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  The ruler of Chioma keeps himself in remarkable seclusion that no other Prince we have visited would dare. None have ever seen the heirs to the throne of Chioma—nor the face of their liege. Even in the presence of his servants, his nobility and his women, the Prince’s form is covered in blue robes—scandalously close to Imperial purpl! When my father and I were taken into his presence, it was like we were the penitents rather than he. I was horrified to find even then, when we were in his presence, a glittering wall of crystal beads obscured his face.

  He bowed most politely, correct to the tiniest degree, yet he did not once offer to remove the covering before his face. I wanted to take my sword and smite him down for the offense given to my father—but he held me back with a stern look. After the audience I said to Father, “He should be whipped for his insolence.” He only replied, “In Vermillion he would be, but in Chioma that would be dangerous,” as if that were explanation enough!

  Later that night I managed to corner some of the Imperial Guards, who told me the rumors surrounding this Prince. One told me that he was so hideously scarred none could look on his face and not go mad, while another fool suggested the Prince was immortal. The final one whispered the Prince had died years before, and it was his mother concealed behind the veil.

  Raed scanned the pages further, until he found another mention of Chioma.

  Only three years after taking power, Valerien had nearly lost his throne to a conspiracy of aristocrats in Vermillion. He had not been able to prove the involvement of any of the Princes—but he knew very well that some of them must have taken part.

  Valerian wrote tirades against those he thought most likely—but one name caught his grandson’s eye.

  I have had reports that the poison meant to do me in may have been traded in Orinthal—that serpent’s den of thieves and assassins. My spymaster was only able to get this information with application of the rack, but then the trail ran cold. I am sure that hidden viper in Chioma, our ancient enemy, is responsible.

  Raed paused, his finger tracing the word with some confusion. This was the first he had ever heard of such a royal feud. Flicking back through the pages, he passed another hour trying to find what that curious reference could be in relation to. Finally, he had to admit defeat.

  Closing the journal, he let out a sigh. His scholarly instincts had been piqued, but unfortunately, trapped on the Sweet Moon, he had no way of doing further research. Raed had studied all the official accounts available—except for those held in the palace library—and he had never heard of a feud between the Imperial family and the Chiomese ruler.

  “My Prince?” so engrossed in his study had he been that Raed had failed to notice Tangyre’s reappearance.

  “I am all right.” Raed sighed and pushed himself out of bed. “We must put all efforts into finding Fraine so that I can get back to open water. The tide of the Otherside has obviously turned against us.”

  Tangyre nodded but offered no comment on his Curse. Instead, she stuck to what they could control. “We are nearly to the port of Orinthal. Slavers do not stay here long; there are no markets for their cargo. I hope you have a plan to explain our presence there.”

  Raed ventured a smile. “I do indeed—and I think the crew will enjoy it.”

  After getting dressed, he joined Tangyre and the circle of sailors on the deck. They would not meet his gaze, and he didn’t blame them. Even those who had been with him since the beginning had not seen him transform for a long time.

  Raed cleared his throat and addressed the stocky crew member closest to him. “Balis, go below with a hammer. See what damage you can visit upon the Sweet Moon without totally sinking her.”

  The sailor grinned. “It’d be a pleasure, Captain—though sinking this filthy tub would be a kindness.”

  “Not in the plan”—Raed gave him what little smile he could find—“but I very much agree.”

  By the banging and whooping that came from belowdecks a short while later, Balis was making the most of the opportunity to take out his frustrations on the slave clinker.

  “Nice to know this ship won’t be used again,” Tangyre said as the river port appeared round a bend in the river.

  Long piers, made out of the local red stone, extended out into the river, displaying to everyone its wealth, while ships of all sizes bobbed in the Saal.

  Snook took the helm and slowly guided them into a free berth. The smell of rich spices combined with the more musky smell of camels, goats and sheep assailed the nose in a way that was pleasant and shocking.

  The grinning Balis returned to the deck, just as Raed swallowed a knot of concern and addressed the sailors again.

  “Please remember you are slave ship crew, so act accordingly. And by the Blood, do not call me anything but ‘Captain.’ ”

  “Good thing we did not bring Aachon, then.” Balis chuckled, folding his arms around the sledgehammer.

  The laughter took a little of the sharp edge from the moment.

  An army of harbor officials were already scampering in their direction, forms and paperwork trailing in their wake. Raed and his crew dropped down onto the pier as the harbormaster’s second homed in on them.

  The captain handed over his paperwork and waited for the official to notice the rather impressive damage in Sweet Moon’s hull. The Deputy was examining the order in such minute detail he didn’t even raise his head.

  “Ahhh”—Raed cleared his throat and jerked his head toward the damaged vessel—“we had some trouble . . . ”

  “Trouble?” The official’s gaze flicked up, and then his eyes widened on seeing the gaping holes. “What . . . what about your cargo?”

  “They got loose in the night, put up a hell of a fight, then jumped right into the damned river.” Raed let out what he thought was an exceedingly cruel laugh. “Hope the crocodiles ate the lot of them.”

  “Yes, well . . . ” The Deputy Harbormaster didn’t seem to get the joke. “You were supposed to move on tomorrow.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Raed leaned in close to the smaller man. “My ship is full of holes, and I ain’t taking my men back on the water again until it is fixed.”

  The other looked down at his notes. “We can accommodate your vessel in one of our dry docks—but it will be at least a week until it can be worked on.”

  “Hear that, lads?” The Young Pretender shouted to his crew. “Rest and relaxation on the owner for a whole blessed week!”

  The Sweet Moon’s crew did an admirable job of impersonating slavers looking forward to barmaids, brothels and beer. They whooped and hollered until everyone on the pier was looking in their direction

  Raed pressed his thumb in the inkpot of the Deputy Harbormaster and then to the form allowing the ship to be moved to the dry dock. Somewhere the owner of a slave ship would eventually get a terrible shock. Raed grinned at that satisfactory thought.

  Finally all of them sauntered along the pier and into town.

  “What now?” He asked Tangyre quietly over his shoulder.

  “We make contact with our man here.” Captain Greene also kept her voice low, while her eyes scanned the many dark alleyways that lined the approach to the port. “The pub should be nearby.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Raed tucked his fingers in his belt with a lot more bravado than he felt. He could do with a beer to wash away the final taste of blood that the Rossin had left him. Once it was gone, perhaps he could live with what had happened the previous day—or at least file it away with the rest of the horrors the Curse had brought him. Ahead lay his sister, and that was the anchor his sanity clung to.

  ELEVEN

  Buried in Roses

  After three beers at the Angry Trout, Raed was ready for action. Tangyre sat at his side, but he noticed she did not touch her pint of beer.

  The interior of the pub was the same as every other one in the Empire: dark, smoky and filled with patrons intent on reaching the bottom of their mug as soon as possible. Orinthal was
a great trading city, however, so there was a mixed selection of facial features and clothing in the Trout.

  Crowds made Raed nervous, not just because of the possibility that Imperial spies might be about but also because he could not help but imagine the chaos the Rossin would create in such a place. The Young Pretender shuddered and took another healthy draft of his beer.

  “He has eaten, Raed.” Tangyre leaned close and whispered into his ear. “You are safe for now.” She was well acquainted with the Curse as were all in the inner circle of his family.

  He looked up at her serious face and thought to himself, You don’t know, Tang. Those rules that I lived by as a young man are gone. There are none. I can’t say anything with certainty now.

  Yet he did not share those dark revelations, because the truth was they would do none of them any good.

  Once the Rossin had only appeared when a geist triggered its awareness. Once being at sea had been protection. Now Raed did not trust any of those things. Something had happened in the ossuary when all three of them had fused with the geistlord. Not anything good.

  “I know.” He muttered the lie to his friend, scarcely caring if he sounded convincing or not. “We just need to find Fraine, and then—”

  The door banged open, and a young man swathed in a dark brown cloak strode in. Raed felt Tang flinch at his side and guessed this was their man.

  Together they rose and, via a slightly circuitous route, reached this newcomer’s side. Raed’s eyes darted about, but no one was taking particular interest in any of them.

  Tangyre gave their contact a little nod, and the three of them wandered back through the door where straining ears could not hear. Outside in the sticky, warm darkness, she led the way around the corner of the pub. Alleyays were the traditional place to conduct covert activities.

  When Captain Greene spoke, her voice was low as to suit the surroundings. “My Prince, may I present Isseriah, Earl of Wye.”

  It was a title about as useful as his own as heir to the Empire. The Earls of Wye had famously stuck by the Rossins and had paid the penalty—hence why they were meeting in a filthy alleyway now. Still, Raed greeted him as if they were in the Imperial Hall. “Well met, Wye. Your grandfather served mine admirably.”

  Isseriah stepped forward. “I remain your man—even in exile, my liege.” He was taller than Raed by a head but bowed low enough for it not to show.

  “Wye is far from Chioma,” Raed said, uncomfortable with the admiration in the young man’s eyes. It was clutching at straws in the saddest way.

  The young would-be Earl smiled and shrugged. “And there is a price on my head if I ever return there. I have been making my way as a merchant since birth, just like my father.”

  “I hear you are doing well,” Tangyre added.

  “Not as well as I should.” Isseriah turned his face and showed the long scar running down his left cheek. Wye had the tradition that its rulers had to be perfect in mind and body to rule. Obviously someone had made sure that this heir to the principality would never be able to contest his place, even if he should chose to.

  “I am sorry.” Raed found himself apologizing for something he had not done.

  “My family does well enough for itself, but we can never be aristocrats or rule again, unless—”

  Raed cut him off. “For now, Isseriah, we are only looking for my sister, Fraine.”

  “I am sorry, my Prince”—the other man dipped his head—“but if I had known she was your sister—”

  Raed steeled himself, wondering if their trip would stop here. Had Fraine been killed and thrown into the river? His mind raced through a whole range of terrible possibilities.

  “She has been taken to the Hive City itself.”

  The relief that washed over him made Raed actually take a step back. Though it was a terrible thing to hear, it was wonderful to know that she was still alive. “Tell me more.”

  “Many slavers pass through Orinthal, as they cannot be sold here.” Isseriah was incapable of voicing the rest.

  “Go on,” Raed urged, though his stomach was in a tight knot.

  “However, sometimes those seeking advancement in the Court of the Prince have been known to buy the prettiest and pass them off as their own kin.”

  “Into his harem, you mean?” Raed’s hand went to his sword hilt. He was so used to thinking of Fraine as a little girl—yet when he calculated, he realized she had to be twenty years old. Then he thought about their mother: she had been the beauty of the Empire. He had almost forgotten that, because his last image of her had been anything but lovely. If he pushed past that, however, he could recall her thick waves of gold hair and brilliant blue eyes. If Fraine had grown up to look anything like their mother, then indeed she would be a striking woman.

  “So, into the palace we must go,” Raed replied firmly. When their informant exchanged a glance with Tangyre, he asked, “Is there some sort of problem with that?”

  “The palace is, as you know, highly guarded.” The young Earl looked about as if he expected to be overheard. “Every caravan must have permission to enter—but since I am going there, it will be easy enough to swap your crew for my workers—it is not that . . . ” He trailed off again.

  “No need to mince your words, my lord.” Tangyre let out a short laugh. “The price on the Prince’s head has been reposted by the Impostor.”

  Like the reprieve from the Rossin, Raed had taken heart from the fact that the bounty on his head had not been increased nor found its way to market squares since before the fight in the ossuary. Obviously saving his sister’s life had not wiped the slate clean in the Emperor’s eyes.

  “None of your usual contacts can be trusted,” Isseriah whispered. “We must make sure none hear of your arrival in Orinthal.”

  His eyes locked with Raed’s, making an accusation his lips would not. “My crew are reliable—down to the last one.”

  “Then how did the Emperor know you were coming to Chioma?” The Earl-apparent asked softly. “Excuse my boldness, sire—but Captain Greene said that you only got news of your sister’s kidnapping a mere week ago . . .”

  Raed stroked his beard but did not mention that Possibility Matrix that he, Sorcha and Merrick had found beneath the Mother Abbey. The Abbot was dead, that pit of conspiracy cleared out. Wasn’t it? Sorcha had told him about the lengths the Order had gone to, but he could not recall if she had mentioned the eventual fate of the unholy creation. The idea that once again someone could be dogging his steps before he even made them was maddening.

  He could not explain such horrors, such impossibilities to them. “There are fell things abroad in the world, things that would reveal our path before we walk it—yet walk it we must. I cannot have my sister disappearing into the harem of the Prince—or worse.”

  “Agreed,” Tangyre murmured. “The Princess Royal must be recovered.”

  Raed’s heart sank further because Isseriah still looked worried. “There is more, isn’t there?”

  “Only . . . ” The youth stopped and cleared his throat. “Only rumor, my liege—but I am sure you would hear it from others. They say there is a murderer on the loose in the Hive City. The guards of Orinthal are trying to keep things quiet, but there have been deaths among the aristocracy, which is harder to hush than if it were any unfortunate on the street.”

  So she begins.

  Raed managed not to jump. It was the Rossin. The Pretender stood stock-still for a moment, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every slightly rapid breath—trying to ascertain if any of them meant that the Curse was about to surface. Finally, after a few heartbeats he realized it was not.

  What the Beast might mean Raed did not know, and it did not elaborate further.

  Isseriah kept talking, his words tumbling over one another as if he was somehow embarrassed to bring such bad news to his liege. “You may stay in my warehouse tonight; it is safe enough. I will tell my men that you are my cousin, and I am showing you the trade. I have enough of them
to make that believable.”

  Raed looked at the young man and saw what had been in his own eyes once—hope. He was scared to let it show, but there it was. So the Young Pretender clapped him on the shoulder. “Your grandfather would be ud, Isseriah. You are taking great risks for my family and me.”

  “We all hope to see you restored.” The tall young man ducked his head. “So whatever I can do for you is my pleasure and duty.”

  They had been a long time hugging the coast of the Empire, so Raed had in truth forgotten that the fire of rebellion did still burn among the lesser and dispossessed nobles. As much as he believed it was a wasted effort, he was not going to destroy this young man’s kindly given allegiance.

  “Thank you all the same,” he murmured. Then with some embarrassment, Raed let Isseriah drop to one knee and press his forehead against the Young Pretender’s hand—where the signet ring should have been. It had been many years since he’d let anyone do that, and it felt more than just awkward—it felt dishonest. The sooner they found Fraine and he got back to the Dominion, the better.

  The Grand Duchess was fighting in the Long Hall in Vermillion Palace, but her mind was elsewhere. Her thick plait of dark hair was tied back, though some strands had come loose and were stuck in the corner of her mouth. Trails of sweat were running down her face. Zofiya was aware of all these minor irritations, but they were distant things—even the fight was some way off.

  For today she had received several disturbing pieces of information that suggested the life of her brother was in danger.

  It was no new thing. In Arkaym she had taken it on herself to be responsible for his continuing good health, and in all those years the number of assassination attempts were numerous. She knew because she kept meticulous records.

  In the last year malcontents had gradually worked out that the punishment she inflicted was dire, and so the attempts had dwindled away. Zofiya had unroofed castles, turned aristocrats of many generations into peasants and generally caused as much fear as her brother would let her get away with.