The Diplomat (44 page)

“We can tease you later,” said Rema. “For now, I need to know if you’ll be well enough to perform.”

“Yes, I’m well enough.” Jalaya continue to stare at her feet. “I even tested my voice by singing a song to Elsie.” She began to sing, her voice ethereal and lilting. “Under light so pale and moon so bare, I touched her lips and stroked her hair…”

“Oh, that one.” Rema laughed. “I hope you didn’t get to the part about her breasts.”

“She did,” said Elise. “I was flustered. It’s a good thing you came in when you did.”

“Well, don’t waste your voice. We’ll need you to sing long enough to keep everyone distracted. When you see our Ormun double, tell him to wear a brown tabard and black leggings. Cut his hair to just above his ears, if it’s not already. I assume we can trust him to play his part.”

“He’d do anything I’d ask him to,” said Jalaya. “He’s in love with me. Poor man.”

“Is there an entertainer in the palace that isn’t in love with you?”

“Of course there is. You know that woman who plays the harp? I invited her to dinner once, and she looked like I’d tried to hand her a spider. I had no intention of courting her, either. I only wanted to talk about music.”

“Maybe she was afraid of your cooking.”

“How cruel you are. Incidentally, I’ve been writing a song about a diplomat who falls in love with an enchantress.” Jalaya touched her hand to her chest and sang:
“Her eyes were lit with lunar fire, her abductor’s heart was set aflame; theirs was a love that would not tire, two hearts that felt and beat the same…”

“You’re clever,” said Elise, blushing.

Jalaya sprang to her feet. “I better hurry. I’ll see you both from the stage. I suppose I’ll miss most of the performance, locked in Muhan’s horrible box.”

“I suppose you will,” said Rema. She hugged Jalaya, pressing her chin against Jalaya’s head. “But when you come out you’ll leave everyone dazed, as you always do.”

“I want to give you something.” Elise embraced Jalaya and kissed her firmly on the lips. Rema stared, envy making a return—it was one thing to kiss her, but did they really need to do it for so long and so passionately? When the kiss finally broke, Jalaya wobbled back, her eyes disoriented with pleasure.

“If that was my punishment for last night, I regret nothing,” she said, touching her mouth. She gave a giddy smile and padded from the room, her jewelry jingling as she ran down the hallway.

Rema cleared her throat. “Well, then.”

“She’s risking her life for us. She’s going to spend hours inside a giant box!” Elise shook her hair, satisfaction blazing in her eyes. “Besides, now we’re even. I had to watch you kissing her, remember?”

“And what did you learn? That she kisses better than I do?”

“I’ll never say. I’m proud of you, though. You’re hardly pouting at all.”

“Well, while you savor your stolen kiss, I should check that Muhan and Artunos have finished setting up the stage.” Rema took Elise’s hand and pulled her close. “This may be the last time we can speak before the performance.”

As she held Elise to her chest, Rema’s chest tightened with dread. What if the plan failed and she was never again able to stroke Elise’s round face, touch her sensual lips or gaze into her enthralling eyes? If only she could lock all these sensations safely in her heart, never to lose them.

“This will work,” Elise said. “It will, won’t it? Rema, I don’t know if I can let you go…”

Was there another way? They could flee the palace, and there were any number of places they might hide. Yet Ormun’s specter would haunt them, and Rema would wake every morning choked with guilt. “This isn’t just about us anymore,” she said. “Think of Jalaya. Think of the slaves. Think of the women and men who are forbidden to love. We have the chance to rescue not only ourselves, but everyone.”

“No matter what happens, I’m glad. You’ve already made my life worth living. I love you.”

“And I love you. How powerful those words feel right now.”

“Let’s see if they can endure a lifetime.” Elise stepped back and fixed Rema with an assertive look betrayed by the shaking of her voice. “Go now. Win us the peace we long for.”

Chapter Thirty-One

The double doors of the theater were open. Artunos’s guardsmen moved back and forth through them, carrying crates and extra seating. They stopped, saluted and stood aside to allow Rema entrance.

The theater was modest by imperial standards. Three box seats rose above the stalls and were neighbored by two elevated galleries, both of which had twenty seats apiece. The walls were of smooth, polished marble, cracked with dark veins, and at either side of the wooden stage, two gold-ringed columns connected floor and ceiling. Sunlight entered through six massive round windows and touched every brick and crevice. For night performances, lanterns had been affixed to the walls, and a great chandelier hung from above.

Muhan was on stage, rummaging through a chest. Artunos stood nearby directing his men. He signaled for Rema to approach him, and she maneuvered through the guards to reach his side. “Good morning,” he said. “This part is going smoothly enough. Muhan’s pleased with the location of his props. How about the rest?”

“All sorted. Jalaya is taking care of the double.”

“Don’t you place too much confidence in her? I like her too, but she’s just an entertainer.”

“Are you serious? She speaks six languages and writes verse that my father would have given his hand for. You underestimate her because she’s a woman.” Artunos opened his mouth, but she interrupted. “Don’t even try to deny it. You make an exception for me the way everyone else does, but I’ll be damned if you haven’t a pigheaded view of us.”

“You may be right.” Artunos bowed his head. “I suppose in my line of work, I don’t often deal with women.”

He seemed so abashed that Rema’s temper faded. “That’s going to change. Female guards, Artunos. Don’t widen your eyes like that. I want to see it finally happen.”

“And where are you going to find me a woman who can hold a sword?”

“Have you even been to the city?” Rema put her hands on her hips. “Some of the female mercenaries that come off those boats could eat you alive. There are numerous women among the Kalanese Adventurers, and the most feared of them all, the Jade Ghost, is reputed to have won alone against ten men. The Tahdeeni have women in their army, and in Coradon women are trained for war from birth.”

“They’re mad, though. Sothis told me that the Empire could conquer every other nation in the world and bring all their armies together, and Coradon would still beat us on the field of battle.”

“And they’d win because they don’t underestimate their women. So it’s settled. We’ll make it happen.” Rema patted him on the shoulder. “Enough bickering. I’m going to have a word with Muhan.”

She climbed onto the stage, where Muhan was bending over a pile of colored cloth. “Hello, my friend,” she said. “Are you pleased with the preparations so far?”

“The guards have been very helpful.” As Muhan faced her, his mustache lifted to reveal a broad smile. “Yes, this will be quite a show. I’ve never had such a large vanishing box before. Tell me, is that delightful doe-eyed woman joining us soon? I’d like to see how much room she has to move in there.”

“She’ll be along as quickly as she can.” Rema chuckled. “I take it you like her.”

“After you left the conference, the rest of us talked quite late. She kept patting my knee and calling me a brave man. I’ve traveled the world, but never have I heard such a voice…Ah, dear. What would my wife think?”

“I’m curious. What does your wife think about you traipsing all over the world, selling dye and vanishing monkeys?”

“I send my profits home, so she thinks of it very highly. In any case, I suspect this wondrous angel would be immune to my charms even if I were still a handsome young man. You are spoiled beyond words, Rema.”

“Don’t be envious. I have to work hard to hold onto my riches. Shall I leave you to prepare?”

“Yes, yes. Oh, and before I forget!” Muhan burrowed into a crate and pulled out a tear-shaped mask. Evocative stripes of color ran from its tapered tip to its round base. “I bought the mask in the city and dyed it myself. When should I put it on?”

“Honestly? Put it on now. You never know when Betany might put her head around the corner.”

Muhan frowned but did as she suggested. In the mask, with his long and colored robes, he looked like the high priest of some especially cheerful religion. “It suits you,” said Rema, biting back a laugh.

“I can hardly breathe.” Muhan returned to sorting his rags, his narrow shoulder blades shifting beneath his colored robe.

Rema walked to the edge of the stage and gazed at the theater, visualizing how it would appear when filled. One of the box seats was traditionally reserved for the Emperor, but Ormun had declared his intention to sit in the front row of the stalls, as she had known he would. He’d told her once that the farther away he was from the performers, the less real the performance seemed to him. Rema was to sit at his left and Ferruro his right, the only company he would tolerate. Betany would occupy the imperial center box with Haran. Calicio had taken the left box, shared with his lover. Sothis had secured the right. Despite his reservations, the war minister had invited his wife and eldest daughter, knowing it would seem suspicious not to. Ormun’s wives had been given the right gallery. The stalls and remaining gallery would hold the petty officials, diplomats, assistants and orderlies of the palace.

Her stomach snarled, and she glanced at the clock above the theater door. Though the tinkers of Arann were famed for their ability to shrink timepieces, this one had been built immense enough that anyone in the audience could see its hands. They indicated that an hour remained until the performance—just enough time to placate her appetite.

Rema dropped from the stage and left the theater. As she walked to the nearest kitchens, her mind wandered to Betany, or more precisely, the question of how she had managed to dispose of Bannon’s body. Most likely she had unlatched her jaw and swallowed it whole. Rema claimed a salad and took it to the front court, where she relaxed on a bench and picked at her food.

A junior diplomat was sitting nearby, endearingly shy with his covert glances. Rema relented and gestured him over. She ate her meal while watching the boy explain his ideas, his hands animated with excitement. He was convinced he had the solution to the new conflict with Urandal, and his optimism was equally touching and amusing.

As the boy delved into the intricacies of his theory, people began to move from the court. “My apologies,” Rema said. “But it seems as if the entertainment is starting.”

“Oh!” The young diplomat stood and straightened his collar. “Yes, of course. I have a seat right at the back. I suppose you’ll be up in the best seats.”

“Hardly. Ormun prefers to sit at the front, and he always wants me right beside him so that he has someone to complain to.” Rema waved him farewell. “Hurry to your place. You can tell me more about these ideas of yours later.”

The boy departed, but Rema remained on the bench, settling her nerves. Trepidation moved restlessly through her. What if Ormun didn’t feel like taking part? What if he woke up inside the box? What if Muhan failed to subdue him? What if the double was completely implausible? Rema brushed aside her concerns. It would work.

She joined the stream of people moving toward the theater. The clamor of voices and scraping seats grew in volume as she approached the double doors. She spotted Ferruro striding ahead of her, his head and shoulders towering above the crowd, and she pushed her way to his side and tugged on his sleeve.

“Is that you under that hat, Remela?” he said. He knocked one of Haran’s magistrates out of his path and pulled her to his side. “There, now you won’t be crushed.”

“Forget about the box seats. People should sit on your shoulders.”

Ferruro rumbled with amusement. “As usual, the Emperor has requested our company specifically. Oh, the misfortune of being so prized. He never stops talking during a performance.”

“Ormun doesn’t believe there’s anyone more entertaining than himself,” said Rema, and Ferruro chuckled again.

They squeezed through the door and walked past the stalls toward the front row. Ormun was already seated, staring at the drawn curtains that obscured the back of the stage. Most of the other places were already filled; Sothis’s elder daughter peeped through the curtain of her box seat, her wan face brimming with curiosity, and Haran and Betany stood together in their imperial box. Rema was too far away to make out their faces, but it was unlikely a trace of amusement graced either one.

Ferruro took his place beside Ormun, and a low curse rose from the person unfortunate enough to be seated behind him. Rema dropped into her own seat, nodding in response to Ormun’s welcoming smile. It seemed only part of the theater wasn’t alive with excitement or conversation: the right gallery, occupied entirely by Ormun’s wives. They sat huddled and docile, the dark-skinned ones pale, the pale-skinned ones paler.

Elise sat upright and defiant among them. Her gaze met Rema’s, and she blew a kiss. It was a perfect—and surely deliberate—imitation of Rema’s own gesture at Muhan’s first performance, and she suppressed a laugh.

“I heard there’s a magician,” said Ormun. “If I can see how he does his magic, I’ll be very disappointed.”

“Oh, I don’t know much about magic,” said Ferruro. “I merely do coin tricks.”

Ormun snickered. “You must have an idea of what’s been planned, Rema. It was your idea. What can I look forward to?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, but I can say that there is indeed a magician,” said Rema. “There will be dancers, and Jalaya will be singing. There’ll also be a poetry recital in your honor.”

“Poetry. Gods, hang me! Dancing sounds fine, and your singer has a lovely voice. Acrobats?”

“There might be.”

“Well, well.” Ormun frowned at his gallery of wives. “I hope she appreciates all of this. Ah! There she is, as surly-faced as ever. Ferruro, look at that black-haired, light-skinned woman up there. The big one. What do you make of her?”