LITMIR.BIZ

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you’ve learned some salty language from the soldiers, if nothing else.’ She winked, then hugged him again. ‘Oh, Bear, how I’ve missed you. Are you staying long?’

      He said nothing for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘Is Uncle Hanush still in Denirnas? Did he send you with the prince? We heard whispers, not long before you arrived, something about a fire at the port? I didn’t pay it much heed, you know what expansive gossips the Star viziers can be, but seeing you here …’

      Chel felt suddenly cold, his back prickled with sweat. He felt the muscle in his cheek twitch as images flitted through his mind, smoke and flame, half-dream and half-memory. With a scowl he drove the visions aside, rubbing at his temples with grimy knuckles.

      ‘Something happened,’ he said, teeth gritted. Focus on the future, he told himself. ‘Listen, I’ve got things arranged. In exchange for getting Prince Tarfel here safe, he’s going to have his brother dissolve my oath to Sokol, and then—’

      ‘What? What did you say?’

      ‘I’ve made a bargain with the prince.’

      ‘To escape your oath? Bear!’

      ‘The crown can supplant or dissolve inferior pledges, Sab, everyone knows that. It’s law.’

      ‘I don’t care if it’s law, an oath is an oath. It’s your duty. It’s the honour of the name our parents chose for us. That Dad chose.’

      ‘Then it’s as worthless as the oath! My sacred pledge pissed away on that waste of air? I’ve wasted years bringing him clothes while he hid from battles. I could be …’ He threw up a hand in frustration. ‘If I’m to be sworn into duty, let it at least be meaningful, or let me go home.’

      Sab kept her voice low, but her gaze was searing. ‘Does Uncle Hanush even know you’re here?’

      ‘Will you stop calling him that?’

      ‘He’s Amiran’s brother.’

      ‘And Amiran’s our fucking father now? He sent me away, Sab. Now he’s sent you away, too. Soon it’ll just be—’

      ‘A-hem.’ The vizier was back. ‘His highness the prince commands your attendance.’

      ‘Which one?’

      ‘You, boy.’

      ‘No, which prince?’

      If the vizier had been sneering before, now his expression could have curdled milk.

      ***

      ‘Vedren Chel of Barva,’ the vizier announced, contempt dripping from his voice, as he ushered Chel into the grand pavilion then withdrew.

      ‘My brother’s saviour!’ Prince Mendel strode forward, grasping Chel’s unresisting arm and pumping it, a warm smile beaming from his absurdly handsome face. Thick, golden hair like a mane crowned his head, matching a well-groomed beard. Chel found himself gazing into earnest, cornflower-blue eyes, creased with concern.

      ‘Dear Tarfel was telling me of the horrors you saw at Denirnas when the Norts attacked, how you rescued him and carried him to safety.’ Chel raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly, expression neutral. Tarfel avoided his eye. ‘You must have been terrified. I know something of life and death situations myself,’ the prince went on, one hand straying to a jagged scar that ran down one side of his face. It managed to follow the line of his jaw, if anything augmenting his already exemplary looks. ‘But witchfire! God’s breath …’

      It seemed to Chel an ideal time to remind the princes of the agreement, in case such things had somehow slipped Tarfel’s mind. He could stand his sister’s disapproval — in time she would understand.

      ‘Your highness, I—’

      ‘I can only apologize that you had to face it alone. It’s no secret that the siege is going badly – we should have broken Omundi long ago, and been with you well before festival week. I’m afraid it’s the same as it was in Father’s day – these wretched so-called “free cities” would rather starve themselves to death than rejoin the kingdom.’ He shook his head, seeming genuinely rueful. ‘We have …’ Mendel went on, then tailed off, his beautiful face shifting to a frown. ‘We have …’

      A robed figure came gliding from the shadows of the pavilion’s inner chamber behind the crown prince. Balise da Loran, still hooded, floated to Mendel’s shoulder and bent to murmur into his ear. The light returned instantly to the prince’s eyes.

      ‘We have received more news from the port,’ Mendel declared, as if the interruption had never occurred. Da Loran slid back into the shadows, to where a trestle stood at the pavilion’s wall, piled with message scrolls and missives. Chel watched as she picked up one of the messages and cracked its seal.

      ‘Yes, brother?’ Tarfel was leaning forward, pained and anxious. He was awfully pale in the lantern light. ‘Have the Norts laid waste to all Denirnas?’

      ‘No, dear Tarfel, indeed they have not. It seems Grand Duke Reysel may have overreacted to their initial overtures, and they made their point on the sea-fort in return. We’ll have to add that to the reconstruction tally. For now, however, they seem content to sit in blockade, until their demands are met.’

      ‘Demands? What are they demanding, brother?’

      Behind them hung a giant embroidery of Mendel’s late twin, Corvel, a golden sun framing his golden visage, white lions rampant each side. The embroidery bore the legend ‘The Wise’. The twins had been known as ‘The Wise’ and ‘The Fair’ respectively – there was even a song about them – and from Chel’s current vantage, Mendel was very fair indeed.

      Balise da Loran was back at the crown prince’s side, and to Chel’s shock he seemed to be deferring to her. ‘Their demands are unimportant,’ came a gravelly and thickly accented voice from beneath the hood. ‘Acknowledging them would be catastrophic.’ She fixed Tarfel and Chel in turn with her hooded gaze, her face within lost in a void from which no light could escape. Mendel was looking at the floor. Chel kept his own eyes fixed on the crown prince; the prelate made his skin itch.

      ‘The League’s troops remain mired in the siege,’ da Loran continued. ‘Attempting to march everyone to Denirnas now – this close to the end of the campaigning season, with Omundi on the brink of collapse – risks an uprising in our own ranks. But we cannot show weakness in the face of this foreign provocation. We must hold firm, until we can marshal the forces to expel these godless savages.’

      Mendel was nodding along, past the end of her words and into the silence beyond. After a moment, Tarfel said, ‘Meaning what, brother?’ forcing Mendel to look up again.

      ‘Meaning—’ da Loran began, but Tarfel cleared his throat, spots of colour on his waxy cheeks. Chel realized he was as unnerved by the prelate as he was.

      ‘I’d say my brother can speak for himself in matters of state, wouldn’t you?’

      Da Loran stared very hard at the young prince, who seemed to lose an inch in height beneath her gaze. After a moment, she rumbled, ‘Of course, your highness,’ and turned her gaze to Mendel, who looked momentarily surprised. Da Loran muttered something, and the crown prince’s eyes came alive.

      ‘Meaning, Tarf my boy,’ the crown prince proclaimed, refocused, ‘that the festival celebrations in Denirnas must go ahead as planned. A symbolic gesture, true, but hugely significant. We will show the north that the crown of Vistirlar does not bow or flee in the face of heathen aggression. We stand tall. We celebrate the festival of our father in defiance of savage alchemy, and we show this fractured kingdom that we are not afraid.’

      Chel listened with his brow crunched in rising incredulity. Tarfel seemed no less astonished. ‘We do?’

      ‘We do. And I can’t think of a better representative of the crown to oversee the festival proceedings at Grand Duke Reysel’s side.’

      Nobody

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