Page 166 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

Chapter 13

She was growing convinced that someone was manipulating with time in the ballroom. Jean-Paul had said he would try to get the Andalyssians to leave as soon as possible, but two hours had passed since she and Chloe had returned to the ballroom, and the Andalyssians showed no sign of leaving yet. She'd tried to stay inconspicuous, lingering near the edges of the room farthest from the emperor's party, but she'd had to accept several invitations to dance. Her nerves had eased somewhat after the first time she'd been whirled past the end of the room where the emperor and most of the Andalyssians were seated. None of them had so much as blinked at her, reducing her fear that one of them would recognize her and demand that she be removed from the palace. But she still didn't want to chance a close encounter.

On the third or fourth dance, she'd briefly caught Jean-Paul's eye from where he stood talking with the emperor, and he'd offered a quick smile and a small shrug of apology before she'd whirled on. The Andalyssians had started to join in some of the dances, and she thought someone had been giving them lessons, as they seemed adept at the fast-paced waltzes and gigues, which were different to the slow elaborate patterns of the set dances she'd seen in their country.

Still, their participation in the dances had made her think it wiser to decline the next offer she'd had from a dance partner and to go instead to find Chloe.

She made her way down the far side of the ballroom where there were thoughtfully placed niches curtained in gold-worked satin to allow the courtiers to retire in small groups or twosomes for more private discussions or entertainments. Probably the latter. Anyone who wanted to discuss anything truly private would be taking a risk. They could, of course, use a ward, but using magic in the emperor's presence was not encouraged.

Of course, they risked being overheard if they chose to undertake a liaison of a more intimate nature in one of the niches as well, but that didn't seem to be of as much concern judging by the sounds coming from the first two she passed.

The third was empty, as was the fourth. She paused there, taking a moment to enjoy the spectacle of the dancers swirling past. But her attention was dragged back when an oddly familiar voice caught her ear.

Not speaking Illvyan. No, the words were Andalyssian. The sounds of it were unmistakable. She'd studied the language before her mission there. She'd not reached any great degree of fluency, but she knew its rhythms. The peculiar combination of sharp consonants and hissing sibilants that made it stand out from the more liquid rhythm of Illvyan.

And the voices were coming from the fifth niche. Its curtains were closed, a signal that those within were not to be disturbed. But what were Andalyssians doing in a secret conversation in the middle of the ball?

It seemed an odd choice. One that sent a prickle of alarm down her spine.

Unable to stop herself, she ducked back into the alcove next to the Andalyssians, pulling the curtains fast behind her.

The voices next door paused as though those within had maybe heard her. She froze, hoping she hadn't scared them off. Apparently she hadn't. The quiet conversation started up again. Definitely Andalyssian. But it seemed after months of not using the language, much of the vocabulary she'd known had faded from her memory. She couldn't understand much. Whoever it was—she wasn't sure if there were three or four separate voices—they were speaking in low tones. One, who spoke least but with the most assured cadence, was, she thought, the voice that had caught her attention. Familiar, but she couldn't quite put a face to the voice when it wasn't clear.

She'd only recognized two of the Andalyssians she'd seen so far, both men she remembered being as junior as she had been at the time she'd met them. It wasn't either one of them speaking. But Andalyssians tended to run to tall and blond, the men wore their hair in very similar braided lengths, and they were all wearing the orange and green of the royal house's robes rather than those that might indicate any personal rank so it was difficult to distinguish them at a distance. She hadn't yet seen all their faces, so she didn't know if there were others amongst the party who she had met.

And strain her ears as she might, the muffled words were hard to distinguish. She heard the name Deephilm, the Andalyssian capital, and several references to time and what she thought might be “waiting,” or maybe that was “patience.” It was one of those tricky tongues where sometimes only a slight twist of emphasis altered the meaning of words that otherwise sounded the same.

She pressed as close to the wall between the alcoves as she dared, but nothing else in the soft phrases came clear in her mind, making her wish once more for a sanctii. Or that she'd been offered the option of learning Andalyssian with the assistance of a sanctii's magic via a reveilé. But the army preferred its junior officers to learn languages the old-fashioned way, except in times of extreme need. The theory being that then, when they were more senior and perhaps in need of the level of fluency a reveilé could grant, they would have the basic understanding and vocabulary that made a reveilé more effective. Besides, her language tutors in the army had insisted you could learn much about a people and a country from the way their languages worked and that linguistics were another tool in a diplomat's arsenal. Language lessons came with history and politics and geography to underpin the words.

She remembered more of that than she did of the language itself, it seemed. Which left her only frustrated as the voices went silent. A swish of fabric, a low laugh, and the sound of footsteps were all she heard as the men left the niche. It was an effort not to follow immediately, but it would be difficult to explain what she had been doing lurking in a niche by herself. Unfortunately, by the time she deemed it safe to exit, there were no Andalyssians nearby at all, leaving her with nothing more than a vague sense that she'd missed something important for her pains.

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