terrible to you, yes? Like exile you to another country?”

Siri felt herself pale, hair growing lighter.

Lightsong just laughed. “Don’t go taking me so seriously, Your Majesty. Honestly, I gave up wondering if you were an assassin days ago. Now, if your servants and mine will stay behind for a second, I think I may have something important to tell you.”

Siri started as Lightsong stood up. He began to walk from the pavilion, and his servants remained where they were. Confused but excited, Siri rose from her own seat and hurried after him. She caught up with him a short distance away, on the stone walkway that ran between the various boxes in the arena. Down below, the athletes continued their display.

Lightsong looked down at her, smiling.

They really are tall, she thought, craning a bit. A single foot of extra height made such a difference. Standing next to a man like Lightsong—and not really being that tall herself—she felt dwarfed. Maybe he’ll tell me the thing I’ve been looking for, Siri thought. The secret!

“You are playing a dangerous game, my queen,” Lightsong said, leaning against the stone railing. It was built for Returned proportions, so it was too high for her to rest against comfortably.

“Game?” she asked.

“Politics,” he said, watching the athletes.

“I don’t want to play politics.”

“If you don’t, it will play you, I’m afraid. I always get sucked in, regardless of what I do. Complaining doesn’t stop that—though it does annoy people, which is satisfying in its own right.”

Siri frowned. “So you pulled me aside to give me a warning?”

“Colors, no,” Lightsong said, chuckling. “If you haven’t already figured out that this is dangerous, then you’re far too dense to appreciate a warning. I just wanted to give some advice. The first is about your persona.”

“My persona?”

“Yes,” he said. “It needs work. Choosing the persona of an innocent newcomer was a good instinct. It suits you. But you need to refine it. Work on it.”

“It’s not a persona,” she said sincerely. “I am confused and new to all this.”

Lightsong raised a finger. “That’s the trick to politics, child. Sometimes, although you can’t disguise who you are and how you really feel, you can make use of who you are. People distrust that which they can’t understand and predict. As long as you feel like an unpredictable element in court, you will appear to be a threat. If you can skillfully—and honestly—portray yourself as someone they understand, then you’ll begin to fit in.”

Siri frowned.

“Take me as an example,” Lightsong said. “I’m a useless fool. I always have been, as long as I can remember—which actually isn’t all that long. Anyway, I know how people regard me. I enhance it. Play with it.”

“So it’s a lie?”

“Of course not. This is who I am. However, I make certain that people never forget it. You can’t control everything. But if you can control how people regard you, then you can find a place in this mess. And once you have that, you can begin to influence factions. Should you want to. I rarely do because it’s such a bother.”

Siri cocked her head. Then she smiled. “You’re a good man, Lightsong,” she said. “I knew it, even when you were insulting me. You mean no harm. Is that part of your persona?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling. “But I’m not sure what it is that convinces people to trust me. I’d get rid of it if I could. It only serves to make people expect too much. Just give what I said some practice. The best thing about being locked in this beautiful prison is that you can do some good, you can change things. I’ve seen others do it. People I respected. Even if there haven’t been many of those around the court lately.”

“All right,” she said. “I will.”

“You’re digging for something—I can sense it. And it has to do with the priests. Don’t make too many waves until you’re ready to strike. Sudden and surprising, that’s how you want to be. You don’t want to appear too nonthreatening—people are always suspicious of the innocent. The trick is to appear average. Just as crafty as everyone else. That way, everyone else will assume that they can beat you with just a little advantage.”

Siri nodded. “Kind of an Idrian philosophy.”

“You came from us,” Lightsong said. “Or, perhaps, we came from you. Either way, we’re more similar than our outward trappings make us seem. What is that Idrian philosophy of extreme plainness except a means of contrasting with Hallandren? All those whites you people use? That makes you stand out on a national scale. You act like us, we act like you, we just do the same things in opposite ways.”

She nodded slowly.

He smiled. “Oh, and one thing. Please, please don’t depend on me too much. I mean that. I’m not going to be of much help. If your plots come to a head—if things go wrong at the last moment and you’re in danger or distress—don’t think of me. I will fail you. That I promise from my heart with absolute sincerity.”

“You’re a very strange man.”

“Product of my society,” he said. “And since most of the time, my society consists pretty much only of myself, I blame god. Good day, my queen.”

With that, he sauntered off back to his box and waved for her servants—who had been watching with concern—to finally rejoin her.

28

The meeting is set, my lady,” Thame said. “The men are eager. Your work in T’Telir is gaining more and more notoriety.”

Vivenna wasn’t sure what she thought of that. She sipped her juice. The lukewarm liquid was addictively flavorful, although she wished for some Idrian ice.

Thame looked at her eagerly. The short Idrian was, according to Denth’s investigations, trustworthy enough. His story of being “forced” into a life of crime was a tad overstated. He filled a niche in Hallandren society—he acted as a liaison between the Idrian workers and the various criminal elements.

He was also, apparently, a staunch patriot. Despite the fact that he tended to exploit his own people, particularly newcomers to the city.

“How many will be at the meeting?” Vivenna asked, watching traffic pass on the street out beyond the restaurant’s patio gate.

“Over a hundred, my lady,” Thame said. “Loyal to our king, I promise. And, they’re influential men, all of them—for Idrians in T’Telir, that is.”

Which, according to Denth, meant that they were men who wielded power in the city because they could provide cheap Idrian workers and could sway the opinion of the underprivileged Idrian masses. They were men who, like Thame, thrived because of the Idrian expatriates. A strange duality. These men had stature among an oppressed minority, and without the oppression, they would be powerless.

Like Lemex, she thought, who served my father—even seemed to respect and love him—all the while stealing every bit of gold he could lay his hands on.