do not think bargains with them ever end well, my lady. How do you like the one gift you bargained for?”
She gave me a strange look, her nostrils flaring. “The language of ants? Let us say there is a reason I begged a chamber high above-ground, and that I am grateful for winter’s dormancy.”
“Even so.”
“You tried to tell us.” Lianne raked both hands through her hair. “From the first time when we summoned the spirit Valac; it was a trick, it was always going to be a trick. And none of us listened. Gods! We were fools.”
I watched her pace. “And yet if you had not done it, my Ch’in princess would have died in that lake,” I said. “And the dragon with her. The Emperor would have been overthrown, Ch’in conquered from within, and the weapons of the Divine Thunder loosed upon the world. So mayhap there was some greater purpose in it after all.”
The poetess laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound. “Ah, gods! There is a part of me that hopes it is true, Moirin mac Fainche, for it redeems our folly in some measure.”
“And there is a part of you that resents the notion,” I observed.
She shrugged. “That all of us in the Circle of Shalomon were but unwitting bit players in a drama meant to be played out on a stage far, far away? Yes, of course. I cannot help it.”
“I know.”
Lianne gave me a wry smile. “And we have not even gotten to Vralia yet.”
“No,” I said. “Nor to Raphael de Mereliot, of whom I would speak.”
Her brows rose. “You care for him yet?”
I frowned. “I have a sense that there are matters yet unsettled between us,” I said, choosing not to elaborate. “But it can wait longer. There are more pressing matters at hand.”
“Yes, there are.” Lianne resumed her seat, regarding me with a critical eye. “And I’ve a few thoughts on them, starting with your attire.”
I ran a fold of my gold-embroidered orange sari through my fingers. “Too exotic?”
“Too foreign,” she said bluntly. “To be sure, I suspect we’ll see the influence emerge in the next season’s fashions, but in the meanwhile, you ought to pay a visit to the couturiere.”
I nodded in understanding. “I’ve not had time, that’s all.”
“Make time, you and your husband both. And this business of your living at the Temple of Naamah…” Lianne shook her head. “It’s not good. It suggests you’re merely seeking sanctuary along the way. Folk in the City need to have the sense that your presence here is more permanent. I understand that your… your diadh-anam may send you elsewhere, but you can’t afford to maintain the appearance of some pair of romantic vagabonds.”
“The Royal Minister offered us a suite at the Palace,” I noted.
“I suggest you accept the offer.”
“All right.” It would evoke painful memories, but it was a small sacrifice to make if it rendered this process more acceptable, and kept any hint of the politics involved far, far from Desirée’s notice. “What else?”
Her topaz eyes glinted. “Antoine nó Eglantine promises that the performance will be a great spectacle. The royal theater holds only so many seats, and every peer in the City will be clamoring for one whether they support you or not. I’d advise his majesty to reserve a block of seats to be allotted to the commonfolk, awarded by lottery. They’ll adore the gesture.”
“That’s a good thought,” I said.
“I’ve a cunning mind,” Lianne said unapologetically. “Be grateful I’m putting it at your service.”
“I am.” I glanced at the window. “I should leave; the morning’s passing. Thank you for your counsel.”
“Thank you for your candor.” She paused. “The tale you told me, your adventure in Ch’in, the princess and the dragon, the Divine Thunder… Moirin, tell me. How much of it was true?”
I rose. “All of it.”
Her mouth twisted. “I feared as much.”
“Feared?” I echoed curiously.
“I’m envious.” She gave another shrug. “ ’Tis a poet’s curse to live in placid times.”
“Do you think so?” I asked. “The Ch’in have a saying that speaks to it. That it is better to be a dog during peacetime than a man during a time of chaos.” I gazed at her clever, sharp-featured face, feeling a memory not my own surface in my thoughts: a young Lianne Tremaine, no more than a child of nine or ten years, huddled over a rough-hewn plank by the light of a single guttering candle, scrawling urgently on it with a hunk of charcoal while an