Friendships had been rare since she moved into the palace—why couldn’t she find one she could trust?
The third bell tolled the hour, and a moment later horns announced the entrance of the king. The audience knelt as he strode the length of the hall, grim and austere as ever. His eyes were still shadowed and sunken after a day and night’s rest. Nikos followed, restored to his peacock splendor in green and saffron. Behind them came a handful of the Royal Guard in formal grey-and-white livery. A colorless reminder that they served the Malachite Throne, not the house that held it.
The issues brought forth by the supplicants were the standard sort: squabbles amongst the Eight, conflicts between merchants, bureaucrats requesting money for city projects. All things Nikos had handled in his father’s absence, but having the king’s attention for even a few moments was soothing to many.
While Aravinds and Hadrians squabbled over borders and orchards, the crowd shifted beside Savedra. A subtle rearrangement of limbs and body heat, but she tensed, turning before a soft voice spoke.
“Savedra Pallakis. May I speak with you?”
She looked up and up again at the captain of the king’s private guard. Mikhael Kurgoth was a lanky, rawboned man, scarred and seamed, with incongruously baby-fine sandy hair. He had led the royal guard for as long as Savedra had lived in the palace. A foreign mercenary made good, his rise to authority had been nearly as unlikely as hers. He could have been a general, but had chosen more than once to remain beside the king.
“Of course, Captain.”
His dark eyes narrowed, deepening the creases at the corners. He stood very close amidst the press; beneath the crisp grey linen of his surcoat he smelled of oiled leather and steel and fresh soap. “Will you carry a message for me? I must speak to the prince.” His tongue slid across his teeth as if he disliked the taste of the words. “In private.”
Curiosity prickled, but Savedra kept her face smooth, her gaze moving over the crowd. “Of course. In the Queen’s Solar, perhaps, before the sixth bell?”
“Yes,” he said, squinting in consideration. “I’ll be there. I needn’t mention discretion to you.”
“Indeed,” she replied dryly. “You needn’t.”
His mouth quirked. “Your pardon. Thank you, Pallakis.”
The next moment he was gone, melting back through the crowd to stand beside the dais once more, just in time for Mathiros to dismiss the quarreling houses and call for the next supplicant.
A trio moved forward, a man and two women. All were fair and dressed in plain wool, their dark coats brightened with embroidery.
“Your Majesty,” the first woman said, bowing her head. “I am Irena Ariseva, of Millrind Street. This is my cousin Priska, and Taras Denisov of Lathe Court. We are citizens of Erisín.” Her mouth twisted. “Or so we were told.”
Mathiros nodded. “Selafai is open to all who would swear fealty.”
“And swear we did. Why is it, then, that we are not afforded equal protection by Selafaïn law? By Erisín’s Vigils.”
“Equal protection belongs to any who have not forfeited it,” the king said with a frown. Nikos and Adrastos also looked nonplussed. This complaint wasn’t one they had expected. “How has yours been lacking?”
“In the past three months, eight young women have disappeared in Elysia and Little Kiva. Rosian women—our friends, our neighbors, our daughters. Half of them have been found dead, pulled from the river. We can only assume the rest have not been found, but that their fate was the same. With every disappearance we go to the police, and every time we are told that someone will look into it.” Her mouth twisted on the words.
A wary mutter ran the length of the hall. Mathiros leaned forward, his frown deepening. “And you don’t believe the police are investigating?”
The woman laughed. “They find nothing. Not even a pretense of an arrest to placate us. They take our stories and we never hear from them again. What are we to think, Majesty?”
“All citizens of Erisín are due the same justice, no matter where they may have been born. I will make sure the Vigiles Urbani are reminded of this.”
It wasn’t enough—that was clear from Irena’s scowl. But it was also the best she would get from such an audience, and that too was clear. She and her companions bowed and retreated, ceding the floor to more mundane problems. The whispers took longer to fade.
The audience lasted six hours, breaking for refreshments at three. Savedra didn’t see the Rosians in the