way he could not quite articulate, except to say to himself: These people have money, more coin in a week than a Creche child will likely ever hold. This is how they choose to spend it.
But his contempt went unnoticed, for the nobles who approached the throne ignored the Guard entirely, as though Christian and the rest of them were merely pieces of furniture. They would treat their servants the same way, Christian thought, and the woman who knelt before the throne was no exception. She wore a cloak of material so fabulously mottled and spotted with bright color that Christian could barely credit it as real. Only when he heard Elston and Kibb muttering to each other did he realize that the material was peacock feathers: hundreds of them, sewn together in layers. Peacocks, Christian knew, came from the distant land of Cadare; in the Tear, they were an imported luxury. The cloak told its own story, but as the woman rose from her knees and pulled back her veil, revealing her face, Christian read more; in her cool eyes and ungenerous mouth he saw pure indifference, a lack of charity so great that it became cruelty by default.
“Lady Andrews,” the Queen greeted the noblewoman. “What can we do for you?”
“Majesty, I come to ask for Crown assistance. A tenant uprising has overtaken my acres.”
The room stirred, nobles muttering to each other in low tones. Christian watched them, ostensibly looking for trouble, but always his attention returned to the same man, who stood slightly below and to his left: short and round, dressed in an outfit of tan silk. He had a greasy smile and dark hair that had been combed straight back from his widow’s peak. As he covered his mouth with one hand to whisper to the woman beside him, the tattoo of a clown flickered in and out of sight beneath the edge of his sleeve. He could have been Maura’s client, but Christian didn’t think so. Over time in the Creche, one got to recognize the look of degeneracy, its textures and gradations. Something about the sunken eyes and overly mobile mouth told Christian that Maura would be too innocuous a vice for this particular noble, and if he needed confirmation, there it stood beside the tattooed man, in the tall and angular figure of Arlen Thorne.
Carroll nudged Christian gently in the back, and Christian realized that he had been caught wandering. He was supposed to be guarding the Princess Elyssa, who stood on the Queen’s left side, turned out in a dress of lustrous green material, her blonde hair pinned neatly on her head. Carroll had said that the Princess was both intelligent and engaged, but her expression was blank, almost bored. There had been an uproar in her bedchamber several nights ago, though Christian had only heard about it secondhand; he would not be allowed on chamber duty until his swordcraft improved. But the Princess had had some sort of fit, and there had been whispers among the Guard that the witch was involved . . . the witch, who now stood just to the right of the Queen’s throne. From time to time Christian sensed Brenna’s eyes upon him, but he was determined not to meet her gaze. He glanced down at the audience again, where Thorne and the nonce stood together in the front row. Thorne was staring at the witch, blinking continuously, like a lizard; after a moment, Christian realized that it must be some sort of code. But it was too fast for him to break.
Pretty children, he thought uneasily. What do you need with pretty children, Thorne?
On the far side of the Princess stood the Prince, Thomas, his thin face glowering at everything and everyone. Every few minutes he would reach up, almost unconsciously, to scrub his palm against his forehead, where the word rapist still stood out clearly, the blue letters only slightly faded. Whatever dye the Blue Horizon had used, it was intractable; the Queen’s medics had been trying every trick they knew to get rid of the ink, but the process was slow and painful. The skin of the Prince’s forehead was a blistered red patch. Christian often found himself puzzled by the undercurrents in the Queen’s court, but there was no mystery surrounding Thomas. No one liked the Prince, not even his own mother, who had expressly forbidden her son from wearing any sort of covering on his head. Dyer and Fell were taking