claim her hand, not yet sure if she should be amused or worried, and they spun into the dance.
“For someone who thinks I attract ill-luck,” she said as the steps brought them close, “you seem quite willing to keep my company.”
“You never answered my last question.”
“What makes you think my presence here has anything to do with Kiril? If you know so much about him, you might know we had a falling-out last year.”
“Arguments are easily counterfeited.”
She twirled, skirts spinning, and touched his outstretched hand. Her slipper clung damp and sticky to her foot; the blister had broken. “Let me assure you, Lord Bashari, there is nothing counterfeit in the unpleasantness between me and Lord Orfion.” Truth, raw and bitter, straining her voice. His pleasant expression faltered.
“Then I’m sorry for your grief.” They drew together, nearly breast to breast. “I know you have no reason to trust me and a dozen not to, but I think our goals may lie in similar directions.”
That pulled her eyebrows up. She met his eyes—green-and-gold-flecked and terribly earnest. She envied him; she doubted she’d looked so innocent since she was ten years old.
“What if they don’t?” Another step apart, another twirl. “We’ve only just met—are we to become enemies so soon?”
“I hope not. But perhaps the risk is worth it.”
She stepped back into his arms, wishing she could scent deception as some mages claimed they could. All she smelled was wine and sweat and the cloying mix of a dozen perfumes. “Are you prepared to tell me you’re plotting against the Khas?” she whispered.
“No.” His breath warmed the side of her face. “I’m plotting against the Emperor.”
She drew back, struggling to keep up with the dance steps while she looked at his face. If he was lying, she couldn’t tell. Choices dizzied her. But she had to do something, so why not risk?
“We aren’t enemies, then.”
Zhirin and her mother arrived unfashionably late, after the dancing had begun. Their argument over the proper amount of mourning-wear had lasted nearly an hour. In the end Fei Minh lent her a sari, deep green silk shot with gold and orange thread, still trimmed in gray since the death of Zhirin’s great-aunt two years ago.
Lanterns and garlands dripped from the trees of the Pomegranate Court; rain bruised the flowers and decay tainted their waxy sweetness. Usually the court was open to guests, but now soldiers patrolled amid the trees and no couples sat in the rain-sheltered alcoves. They passed the wide lion fountain, twin to the one in the Kurun Tam, and climbed the steps to the council hall. The smell of sweat and wine and perfume wafted through the doors, mingling with the cloying flowers and the sharpness of the rain. Zhirin swallowed nervous spit.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Fei Minh asked.
Zhirin forced a smile. “Of course.”
It wasn’t much of a crowd, she told herself as they stepped inside. Much smaller than other parties she’d attended here. But still too many; her vision blurred, marble rippling like water, the guests a shimmering haze of gold and silk and gems. No one else wore gray. How many of these people would feel like dancing if they’d watched a nakh sink its teeth into a man’s throat?
Her courage nearly fled, but her stomach rumbled and the sharp edge of hunger cleared her head. She hadn’t eaten anything today but tea, and her body no longer cared about her grief. She grounded herself in the practical concern; she’d survived last night, she could survive a party.
“Oh, look,” Fei Minh said. “Lu Zhin is here.” She waved to the matriarch of the Irezh family, bracelets chiming softly. “And Min is back from the university.”
Zhirin barely stopped her eyes from rolling. That was a conversation she planned to stay far away from. “I’m going to find something to eat. I’ll join you later.”
“Good idea.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re looking a bit sallow—not that the color helps.” She flicked a fingernail against a gray ribbon.
Zhirin pushed Fei Minh lightly toward the Irezhs. “I’ll see you later, Mira.”
The dancing distracted people from the food, and Zhirin filled a plate with cakes and century eggs wrapped in pickled ginger. The finer red wines were nearly gone, but plenty of chilled white Mareotis remained, goblets sweating on the linen tablecloths.
She found a chair against the wall and balanced her plate on her knees, nibbling a cardamom cream-cake and watching the dancers circle. She had no idea if Isyllt would be here, she realized. For