“Why drive a wedge between Lyric and his council?”
Beremé gives the impression of rolling her eyes without doing so.
Iriset suddenly realizes: It isn’t the mirané Amaranth wants her brother to trust less.
Sidoné seems to understand, too, and scowls. Her glance at Amaranth, though, is shocked. Is Sidoné a true believer?
That’s—Iriset turns her head toward the throne, feeling a sudden draw of… humming? No, something insubstantial. A tug of forces. Except, this argument is about alliances on Lyric’s privilege council. The Holy Peace is ready to appoint someone to replace her. Iriset should be paying avid attention. It’s in her best interest. But something near the throne is strange. Everyone in the hall moves around like they don’t feel it, like Iriset is the only onenotwearing a null wire.
“Your handmaiden is bored,” Beremé drawls.
Her Glory frowns at Iriset, who directs her attention back to the game.
“Tell me who fashioned this dress for you,” the mirané prince continues, asking Amaranth but eyeing Iriset with slight flicks of her gaze and side-eyes—the only polite way to study aface. Iriset stares at Beremé’s opal rings instead. Opals welcome design, and the rings are likely functional as well as pretty. “Menna is not capable of such imagination.”
“A friend in the Ecstatic School, Beremé. Do you think you know all my friends?” Amaranth teases.
“I should hope so.”
Her Glory laughs prettily and dismisses her handmaidens with a broad, elegant wave.
Iriset slips away immediately.
A dark brown man with a flat nose stops her, saying her name a bit too loud. There’s a ripple in the nearby people, whisperings ofLittle Cat, but then the man introduces himself as a merchant interested to know if Her Glory has discussed garlic tariffs.
For a moment Iriset can’t even think what garlic is. She shakes her head, avoiding him, but is interrupted by another man, older, with a fresh honey beer for her. He’s mirané, claims to be related to Bey and Lapis mérs Matsimet, and curious to know her better. Iriset takes the beer and listens just long enough to not seem rude, before excusing herself with a tight smile. But a sudden tug on a trailing scarf from her robe nearly trips her, sloshing her drink. An older miran touches his forehead in apology with the absolute fakest expression of sincerity she’s ever seen. Someone else snickers. Iriset clenches her jaw. A mirané woman steps forward and offers to help Iriset tie up that scarf and, as she does so, chatters at Iriset about a garden exhibit during the Days of Mercy that her family is hoping Her Glory might visit. The woman’s friend taps a fan against her thin ceramic mask and says they should be asking about the soon-to-arrive Singix’s interest in the flowers of Moonshadow.
Iriset murmurs about asking, then darts away. She moves through the party nearer to the throne in a spiraling pattern, asthough she seeks to lie to herself about her target. She keeps her eyes down behind her mask, not wishing to be caught again, though it’s good—it has to be—that she’s being sought out for access to Her Glory. It means she’s a known quantity, and some courtiers are beginning to test her. The ones willing to look past her parentage, at least.
Can she use mirané networking to rescue her father? She doesn’t have enough time for developing a vast web of conspirators!
“Iriset mé Isidor,” says a miran, sidling up beside her. It’s the ambiguously gendered person who laughed so delightedly at Amaranth’s outfit. “I was sorry to hear you weren’t wearing a cat mask again.”
Iriset’s smile is pinched. “Can’t repeat myself.”
The miran laughs the same tinkling laugh. “Hehet méra Davith. Allow me to entertain you for a moment.”
Iriset hums, looking for a way out. She certainly won’t trust anyone who approaches so openly, only after she’s separated from Her Glory.
“That dress truly is spectacular. The delicate use of—what is it? Friction-buttons?”
She stops. “I’m sure if I knew I’d be sworn to secrecy. But you could ask Her Glory.”
Hehet leans in, all his straight hair shifting across his shoulders. He’s got at least thirty-two glittering stars painted with some sort of mica paint shimmering all over his face. It’s a very successful mask if the goal is to obscure or confuse features. “Ask directly? My dear, asking requires an answer and I’d never put Her Glory in the position of having to lie to me.”
“But it’s well and good if I do?”
“Naturally.” Hehet’s grin is as spectacular as his starry mask,and look, there’s glitter in his teeth. “Now, if you ever want someone to lie toyou, talk with Forez méra Baret over there, leaning on Dove méra Curro, who never lies but always seems to be.”
“Sounds like they don’t have much to talk about,” she murmurs.
“One leads a faction who only believes in undercutting your mistress, the other has no faction at all, which is an impressive feat.”
“What do you want from me?” Iriset asks, finally looking directly at Hehet. The dazzle of glitter on his cheeks might actually be made of tiny mirrors.
Hehet puts a scandalized hand over his breast. “Such directness!”
She waits.
