“That one is not an ivoryan you should make acquaintances with. Any other of his family would be a better choice,” she said, her tone more a warning than an admonishment. Lidiya was very careful in giving him the respect his rank as Isar required, but she did, at least, tell him the truth of a situation, as he had requested when they first met. Rodian wasn’t interested in sycophants.
“Why not?” Rodian asked.
“He is prone to gossip. If you wish to keep secrets, he is not one to confide in.”
Rodian might be new to court, but he wasn’t ignorant of the currency social rumors could contain. But if anyone would knowthe undercurrents of the royal court, he was certain it would be Arkadi.
Four
ARKADI
The knock on his bedroom door caused Arkadi to roll over and burrow his face into the soft pillow with a groan. “I left explicit instructions to let me sleep in.”
The door opened on creaking hinges, and the familiar voice of his manservant came to his ears. Arkadi swore he could hear Gregor’s frown in the words. “My lord, a messenger arrived just now, bearing a letter for you.”
The coronation ball last night had ended well after midnight, so late it might as well have been morning. Arkadi had been looking forward to sleeping in until at least midday. He cracked one eye open, squinting through the dimly lit bedroom at the mechanical clock resting atop his dresser. He could just make out the time the pair of hands pointed to, and he was not happy to see it was still morning and he had, rudely, been woken up.
“That is not worth me getting up,” Arkadi grumbled, closing his eyes again.
“The letter is stamped with the royal seal and came delivered by one wearing the livery of the palace.”
Arkadi’s eyes snapped open at that, and he twisted over beneath the sheets, propping himself up on one elbow. He glared at Gregor, the older man not fazed at all by Arkadi’s grumpiness. “You should have led with that.”
Gregor, already shifting through the clothes hanging in Arkadi’s closet, ignored him. “The servants are preparing your bath.”
“Where is the letter?”
“In your sitting room.”
Arkadi sighed, realizing the few hours of sleep he’d managed were all he would get that day. He slid out of bed, tucking his feet into slippers and reaching for the soft robe Gregor had laid over the wingback chair in the corner last night.
He left Gregor to handle his wardrobe, seeking out the missive that had been reason enough to disturb his sleep. The cream envelope with its red wax seal carrying the imprint of a snarling bear head had been set beside a tray holding a beautifully painted samovar, tea already brewing inside it.
Arkadi ignored the tea in favor of the letter, picking it up and slipping his finger beneath the flap to tear across the crease. The letter inside was on thick paper, the sort used for proper correspondence between the ivoryanin. Typewriters might be used by merchants, but letters were always to be personalized. One coming from the palace could be written by a secretary on behalf of someone of rank, but looking at the stark black ink with its practical cursive, he rather thought it came from the Isar himself.
The signatory proved that to be true.
“Gregor,” Arkadi called out as he stared at the simple, one-page letter. “Please pick something formal. I’ve been invited for lunch with the Isar.”
Gregor was too much of a professional to react out loud to such a statement. Arkadi trusted in the man who had beenhis manservant for nearly a decade to put together something suitable for a royal lunch that could be held indoors or outdoors or with others. The variables were many, but the underlying thread tying them all together would be formal.
The sleepiness from a long evening faded once Arkadi had bathed and dressed with Gregor’s assistance. The formal suit he wore was a sleeveless golden brown long-vest that fell to mid-calf and split over the sides of his legs. It sat over a long-sleeved white shirt with cuffs the same color as the coat. A russet-red sash tied around his waist completed the silhouette. His trousers were the same color as the sash, while his knee-high boots matched the long-vest in color.
Once dressed, Gregor presented him with a gleaming wooden box and lifted the lid. Inside lay six blades: three stilettos and three knives, two of which were balanced for throwing. Arkadi deftly hid them on his body, securing them in the specialized sheathes sewn into his clothes and knee-high boots, as well as twisting up his hair and securing it with two stilettos that doubled as hair sticks.
Gregor was the only servant in the mansion who knew of Arkadi’s true background as a Blade, the manservant willingly bound to secrecy by Arkadi’s mother and a touch of mind magic from a magician. Despite his youthfulness at almost twenty-two years, Arkadi had killed in the past, and done so with the Star Order’s blessing to ensure the stability of their country. But thenrionetkashad crept into all corners of Urovan society, careening their country into a war that would not have benefited Urova in the end, and had not. And so here everyone was, left to pick up the pieces.
But at least one piece was proving to be worth something.
Isar Rodian lacked the political skill and heft of his predecessor, but there was an earnestness about him that madeArkadi want to believe he meant well. One hand-picked to rule by the Midnight Star couldn’t be a terrible man.
Arkadi clung to that thought on the drive through Matriskav to the civic center and heart of the capital city. The motor carriage rumbled over cobblestone streets, his driver taking the quickest route through the inner walls of the city for the palace. The Isar’s letter was tucked into his coat pocket, a seemingly innocuous missive that got him past the palace gates and into a place he’d left bare hours ago. Only this time, he wasn’t part of a crowd of other ivoryanin, vying to snatch a few seconds of their new Isar’s attention.
No, this time, Arkadi had the man all to himself, and wasn’t that a heady thought.
The aide from last night on the balcony met him in the grand foyer of the civic wing of the palace. She was dressed in a high-necked gown whose heavy skirt brushed the ground, and she eyed him like one might eye a bug.
“Ivoryan Arkadi,” the aide said coolly.
