Page 16 of The Song Rising

Glym glanced at Ivy. “Death would be too extreme,” he said, “but she must serve as an example. Too much mercy, and your voyants will assume that mercy will be your answer to all crimes.”

Wynn’s gaze was boring into me. Whatever I did next would estrange someone, whether on the stage or in the gallery.

“I’d like you to be a part of the Mime Order, Ivy.” My voice resounded through the hall. “I’m giving you another chance.”

She looked up. Maria cursed under her breath, while Glym shook his head and angry mutters rolled from above.

“Underqueen.” The Pearl Queen was quivering. “This is an extraordinary decision. For the sake of the gallery, may I confirm that you intend to give no punishment at all?”

“Her confession was instrumental to exposing the gray market.” The fury on the observers’ faces was already making me doubt my decision, but I couldn’t backpedal now. “Without it, the Abbess and the Rag and Bone Man might still have influence over this citadel.”

Shouts rained from the gallery. “Who cares?” I heard them say. “This bitch sold us out!”

“Hang her!”

“Let her rot!”

These people were the ones who would spread news of my first trial as Underqueen. If they went away dissatisfied, the syndicate would soon rally against my verdict.

“Ognena Maria deems her honest,” I said, “and I see no reason why the accused would continue to have loyalty to the Rag and Bone Man—but there is a risk. She’ll remain under house arrest at one of our buildings, or in the company of a commander, for the next three months, at the very least.”

The commanders seemed placated, if disgruntled, but the observers still clamored for a harsher judgment. Ivy, who looked close to passing out, recovered enough to give me a small nod.

“The trial is over.” The Pearl Queen banged down her gavel. “Divya Jacob, the æther absolves you!”

A roar of outrage went up. Glym sliced the ribbon that bound Ivy to the brazier. As it fell, Wynn hurried down from the stage, enveloped Ivy in her arms, and guided her away from the bellowing in the gallery.

She had the right idea. Best to lie low while things cooled off. I was about to get up when a newcomer strode from the sidelines, ending the commotion.

I recognized that easy gait, the heeled leather boots, the hooded cloak of forest-green silk. This could only be Jack Hickathrift, the new mime-lord of III-1, who was usually shadowed by a doting admirer or ten. He had taken over from the Bully-Rook after the scrimmage. Maria clicked her fingers to get my attention and pointed to herself.

Jack Hickathrift bowed low. “My queen.” His voice was soft and honey-smooth. “With your permission.”

“Please,” I said.

He lifted an elegant hand and lowered his hood, revealing a smooth, chiseled face, white as milk. Thick dark-red hair coiled over one eye. The visible one was clear hazel, more amber than green, framed by long lashes. He smiled at the gallery.

“Thank you, Underqueen. I saw you for the first time at the scrimmage, knowing you only by reputation before it,” he said. “I thought I would be struck down by your beauty.”

My face must have said it all. Nobody had commented on my beauty in my life, least of all in such a public setting.

“Youwerestruck down, if I recall correctly,” I said, almost without thinking, “though I doubt my beauty was to blame.”

Laughter echoed through the music hall. Jack Hickathrift grinned, showing that his perfect teeth had survived the scrimmage intact. He carried an array of bruises from the fray, like all the survivors, and it was common knowledge that he was now missing his left thumb.

“Jack, you scoundrel,” Maria said, in mock outrage. “Are you trying to seduce your way into the Underqueen’s good graces?”

“I wouldneverdo such a thing, Maria.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I’m far too in love with you.”

“I should think so, too.”

Wolf-whistles rang from the gallery. I sat up straighter and threw on a coolly amused expression.

“Tell me, Jack,” I said, “did you open your meetings with Haymarket Hector in this manner?”

“I might have done,” he shot back, unperturbed, “had Hector been as exquisitely lovely as you, my queen.”

He had caught me by surprise at first, but now I relaxed into my chair, trying not to smile at his cheek. This was nothing but a performance, a power play. “For the sake of your ego, I’ll allow you to believe your flattery has worked,” I said in a jaded tone. “What do you want?”

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