Pimples captured Zia’s hand and led her into the gardens.
“Was that young woman making moon-eyes at Pimples?” Trip sounded dumbfounded.
“Why not? He’s a good-looking young man. And he’s smart, isn’t he? Perhaps not about wine, but didn’t one of your comrades say he’s good at math and has architectural aspirations?”
“Good-looking? Is he? Huh.”
“He’s quite comely. I don’t know why he has that name. His skin is lovely.”
“I heard a rumor that Tolemek had something to do with that. A cream he sells. Supposedly, Pimples was a test subject and gets free formulas for life.”
Trip looked toward the entrance again as several shaven-headed men in flowing blue garments that didn’t quite hide their sheathed scimitars and daggers strode in and fanned out. They scowled at Trip and Rysha, waving their hands, to try and back them away.
Rysha, suspecting this was the equivalent of King Angulus’s cadre of bodyguards, was inclined to do as requested, but Trip narrowed his eyes, lifted his chin, and exuded his scylori. It had its usual effect on Rysha, making her want to slip in close and start rubbing things of his. The bodyguards blinked and backed away. One almost stumbled into the person walking through the doorway, a man Rysha also recognized from photographs—he was mentioned far more frequently in Iskandian newspapers.
“Prince Varlok.” Trip stepped forward and bowed to him. “I am sorry for the loss of Dreyak.”
Varlok wore flowing silks not dissimilar to those of his sister, so the bow was likely more correct than a salute. As Rysha recalled, some of Varlok’s younger brothers had served in their military, but he hadn’t, being more of an academic.
“Captain Yert,” Varlok said without looking at his name tag—he seemed to know exactly who he was dealing with. He didn’t so much as glance at Rysha, but women rarely had prominent roles in Cofah society, so she wasn’t surprised. “I spoke to your king when I arrived yesterday, and he showed me a certain dagger.”
“Did you touch it and see what happened to your father, Your Majesty?”
“I did.”
Varlok's tone was neutral, his face difficult to read. If he had mourned his father’s death, he showed no sign of it here, not in public. Perhaps not in private, either. Nothing Rysha had read or heard about Emperor Salatak suggested he had been a lovable man.
At least it looked like Trip wouldn’t have to do anything to see his promise through. Rysha suspected he was relieved. She knew he hadn’t been excited about the idea of piloting into the heart of Cofah territory, not when their snipers and watch tower artillerymen so enjoyed shooting at Iskandian fliers.
“Lieutenant Ravenwood?” Kaika asked from behind. “Do you have a minute?”
Since Varlok didn’t look like he would miss her, Rysha stepped away without hesitation. She wondered if Trip would get a thank you from him. Not that Trip had been the bearer of good news, but at least he’d borne it.
There weren’t any quiet places in the gardens, as more and more guests kept coming in, but Kaika drew her to a patch of lavender against a wall, the flowers getting ready to bloom. Summer had finally come to Iskandia, and there weren’t any clouds on the horizon promising rain. Angulus and Kaika had lucked out.
Though Kaika appeared more nervous than lucky. She kept patting down her uniform, or maybe wiping her damp palms on it, and reached for her hair, as if to comb it, but since they were outdoors, she wore her uniform cap. Maybe that was a good thing, or she would be raking her fingers through it. She’d cut it all short for the wedding, to match the side still growing back after being bathed in dragon fire, and even though it would bewilder Kaika to hear it, Rysha suspected shorter locks would soon come into fashion because of her.
“You’re not thinking of backing out, are you?” Rysha asked. “Dozens of foreign dignitaries traveled far to use this wedding as an excuse to spy on Trip’s weapons platform.”
Kaika snorted. “That’s the truth. No, I just wanted to thank you for coming to stand by my side.” She grinned. “In uniform. I’ve been getting an earful from a clothing designer who creates custom dresses for many of the noblewomen when they get married, and she’s appalled and flummoxed that her services weren’t needed for this.”
“Madame Vovary, and yes, I can imagine. She’s in high demand. Even noble ladies have to book her a year out.”
“I assume the king gets to jump the line. She keeps telling me it’s not too late, that we could at least spruce up the dress uniform.” Kaika looked down at the blue and gray. “She suggested a frill around the hem. She also pulled out a poofy light blue ball. I have no idea where she thought that would go.”
“Maybe you could ask Leftie,” Rysha said. “He likes balls.”
“Something that should alarm any women he’s seeing.”
“Yes. And you’re welcome. For standing by your side. I’m honored you asked. The other lieutenants in the barracks are terribly jealous. This and the ball afterward are being considered the social events of the year, I understand. There are private parties going on among those who weren’t invited.”
Kaika nodded. “I heard there’s going to be a lavish shindig tonight at the Sensual Sage.”
Rysha wrinkled her nose, not wanting to think about what a lavish shindig at a brothel would be like. She imagined drunken orgies and a proliferation of adult toys. “Should the king be concerned that you stay apprised of the goings on there?”
“It’s hardly my fault that I’m on their mailing list. I suspect that once I officially move into the castle, they’ll stop sending me their brochure.”
Rysha’s mind boggled even more at the idea of a brothel mailing out seasonal brochures.
“Though I have been wondering if I should keep my little house in the army fort,” Kaika said.
“In case things don’t work out with the king?” Rysha hoped Kaika didn’t have that in mind. Even though she didn’t know Angulus well, she knew this was his third marriage, and she hoped it would be the final one, that this would bring him—them—happiness for the rest of their lives.
“In case a dragon or sorceress burns down the castle. Again. I’d hate to lose my souvenir beer steins, the way Zirkander did when someone blew up his house.”
“Ah, I see. The king might actually prefer it if the souvenir beer steins were stored somewhere else.”
“Nah, he wouldn’t mind more junk around the castle. He has dusty musical instruments all over the place that he collects. It seems that if they’re more than a hundred years old, they’re valuable. Do you know he can play the lute and sing? It’s moderately entertaining. He’s serenaded me a couple of times.”