Page 4 of Vilest Things
Calla senses the moment his gaze wanders back to her.
“Princess Calla, you appear to disagree.”
She holds in a sigh. This trip is a formality, a survey staged for show. Thepalace doesn’t learn anything new, and the provinces certainly don’t gain much either when their councilmembers come by with a retinue of advisors taking note of their grain numbers and water levels. Rincun and Youlia are the only provinces in Talin where delegation visits are still placed in the palace calendar: they’re far across the kingdom, and too new to have reliable, well-marked roads out. They’re also too ramshackle for their councilmembers to keep holiday houses, which usually suffice asvisitsfor other provinces when those councilmembers are off escaping the hot weeks in San-Er. If anyone from the palace is to make a visit to Rincun, a whole delegation is indeed necessary. The horizon of Rincun stretches for miles and miles without life, plenty of excess land roped in after the throne’s conquest took their villages and swallowed the lake in the middle. Palace delegations must make use of the local generals, the ones who have been stationed out here long enough to know the way and direct their path. Though there’s a seaboard and the raging ocean at the western edge of the province, one would never know that for how long it takes to travel over from the villages.
“Don’t speak to me.”
The carriage goes quiet. The two other advisors shift uncomfortably.
“I—you—pardon?” General Poinin demands.
She considers backpedaling to conceal her overt disdain. She could say that his suggestion is unnecessary by the palace’s own decree. It is illegal for the provinces to speak anything other than Talinese, and so the villagers cannot truly pray when prayers to the old gods were made in their original tongue. Excessive worship in the provinces has already been cut down. The palace has no need to draw more ire from their farmers.
“Don’t speak to me,” Calla repeats instead. “Your voice is so fucking grating.”
Prior to his ascension, August Shenzhi put the decree in place to make Calla his advisor, to pardon her from any past crimes and come into power alongsidehim. No one can overturn the command, unless August himself decides to renege on his word and yank Calla away from her new title.
But then people might start asking why.
Then the council might start sniffing closer and realize that King August is not King August at all, but Anton Makusa, refusing to leave the body he has invaded. Now, for as long as Anton allows Calla to keep this power, there is not a soul in this kingdom who can say otherwise, and Calla is going to make the most of it.
They continue the rest of their journey in silence.
“We’re just about ready, I gather,” Calla announces, stretching her neck and hearing a click. The sun is setting. They should leave before then, get on the road as soon as possible instead of spending a third night sleeping on village cots.
She’s impatient. It took a full week to travel here by carriage, so it will likely take another to get back to San-Er. Time will not linger to await Calla’s return. While she’s been flung to the farthest reaches of the kingdom, Anton is at liberty to do whatever he likes, and she wouldn’t have the faintest clue about it. The thought itches at her, inciting an overwhelming physical restlessness across her limbs.
“I’d agree. Do you need a blanket, Highness?”
Calla glances down. Surveys her torso, her legs, her dirty boots. She figures there might be some reason why Venus Hailira asked the question, as though she’s unwittingly started to shiver, but everything appears normal. She leans on the yamen wall, her arms folded. Though the wall is rubbing grime onto her jacket, Calla remains clad in leather, not the fine robes and silk of palace dwellers. She still dresses like she’s lurking around San-Er, like she needs to blend into the perpetual night of the twin cities while playing the king’s games. If anything, she’s probably the warmest here at present. Even the palace guardsaccompanying the delegation seem a little chilled in their practical black cotton. As do the horses, already saddled and latched to the carriages.
“No?” Calla’s answer comes out as a question. “Do I look like I need one?”
“Uh, no. I only wanted to check.” Venus’s gaze goes over her shoulder, to the building enclosed behind the wall. “Maybe the yamen would like some extra blankets.”
“The yamen doesn’t want blankets,” Calla says dryly.
“They’re low on supply. Some of the windows are cracked, and—”
“Let me revise my statement.” The day’s shadows shift, light ducking under the horizon. “The yamen doesn’t want blankets fromus. Leave them alone. You’ve seen the way they’ve behaved during our visit.”
It has barely been three days, and the reception in Rincun could not be frostier. The villagers stay inside. Rural dwellers have no use for the palace unless the palace has use for them. While the other advisors make their rounds and receive reports from generals and soldiers, Calla has spent her time either in the yamen or dully trailing after Venus Hailira while her mind remains back in San-Er. She can count on one hand the number of people who have talked to her.
Venus frowns. “Don’t be such an aristocrat.”
“That is what I am, after all.” Calla picks at her gloves. “They don’t like us. Let them have it rather than trying to feign generosity.”
“I’m notfeigning—”
“You are.” More guards emerge from the yamen, finished with their final bathroom breaks. “We are, as you say, aristocrats. If you were truly generous, you would open the Hailira vault for them instead of giving bits and pieces. Say you won’t. You’re allowed.”
Venus’s mouth opens. Before she can say anything else, Calla—still ever casual—gestures at the councilmember’s pocket. “Phone’s beeping.”
“Oh.” With a start, Venus takes the cellular phone out from her pocket, pulls the antenna long, and walks off to take the call. Once her generals return fromtheir survey of West Capital, their delegation can leave. The palace guards seem impatient too: the ten or so–strong force stays close while they wait by the West Capital yamen, ready to set off at a moment’s notice. Venus isn’t very good at controlling the operation here. Unsurprising. Calla only knows of the Hailira family through peripheral knowledge, but she remembers hearing about the Palace of Earth turning up their nose at Venus for abandoning her birth body. It’s not as though palace nobles don’t often help their children quietly swap bodies when they insist they’re not a little boy and need to be addressed differently—the problem is that Venus did it herself when she was a teenager, and the Hailiras couldn’t just claim that nothing had happened, as other nobles did.
“That was peculiar,” Venus reports, striding back. Her headpiece has shifted to the left, the blue jewels on the side tangling with a knot of black hair.
“Don’t tell me there’s a delay.”
