The Poison Court

By Amanda Downum

Savedra Severos is no stranger to intrigue. Mistress to the King of Selafai and daughter of a rival noble house, she navigates the treacheries of court with every breath.

On the eve of delicate peace talks, the court mage is found murdered. As Savedra investigates, she stumbles further into a web of secrets that enmeshes three kingdoms--entangling spies and sorcerers, lovers and enemies, strangers and kin. Among those secrets are Savedra’s own, dangerous enough to destroy her king and her family if they come to light.

Traitors walk the palace halls, but the danger is more than political. Spirits prowl the city. Once a force of justice, now they seek only retribution--and they prey on those with blood on their hands. In a court fueled by schemes and secrets, not even Savedra is safe from their venomous touch.

"...some of the best fantasy politics/intrigue/spies/murder I have ever had the pleasure of reading." ~ Liz Bourke, Sleeps With Monsters

"Amanda Downum spins political intrigue and gorgeous prose with grace and style. Get this book into your eyeballs." ~ Marshall Ryan Maresca, author of the Maradaine Sequence

"Luxurious elegance and gloriously sharp dangers fill Amanda Downum's The Poison Court. As with every Downum book, readers will revel in beautifully rendered characters and elegant court machinations. What sets The Poison Court above the rest of its kind is the depth of feeling and intrigue in a setting where the past returns to betray the present; where entire fortunes can crumble on a simple taste, a slight glance, or a mere regret. Such a deft touch requires great skill and Downum never falters, nor does she ever turn her searing gaze away from the innermost secrets of The Poison Court." ~ Fran Wilde, author of Riverland and the Bone Universe novels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Downum
• Release date: Feb 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463135365

Amanda Downum

AMANDA DOWNUM was born in Virginia, and has since spent time in Indonesia, Micronesia, Missouri, and Arizona, with brief layovers in California and Colorado. She lives in Austin with her partner and their snake, and can be found haunting absinthe bars, goth clubs, and other liminal spaces. Her hobbies used to include cooking hearts and rock climbing, but now most of her time is devoted to studying Mortuary Science. Her day job sometimes lets her dress as a giant worm.

Book preview

About the Author

Also by Amanda Downum

Connect with Amanda Downum

Dramatis Personae

The Azure Palace

Nikos Alexios, king of Selafai

Ashlin Idaran Alexios, queen of Selafai, Nikos’s wife

Ginevra Idaran Alexios, crown princess of Selafai, Ashlin and Nikos’s daughter

Savedra Severos, Nikos’s mistress

Hekaterin Denaris, captain of the royal guard

Iorys, a member of the guard

Kistos, the king’s page

Marjhana, Savedra’s maid

Kristof Farga, court mage, almost

The Octagon Court

Thea Jsutien, archa of House Jsutien, Talia’s sister and Narkissa’s aunt

Talia Jsutien, Thea’s younger sister, mother of Ginevra and Narkissa

Ginevra Jsutien, former heir of House Jsutien, now deceased

Narkissa Jsutien, Ginevra’s younger sister, current heir of House Jsutien

Reshmi, Narkissa’s maid

Rachana & Lavanya Aravind, Talia’s cousins on her father’s side

Varis Severos, Savedra’s uncle, a mage of the Arcanost

The Iskari Delegation

Ahmet Sahin, Iskari Minister of Intelligence

Asuman Umar, Iskari ambassador

Idris Demiren, a junior attache

Naïla Umar, Sultana of Iskar, Asuman’s cousin

Volkan Tas, a dissident and rabble- rouser

Zureyya Nesrin, ishik of the Court of Oleanders, a mage

The Sarkens

Catalin Istrati, Crown Prince of Sarkany

Erzsavet Dragan, Margravine of Valcea, Catalin’s purported mistress

In Erisin

Corrigo, an assassin

Thracian, a dilettante

Ephone, a seamstress

Bryony, a flower of the Garden

Siyah, more than she appears

Various other citizens, courtiers, relations, functionaries, and demons

Kiss it to life, tear it apart

I’m a treacherous thing to keep in your heart

Clean all your wounds, curse all your bones,

I’m a treacherous thing to bring in your home

Ego Likeness – Treacherous Thing

And this life of an innocent I was not built to withstand

Feathers – Land of the Innocent

CHAPTER ONE – Knives and Politics

NO ONE HAD DIED at a royal ball in over a year. Savedra Severos held that thought like a pearl in her mind as she surveyed the Tourmaline Ballroom. It might reassure her eventually.

The musicians played a stately low dance while couples drifted across the inlaid marble floor. The air was heavy with the heat of bodies, fragrant with wine and candle wax and perfume. Chandeliers scattered prisms of light throughout the hall. Those guests not dancing clustered around the edges of the room, bright as butterflies in new spring finery.

There had been a time when Savedra had enjoyed parties. When dancing and gossip and flirtation were careless fun, with nothing more to fear than the barbed wit of her fellow courtiers. Tonight she stood in a corner of the hall, a glass of wine warming forgotten in her hand while she studied the crowd, wondering how many of them might wish the king, or the queen, or herself, dead. Wondering how many were willing to take steps.

Life had been so much simpler before she became a royal mistress.

You shouldn’t frown so, Varis Severos said, leaning against a column beside her. You look as though you’re at a funeral, not a ball. He eyed an elaborate headdress of silk orchids swaying across the room. A funeral for taste.

Fashions had been reserved last spring, with the city still in mourning for the old king. This year dressmakers had run wild: bold colors, daring hemlines, floral confections of silk and gauze. Of questionable taste in a city where prostitutes took the names of flowers, but younger courtiers embraced the style. Savedra had spent years avoiding such comparisons, but her dressmaker had still badgered her into a leafy design of layered greens. The designer, her maid, and the king had all sworn her oaths that she didn’t look like a cabbage.

Varis was well known for his own eye-searing colors–the season’s bright trends had sent him the opposite direction in disgust. He wore satin so dark it was nearly black, with only a glass-green shimmer when he moved to betray the difference. A pretty match to her own verdant shades. A pity that saving more than one dance for one’s uncle was the act of only a child or a hopeless spinster.

Strictly speaking, she was a spinster, though her detractors in the court rarely called her anything so pleasant. She was hijra, the third sex. A woman born in male flesh. It had saved her from a marriage of alliance when she came of age, but left her to wonder if she would ever find a love match. She had, through some jest of the saints: Nikos Alexios, then crown prince of Selafai, heir to her family’s bitterest rivals, and betrothed since childhood to a foreign princess. Had they been characters in an opera, their love might have conquered all–or more likely led to their deaths. Instead Nikos had wed his foreign bride and kept Savedra as pallakis–royal consort–balancing on the knife’s edge where love and politics met.

Thinking of knives and politics, her gaze landed on the corner of the room where House Jsutien held sway. Only for an instant, but long enough for the archa Thea to glance up from her flock of cousins and catch Savedra’s eye. A stout woman in her sixth decade, Thea eschewed bright and gauzy fashions, instead wearing bronze brocade and ruby-colored spinels, the colors of her house. Her sleeves and skirts were still trimmed with mourning white for the death of her heir, who had died on the same night as the old king. A death she laid at Savedra’s feet.

Savedra wished she could believe Thea was wrong.

She held the woman’s icy black gaze for a heartbeat, until Thea snapped her fan and turned to her nearest hanger-on to say something scathing. Savedra drained the last of her tepid wine.

Varis watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. A teardrop peridot flashed in his left ear as he cocked his head. Candlelight gleamed on the curve of his shaven scalp. I could seduce her husband, if you’d like. Somewhere public.

She laughed too sharply. The hinged collar of pearl and jade she wore pressed the tender flesh below her jaw. "I want her to stop trying to kill me, Uncle."

A year without an attempt on her life or Nikos’s should have been soothing. Instead it had strung her nerves even tauter. She wasn’t the only one wound too tight–tensions always rose before the Octagon Court convened, but tonight was worse than usual. Already the daughter of the Hadrian archon had argued with her father and retired to one of the side rooms with an impressive flounce. Thea Jsutien and her sister Talia had very loudly not spoken for the better part of the evening, until Talia also took herself out of the ballroom. Even the Iskari delegation bickered amongst themselves–one of the junior attachés had stalked into the garden in a cold temper. And in only a dekad Erisín would host peace talks between Sarkany and Iskar, and the palace would be stifled with extra security and brittle negotiations.

Perhaps the catering had gone off, or the stars had moved into an unlucky alignment. Only the Sarkens, arrived three days ago–early, to the chagrin of the palace staff–seemed unaffected. The Crown Prince of Sarkany held his own miniature court in a corner, surrounded by his people and curious Selafaïn nobles. His companion, the Margravine Erzsavet, glanced up to catch Savedra’s eye for an instant before turning away, leaving behind the sharp-toothed echo of her smile.

Cheer up, Varis said. He plucked a wine glass off a passing tray and drained half in one swallow. A wealth of rings flashed on his narrow hand: sapphire and emerald and ruby, stones that marked a mage. Fashions will change. And anyway, no one’s died at a royal ball–

In over a year. Savedra sighed. You’re such a comfort. As she exhaled, the folded parchment tucked in her bodice dug into her skin. A page had delivered it to her rooms early in the evening, a message written in the slanting hand of Kristof Farga, the man who would be appointed court mage tomorrow.

Lady Savedra, it read. I ask a moment of your time this evening, or a dance. I have an important matter to discuss with you.

She scanned the room yet again, but found no trace of Farga’s black-clad height amongst the crowd. Where is he, anyway? she muttered. We’re supposed to be celebrating his appointment tonight.

Varis arched a painted eyebrow. Celebrating the fact that the king has finally stopped dragging his feet and accepted his father’s choice with poor grace? By now the whole court knows that Farga is like a hideous tapestry inherited from a great aunt–unwanted, but unable to be parted with. That’s certainly cause for rejoicing. He drained the last of his glass. Besides, wherever he is, I’m sure the wine is better.

Savedra shot him a sidelong glance, her lips pinching. She couldn’t refute the truth. Choosing Farga as the successor to the former court mage had been one of King Mathiros’s final acts, and while Nikos had spent all his adult life trying to be nothing like his father, he couldn’t bring himself to deny the appointment. And in the past year, neither Nikos nor Savedra had found a better candidate. Varis had steadfastly refused from the beginning.

It would have been easier if she were fond of Farga, but though no one doubted his thaumaturgical credentials, he was cool and often brittle in his pride, with a wry, caustic wit that scathed more often than it amused. Savedra knew she ought to build a rapport, but every time she’d tried his chilly reserve put her off all over again.

Varis’s eyes narrowed, cool as cobalt glass. You don’t have to like the man, he said, as though he could hear her thoughts. But if you’re worried about trusting him.... He shrugged, rubbing his beringed hands absently. I can’t fault his training, and he’s ambitious. I doubt he’ll find a better offer. I’ll be present tomorrow when he swears his oath of fealty, if that’s any comfort. All the more reason we should have gone to the Fourth Gorgon tonight. You’d have more fun with my set than this one.

Savedra raised her glass to cover another sigh and frowned to find it empty. The wine was a southern white–perfectly acceptable, despite Varis’s aspersions, but it had been better an hour ago when it was still chilled. Nikos needs me here. If whatever Farga wants to discuss is so damned important, I wish he’d get on with it. He can’t actually want to dance. I hope he’s not planning to blackmail me.

She meant it as a joke, but the words sent a cold worm of unease coiling through her stomach all the same. She had only one secret worth extorting, and she would be ruthless in protecting it.

I’d turn his blood to sand if he tried. And speaking of absent guests, where is your Alexios pet?

Savedra glanced at the great glass-and-bronze clepsydra at the far end of the hall. She had been later than she liked herself; going over the guest list and matters of security with the captain of the Royal Guard had eaten into the time needed to put up her hair. Now the wheels had turned past the beginning of the sixth terce–the hour of excess.

It’s probably the baby. She was proud of her dry tone. Courtiers shook their heads when they thought she couldn’t see, and whispered of her jealousy. Which was exactly as she wanted it. Can you really turn someone’s blood to sand?

Not precisely. I can’t transmute blood to earth, at least, but I could probably alter the consistency. I should test that, actually–

Savedra was spared theoretical musings on haematurgy when the last notes of the dance ended, and a sharp blare of horns announced the arrival of the king and queen. The crowd knelt with a rush like surf as the private door beside the dais swung open to admit Nikos Alexios, first of his name, and his wife Ashlin.

Nikos had been called the Peacock Prince, known for his parties and sartorial excesses as well as his scandalous and impolitic mistress and stormy marriage to a foreign princess. A year on the Malachite Throne had tempered him–or at least left him with less time to spend with his tailors–but tonight his plumage was bright as ever. His olive green coat glittered with carnelian chips and gold bullion; petal-cut skirts flared as he climbed the steps, flashing brilliant vermilion lining.

The queen, by contrast, was understated and practical enough to drive a dressmaker to tears. A warrior from the west–barbarian to many–she resisted the whims of fashion like an oak weathered storms, preferring clean lines and ease of movement. After she’d killed a would-be-assassin at a ball, even the snidest of the court had given up disparaging her for it.

The sight of Nikos and Ashlin together still caught in Savedra’s throat, but not for the same reasons it had when they first wed.

The crowd rose and Nikos gestured to the musicians. The main doors opened at the far end of the hall, but a rush of dancers obscured Savedra’s view.

Shall we join them? Varis asked, as guests paired off for a galliard. I might as well cement my reputation as a sad old man who holds up a wall and only dances with his niece.

You dance. I’m going to find Farga.

Eyes followed her as she crossed the hall: a few disapproving glances, a few jealous ones, some merely curious. Let them gawk. She had been stared at since she first came to court. She had worn scandal long before Nikos had ever given her pearls.

She found Kistos, the king’s page, on the far side of the hall, leaning together with another young member of the staff. They straightened quickly at her approach.

Have you seen Farga yet tonight?

Kistos’s dark eyes narrowed. I don’t think so.

His companion pursed her lips. I did, Pallakis, or at least I think it was him. In the gardens not quite an hour ago, heading toward the Gorgon Fountain.

Thank you. Kistos, will you tell my uncle where I’ve gone?

Gooseflesh crawled across Savedra’s limbs as she stepped onto the terrace. The gardens were green with spring, but the night air was still raw and the layered gossamer of her gown did little to hold out the chill. Light streamed from high windows, striping the lawn with amber and citrine. Lanterns swayed among the trees, hidden and revealed in turns by shifting veils of leaves. Sighs and giggles drifted from the darkness of the hedges. No evening chill would thwart couples determined to sneak a tryst on the palace grounds; the retiring chambers around the ballroom filled up quickly.

The moon was a waning sliver above the domes of the Azure Palace. Its light cast a scant silver glaze across the lawns, gleaming on crushed gravel walks. Somewhere in the trees an owl cried. A shiver that had nothing to do with the weather crept over Savedra’s nape. She couldn’t stop the prayer that rose in her mind: Black Mother, turn your face.

Owl-winged Erishal rarely listened to such entreaties. Which reminded her–the last time she’d wandered into a maze at a garden party, she’d nearly been shot.

The Gorgon Fountain stood in the center of the Azure Palace’s largest hedge labyrinth. Honeysuckles perfumed the night, cloying in their profusion. As she neared the entrance, a dark-cloaked figure fled the path. Not tall enough to be Farga, too slight. A woman, Savedra guessed from the light steps and rustle of fabric, but the darkness and hooded cloak hid even the color of her gown. A lovers’ quarrel? Something worse?

Unease stirred. Perhaps she ought to have waited for her uncle, or taken Kistos with her. But she knew these grounds well, and the ivory sticks in her hair served as weapons in a pinch.

Gravel crunched beneath a boot as she reached the entrance to the hedge. A man darted out, clipping her shoulder with his and sending her stumbling into a wall of leaves. He reached out to steady her, a gesture that seemed more instinctive than concerned. A smell like smoke and burnt spices clung to him. The man’s breath caught as if he would speak, but instead he turned and bolted across the lawn.

Had he been the woman’s companion in the hedge? Hard to tell in the dark, but she didn’t think she’d seen him before. He wasn’t dressed for the ball. A servant, or an interloper? Shadows take it. She and Denaris had gone over security three times.

The unsettled feeling grew inside her. Savedra drew a curved stick from her hair. She hated to undo her maid’s work–the better part of a terce spent with hot irons and pins, searing away all trace of her natural curls and curling them again more fashionably–but the ivory was solid and reassuring against her palm.

She met no one else save for silent statues as she wound through the hedge. At least it was a labyrinth and not a maze: the path curved inexorably toward the center. When she heard the splash of the fountain she quickened her pace. Beyond the final wall of shrubbery lay a circular paved clearing. The crunch of gravel underfoot gave way to the scuff of soft soles against flagstones.

Moonlight silvered the water jetting from a marble statue, lined the limbs and writhing hair of the gorgon from whose death-wound the water flowed. She reclined in Beshamin’s arms, her lover and killer, his face lost in darkness. The fountain was properly named for him, but it was the gorgon whom everyone remembered.

Now, all but invisible in the shadow of the basin, a third figure joined the tableau. Savedra nearly overlooked the sprawl of limbs and black cloth. A few more steps and she would have tripped over it. A dark stain glistened on the stones, thinning in the spray.

She drew a breath to dispel her sudden dizziness. When her vision cleared, she crouched beside the fallen man. He lay face down, but she guessed his sex from the long, bony-knuckled hand curled against the ground. Rings glittered on his middle and third fingers. Over the scent of honeysuckle and wet stone she smelled blood and urine. Whatever saints or spirits or heathen gods ruled over the dead, they spared them no dignity.

She scrubbed sweat-slick palms on her skirt before carefully touching the back of that out-flung hand. The feel of dead flesh was unmistakable, had the smell not been enough. His tendons were locked sharp and ridged. Cool, but not yet as cold as the night.

The breeze drifting over her shoulder carried the scent of lime and lilac, enough warning that she didn’t startle when the shadows peeled back to reveal Varis. His boots made no sound on the path.

Damn. I knew it couldn’t last. His tone was dry, even bored, but he twisted his rings around bony fingers as he spoke. I often suspect the Arcanost leaves half these corpses lying around to justify the Crown Investigators’ budget.

A spark flared in the padparadscha sapphire on his left hand, the only sign of his spellcasting Savedra could detect. An instant later an answering pink glow rose in the blood that stained the ground. The light unfurled like a spider’s web between the flagstones around the dead man.

The blood is all his, he said, banishing the glow as easily as he’d invoked it. In its place he summoned witchlight, a pale rose-tinged sphere that hung steady as a well-trimmed lamp over the corpse. Savedra turned away in time to save her night vision.

A proper investigator would make all manner of fussy observations before disturbing the scene, he continued, but I would rather satisfy my curiosity. Turn him over, won’t you?

She glared at him, but took the corpse by the shoulder and heaved. His limbs were still pliant, the stiffness of death not yet set in. The smell of blood and waste wafted stronger, tinged with another blended oil. Pine and musk this time–not as familiar to her as her uncle’s scents, but recognizable all the same. Her stomach tightened with sick certainty.

The dead man’s head lolled against her knee. The light spilled over the lean, sharp-boned face of Kristof Farga. What was left of it, anyway.

CHAPTER TWO – Twist the Knife

THREE QUARTERS OF an hour later, Captain Denaris and her guards had quietly overseen the corpse’s removal to an empty chamber in the guardhouse. Across the palace grounds, the ball continued. By now someone would have noticed who was missing and rumors would spin sticky as a spider’s web. Savedra knew she’d hear all manner of outrageous things in the next dekad. Something to look forward to.

Soon the body would be taken to a municipal mortuary or a laboratory at the Arcanost for an autopsy. For the moment, however, Varis took charge of the investigation. Ignoring the damage to his silk gloves, he had stripped off Farga’s coat and shirt and searched his pockets and boots. A handful of coins; a silk handkerchief; a knife in one boot; a small leather wallet containing salt, incense, a scalpel, and silver chains which Varis identified as an exorcist’s kit; and a sharply-folded note in a handwriting not his own. Savedra glanced at the latter, but it was written in some sort of cipher.

Hekaterin Denaris waited like a lean grey shadow on the other side of the table, wrapping each item when Varis was finished. The captain had sent her men back to scour the grounds around the fountain before more careless trysters could wander through. Crown Investigators were quick to complain about trampling evidence.

Though with Farga dead the number of investigators was less than half what it had been a year ago. Kirilos Orfion, Farga’s master and the court mage before him, had died with the old king, murdered by the same vengeful sorceress. Orfion’s other pupil had witnessed his death and been unable to prevent it–though she had avenged it, saving Nikos and Savedra in the process. She left the city not long after, rendering Savedra bereft of agents whom she trusted.

What can you tell me about his death? Varis asked, stepping away from the corpse. His most common persona was one of bored dissolution, but he also taught classes at the Arcanost–arguably the most prestigious school of magecraft on the continent. Savedra knew from her own childhood lessons how much he enjoyed pedagogy, though he would rarely admit it.

Now she wanted to snap at his insouciant tone, but he was right: she needed to focus. She trained her eyes on the dead man. A circle of witchlights floated over the table, not pink but a harsh white that flattered nothing and revealed every detail as clearly as daylight.

Farga was–had been–tall and lanky, with the pale olive skin of a northerner. In death his flesh was the color of mutton-fat jade. His arms were hard and sinewy, hands callused beneath ink stains. Lean muscle striated his chest and abdomen, mottled now with darkening stains where blood had settled in dead flesh.

His lips flattening with concentration, Varis gestured toward the corpse. Carefully, the body rose and turned over, as though lifted by invisible hands. She almost thought she could see flesh dimpling where those ghostly fingers pressed. Not true ghosts, though–her uncle didn’t hold with the Arcanost’s methods of binding spectres or spirits into service. When Farga settled again, the death wound was clear: a neat puncture below his left ribs.

A narrow blade, double edged, Savedra said, glad of the long hours since dinner as she leaned closer. Blood dried dull as rust, but beneath it red and white marbled tissue glistened. She had seen worse–done worse–but was far from sanguine in the presence of corpses. An upward thrust. Quick and sure. The killer didn’t even twist the knife. That had been one of the first lessons in self-defense her mother and Varis had taught her as a child: always twist after stabbing.

But why the eyes? I thought killers mutilated corpses in a frenzy, out of rage or spite. This is so....

Neat? Varis smiled at the word she’d tripped on. His smile always resembled a smirk, no matter how sincere, but this one was sharper than usual. The corpse lifted again, returning to its original supine pose. Remarkably so. Even the eyes could have been worse.

Savedra didn’t want to imagine how. Farga’s eyes had been gouged out, perhaps with the same blade that pierced his heart. Here the killer had twisted. Torn lids sagged against the ruined sockets and fluids crusted his sharp cheekbones. Blood stained his face like a domino mask. Still handsome, even in death. Teeth marks dented his pale lower lip. He would never have bitten his lips in public; had he been able to do so in the dark?

Savedra’s hands clenched in her skirts. Did it take the man’s death for her to warm to him?

I suspect, Varis continued, that the killer knew a bit about magecraft. Any necromancer worth her salt can read a dead man’s final vision in his eyes. Which meant that Farga saw his killer, and the killer feared being recognized.

His hands are clean and there’s only the one wound. His clothes weren’t torn. He didn’t struggle. I would say the murderer crept up on him, but if he saw their face– She shook her head, trying to imagine the scene. They were speaking? Arguing? But he turned his back, guard down. A strange thought. She had never seen Farga off his guard, any of his defenses lowered. If he’d had lovers or close friends she’d never known of them.

An excellent deduction, said an amused voice from the doorway. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten all your lessons, Soluk Bey, and have lived to pass them on.

Savedra spun, cursing her distraction; she’d heard no one approach. From Denaris’s bitten-back oath, neither had the captain.

A man stood on the threshold, glittering like a theatrical jinni. Tall and willowy and long-limbed, with skin like burnished copper. He wore embroidered silks in sullen, fiery shades, and enough gold bangles around one rawboned wrist to finance a production of The Throne of the Crescent Moon. Dark auburn hair hung in oiled curls and braids down his back. A spangled veil draped narrow shoulders like a sleeping serpent.

Varis’s slender frame drew taut as a wire. His face, pale to the point of translucence already, drained to an alarming shade of paste. His eyes darkened. Ishik Zureyya, he said after a span of heartbeats. The years have been kind.

Lord Varis. The man’s wide mouth stretched in a smile. To you as well. If not to your hair. His voice was light and soft, higher than Savedra’s carefully cultivated contralto, and strongly accented with Skarrish; her ear couldn’t distinguish between the inflections of Skarra and Iskar.

Varis laughed. The sound held a harsh edge, but some of the tension eased in his shoulders. What are you doing in Erisín, let alone skulking about the palace in the dark?

Forgive the skulking. I saw you leave the ballroom and wanted to speak with you. Perhaps I should be more surprised than I am to find you with a fresh corpse.

Just like old times, Varis drawled. I didn’t kill this one, either. Savedra coughed delicately and his eyes flickered. "And it’s not my house you’re skulking in, so not my pardon to seek. Since the king isn’t here to forgive you, perhaps you should ask my niece. Zureyya Nesrin, ishik of the Court of Oleanders, meet Savedra Severos."

An Iskari mage, then. That was a piece of the history between the two men; Varis had served in the Selafaïn embassy in Kehribar for several years in his youth.

The pallakis. I am honored. Zureyya folded in a low bow, hair sliding forward over one shoulder. One long brown hand brushed the floor. He wore no rings, but dark patterns traced his skin from wrist to fingertips. I’m here to join the embassy for the talks. I was late arriving, and then I saw my old colleague and felt compelled to renew our acquaintance. My curiosity got the better of my manners–I do beg your pardon.

I’m inclined to grant it, if only because it sounds as though my uncle has some interesting stories to tell me.

Only politics and thaumaturgy. And the odd murder. Zureyya’s attention shifted to the corpse and his mouth closed on something unsaid. His flinch was so soft Savedra nearly missed it, but the sequins on his veil flashed with his indrawn breath. He took a slow, swaying step into the room.

Savedra stifled a morbid giggle: the four of them in their finery crowding into a cramped storeroom must look like something out of a farce. All they needed was to prop Farga in a corner with a bottle of wine in one hand and try to pass him off as a drunk.

It was Denaris’s turn to clear her throat, a sharper and more pointed sound.

Don’t fret, Captain, Varis said. Ishik Zureyya knows his way around a corpse.

I’m sure. The captain’s tone could have curdled milk. Would you rather we move the body to the ballroom, so everyone can have a good look?

Savedra bit back another laugh. Only the aftermath of a shock. It would pass, if she kept her wits and dignity about her.

Varis’s eyes brightened. It would be the most entertainment we could hope for this evening. If I turn up dead at a ball, Vedra, I hope you’ll consider parading me before the guests. If fact, I think I’ll have that written into my will. Poor Kristof wouldn’t appreciate it as much, I fear.

Kristof? Zureyya’s lips pursed.

Varis waved a hand toward the table. Kristof Farga. He would have been appointed court mage soon, poor thing. His tone was dry and nonchalant as ever, but his gaze held fast to Zureyya’s face and the Iskari mage didn’t meet his eyes.

Bangles chimed with Zureyya’s shrug. Poor timing to die then, or very good. But I didn’t seek you out only to reminisce, my lord, nor to snoop. Something is about to transpire in the ballroom that I think you should witness. The entertainment, perhaps, you’re so eager for.

Varis cocked one sculpted brow. The sort that requires extra guards around the king?

I wouldn’t think so. But I don’t know the intricacies of your court, and can’t imagine what might or might not end in bloodshed. This particular bit of drama concerns your House Jsutien and a member of our diplomatic staff.

Savedra’s hands clenched and the urge to laugh soured. Had she angered some saint or spectre, to receive a dead man and Jsutien trouble on the same night?

Go, Denaris said, catching her eye. I’ll be there as soon as Farga is seen to. I trust you to keep His Majesty alive.

She made it sound a joke, but Savedra knew the captain meant it. It had taken her several years and more thwarted assassins before she’d earned Denaris’s trust–she could only pray she remained worthy of it.

Savedra paused at the edge of the light outside the balcony doors. Hedges and gravel and her own rough handling had snagged her gossamer skirts. Farga’s blood dried in a rusty smear against her knee. The breeze and spray from the fountain had undone much of Marjhana’s careful work and now her hair frizzed around its jeweled pins.

Don’t worry, Varis said when she hesitated. Someone will accuse you of killing him anyway.

She sighed. Of course they will.

Inside, the musicians played a quiet interlude between dances. A few heads turned as Savedra and the mages slipped in, but most of the guests’ attention was elsewhere. Thea Jsutien strode toward the dais, her spinels throwing bloody sparks by candlelight. Behind her, like smaller craft caught in a warship’s wake, followed a woman dressed in red and a lean, dark-haired man in black.

Savedra drew up short at the sight of the man, her cheeks tingling with shock. He’s dead.

A heartbeat later she realized her mistake. Not Farga, but the Iskari envoy who had left the ball earlier. He was shorter than Farga and more delicate of feature, but from his self-assured stride and set of his shoulders they might have been brothers. She had exchanged pleasantries with the Iskari ambassador on occasion, but couldn’t remember the junior envoy’s name.

Then she looked at the woman and shock became a sick weight in her stomach. Young and slender, blazing in crimson and fuchsia shot with gold. Her black hair was tousled, long coils slithering down her back; a scarlet silk flower fluttered to the floor. Savedra couldn’t recall seeing her before, but her cheekbones, her brows, the slender line of her throat were so familiar–a ghost staring out of a stranger’s face. She walked with Thea, wore Jsutien colors, and a bronze-and-garnet seal gleamed on her hand. Which meant she must be Ginevra’s younger sister.

Savedra could handle a corpse with aplomb, but now she wanted to flee the memory of her dead friend like a haunted murderer in a stage play. Varis’s hand brushed her elbow, a surreptitious steadying touch.

Your Majesty, Thea called. Her voice, trained to carry through squabbles among the Octagon Court, rose easily above the music. The musicians in turn fell silent. I have joyous news which I wish to bring before the gathered court, and before you to receive your blessing.

Nikos spread graceful brown hands. Joyous news is always welcome, Your Grace, especially on the turning of the seasons. Please, share.

Beside him, Ashlin’s expression remained cool and pleasant, as if the slight of being overlooked had escaped her. The queen cared little for the finer points of etiquette, but Thea had once hired assassins to make Nikos a widower. With her eldest niece dead and Ashlin still alive, Thea seemed to have abandoned her schemes to see a Jsutien crowned queen. Whatever her new plot was, Savedra doubted she would like it any better.

As we celebrate the first blush of spring, Thea said, I hope to plant seeds that will blossom. Which is why it delights me to announce the betrothal of my niece Narkissa to our most esteemed friend from Iskar, Idris Demiren. Will you offer us your good wishes, Your Majesty? After all, it was in your house that they first met.

Savedra’s jaw clenched. A sharp hiss of breath rose from the crowd around her. She had never mourned her own lack of magecraft, but in that moment she would have given much for the ability to turn Thea’s blood to sand.

Idris knelt gracefully and Narkissa joined him. Color burned in her cheeks and her eyes glittered like black glass. Not, Savedra guessed, the happy blush of a bride-to-be.

I would rather, Ginevra had said to her once, in the cool darkness of a garden party, that Thea had some use for me. With her eldest niece dead, was this the use Thea had found for Narkissa?

Your Majesties, Idris said, politic where Thea was not. His accent was lighter than Zureyya’s, his voice deeper. I came to Selafai to serve my sultana, in the hopes of bringing honor to my family through loyal service. I never thought I would find more than that. But having met Lady Narkissa, I know I will never sleep peacefully again until I can bring her home as my bride. I beg you, Your Majesties, give us your blessing, and may the saints grant that this tiny alliance between our nations will blossom into greater things.

Savedra saw fans rise to cover sighs and whispers around the room. A pretty speech, and Idris was prettier still, with clear olive skin and striking pale eyes. Not an unreasonable love match–the gaze he turned on his would-be bride bore every appearance of fondness. From Narkissa’s splotchy color and Thea’s smug smile, Savedra knew it was nothing of the sort.

Nikos’s face was calm and pleasant, but Savedra could guess at the bloody thoughts behind his eyes. The coming negotiations–meant to soothe generations-long strife between Iskar and Sarkany–would not only help him build a legacy to separate him from his warlike father, but open doors to greater opportunities in the east. Opportunities for alliance, trade, and great profit for Selafai. But for the talks to succeed, both the Sarkens and the Iskari had to accept Nikos as an unbiased party. For a house of the Octagon Court to publicly ally itself to one of the nations now would doubtless be taken as a sign of the Crown’s favor. She risked a glance toward the Sarken delegation, but the crowd blocked her view.

Well spoken, Idris Bey, Nikos said. And what of you, Lady Narkissa? Is this your wish? To steal a jewel from the Azure Palace and bestow it on Kehribar instead? He said it lightly, but if Narkissa opposed the match, now was her chance to say so publicly and receive the king’s protection. Not to mention a chance to salvage a political disaster in the making.

But she only inclined her head, a wing of black hair falling across her shoulder. It is, Your Majesty.

His silence stretched for an extra heartbeat, just enough to let the audience wonder. Then he smiled. Our blessings are yours. Nikos glanced at Ashlin, and she nodded agreement. The gifts and good wishes of the Malachite Throne will go with you.

A cheer rose around the room as Idris clasped Narkissa’s hand and drew her to her feet. Savedra joined the applause with numb hands. Thea smiled like a sated cat. On the far side of the hall, the Iskari ambassador’s face was pinched and angry. She wondered what Talia Jsutien, Narkissa’s mother, thought of her daughter’s nuptials, but Thea’s sister was still missing. That was answer enough.

Why? Varis asked a short while later, a fresh glass of the wine he scorned cupped in one hand. He, Savedra, and Zureyya had retired to the terrace while the ballroom filled with voices and cheerful music. From the muted quality of the noise, Savedra knew he had wrapped them in a spell of silence.

At least, she thought pragmatically, the news of the betrothal would distract everyone from the absent mage, whose official appointment should have been announced tonight.

No plan of Thea’s will ever prosper my house, Varis continued, but why do you think this marriage concerns me?

Savedra had been trying to deduce that herself. The Severoi and Jsutiens had been rivals for generations, and Thea would have happily murdered Savedra and