The Bone Palace (37 page)

Cursing and rubbing her eyes, Isyllt dressed and rousted Dahlia from the divan where the girl had spent the night curled like a kitten. “Come on,” she said. “This will be educational.”

The Arcanost’s largest dining hall had been repurposed to hold the wounded. Lamps and braziers lined the room, supplementing the wan light from the high clerestory windows. The space was already thick with the heat of a hundred bodies, and the smell of sweat and vomit and sour blood clung to the walls. Isyllt’s nose wrinkled as
they stepped inside, and Dahlia grimaced. She couldn’t imagine students would want to eat here again soon.

Injuries ranged from missing limbs to trench foot, with a myriad of infections and illnesses in between. Isyllt’s magic was useless for true healing, but she could numb wounds better than wine or opium, and set and stitch neatly enough. She had the foresight to tuck her ring into her inner jacket pocket, so patients wouldn’t panic at the sight of a necromancer descending on them.

More complicated than sword wounds or septicemia was the Ordozh magic some soldiers had fallen afoul of. The Arcanost knew little of the eastern arts—many were inclined to write them off as hedge magic and superstition. Isyllt had always found hedge magic to be reliable in a limited way, no matter what scorn the Arcanostoi heaped on the practice. Certainly the curses she found now had worked well enough. Some were bloody, others merely debilitating—one lieutenant had been made anathema to horses. None would bear him or endure his presence, not even from the back of a supply cart. Now he suffered from exhaustion and gangrenous feet from trailing the army all the way home.

Not only Selafaïn soldiers came seeking treatment—a few Rosians slipped in as well. The Arcanostoi in charge tried to chase them out, but when Isyllt caught them she made sure they saw her ring and her displeasure. In return, they sent all the wounded refugees to her, and soon she was surrounded. She knew only a handful of Rosian words, none useful for medicine, and most symptoms were described through pantomime.

By noon her lack of breakfast had begun to tell on her, but her appetite was nowhere to be found. By the fourth
bell she felt wrung dry and knew she had to eat something no matter how unpleasant the thought was. Dahlia served as a mirror—her smock was smeared with blood and pus and vomit, hair tousled and locked with sweat. Her olive skin was pasty, but her jaw was set and hands steady. Isyllt nearly patted her shoulder, but stopped when she saw the state of her own hands.

“Let’s find lunch,” she said when the influx of patients finally slowed. Her voice was raw and ugly.

Dahlia made an unhappy face at the idea of food, but began hunting for a clean rag. Filthy linen lay in drifts and swags around them and the nearest bowls of water were pink with blood and clotted and stringy with other waste.

They found clean towels and soap at the far end of the hall, and Isyllt scrubbed her hands till they stung. As she wiped her face for the third time, a conversation on the far side of a doorway caught her attention.

“I’m sorry,” said a tired man in black robes, “but this isn’t the place for influenza victims. Try St. Alia’s, or St. Allakho’s.” That last told Isyllt about the other half of the conversation—one didn’t suggest a charity hospital to those with alternatives.

A woman laughed, harsh and brief. Isyllt moved closer—a Selafaïn woman, dark-haired and olive-skinned under layers of scarves and hoods. A young man sat on a bench behind her, shaking beneath bundled clothes.

“St. Allakho’s is full,” the woman said. “And so is St. Alia’s, even if they were taking charity cases.”

The man sighed, running a wide brown hand over his face. Isyllt didn’t recognize him, but the jade and agates in his rings marked him as a healer-mage, one of the rare
few who chose to focus on magical theory instead of taking the more lucrative path of a physician. “Then you should take him home, keep him warm and dry and make sure he has plenty to drink. Broth and tisanes are best. Burn incense if you wish. We’re overwhelmed here too.”

“How many houses in Birthgrave do you think are warm?” the woman asked, but she was already turning away, helping her companion to his feet. As he stood, Isyllt saw his face for the first time—sallow with jaundice, the whites of his eyes a fierce yellow. Movement made him cough, deep and wet and tearing.

She took three strides toward them before she realized she was moving. The woman glanced at her, and looked away again when Isyllt didn’t speak. As she led her friend down the hall, Isyllt turned to the other mage.

“That isn’t—”

He cut her off with a gesture, rings flashing. His dark face was lusterless with fatigue. “It
is
influenza.” The words were dull with rote response. “We don’t understand the jaundice yet, but the other symptoms match.” His voice lowered as he leaned close. “Bronze fever doesn’t spread in the winter, and the last thing the city needs right now is a panic.”

She couldn’t argue with that, though for a moment she wanted to. Her jaw worked once, then closed tightly. “I understand.”

Relief flickered in his eyes. “Good. Then if you’ll excuse me—” He waved one blunt hand toward the rows of waiting wounded.

“Is that what I looked like when I was sick?” she asked Dahlia when he was gone.

The girl shrugged. “Not quite so bad, but yes.”

Isyllt shuddered, chilled through. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find something warm to drink.”

The royal audience began at noon, and the throne room was packed tight an hour before the bells rang. Savedra stood in an alcove near the dais that afforded her a view of most of the hall and the Malachite Throne as well, if too many taller people didn’t crowd in front of her.

The hall was a riot of color—gold and green and creamy marble, the rich blue banners of House Alexios, stained glass windows, and all the people contained within. Members of the Eight stood beside—or at least in the vicinity of—merchants and shop clerks and tradesmen, and a few who might have been beggars, all gathered to petition the king, or hear him, or simply remind themselves that he existed.

Savedra saw her mother at the far end of the hall, surrounded by the heads of other families. The Octagon Court could put aside ancient rivalries for a few hours, if it meant a good view of the proceedings. Ginevra Jsutien stood with her aunt—she caught Savedra’s eye across the room and smiled. Savedra smiled back unthinkingly, and bit the inside of her lip as she glanced away. Friendships had been rare since she moved into the palace—why couldn’t she find one she could trust?

The third bell tolled the hour, and a moment later horns announced the entrance of the king. The audience knelt as he strode the length of the hall, grim and austere as ever. His eyes were still shadowed and sunken after a day and night’s rest. Nikos followed, restored to his peacock splendor in green and saffron. Behind them came a handful of the Royal Guard in formal grey-and-white livery. A colorless
reminder that they served the Malachite Throne, not the house that held it.

The issues brought forth by the supplicants were the standard sort: squabbles amongst the Eight, conflicts between merchants, bureaucrats requesting money for city projects. All things Nikos had handled in his father’s absence, but having the king’s attention for even a few moments was soothing to many.

While Aravinds and Hadrians squabbled over borders and orchards, the crowd shifted beside Savedra. A subtle rearrangement of limbs and body heat, but she tensed, turning before a soft voice spoke.

“Savedra Pallakis. May I speak with you?”

She looked up and up again at the captain of the king’s private guard. Mikhael Kurgoth was a lanky, rawboned man, scarred and seamed, with incongruously baby-fine sandy hair. He had led the royal guard for as long as Savedra had lived in the palace. A foreign mercenary made good, his rise to authority had been nearly as unlikely as hers. He could have been a general, but had chosen more than once to remain beside the king.

“Of course, Captain.”

His dark eyes narrowed, deepening the creases at the corners. He stood very close amidst the press; beneath the crisp grey linen of his surcoat he smelled of oiled leather and steel and fresh soap. “Will you carry a message for me? I must speak to the prince.” His tongue slid across his teeth as if he disliked the taste of the words. “In private.”

Curiosity prickled, but Savedra kept her face smooth, her gaze moving over the crowd. “Of course. In the Queen’s Solar, perhaps, before the sixth bell?”

“Yes,” he said, squinting in consideration. “I’ll be there. I needn’t mention discretion to you.”

“Indeed,” she replied dryly. “You needn’t.”

His mouth quirked. “Your pardon. Thank you, Pallakis.”

The next moment he was gone, melting back through the crowd to stand beside the dais once more, just in time for Mathiros to dismiss the quarreling houses and call for the next supplicant.

A trio moved forward, a man and two women. All were fair and dressed in plain wool, their dark coats brightened with embroidery.

“Your Majesty,” the first woman said, bowing her head. “I am Irena Ariseva, of Millrind Street. This is my cousin Priska, and Taras Denisov of Lathe Court. We are citizens of Erisín.” Her mouth twisted. “Or so we were told.”

Mathiros nodded. “Selafai is open to all who would swear fealty.”

“And swear we did. Why is it, then, that we are not afforded equal protection by Selafaïn law? By Erisín’s Vigils.”

“Equal protection belongs to any who have not forfeited it,” the king said with a frown. Nikos and Adrastos also looked nonplussed. This complaint wasn’t one they had expected. “How has yours been lacking?”

“In the past three months, eight young women have disappeared in Elysia and Little Kiva. Rosian women—our friends, our neighbors, our daughters. Half of them have been found dead, pulled from the river. We can only assume the rest have not been found, but that their fate was the same. With every disappearance we go to the police, and every time we are told that someone will
look into it
.” Her mouth twisted on the words.

A wary mutter ran the length of the hall. Mathiros leaned forward, his frown deepening. “And you don’t believe the police are investigating?”

The woman laughed. “They find nothing. Not even a pretense of an arrest to placate us. They take our stories and we never hear from them again. What are we to think, Majesty?”

“All citizens of Erisín are due the same justice, no matter where they may have been born. I will make sure the Vigiles Urbani are reminded of this.”

It wasn’t enough—that was clear from Irena’s scowl. But it was also the best she would get from such an audience, and that too was clear. She and her companions bowed and retreated, ceding the floor to more mundane problems. The whispers took longer to fade.

The audience lasted six hours, breaking for refreshments at three. Savedra didn’t see the Rosians in the crowd when the fourth bell chimed—gone once their business was addressed, or surreptitiously removed?

A palace page elbowed his way through the press and bowed. “Milady. I have a message from Archa Severos.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nadesda still on the far side of the room. “Thank you.” She traded the boy the sealed envelope for a silver penny. “Does she expect a reply?”

“She said it was nothing urgent.”

Savedra nodded, and the boy bowed again and retreated. As soon as he was gone she inspected the black wax and broke the seal. By Nadesda’s standards “nothing urgent” only meant that no one would die in the next hour.

The note was a short one, written in a simple private cipher.
Make sure the princess is especially radiant at the masquerade,
it read.
Her newest friends will be there, with gifts
.

She stifled a scream, smiling instead as if reading a pleasant trifle. Her hand was steady as she tucked the note into her sleeve, but only barely. Friends for enemies was a common substitution, gifts for harm another. The assassin would try again.

She might have gone to her mother and demanded more information, but when she turned she nearly stepped into Ginevra Jsutien.

“Imagine meeting you here.” Ginevra wore burgundy brocade today, a tasteful and sober high-necked gown that did nothing to hide her slender curves. Savedra envied the girl her dressmaker—not to mention her figure.

“Will your aunt be happy to see you speaking to me?”

“She’s gone to the washroom.” Yellow topazes flashed in the darkness of her hair as she tilted her head. “I thought I should ask you about your costume for the solstice ball, considering what happened the last time we wore the same colors.”

“Saints, the ball.” She’d had the beginnings of a costume since the end of summer, but hadn’t been in for fittings in decads.

“I know,” Ginevra said, her lips pursing in a charming moue. “I haven’t decided on anything either. Luckily my milliner is used to me by now.”

Savedra met Ginevra’s eyes for an instant; they were of a height. Tall, slender, black-haired—her hands tingled as an idea began to gain strength. “About what happened last time… How would you like to play a game with me?”

“Oh?” The sparkle in her grey eyes belied the lazy disinterest in her voice. “What sort of game?”

“How does your dressmaker feel about challenges?”

Nikos came to her at midnight, kissing her before she could finish a greeting. It had been decads since they spent the night together, and she felt every absent day as he pulled her close. She wanted to protest as he led her to the bed, guilt twisting a knife beneath her sternum, but his fingers were tangled in her laces and her hair, and the scrape of teeth and stubble against her neck replaced guilt with want.