toward her room. She would need her needlework for the next exhibition.
“Hey,” said Cadis. “Hey, Iren.”
When Iren turned, Cadis was sitting up. Her face was a mess, but she’d heal.
“Thank you,” said Cadis. “I know what you did.”
The mob of Meridan had better gristle to chew.
Iren nodded. She smiled for a short second.
It was nice to share some secrets.
The afternoon Revels took place on the palace green and had a convivial tone. Streamers hung from the trees. Cooks worked at fire pits. Flower dancers twirled to the tinkling of lutes. Only the court, the homo nobilis, and the patrician families were invited.
Even fewer would attend the ball that night.
The entire day was a thinning procession to the foot of Declan’s throne.
Iren sat in a gilded tent crocheting the final corner of a bed-length tapestry as nobles paraded through.
Like animals in a menagerie.
They didn’t realize that they, too, were being watched.
Iren preferred it so.
The tapestry depicted the scriptorium of the Academy, where initiates sat at tables and transcribed from the archives. Stitching every codex on the shelves in the background had taken her the better part of the year.
“Why can’t she do a nice pastoral scene?”
“You know how the Corentine are—always declaring themselves the smartest in the room.”
“Would it kill her to have some nymphs in a glade or something?”
The nobles had nothing interesting to say. Not even to one another.
A few admired her technical skills.
Most gossiped.
Some dared to poke fun.
“I suppose crochet will be an important skill when she’s headmistress of the Academy.”
“It’s meant to show discipline, constancy, attention to laws and lives, no matter how small.”
“Thanks, magister of all things obvious. This isn’t our first Revels.”
“I think she’s the most talented one.”
“Gave up pretty quickly in the melee. And fought dirty.”
Iren kept her eyes down on the tapestry.
Suppressed a reaction.
On the far side of the green, the royal musicians began a waltz. The crowds began to migrate in that direction.
A susurration and applause.
Rhea must have presented herself in full regalia.
The newer patrician families would be pushing to the front, to gawk at the jewels of House Declan.
Iren hoped the routine would be perfect.
It would be easier for all of them if Rhea could shine brightest.
Endrit would make a good show of it.
Even if Rhea was too nervous to give it any panache.
Iren needed a new color thread.
Only a few spectators in her tent.
A glancing check to make sure none of them was watching.
She turned the tapestry over to tie off the old thread.
For a short instant it revealed a strip of parchment paper, pinned to the underside, jotted with her shorthand notes.
Iren quickly switched out threads.
Back to her first position.
She needed to hurry.
If Marta came to check on her performance, she would ferret it out immediately. Nothing passed her notice. It vexed Iren terribly. But their tutor had not yet arrived, and no one in the tent was near so trained as Marta.
Of the seven stragglers in her tent, one was the doyenne of House Sprolio—a great-grandmother much impressed with Iren’s skill. She sat near enough to see. She was asleep.
Two were homo nobilis—not yet presented—thirteen or fourteen at most. They giggled at the far corner of the tent.
Playing at love.
Nothing of interest.
Another couple—middle-aged, unrecognized—walked with their daughter—ten years old, upset. A three-way disagreement.
The mother and father trying to remain discreet. The daughter using that to her advantage.
Domestic entanglement.
That left two targets for Iren’s attention.
Don Fabiano Sprolio, watching after his mother.
General Hecuba, a three-star general of Declan’s tribunal.
Sprolio—six hands high, fifteen stone, soft gut—was master of a small house, important for its location in the midland between Meridan and Findain.
Sprolio had the conciliatory charm of a man stuck between two warring factions.
And a facial tic when he lied.
Code name: Weasel.
General Hecuba stood beside him, half his size, twice his presence. A former dragoon knight, cut from the same cloth as Marta, now an officer. Cold. Hard. Small. She wore the formal uniform. Not on duty. Officially.
Code name: Stone.
Iren kept her head down.
She held a thin lead rod under the tapestry with her left hand and wrote on the parchment: Stone met weasel.
Above the tapestry, her right hand continued to crochet.
“Welcome to Meridan, Don Sprolio.”
“Thank you, General. Always happy to return to . . . civilization.”
“The king sends his regards.”
“Oh? Goodness. An honor to be thought of. Such a little house. I can’t imagine why.”
“I think you can.”
Hecuba had no patience for the dissembling that came with spycraft.
She paused.
To frighten Sprolio.
To check if anyone was in earshot.
Iren pretended to wrestle