who hadn't moved.
“My dear, he already is. He took the oath Thursday at His Supremacy's feet. You should have seen him, Thasha. Handsome as a king himself.”
“Why didn't he tell me? Ambassador to where?”
“To Simja—have you heard of it? Wedged between our Empire and the enemy's, imagine. They say Mzithrinis walk the streets in war-paint! We didn't tell you because the Emperor demanded strict secrecy.”
“I wouldn't have told anyone!”
“But you said yourself the Sisters read your mail. Come in, come in! Nama will be calling us to table.”
Thasha climbed the stairs and followed her into the big shadowy house, angry already. It was true that she'd complained of her letters arriving open and disordered. Syrarys had laughed and called her a worry-wart. But now she believed: now that those worries suited her purposes.
Thasha had no doubt what the consort's purposes amounted to. Syrarys meant to leave her behind, and wanted her to have as little time as possible to change her father's mind. And if I hadn't been dropping out? Would they have left without saying goodbye?
Never. She could never believe that of her father.
Watching Syrarys, she asked casually, “How soon do we sail?”
If the consort felt the least surprise, she hid it perfectly. “The Chathrand should be here within a week, and sail just a few days later.”
Thasha stopped dead. “The Chathrand! They're sending him to Simja on the Chathrand?”
“Didn't the Sisters tell you? Yes, they're finally treating your father with the respect he's earned. Quite the expedition, it's going to be. An honor guard's been assembled for your father. And Lady Lapadolma is sending her niece along to represent the Trading Family. You remember Pacu, of course?”
Thasha winced. Pacu Lapadolma was her former schoolmate. She had escaped the Lorg ten months ago by marrying a colonel in the Strike Cavalry two decades her senior. A fortnight later she was a widow: the colonel's stallion, maddened by wasps, kicked him in the chest; he died without a sound, apparently.
“Hasn't she remarried yet?” asked Thasha.
“Oh no,” Syrarys answered, laughing. “There was talk of an engagement, a Duke Somebody of Sorhn, but then came proposals from the Earl of Ballytween and the owner of the Mangel Beerworks and the animal-trader Latzlo, who was so mad for Pacu that he sent her a bouquet of five hundred white roses and fifty weeping snow-larks, all trained to cry her name. Pacu didn't care for any of them—said they all looked alike.”
“Of course they did.”
“The suitors, dear, not the birds. Luckily her great-aunt stepped in. By the time Pacu gets back even Latzlo may have forgotten her.”
“I'm going with you,” said Thasha.
Syrarys laughed again, touching her arm. “You are the sweetest girl.”
Knowing very well that she was not, Thasha repeated: “I'm going.”
“Poor Jorl and Suzyt. They'll have no one, then.”
“Use any trick you like,” said Thasha evenly, “but this time I'm going to win.”
“Win? Trick? Oh, Thasha darling, we've no cause to start down that road. Come, I'll kiss you despite your dirt. My little Thashula.”
It was her babytalk-name, from long ago when they were close. Thasha considered it a low tactic. Nonetheless they pecked each other's cheeks.
Thasha said, “I won't cause trouble in Simja. I have grown up.”
“How delightful. Is that a promise to stop throwing your cousins into hedges?”
“I didn't throw him! He fell!”
“Who wouldn't have, dear, after the thumping you gave him? Poor young man, the lasting damage was to his pride. Knocked silly by a girl who barely reached his shoulder. Come, your father is in the summerhouse. Let's surprise him.”
Thasha followed her through den and dining room, and out into the rear gardens. Syrarys had not changed. Smooth, crafty, clever-tongued. Thasha had seen her argue a duchess into tongue-tied rage, then walk off serenely to dance with her duke. In a city
“My dear, he already is. He took the oath Thursday at His Supremacy's feet. You should have seen him, Thasha. Handsome as a king himself.”
“Why didn't he tell me? Ambassador to where?”
“To Simja—have you heard of it? Wedged between our Empire and the enemy's, imagine. They say Mzithrinis walk the streets in war-paint! We didn't tell you because the Emperor demanded strict secrecy.”
“I wouldn't have told anyone!”
“But you said yourself the Sisters read your mail. Come in, come in! Nama will be calling us to table.”
Thasha climbed the stairs and followed her into the big shadowy house, angry already. It was true that she'd complained of her letters arriving open and disordered. Syrarys had laughed and called her a worry-wart. But now she believed: now that those worries suited her purposes.
Thasha had no doubt what the consort's purposes amounted to. Syrarys meant to leave her behind, and wanted her to have as little time as possible to change her father's mind. And if I hadn't been dropping out? Would they have left without saying goodbye?
Never. She could never believe that of her father.
Watching Syrarys, she asked casually, “How soon do we sail?”
If the consort felt the least surprise, she hid it perfectly. “The Chathrand should be here within a week, and sail just a few days later.”
Thasha stopped dead. “The Chathrand! They're sending him to Simja on the Chathrand?”
“Didn't the Sisters tell you? Yes, they're finally treating your father with the respect he's earned. Quite the expedition, it's going to be. An honor guard's been assembled for your father. And Lady Lapadolma is sending her niece along to represent the Trading Family. You remember Pacu, of course?”
Thasha winced. Pacu Lapadolma was her former schoolmate. She had escaped the Lorg ten months ago by marrying a colonel in the Strike Cavalry two decades her senior. A fortnight later she was a widow: the colonel's stallion, maddened by wasps, kicked him in the chest; he died without a sound, apparently.
“Hasn't she remarried yet?” asked Thasha.
“Oh no,” Syrarys answered, laughing. “There was talk of an engagement, a Duke Somebody of Sorhn, but then came proposals from the Earl of Ballytween and the owner of the Mangel Beerworks and the animal-trader Latzlo, who was so mad for Pacu that he sent her a bouquet of five hundred white roses and fifty weeping snow-larks, all trained to cry her name. Pacu didn't care for any of them—said they all looked alike.”
“Of course they did.”
“The suitors, dear, not the birds. Luckily her great-aunt stepped in. By the time Pacu gets back even Latzlo may have forgotten her.”
“I'm going with you,” said Thasha.
Syrarys laughed again, touching her arm. “You are the sweetest girl.”
Knowing very well that she was not, Thasha repeated: “I'm going.”
“Poor Jorl and Suzyt. They'll have no one, then.”
“Use any trick you like,” said Thasha evenly, “but this time I'm going to win.”
“Win? Trick? Oh, Thasha darling, we've no cause to start down that road. Come, I'll kiss you despite your dirt. My little Thashula.”
It was her babytalk-name, from long ago when they were close. Thasha considered it a low tactic. Nonetheless they pecked each other's cheeks.
Thasha said, “I won't cause trouble in Simja. I have grown up.”
“How delightful. Is that a promise to stop throwing your cousins into hedges?”
“I didn't throw him! He fell!”
“Who wouldn't have, dear, after the thumping you gave him? Poor young man, the lasting damage was to his pride. Knocked silly by a girl who barely reached his shoulder. Come, your father is in the summerhouse. Let's surprise him.”
Thasha followed her through den and dining room, and out into the rear gardens. Syrarys had not changed. Smooth, crafty, clever-tongued. Thasha had seen her argue a duchess into tongue-tied rage, then walk off serenely to dance with her duke. In a city
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