Arkadi smiled sweetly. “It can’t be too private if you’ve brought friends.”
Sigurd glared at him as Arkadi swept across the room to take a seat opposite the others on the sofa there, intentionally leaving room for Rodian. He stared across the table, mentally matching faces to the voices he’d heard in the teahouse.
Sigurd and Kaja made strange bedfellows, but he supposed their desire not to give up their children to tithes was what had drawn them together. The other two weren’t so much a surprise, more like Arkadi should have expected them to be part of such a folly.
Ivoryan Vissarion and Ivoryan Demid were newly elevated Ministers of older bloodlines. They held their legacy in high esteem, Vissarion more than anyone, as his family had distant ties to the old Isar’s bloodlines. Arkadi figured the other man probably felt betrayed by the Midnight Star to have thrown his lot in with the others. The crown had bypassed Vissarion’s bloodline completely when it should have, by Urovan law, gone to whatever bloodline was close enough to claim it.
But the Midnight Star had chosen otherwise, and these four had seen power slip from their grasp. Rodian cared nothing for the favors ivoryanin offered, preferring to rule in a way that was best for the people, not just the ivoryanin. It’s what was earning him praise in the broadsheets but causing dissent in the royal court.
The four wouldn’t have been able to bring weapons into the palace, nor were any of the four magicians capable of magic. Arkadi didn’t know how they would attempt to harm Rodian, buthe knew they would try. Why else would Sigurd be glaring so balefully at him?
Arkadi met the other man’s gaze with a lazy smile of his own. “Do sit, Sigurd. I’m certain the Isar will be along momentarily. He should be finishing up his briefing with the fisheries Minister.”
The weekly meetings Rodian had with the handful of Ministers who weren’t ivoryanin but who were instead heads of the various merchant guilds within Urova were something even the last Isar hadn’t sat for. But Rodian, Arkadi knew, cared about the people under his rule, not just the ivoryanin. It was what made Arkadi care for the other man, that selflessness so few had in the royal court.
“You seem quite close with the Isar, if the rumors are true,” Kaja said, eyeing him through narrowed eyes. Her dark blonde hair was braided in a crown around her head, the style drawing attention to the jeweled earrings and necklace she wore. The gown she wore was certainly fancy enough for a private meeting with the Isar. Arkadi thought it odd she still wore a pair of cream-colored leather gloves best suited for the outside, her jeweled rings worn over them.
He didn’t let his gaze linger on her hands, instead letting it track lazily from one ivoryan to another, letting them believe the façade of his social stature he’d so carefully cultivated over the last few years. It had left him with few true friends but a wealth of information. Many of the surviving ivoryanin still knew his bloodlines held their secrets.
“And what do the rumors say about me?” Arkadi asked, despite already knowing the answer. He’d started half of them, after all.
“That your advice to the Isar has steered him down the wrong road.”
Arkadi couldn’t help but laugh. “The Isar is not one to be swayed once he sets his mind to something. If you had paid any attention in the recent Council sessions, you would know that.”
It was why the four had asked for this meeting, after all, whether they wanted to admit it or not. Rodian was Isar and could rule as he liked, but he tended to err toward what was good for the nation as a whole and not for the ivoryanin in particular.
Before Kaja could reply to that verbal barb, the door to the Blue Stateroom was pushed open by a servant. Arkadi rose with the others as Rodian stepped inside, nearly having to duck his head to keep from hitting it on the top of the doorframe. If he’d been wearing his crown, he would have needed to. He’d settled for a thin golden coronet for today’s meeting, and it shined around his head and dark hair.
“Isar,” the four of them all echoed as they pressed a fist over their hearts. Arkadi bowed with the other men while Kaja executed a flawless curtsy to the exact royal degree and no more.
Rodian nodded at them in acknowledgment as several servants bustled in behind him, holding trays laden with small plates, tea, and a samovar. Food and tea was one way to make people linger, and Rodian could use it in subtle ways to continue conversations or cut them short. It was one of the first tricks Arkadi had taught him, even if Rodian looked like he’d bitten into a sour winter plum at the thought. Rodian did not care for small talk, but he was getting better at it with Arkadi’s help.
The palace guards who came into the room after the servants were waved off by Rodian and a firm admonishment of “This is a private ivoryanin meeting. Please wait outside.”
The lieutenant frowned, gaze sweeping across the room with blatant distrust. “Isar, I must protest that request.”
“It wasn’t a request,” Rodian said lightly as the servants finished setting up the tea spread on the low table.
The palace guards were unhappy about being banished from the room when Arkadi knew they were always present when Rodian held meetings. Removing them could only have been done by Rodian himself, using a self-centered reason to do so. But they left, and that was the important thing.
Rodian settled onto the sofa beside Arkadi with scant inches between them. Even sitting, he towered over them all. Perhaps that was why he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, big hands folding together between them. Arkadi kept trying to teach him to take up space, but ingrained habits were difficult to break.
“How fare your husbands and wives?” Rodian asked. The inquiry was a traditional opening in talks such as these, one which Arkadi had no need to answer. But it filled the time it took for the tea to steep in the samovar, and no one would rush that.
The answers given were rote, no one delving deep. Arkadi didn’t even bother to speak, as he had no one at home laying claim to his bed. He’d rather the man next to him lay claim to him instead, but that was a fanciful thought best left by the wayside of his road.
“I understand you have concerns with the tithes promised to the wardens,” Rodian said after they had all finally poured themselves tea, sounding almost apologetic to Arkadi’s ears. He doubted that was faked. Rodian cared deeply about his people.
“You’re taking our children away,” Sigurd said, not mincing words. His white-knuckled grip on his teacup threatened the fragile porcelain if Arkadi was any judge of pressure.
“They are the amends we must make to the rest of Maricol and for our folly in the attack against the wardens.” Rodian’s expression was one of grim sorrow, something Arkadi could see even in his profile. His beard masked none of his emotion. Arkadi despaired of him ever cultivating a court mask, but perhaps it was for the better.
“Our children shouldn’t have to pay for the old Isar’s machinations,” Vissarion said, his deep voice threaded through with anger.
“And how manyrionetkaswere found to be in your bloodline?” Arkadi asked with a politely pointed smile. “At least a dozen, if I recall.”
Vissarion half stood, nearly forgetting himself in his sudden temper. “You dare?—”
