The Shadow Palace E-Book

Celine Jeanjean

• Herausgeber: Celine Jeanjean
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

They  made it into the palace…
…But will they be able to escape from it?

In the shadowy world of the Airnian court, nothing is more important than knowing who to trust. And nothing is harder to determine.

Rory and the gang need to make alliances if they’re to succeed in their mission, but their attempts are met with intrigue and betrayal. And all the while, the White Hornet is watching, waiting for an opportunity to make them disappear.

Longinus, meanwhile, continues with his quest to discover what happened to his family. His search for answers will take him deep within the palace, and deep within its secrets, until he is faced with a horrific choice.

Can Rory and the gang save him from a fate worse than death?

Get The Shadow Palace to find out.

“Excellent book and entire series. Five is not nearly enough stars” – Jane Firebaugh, Goodreads.
“Ever since reading the first book, the Bloodless Assassin, I have been caught up in the crazy, fast paced adventures of The Viper and the Urchin! This book does not disappoint.” - Kristin Gregozeski, Goodreads.
“In short, it's another wonderful piece of pure entertainment that's simply fun to read.” LJ, Goodreads.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Copyright

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

The Shadow Palace

Copyright © 2020 Celine Jeanjean. All rights reserved

http://celinejeanjean.com

The right of Celine Jeanjean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

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CHAPTER 1

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Longinus frowned. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he would find himself in this position.

He was in the presence of one of the most talented seamstresses he’d ever encountered, and yet he hadn’t manifested any kind of real interest in what she could do for his clothing. Yes, one could argue that once one had reached such levels of perfection, it was futile to attempt to improve upon it. However, Longinus was nothing if not a man of profound humility, and if the seamstress had had a suggestion to make about his clothing, he—normally—would have most definitely considered taking the advice.

As it was, his mind kept drifting back to his family and the myriad of questions that still surrounded them, so he was barely giving her any attention.

Then there was the room he was in, a room of such staggering opulence, it went far beyond what anyone would consider gaudy, past crass, and somehow circled back to beautiful. Yet he was indifferent to it. Was he properly appraising the skill and craftsmanship that had gone into the creation of the gold-thread woven damask that covered the walls?

No. An absolute travesty. Although now that he was paying attention to it, it really couldn’t be denied that the skill of Northern Airnians with patterns was second to none. It was displayed to great effect in Simeon’s rooms—every surface was covered or upholstered with fine, expensive fabrics, the colours and motifs clashing merrily in a way that somehow managed to be pleasing.

Longinus turned to the seamstress, who was fussing with Rory’s skirts. “I have to extend my most sincere apologies for the attention I am utterly failing to lavish upon you right now. This has never happened to me before. Normally, anytime I am in the presence of someone who knows how to work fabric, I give them the due attention they deserve.”

Rory looked down at the seamstress. “If I was you, I’d thank my lucky stars. You got a lucky break there.”

Longinus frowned. “Break? I’ll have you know that practitioners of the sartorial arts normally enjoy my attentions.”

Rory smirked. “That’s what they tell you to your face, at least.”

“Um, I’m fine,” the seamstress ventured, looking confused. She had no real need to be confused—the situation, in Longinus’s estimation, was rather clear. But intelligence and skill with needlework didn’t always go hand in hand. Longinus had come across his fair share of tailors who could sew like angels but had all the intellect of a wet clog.

“And how is it that the world has so spun on his head that Rory is the one going to court while I am relegated to the role of a servant?” he lamented.

“You can always show your face at court,” Simeon drawled. “But many people knew your father, and you could easily stir up trouble, the kind of trouble that would nullify my protection.”

Simeon seemed to only have one manner of sitting down—sprawling across whatever chair or sofa he had selected as if his spine were incapable of keeping him upright. The man also had a rather astonishing knack for crumpling his clothing. No matter how recently he had donned fresh clothes, they always looked wrinkled and like he’d lived in them for a couple of days. The same went for his sandy hair—a perpetual mess that had clearly never known a comb—which matched his red-rimmed eyes.

In short, Simeon still looked like the tired, over-indulgent alcoholic that he was. His wealth, though, was far more obvious now that they were in the palace. Take the huge aquamarine that dangled from one of his ears, so pure it looked like it would chime if one hit it with a spoon. It was almost as impressive as the massive ruby that glinted blood red where it nestled in a thickset yellow-gold ring. To say nothing of his smoking jacket—it was brocaded with such skill that in other circumstances, Longinus might have wept.

As it was, he only had one thing in mind when he looked Simeon over: the man had answers.

He’d known Vaserin, Longinus’s father. He had professed not to know Longinus’s mother, but he’d confirmed that she’d been in the palace. And though it was an enormous, sprawling structure, given enough persistent searching, Longinus should be able to discover what had happened to her. At least that was what he hoped.

Even more momentous was the fact that neither Simeon nor Anton, an associate of his father’s who’d briefly come forward only to be killed by the White Hornet, had outright said that his mother was dead, just that the White Hornet had taken her. Myran’s claims that she was still alive had, at first, seemed like outlandish lies, but now he dared hope it might be true.

Longinus replayed his confrontation with Myran back in Damsport over and over, trying to tease out more meaning, trying to read between the lines.

“I was also told to bring some uniforms,” the seamstress said, making him realise that his attention had drifted away again. The seamstress left Rory’s side and went to the parcels she had set on a nearby table. “Some valets favour tweed,” she told Longinus, handing him a parcel.

“Tweed?” The world hadn’t completely gone to hell in a gold lamé reticule—Longinus’s curiosity was still piqued by the prospect of discovering a new fabric. He opened the parcel. “Tweed,” he repeated, feeling the fabric between his fingers.

“That’s herringbone tweed, actually,” the seamstress said.

“De-lightful,” Longinus declared. “Such rustic simplicity with just a soupçon of elegance.”

“I also have maids’ uniforms,” the seamstress said. “They’re supposed to be altered to fit…” She looked at Adelma dubiously.

The large smuggler let out a bark of laughter. “Aw, sweetheart. You’re funny.”

The seamstress bit her lip, looking back down at the uniform in her hands. Obviously, the dress had been made with a regular woman in mind.

“I think we can all agree that trying to squeeze Adelma into that dress would be like trying to get an elephant’s trunk to fit in one of Longinus’s gloves,” Rafe said.

“Quite.” Longinus winced at the thought of molesting his gloves in such a way. “And believe me,” he added to the seamstress, “you don’t want to subject your eyes to that trauma, at least not first thing in the morning.”

“Not at any time of day, if you know what’s good for you, my girl.” Adelma turned and grinned at Cruikshank. “I guess that means you’ve got to fit into one of the dresses.” Adelma looked absolutely delighted.

The seamstress took Cruikshank’s measurements for the maid’s uniform, looking more and more worried as she circled her measuring tape around the machinist’s muscular shoulders and arms. Then Simeon dismissed her with an annoyed flick of his hand.

Cruikshank looked at the dresses and sighed. “Can someone remind me again why we think this is a good idea?”

“Samara and Cayden need to have personal servants,” Simeon sniffed, referring to Rory and Rafe’s cover identities.

“A handmaid,” Adelma said, pointing at Cruikshank. She pointed at Longinus. “A valet”—she ran a palm along the shaved side of her head—“and a bodyguard.”

“And we don’t anticipate anyone noticing that my cover identity—Darro—is now a valet?” Longinus asked.

Simeon knew their true names, although they would all continue with their cover identities as wealthy Southerners while in the palace. “Samara is the one with the money,” he said, “and Cayden is the one with the title. People already don’t care much for such minor nobility as those two, so to care or notice about their cousin with no money, title, or connections… in any case, it makes perfect sense for a lowly cousin to stand in as Cayden’s valet.”

Simeon may have known that they were Damsians, but he had no idea that they worked for the Marchioness, nor did he know their true reasons for coming to the Airnian capital. A number of Damsport’s allies had turned their cloak, agreeing to back an Airnian invasion in the right circumstances. The Marchioness needed to know who these countries were so she could work to resecure Damsport’s place on the international scene. Damsport maintained its independence through alliance treaties, other larger countries pledging to intervene if someone were to attempt to annex the small port city. With some of those alliances no longer certain, Damsport was very vulnerable to attack.

And of course, Longinus had his own mission relating to his family.

“Longinus?”

He started out of his thoughts, cursing as he realised that he’d yet again drifted. “Sorry?”

“What d’you think?” Rory asked, gesturing at her dress. “Will it be alright for the meeting?”

It really wasn’t to be believed—he had allowed the seamstress to complete her work on Rory’s dress without giving her input. She was good, but not so good that he couldn’t have given her direction, humility be damned. He was truly not himself at the moment.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not buying that dress,” Simeon said. “You’ll pay for the seamstress yourself. Saving your life is one thing—my generosity doesn’t extend to Rory’s clothing, nor Samara’s for that matter. I’ve checked, and your credit line at Arvestia will be reopened, so you have plenty of money,” Simeon added.

“If you were able to ensure we can access our money, do you have an idea of when we can expect our belongings?” Cruikshank asked.

“I’m not sure,” Simeon replied.

“And how exactly is it that you knew the White Hornet would want to search our things?” Rafe asked.

Longinus understood why Rafe was so suspicious of Simeon’s motivations. Simeon had stepped in and saved them from the White Hornet’s clutches, but he’d also proven he wasn’t above manipulating the situation towards his own ends. Longinus, however, couldn’t help but hope they could trust the man, especially as far as the information he could potentially share about Longinus’s family.

“Your gratitude overwhelms me,” Simeon drawled.

“Like we should have been grateful for the information regarding Anita?” Rafe asked, raising an eyebrow.

Simeon seemed entirely untroubled. He took a sip of his drink. “If that was an attempt to engender guilt, it failed. And as to your other question about the White Hornet, I knew nothing. It’s simply how I would have operated if I were her. My intervention would have been for nothing if she’d managed to seize your possessions, organised an official search, and planted something very incriminating. Anything relating to the safety of the Emperor would override my authority. Luckily for you”—Simeon raised an eyebrow at Rafe—“my man is overseeing the search, and he’ll make sure that nothing is planted. That’s why it’s taking so long,” he added to Cruikshank. “Everything’s being done by the book so that there’s no way the White Hornet can find fault.”

Simeon turned to Longinus. “You also have a number of unusual items that have to be catalogued and identified.”

Longinus shifted uncomfortably. “They’re simply exotic ingredients for the, ah, mixing of cosmetics—”

“I know the compounds of poison when I see them, and so does everyone here,” Simeon said. “But the ingredients aren’t illegal by themselves as such. And you’re in luck, given that poison is a cherished pastime of our nobility. If the White Hornet has you arrested for owning poisonous compounds, that would set a problematic precedent.” Simeon gave a wolfish smile. “If everyone who poisoned a rival or a bothersome family member were arrested, the whole court would fall into chaos.”

“And what kind of heat can we expect while we’re in the palace?” Adelma stood and grabbed a decanter, refilling Simeon’s glass then her own.

“What plays the most in your favour is that I intervened and now have you as my guests.” Simeon nodded as he took the drink from Adelma. “Nobody wants to risk provoking me, you see. We all live in a very fragile balance. My cousin, the current emperor, is unpopular, so if I were to ever make noises about wanting to overthrow my abdication and rule, a lot of people would come out of the woodwork and support me.” Simeon grinned. “Despite my reputation, or perhaps because of it, I imagine I come across as the kind of potential ruler who can easily be controlled in matters of state. Of course, if I became a real threat to the Emperor, I’d be assassinated in short order, but that would still set off a problematic chain of events. Civil war very nearly erupted during my late brother’s short reign, and that could happen again. So everyone, including the White Hornet, does their best not to provoke me, while I make sure I stay well away from any matters of state. We have a very uneasy truce, and that is where I exist.”

“My, don’t you like the sound of your own voice?” Adelma said. “Basically, so long as we don’t step out of line, we should be fine. That’s all we need to know, right?”

“Only while you’re in the palace. My protection doesn’t extend to the rest of the city. Once outside the grounds, the White Hornet will snap you up. Making someone disappear in the palace is easy, but so long as I’m here to possibly make noise about it, that keeps her hands tied. You step outside the palace, and I’m sure I’d be told how you all went back down south, and I would never hear from you again.” Simeon gave a joyless smile. “And that is why you should always be careful what you wish for—you wanted to get into the palace. Well, you’re in. You’re going to have a hell of a time getting back out again. And now I shall leave you. I have money burning a hole in my pocket and a duke who offered me interesting odds on a bet.”

Rafe watched him leave with dark eyes. “He’s not telling us the whole truth,” he said the moment Simeon shut the door.

“I agree,” Adelma said lightly. “The man pours a good drink, though, and that says a lot about a person.”

“Yes, it says that he’s an alcoholic,” Rafe said.

“Like I said, a man of character,” Adelma replied with a grin.

“Earlier, I walked past his private rooms,” Cruikshank said. “His door was ajar, so I snuck a look in. The room beyond was an absolute mess, and it doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in quite some time. But what got me curious was his door: it’s barred with two sets of steel deadbolts, and it has steel butt hinges—you’d basically need a battering ram to kick that door open. Same for the door across the room, by the looks of things. Why would he need such high security for his rooms when he’s already at the heart of the palace?”

“He’s afraid of something,” Longinus said.

“The White Hornet?” Rory asked.

“Could be,” Cruikshank said. “Whatever it is, we need to keep our wits about us.”

“And I don’t agree that so long as we stay inside the palace, we’re safe,” Rory said. “There’s also that fortune teller, Abisai. She knows we’re Damsian. I sorted out that problem when I told her we’re looking to defect and offered to bribe her, but now the bribe ain’t coming no more. Plus, if word starts to get out about our real identities, it might be that the White Hornet can discover why we’re really here.”

“I agree,” Cruikshank said. “We need to move quickly. Let’s hope today’s meeting with the minister goes smoothly. Adelma and I will look into an escape plan.” Cruikshank turned to Longinus. “I do think we should listen to Simeon’s warning about you, lovey. It might be best if you stayed with Adelma and me.”

Longinus nodded reluctantly. That would mean his avenue for speaking to courtiers was closed, but he remained hopeful that he could find clues among the more discreet parts of the palace.

“Rafe, you have everything memorised about the gun?” Cruikshank asked.

Rafe nodded. He recited a quick list of the gun’s features that should capture Voynia’s interest. Cruikshank had taken apart the two guns she’d stolen from the factory in Bel Stadd and, based on those, had designed a pitch for Rafe to impress the minister. Voynia seemed to be their best bet to find out which of Damsport’s allies had turned. They needed time with the minister to extract that information from him somehow.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Adelma said, knocking back her drink.

CHAPTER 2

Rory and Rafe made their final preparations ahead of their meeting with war minister Voynia. Rory leaned over Rafe’s shoulder, looking at the map Simeon had sketched out for them. The way to the minister’s office was so long and complicated that memorising directions hadn’t been an option.

“When people build palaces, they don’t half-like to make them sprawl,” Rory muttered.

Rafe grinned. “How else are people to know they’re in the presence of greatness if they’re not overwhelmed by the size of the place?”

“I reckon there’s an inverse type relationship between good leaders and the size of their palaces, right? The Old Girl’s Mansion is tiny compared to the pile of marble the Prelate had back in Azyr, and he were corrupt and incompetent. And this place is way bigger than Azyr.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough whether your theory’s right.”

Rory nodded. “I’m a bit nervous, truth be told. I hope we don’t screw it up.”

“We’ll be fine. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

“We made it by the skin of our teeth,” Rory countered. “We got pretty bloody lucky that Simeon decided it were in his interest to help us. And we still got no idea why he decided to help us. All that nonsense about a debt to Longinus’s old man—I don’t buy it.”

“Me neither, but what choice do we have?”

Rory’s face clouded over. “None, really. Which is why that bloody sales pitch better go well.” She scratched her head, ruffling her ropelike hair. “So, we’ve baited the hook, and say we get Voynia to bite. How d’we get him to spill about the Damsian allies?”

“We’re going to have to improvise,” Rafe replied. “Without knowing what kind of man he is, we can’t figure the best approach to use on him.”

“Or we go all out, no messing about, slap the cards on the table, and tell him the price for the gun is telling us who turned their coats.”

Rafe frowned. “I don’t know. That seems a pretty big risk to take. It would make it clear that not only are we Damsian but that we work for the Marchioness. Why else would we need to know which Damsian allies turned?”

Rory sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Honestly, a part of me just wants to barge in there, grab him, shake him until we get the information, then get the hell out of here.”

“Well, if things don’t work according to plan, we can always keep that as a backup option. I’m sure Adelma would happily rattle his teeth in his skull if we—wait, I just got an idea. What if we tell Voynia that we can give him a better price on the gun if he introduces us to ambassadors for all of Airnia’s allies? You know, so that we can potentially sell to them as well. Then if there’s overlap between Damsian and Airnian allies, that gives us an idea of who the Marchioness needs to work on to strengthen Damsport’s relationships.”

“That could work, you know,” Rory said, growing excited. “And rather than having to wait until he actually makes the introductions, we can see if we can get a list from him of all the ambassadors at court. Tell him that we’d need to know the number of potential clients to calculate the discount we can give him.”

Rory and Rafe exchanged a look.

“See, we’ll manage it fine,” Rafe said.

Rory grinned. “You know, the more I find out about posh folk, the more I realise that everything in life ain’t no different than the Rookery. This is like haggling at the Great Bazaar or like picking a pocket. Diversion. We get Voynia to focus on getting a discount on the gun, keep his attention over here…” Rory kissed Rafe lightly and brushed her lips against the edge of his jaw, near his ear.

“Hmm, if that’s how you deliver a sales pitch, I’m a fan,” Rafe said. “Although I’m not sure how I’d feel about you kissing Voynia.”

Rory grinned and stepped back, twirling Rafe’s pocket watch around her finger. “And meanwhile he’s giving us what we want.”

Rafe laughed. “Impressive. I didn’t feel a thing.”

“That’s on account of me being such a damned good kisser.” Rory tossed his watch back.

“Have we got time to rehearse that sales pitch again?” Rafe asked with a raise of his eyebrow. “I’m not sure I quite got all the details.” He slipped a hand around her waist. “That dress is working for you, by the way. It’s working for me too.”

Rory grinned. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Just practicing the sales pitch. How did it start again? Oh, right…” His lips brushed against the underside of Rory’s jaw then her neck, making her shiver.

The door barged open, and Rory sprung away, feeling stupidly guilty.

“Oh, please.” Simeon rolled his eyes. “Find somewhere else for your sickening displays.”

“Your betting didn’t go to plan?” Rory asked, annoyed at the heat creeping up her cheeks.

“I forgot something. You do realise that your meeting with Voynia won’t be happening in my rooms?”

“We were just heading off.” Rafe waved the map of directions at Simeon, and he and Rory headed for the door.

Simeon frowned. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Your map says we follow the corridor and take the first left,” Rory replied. “How else d’you expect us to follow your directions?”

Simeon threw his hands in the air. “You don’t go through the main corridors—is there no end to your cluelessness?”

Rory glanced at Rafe, confused. Main corridors? He seemed as nonplussed as she felt.

“The main corridors are only for members of the royal family by blood or marriage,” Simeon explained as if talking to halfwits. “There’s another set of corridors for courtiers. The key I gave you,” he ordered, putting his hand out.

Rory did as he asked, and he swept imperiously across the room. She realised that there was a door perfectly camouflaged among the patterned wallpaper. All she could see were the edges of it and a small keyhole that anyone would be hard-pressed to find if they didn’t know where to look. Simeon inserted the key, and with a click, the door swung open, letting out to a dark corridor. Rory now understood the dun vapour lamps left on the little side table next to the door.

“This is the courtier door,” Simeon said. “Any courtiers visiting me come this way, and that includes you. Follow the map from here, and please try not to make any more stupid mistakes. Do not stray into the royal corridors, or worse, stumble into the servants’ passages. I don’t want an embarrassment on my hands.”

“It didn’t occur to you to put anything on the map about this room having more than one entrance?” Rafe asked.

“I already saved your life. I didn’t think it would be necessary to spoon-feed you everything,” Simeon snapped back.

Rory grabbed a vapour lamp and shook it to life as she stepped out into the corridor. Rafe also grabbed a lamp and followed, then Simeon swung the door shut, leaving them in the dark.

Rory turned back. The door was perfectly smooth, no handle or lock in sight.

“Er, how we supposed to get back in?” Rory asked.

When Simeon failed to answer from the other side, she banged on the door loudly. It flew open. Simeon looked exasperated.

“Apparently I do need to spoon-feed you—you never knock on a door, not unless you’re a peasant in a hovel. If you want to attract the attention of someone within, you scratch. Like this.” His nails made a discreet sound against the wood of the door.

“Oh, is that why all the courtiers at the House of Bel had really long nails for their last two fingers?” Rory asked. “I thought that was weird.”

Simeon nodded. A ghost of a smirk appeared on his face. “Not too long ago, courtiers came to realise that beggars also have long nails—you can’t fault the speed and sharpness of courtly intellect. The panic that spread through court was ever so entertaining, possibly my most effective spreading of rumour yet—and it was perfectly true. Anyway, as a result, the fashion changed to extremely long nails encased in enamelled or lacquered sheaths—both to decorate the nails and to keep them from breaking.”

Rory rolled her eyes. “It’s amazing how often money breeds stupidity.”

Simeon’s smile widened. “Indeed it does—and endless entertainment.”

“And how are we supposed to get back in if no one’s inside to let us in?” Rafe asked. “Scratching won’t get us very far, and there’s no access to the lock on this side of the door.”

Simeon looked slightly sheepish. “Ah, yes, I forgot. I so rarely have guests stay in my rooms anymore. I have a dial to grant access to the lock to the right of the door.”

“I see it,” Rory said. It looked like a combination lock to a safe.

Simeon gave them the code, and when Rory entered it, a panel in the door clicked back, revealing the back of the lock.

“Extra precaution,” Simeon said breezily. “Although I’m not sure there’s much point to it—it’s as easy to share a code as it is to have a key copied.”

Simeon might have seemed nonchalant, but Rory remembered what Cruikshank had said about the steel deadbolts at his door. He was clearly worried that someone might come into his room uninvited: the White Hornet or someone else?

“Well, anyway, there you have it,” Simeon said. “And now that you’re a little less uneducated than when you woke up, I have to go. That bet won’t place itself.”

He left the door open that time, and Rory and Rafe checked the combination dial, taking turns waiting in the room while the other unlocked the door from the passage. Rory checked the lock then picked it for good measure.

“Here.” She gave Rafe the key. “No point me carrying it.”

They headed off, closing the door behind them.

CHAPTER 3

Not a single window opened into the corridor, which was panelled in dark varnished wood. The panels were beautifully carved, and underfoot the floor was covered with a long rug that seemed to stretch indefinitely. The vapour lamps could only light a few feet ahead, so the rug was always disappearing off into the darkness.

Rory glanced overhead and shuddered. The ceiling was painted to look like a pale-blue sky, complete with fluffy clouds, but among the clouds were fat pink babies with stubby wings. The ceiling was low, and the babies looked down, giving the disturbing impression that they were watching.

“What’s with the ceiling?” Rory muttered.

“The cherubs?” Rafe asked.

“Is that what they’re called? They look like demented children, if you ask me.”

The corridors may have been decorated in a luxurious manner, but the darkness ahead was absolute, as if the halls had been abandoned and Rory and Rafe were the first to set foot in them for a long time. Their vapour lamps cut twin yellow circles out of the darkness but were unable to penetrate the blackness farther ahead. It meant having to walk without any idea of what was coming.

“Good thing Simeon drew the way for us,” Rory said, glancing for the third time at the map. For now, they were just going straight—easy enough.

Somewhere in the distance, they heard people and froze. The sounds were warped by the corridors, the voices sounding creepy, like distorted moaning. The voices faded, the speakers never coming into sight. Rory and Rafe continued forward again.

They stumbled into a junction and paused, consulting the map.

“Ain’t no defining marks, nothing for us to figure out where we’re at,” Rory murmured, looking around. The three other passages were identical to the one they were in.

Rafe nodded. “We’ll have to make sure we keep careful records of everywhere we go—could be useful to have a good understanding of where these corridors lead.”

Rory shivered as cold air blew past, raising goosebumps on her skin. Her arms were bare, her dress designed for heated interiors like Simeon’s rooms, where a mix of steam and hot water was pumped through the walls. The corridors clearly weren’t actively heated. They weren’t as cold as outside, obviously, with residual heat coming through the walls, but they were cold enough that she wished she’d brought a coat.

“Here.” Rafe quickly shrugged out of his jacket and placed it on Rory’s shoulders. “You know, one advantage of this cold weather is that I’m getting way more opportunities to play the chivalry card than I’d ever get back home. It’s doing wonders for my ego. Maybe you should try fainting later on.”

Rory opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sight of a yellow light bobbing towards them.

“Someone’s headed our way,” Rafe murmured, shedding his joking manner as rapidly as he’d removed his jacket.

Rory tensed, and she could feel Rafe coiling next to her. She wished she had a dagger or some kind of weapon with her. Her underskirt structure could be turned into a telescoping grappling hook, but she missed being armed—she would have to ask Cruikshank and Longinus about that.

The person coming towards them was a woman wearing the most astonishing clothes Rory had ever seen. If she’d found her own bustle arrangement large and unwieldy, it was nothing next to the enormous structure that ballooned out from the woman’s hips. It was easily twice as wide as her. The fabric of the skirt twisted and tucked in a complex arrangement before draping down to the ground.

A wig that looked like it could have housed a whole family of rodents towered atop her head. Her face was caked with white powder, and there were two bright-red spots on her cheeks. Two fake black moles had been drawn onto her face, one next to her right eye, the other by her lips.

In the dingy light, she looked like an overly made-up ghoul.

As she drew near, her perfume announced her approach—it was like being hit in the face by a brick. The woman didn’t slow or grant them a look. She swept past them, forcing them to move aside, out of the way of her ridiculous skirts. Gemstones and silver winked in the light. And then she was gone.

“Gah, that was the most liberally perfumed woman I’ve encountered,” Rafe said.

“You’re telling me—I can taste it.” Rory stuck out her tongue, grimacing in disgust. The overly sweet perfume lingered on. “I guess that were our first introduction to a courtier at court.”

Rafe nodded. “If the corridors don’t widen much more, women must have a hard time crossing paths.”

At the next junction, the corridor widened significantly, and they followed Simeon’s directions to turn left. Four other corridors branched out from the junction, each one looking perfectly identical to the next.

Farther on, they reached a man and a woman deep in whispered conversation, their words were too low to be heard. The woman, standing against the wall, caught sight of them, and she gestured at them with her chin. The man stopped talking and turned to look at them.

His clothing was very much in keeping with the women’s—gaudy and overly complicated. His face was as heavily painted, and a huge wig cascaded down his shoulders in shiny fake curls.

The man and woman watched Rory and Rafe in silence, resuming their whispering as soon as they were past. Rory felt overly aware of just how different she and Rafe looked with their dark skin and comparatively simple clothing. Blending in at court was clearly not going to be an option—they stuck out like pigs at a ball.

They continued forward, after a time spotting another lamp bobbing towards them.

“Another courtier,” Rory murmured.

The lamp stopped and bobbed to the left, disappearing. Rory and Rafe walked on, expecting to reach whatever junction the courtier had turned off at. After a time, Rafe stopped, frowning.

“We should have reached it by now.”

“Yeah.” Rory looked back, but she could only see the cherubs on the ceiling above her head, a bit of rug, then darkness.

“There must be some discreet passage we missed,” Rafe said.

“Worth bearing in mind—there’s corridors, and then there’s secret passages. Could come in handy.”

They continued on and finally reached the door that Simeon’s map indicated as leading into the minister’s office. Unlike the door to Simeon’s rooms, this one had a simple handle.

Rafe scratched the wood with his nails, and when they received no reply, he opened the door. Rory winced, turning her head away and blinking against the harsh white light of day. They stepped into a bright room full of windows.

* * *

The room was simply decorated with pale-blue wallpaper and huge windows that looked out over a garden enshrined in snow. It wasn’t the minister’s actual office but rather a long, rectangular waiting area, its walls lined with benches and chairs, many of them occupied. One end was manned by two palace guards, and in front of them was a man dressed in black who sat behind a desk. Ledgers were piled high on either side of him.

“Remember that an heiress worth millions wouldn’t be intimidated by this,” Rafe whispered.

Rory had returned his jacket before entering, and she found herself missing the feel of it wrapped around her like an extra layer of safety. She took a breath, composed herself, and marched towards the desk, her shoulders back, chin jutting ever so slightly forward as if in defiance of the world, and she made a point not to look at anyone in the room. They were beneath her, and she had important business to conduct with the minister.

“I’ve got an appointment with Minister Voynia,” she announced when she reached the desk. “My name is—”

“The minister is not in attendance at the moment,” the little man replied without looking up from his writing.

Rafe produced a sealed letter. “The meeting has been arranged by His Royal Highness, Prince Simeon, the Emperor’s own cousin. Here is the letter of confirmation, if you wish to review it.”

This time the little man looked up. “Please wait. The minister is not in attendance at the moment.”

Rory and Rafe exchanged a look. Rafe shrugged ever so slightly, and they grabbed two chairs as close to the desk as they could.

The room was bright, surprisingly so, given the watery winter light. About half of the people waiting were courtiers, dressed as elaborately as the ones Rory and Rafe had seen in the dark corridors.

Seeing their faces in the light of day was even more disturbing. Northern Airnians already looked sickly with their pale skin, but the rice powder the courtiers trowelled on made it worse. Something about the crumbling whiteness and the lurid blotches of colour on their cheeks, lips, and eyebrows made Rory feel funny.

“They look like corpses what had their faces painted to make them look alive,” she whispered to Rafe.

The complicated structures of the women’s dresses added to the illusion, making it look like they were being propped up by all the steel and whalebone understructures.

Rory looked away, doing her best to repress a shudder. Rafe took her hand, and she drew comfort from his familiar, healthy-looking dark skin. Her first day in the palace proper, and already the place gave her the creeps. She noticed that everyone had extremely long nails at their ring and pinkie fingers for scratching at doors. The nails looked elaborately painted, but Simeon had mentioned they were actually covered in lacquer or enamel to protect them.

Rory scanned the room again. Thank the gods they had a meeting already secured with Voynia, otherwise she had no idea how they would have networked with the walking dead to secure it. And returning to Damsport without the information they needed was simply not an option. The meeting with Voynia had to go well.

Rory felt a lurch of nerves again. So much riding on a meeting that would last an hour, maybe two. There would probably be several meetings, in all. But still, it wasn’t much time. So much work culminating in just a few short hours.

She rolled her shoulders to try and loosen the knot of tension building there.

Rory and Rafe waited in silence for well over an hour. Whispers shivered through the room every so often, sometimes in reaction to a new arrival, but no one left.

With nothing to do, Rory’s mind went in circles, her nerves increasing, her mouth growing dry. Her shoulders felt like they were slowly fusing with the base of her neck. What if Voynia doesn’t want the discount in exchange for introducing us to Airnia’s allies? What then? Improvise, Rafe had said, but that was like telling a fish flapping on the docks to get creative.

It would be fine, Rory reminded herself. She was good at this—deception, diversion.

Time dribbled past slower, if that was even possible. The tension in Rory’s shoulders kept mounting. Her bum was slowly growing numb, and she kept having to shift her weight from one cheek to the other. When is Voynia gonna show? They’d waited two hours past the scheduled appointment.

She and Rafe both started when they heard an unmistakably male voice from within Voynia’s office.

“Is that him?” Rory whispered.

“I’d guess so,” Rafe said.

Rory stood up, stifling a groan as she stretched out her legs, and she went to the little man behind the desk. “Is that Minister Voynia? Can we see him now?”

“The minister isn’t yet ready to see appointments,” the secretary sniffed. “When he is, he will inform me.”

Rory swallowed down the urge to curse at the man. Making a scene wouldn’t help anything. She returned to her seat, and she and Rafe settled down for more waiting. Time continued to drip past, seeming to grow slower as Rory’s frustrations mounted. The person they needed was right there, behind the door, and yet they could do nothing for now.

The voices behind the door eventually went silent.

By the time night had fallen, it was clear that Rory and Rafe wouldn’t be seeing Voynia that day.

CHAPTER 4

Cruikshank, Adelma, and Longinus headed out of Simeon’s rooms through the servant’s door. It opened into a cramped, freezing corridor barely wider than Adelma. A little dingy light filtered through the chinks at the edges of the doors they passed, just enough to see by. The plaster was blown and sagging in places, crumbling in others, and it had obviously been a long time since anyone had given the walls a lick of paint. Their footsteps echoed clearly as they walked, boots ringing out against the flagstone floor. 

As far as Cruikshank had established, there was one set of rooms and corridors for the royal family, another set for the courtiers, and a third for the servants. Like three palaces rolled into one. They would have to be careful to not end up in the wrong place in the wrong clothes. 

For now, the three of them wore their servants’ clothing. Cruikshank walked at the front of their little procession, holding an armful of bed sheets while Adelma and Longinus followed, dressed as a bodyguard and a valet respectively. Cruikshank felt utterly ridiculous in her maid’s dress—the fabric was under the kind of pressure normally found at the core of a small star. 

“You look like a pig in a dress,” Adelma snorted from behind her. 

“That’s a pretty accurate description. Lucky I’ve never been one for vanity.”

“Can we all reflect for a moment on the absolute travesty that between all five of us, I’m the one who can’t mingle at court?” Longinus asked. “What a colossal waste of my talents—of my elegance!—to have me hidden away down in these dank corridors.”

“You look plenty elegant,” Adelma said. 

“For a valet, sure,” Longinus sniffed. He was obviously no longer as enamoured with his herringbone tweed suit.

Cruikshank made a hissing sound between her teeth to signal for the others to be quiet. She’d spotted someone farther ahead, another servant, from the way she was dressed. 

“Can you direct us towards the laundry?” Cruikshank asked the woman when they reached her. She explained who her mistress was and steeled herself for disbelief. 

The servant gave her a look. “You’re new here, right?”

Cruikshank nodded. 

“You want to make a bit of money?” the servant asked in a low voice. “Then take your sheets to inspection first. It’s on the other side of the laundry. They always pay more if you’ve got the actual sheets.” She gave them directions to the laundry then squeezed past the three of them, an awkward, shuffling affair where everyone had to stand sideways. 

“Inspection? What’s that for?” Adelma asked once they were alone again. “And why we gonna make money? Not that I mind, obviously.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Cruikshank replied. “Longinus?”

“No idea either. I’m experienced at being waitedon, not at waiting on others.”

They followed the servant’s directions down to the ground floor and reached a huge room that was hazy with humidity. The ceiling was low, propped up on arches, effectively trapping the damp air. The air was sweltering, and Cruikshank took a deep breath, revelling in the feel of the moisture against her skin—a small reminder of home. The room smelled pleasant, too, like soap.

Following the servant’s instructions, they crossed the room, passing the laundry vats—huge copper tanks with steam-powered pistons that agitated the clothing and sheets inside. The women working the laundry had thick, meaty forearms that could have given Cruikshank’s own arms a run for their money. The women’s faces were flushed from the heat, sweat running down their temples. 

They left the laundry and passed into a narrow corridor before entering another room just as large as the laundry but far less humid. It was lively with people, servants coming and going, talking to each other, calling out here and there, some carrying bed sheets or clothing. Large and heavily scuffed tables were dotted about the room, a ledger to each table and a more senior-looking servant to each ledger. Money was exchanging hands everywhere. 

“This is a market, or I don’t know shit from pudding,” Adelma said. 

“The question is, what are they selling?” Longinus replied. 

They weaved through the crowd to the nearest table. “What have you got?” the man at the ledger asked. He wore what looked like a butler’s uniform. “Bed sheets, eh? Best you go see Betsy.” He pointed to a large woman who looked like she worked the laundry. 

Cruikshank did as she was told, bringing her bed sheets over. 

“What are you reporting?” the woman asked. 

“We’re new here,” Cruikshank replied, explaining who they were supposed to be. 

“Ah, right. So, you come here and report on your masters’ actions—any gossip that might be interesting. You get paid a small commission for each item, and it gets noted in here.” The woman placed a hand on her ledger. “If you’re reporting on monthly courses or intercourse and you have sheets to prove it, you get more.” 

Longinus made a gagging sound. 

The woman frowned at him but continued speaking. “Then if you want to buy any information on anyone, you simply come to one of us manning the ledgers.”

Longinus raised both eyebrows. “What about the confidentiality between a man and his valet? That’s surely sacred.”

The woman shrugged. “Sacred doesn’t pay.”

Cruikshank hesitated. “I don’t think I have anything to report for now.”

“Well then, feel free to browse.”

The three of them stepped away into the crowd. The trades taking place around them were lively—people were clearly buying and selling a lot of information. 

“Why don’t we try to ask about Simeon?” Longinus whispered. “This might be the best way to find out more about him.”

“Great idea,” Adelma replied. “There’s bound to be a ton of dirt on the royals.”

They approached the nearest table. 

“Sorry, I don’t buy bed sheet reports,” the man said. 

Longinus shook his head. “We’re not selling. We’re looking to buy. Information about Prince Simeon, to be precise.”

The man snorted. “Prince Simeon? You’ll be lucky to find someone who can report on how often he has his boots shined.”

“His servants don’t report?” Cruikshank asked. 

“Servants? He only has the one man who cares for his rooms, his clothes—everything. Can you believe it? And he thinks he’s too good to trade with the rest of us. A clear example of a servant letting his master’s station get to his head.”