Page 99 of A Game of Veils

How ridiculous is it that I find myself wishing someone would call us to a lawn game? We’d all melt from perspiration, but at least we’d have something to do other than chatter.

I pause beneath the arch of a vine-draped arbor, sipping the sweet but watery juice that Darium society apparently turns to on hotter days. Part of me is relieved not to have to face another trial just yet. Part of me wishes we could get the rest of them over with.

A twinge runs up my leg from my foot still recovering from yesterday’s beating. I glance down—and my pulse lurches.

A black stain is spreading across my pale blue bodice, creeping even faster in the instant after it arrests my gaze. It looks as if I’ve been stabbed in the heart but the blood’s coming out dark as tar.

My body stiffens, but I manage to clamp down on the shriek that hitches up my throat. Remain calm, stay centered, take stock?—

A glimpse of flame-red hair at the edge of my vision douses my panic. I turn my head just enough to confirm that Fausta is sitting nearly out of view around the side of a nearby hedge sculpture, surrounded by her friends.

While I study her from the corner of my eye, her head ticks toward me as if she’s surreptitiously checking my reaction.

The next time I glance down at my dress, the stain has vanished. The fabric beams as starkly white as ever.

She projected another illusion at me. A much briefer one than before, but she wouldn’t risk exhausting herself on a gamble when we have no idea when the next trial might begin.

She must have been hoping I’d make a fool of myself in front of the court—and Their Imperial Eminences, who are strolling the gardens too. Maybe even end up looking outright mad.

So sorry to disappoint her.

I doubt her gift is strong enough for her to want to extend it much more than she already has today, but I meander onward in the opposite direction. I’d rather not linger in hostile territory.

A slightly cooler breeze drifts over me from the largest of the garden’s fountains. I head toward the marble fixture with its statue of Sabrelle the warrior godlen striking down a helmed man, and slow when I realize that the emperor has naturally picked the most refreshing spot in the garden for himself.

He’s standing by a shaded bench with one of his chief advisors and a few other high-ranking members of his court. They appear deep in discussion—I catch enough words to gather a new iron mine has been established in Lavira.

Maybe they’ll move on to a subject more useful to my purposes. I spot Giralda sitting with a few other ladies a little closer by and settle onto the edge of their sheet as if I have every right to be there. Which I suppose I do, although Giralda makes a quick grimace as if she’s bitten into something sour.

Their murmured conversation continues next to me. I feel no need to insert myself into the debate on the merits of various types of belt fastenings.

Emperor Tarquin is saying something about the route the metals will be conveyed along to reach the sites where they’re needed. “How many of the appropriate cargo ships do we have available for the lake crossing?”

His advisor dips her head. “I believe there are only a few not already assigned, but we could adjust the allotments as you see fit.”

The emperor hums. “I want as much as possible moved before the summer storms.”

A familiar terse tenor speaks up from a bench farther around the curve of the fountain. “You’d be able to move it more efficiently with a land-based route through Cotea.”

Both my and the emperor’s gazes jerk to the slim, auburn-haired figure whose head is still bent over the book open on his lap. Emperor Tarquin’s eyes narrow just slightly.

“What was that, Your Highness?” he asks with a sharp undercurrent of warning.

I’m not sure Prince Bastien fully thought through his remark rather than responding to the topic automatically. His head comes up, and he blinks at the emperor as if he hadn’t quite realized who he was talking to. Whose planned strategy he was criticizing openly in front of members of the court.

It’s hard to say when he’s already so pale, but I think even more color leaches from the prince’s face. His body tenses with his hesitation.

The safe thing to do would be to retract, apologize, and flee the emperor’s sight. But as I watch, Bastien’s narrow jaw firms.

He holds Emperor Tarquin’s gaze unflinching. “I said it’d be simpler to set a land-based route through Cotea, Your Imperial Majesty. Fewer concerns about the weight the boats can handle. Fewer delays from the storms. There’s a good road straight from?—”

The emperor cuts him off with a scoffing sound. “Your intention couldn’t be clearer. You’re simply hoping to earn more profits for your own kingdom by having them host the caravan. You’ll have to come up with a subtler gambit than that if you want to skew results to your benefit, young prince.”

Bastien’s mouth flattens. He doesn’t look disappointed or abashed, only irritated.

That’s all I need to convince me that it wasn’t a gambit at all. He was offering Tarquin solid advice based on his knowledge, and the emperor has thrown it away because he didn’t come up with the idea himself.

Perhaps because he already decided he’d rather take on more expense than see any economic benefit go to one of his conquered countries.

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