The Diplomat (45 page)

Ferruro turned in his seat. “I think you have very little to complain about.”

Rema tried to settle into her seat. The cushion had proven deceitful, appearing much softer than it really was. As she wriggled in discomfort, a grumbling rose further along the aisle, and somebody muttered an insincere apology in response—Artunos, struggling through the feet of the audience toward her. Judging from his dour expression, something had gone wrong.

“My Emperor,” he said, pressing his fist to his breastplate and bowing to Ormun.

“Captain,” said Ormun. “No need to stand at attention. Relax, enjoy.”

“My responsibility is to keep this audience safe. I will remain vigilant, my Lord. Rema, may I have a word?”

“Surely anything you can say to Rema, you can say before me. It can’t be as if you’re plotting.”

Artunos opened his mouth, but it was clear he had no idea what to say. Ferruro twisted in his seat to watch the exchange, his expression mirthful. “Are you a captain or a mime?” he said. “You should be on stage yourself.”

“It’s probably some aspect of the performance that he doesn’t want to ruin for you both,” said Rema. “It’ll be best if I talk to him in private.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Ormun. He turned back to Ferruro and launched, with rising temper, into a complaint about the boredom of poetry.

Rema followed Artunos to the corner of the theater, as far as possible from the audience. His left eye twitched. It was a tic she’d only seen when he was under extreme pressure, and her nervousness swelled into foreboding. “What’s the matter?”

“Jalaya’s missing.” Artunos’s voice was bleak. “We were expecting her to show up at any moment. Now the performance is about to begin and she’s still not here. Muhan doesn’t know what to do. He needs her to get into the box.”

“Missing? But I saw her only this morning. Do you know if she prepared our double?”

“No, I don’t. None of the entertainers has seen her since late morning. It’s not like her.”

Rema glanced up at the middle box seat. Betany stared back. Despite the distance between them, there was no doubt she was smiling, and fear stirred in Rema’s heart. “Artunos, this is more serious than you know. Her life may be at risk.”

A drum struck behind the curtain. Its deep note vibrated through Rema and echoed in her stomach. “There’s no time,” said Artunos. “The entertainers are beginning the performance. You go back to Ormun, and I’ll scour the palace. I’ll take my five best men. If we can find her before Muhan’s act, we can force an intermission. That’ll give us the chance to sneak her on.”

The thought of Jalaya endangered yet again inspired an equal amount of fury and despair, but Rema fought the impulse to march up to Betany’s booth and demand answers; the ensuing scene would undo all their hard work. Even joining the search was impossible, for if she left the theater for any reason, Ormun would throw a tantrum and cancel the performance.

Rema cursed in Ajulai, a particularly vile imprecation, before returning to her official tongue. “Please find her. Gods, this is a disaster.”

“All we can do is search. Go back to your seat. Ormun is watching us.”

Rema made it back to her seat just as the curtains whisked open. Ormun smiled at her, curiosity gleaming in his blue eyes, before devoting his attention to the stage.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Three drummers sat on the stage, beating the taut leather of their instruments, while a hooded man walked to the stage’s edge and bowed before the audience. He lifted his cowl, revealing his identity as one of the court’s best actors, a man with a sonorous voice that always saw him cast as an emperor, king or general.

“Great court of the Empire,” he said, gesturing to the audience as he spoke. “Mighty Emperor Ormun, master of the farthest reaches of Amantis. We humble entertainers today have gathered to celebrate Elise Danarian, daughter of Cedrin and Talitha, rulers of Danosha, the southern jewel of Ostermund. She is linked by passion to our majestic Ormun, son of Togun and Morga. Hail to you, Heir of the Wide Realms.” A drum note quivered, and the actor folded his hands over his chest. “May we thrill your blood and quicken your hearts.”

He clapped. Dancers twirled onto the stage from the wings, ribbons in their hands tracing wild patterns behind them. There were four: a graceful Tahdeeni man dancing on his toes, a Goronban woman shifting her hips to the beat of the drum, a Molonese man whose muscles rippled as he moved and a Lastar woman, her eyes bright as she twirled. The male dancers were stripped to the waist, and the women wore shimmering wraps with long, fluttering edges. Each weaved around the others, spinning with effortless grace.

The drums thudded as the dancers’ movements became more frenzied. Ormun nodded his head to the beat, while Ferruro rested his face against his palm, his face bored beyond measure. A new set of instruments sang: a high, howling pipe, the shrill ring of zylls and the skittering of a rattle. The dancers began to thrust and contort like walking snakes. Rema looked over to Elise, who was watching the stage intently. This would all be novel to her. And, of course, she knew nothing about Jalaya’s disappearance.

The audience gasped as a torrent of flame roared over the heads of the dancers, who spun to the wings to reveal the fire-breather, a towering Narandane woman with a shaved head and a bare chest. Her muscular breasts were slick with sweat. She tensed her shoulders, inhaled her torch and expelled another withering flame. Jalaya had once confided to Rema that despite her appearance, the fire-breather was a timid woman who was terrified of parrots. They had both laughed until Jalaya had gotten hiccups, and Rema had spent the rest of their evening coaxing her to stand on her head to cure them.

Rema gripped the armrests of her chair until her knuckles whitened. It seemed absurd to be watching this performance while her dearest friend could be dead or dying. She glanced at Ormun, who was gazing with pleasure at the fire-breather. He returned the sidelong look. Attentive to her presence as he was, she would never have a chance to leave. She sank back in resignation as the fire-breather released a last flame and sidled backward into the shadow of the wings.

A short, balding man strolled to the front of the stage. Ormun groaned. “A poem for our Emperor,” said the poet in his rich voice. “And his wife most divine.” He cleared his throat.

“Here sits our Danoshan daughter,

From her realm of woe and war.

A land wracked by blood and slaughter,

Ere our soldiers reach its shore.

She shall join soon with our master,

Highest lord and great protector,

He has been our surest armor,

He shall be her sweetest nectar.

We welcome her, brave child of East,

To this, the wide and sultry West,

To find her hopes and joys released,

And in her marriage long be blessed!”

A series of slow, sarcastic claps broke the ensuing silence. A backward glance confirmed Rema’s fear: it was Elise producing the sardonic applause. Rema stood and began to clap enthusiastically, nudging the man on her left to do the same. From high above, Calicio shouted in approval and joined her applause, and the forced enthusiasm began to spread across the theater. The poet basked in adulation, though he gave a worried frown in the direction of Ormun, who hunched in his seat examining his fingernails.

“That was execrable,” said Ormun. “Master shouldn’t rhyme with armor.”

Ferruro made a noise of agreement, as did Rema, who had been agonized by the poem no less than anyone else—the court poet was living proof that not everyone should be permitted to write verse. Still, Elise had been foolish to react so brashly…then again, wasn’t it precisely that stubborn spirit that Rema so loved?

The poet shuffled into the wings and the drums picked up their beating. Two acrobats vaulted to the stage and spiraled in midair before landing frog-legged. Ormun seemed to cheer up, while Ferruro sunk back into apathy; he only enjoyed himself when Ormun was irritated.

As Rema watched the performers tumble, her thoughts returned to her problem. There was, at least, an obvious remedy. She could volunteer instead of Ormun, and then Muhan’s substitution trick would become a vanishing one. She would then sneak from the stage, find Jalaya and arrange for Elise to be smuggled from the palace. The court’s suspicion would fall on Rema, especially as Ormun knew of her feelings, but she would deal with that when it came.

The acrobats were poised for another gyrating leap when the door of the theater banged open. The audience turned in confusion at the sound of heavy boots, which preceded the arrival of a pack of silver and gold guardsmen. “Stop the performance,” one said, and the acrobats rocked on their heels, faces uncertain. The audience broke into whispers.

Ormun rose. “What’s the meaning of this?”

One of the golden guards approached with his helm under his arm. “My Emperor. Mistress Remela, Master Ferruro. There is a fire in the diplomat’s college. We don’t believe it can spread across the courtyard, but we must still remove the audience to a safer location.”

Rema’s heart stilled. The college was a three-story building within the palace confines. It contained the diplomatic library, the quarters of the junior diplomats, a small kitchen and dining area, and several lecture halls. It was wood-paneled, filled with furniture, tapestries and rugs, and it held innumerable books and papers…“It’s a tinderbox,” said Rema, rising. “How long has the fire been burning? You have to stop it before it reaches the library.”

“The safety of the court is our first responsibility. Captains Artunos and Lakmi are at the fire now, arranging a defense.”

A man behind them stood. “What’s this about a fire?”

“Fire?” said another. “Did he say there’s a fire?”

The panic spread, the dreaded word passing from lip to ear, until the entire audience was on their feet and calling out in terror. Where was the fire? Were their quarters in danger? Was there a way out of the palace? “Please don’t panic,” said the guard. “The fire is in the diplomat’s college, and we hope to contain it there—”

There was a cry of horror from the junior diplomats, and they rushed to the door. The guards tried to hold them back, but a crowd of curious audience members joined the press, and the guards retreated. For some mad reason, people always moved toward a disaster rather than away from it. “Ferruro,” Rema said. “Help me get through this crowd.”

Ferruro nodded, took Rema’s arm and began to force his way through the audience. Soon they were at the head of the pack. They ran through the corridors and stumbled into the wide outdoor courtyard that surrounded the school building. Flames peered from the school’s upper windows. A group of guards were standing nearby, filling buckets from the courtyard well. Artunos and Lakmi were with them, their heads bowed in conference.

“What’s going on?” Rema said. “How did this happen?”

“I couldn’t say.” Artunos’s face was drawn, and his tic had worsened. “But we sent some guards in there, and they say it’s already out of control. Too much smoke, and once the library goes up nobody will be able to go near it.”

“We can’t save your college,” said Lakmi. “We’re preparing to contain the fire instead. We’re lucky the structure is separate.”

A group had already gathered in the courtyard to stare at the blaze. Junior diplomats watched, wide-eyed and teary, as their home was destroyed, while Ferruro’s face expressed the pain of seeing wealth transformed into smoke. Sothis stood well back with his daughter, holding her close, while Betany and Haran lurked together some distance from the others. Betany’s arms were folded, and her eyes burned as brightly as the building.

Rema stalked across the cobbles and grabbed Betany by the shoulders. “Where’s Jalaya?”

Betany laughed. “Where do you think?”

Rema stared at the burning building. It was as if her chest had been hollowed, and into the numb space had been poured a grief and fear beyond imagination. “What did you do?” said Haran. “Betany, you didn’t…”

“Silence, Haran. Trust in me.”

Rema felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Elise, her face even whiter than usual. “What’s happening?”

“Jalaya is in there.” Rema kissed Elise on the lips—Haran and Betany were staring, but damn them, what did it matter now—before running to Sothis’s daughter. “I have to borrow your scarf.”

The young woman unraveled the colored cloth and surrendered it. “Are you Rema?”

“Yes, but there’s no time to get acquainted.” Rema hurried to the well and took a bucket from the hands of a guardsman, who tried to resist until he realized who was robbing him. She drenched the scarf in the water, wrapped it around her face and ran toward the door. Artunos grabbed her by the arm.

“You’re mad,” he said. “You won’t survive.”

“You can’t stop me. Jalaya is in there. I’d rather die myself than surrender her to the flames.”

“Jalaya?” Artunos clutched her more urgently. “How do you know?”

“Betany did this. She understands now it’s the surest way to hurt me.” Rema looked into his apprehensive eyes. “If I die, I will need you to repay your debt to me. Take Elise far from here. Succeed where I failed. Save the woman I love.”

His grip slackened, and she pulled free. Several voices cried her name—Ormun’s was among them. He must only have arrived; that didn’t matter either. Jalaya would live, or all this was pointless. Rema continued without hesitation into the lobby and ran to the stairwell. Betany, cruel as she was, would have placed Jalaya on the third floor, as far from Rema’s reach as possible. But she had underestimated her rival, as she always had, as she ever would.

The heat built as Rema ascended the stairs. Upon reaching the second floor, she began to taste the smoke, and her eyes stung. The sound of fire intensified as she climbed, until the crackling and gloating of the flames became all-enveloping. To still her fear, Rema began to murmur verse beneath her breath: “Her love has held my grief at bay, and now she sets me free…”