“Agreed.”
They left Luvian in Sorrow’s rooms, returning to the party and mingling. Sorrow went out of her way to greet everyone, apologizing for her absence, summoning staff to supply drinks and canapés to the people she spoke to. She saw Luvian a little later, trying to sneak out, only to be furnished with a tray and sent into the crowd, and she tried to smother a smile, even as a frisson of alarm went through her. But no one recognized him, or even looked at him, hidden as he was by the camouflage of his servant’s clothes.
She remained in the gardens until the last guest had left, waving as a local justice and her husband wandered tipsily towards the gates. Irris, Arran and even Charon had long since retired, and so Sorrow was alone, save for her guard as she returned to her suite.
She washed, and changed into her nightclothes, her childhood bed feeling unfamiliar now. As she lay on the pillow something rustled beneath her cheek, and she reached inside the pillowcase to find an unsigned note, telling her to watch for the “handsome moustachioed chap in red” at the Jedenvat presentation.
She smiled at the note, smiled into the dark. Luvian hadn’t betrayed her. And he was back. Somehow, it meant the world to her.
Four days later, Sorrow waited inside an empty classroom in the University of Rhannon. Based in Istevar, the university was one of the oldest parts of Rhannon, established over seven centuries ago. It was Sorrow’s first time there. The classroom was large, with wooden benches and desks set in a tiered semicircle around a small stage, where she now paced.
Irris had been sent to scan the crowd for Luvian, so Sorrow waited alone, save for four guards, two either side of the door, and two near the large windows at the rear of the room. Sorrow knew she was safe, given what Luvian had said about his brothers, but she was also keenly aware that this was the first time she’d be in public after the murder attempt, at a specific place and time. If Arkady and the Sons of Rhannon decided to attack her again, today would be a solid opportunity, albeit a difficult one.
There was a knock at the door, five taps, then two, then three, the code they’d developed to let the guards know not to swing freely when Irris returned.
She opened the door a moment later, and stepped into the room.
“Quite the crowd,” Irris said.
“They’re only here to see if I’m assassinated onstage,” Sorrow muttered, sipping at the ginger tea Irris had given her earlier to calm her stomach.
“They’re here because you invited them,” Irris reminded her.
As well as the Jedenvat, the final presentation had – at Sorrow’s request – been thrown open to the public. She argued that because the last one had been hijacked by the Sons of Rhannon, it was only fair they allowed at least some of the people to hear this one. Which was why Sorrow was pacing a room that smelled of old socks and ink, instead of in the Round Chamber of the Winter Palace.
“Anyone of note in the audience?”
Irris gave a small smile and Sorrow’s heart lifted, but then a knock at the door sent her scrambling to her feet, upsetting the tea. Two of the guards moved to stand in front of Sorrow as the third opened the door.
A petite woman stood there, eyes wide as she took in the guards. “It’s time.”
The walk to the stage felt to Sorrow like a walk to the gallows, her heart ricocheting in her chest, a staccato beat that made her hot and then cold in turn. As she paused in the wings she closed her eyes, opening them again when a hand slipped into hers.
“Every single person in the crowd has been searched. There are palace guards in disguise, mixed in with the crowd, and obviously the Decorum Ward are out there,” Irris said.
“Not Vine?”
“Not Vine. Everyone is from Dain’s unit in Prekara. All of them trained by her.”
It was a small comfort to Sorrow.
“I’ll be right here,” Irris said. She leant over and kissed her friend’s cheek before adjusting the sapphire-blue tunic Sorrow wore over grey trousers. “And Luvian is front and centre.”
“With a moustache?”
Irris smiled.
Sorrow took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She’d tried to tell herself that this wasn’t that big of a deal, that the weeks travelling Rhannon and meeting with the people were more valuable, would have more of an impact on the election. But her body called her mind a liar.
Because this was where she had to prove she’d meant every word she’d said so far. Every promise she’d made, she had to reinforce. Every person she’d spoken to, this was where she’d show she’d listened. Here, in this ages-old institution, in front of a council of representatives, influencers, nobles and clerics, and citizens. Every word she said would be reported tomorrow morning across Rhannon. Every gesture, every pause. This was her best, and now only, chance to lay the ghost of Harun to rest and show that she could be the chancellor Rhannon needed. The only chancellor it needed. And she had no idea what Mael had up his sleeve.
Then someone was calling her name, and Mael’s, the crowd was clapping, and she was walking onstage once more.
When she turned to acknowledge Mael, she gasped.
Four days previously, at the Gathering, he’d looked healthy and whole, if a little downcast. But the man who walked onstage now, grey-faced, shoulders rounded in, shadows beneath his eyes like bruises, looked as if he were suffering from a terrible illness. The applause died away as he reached the podium, and didn’t wave, or look out at the crowd at all. What had happened to him?
Sorrow barely heard the announcer introduce her, and she tore her eyes away from Mael, and looked out into the crowd.
Luvian was sporting the most spectacular handlebar moustache she’d ever seen. It curled elaborately at the edges. He must have put it on after arriving; it was so clearly not natural there was no way the guards wouldn’t have questioned it. He tipped her a wink, and she gave a surprised smile, looking out beyond him.
On a raised platform at the back, the Jedenvat sat, with Charon at the centre. Bayrum beamed at her, and Arran Day offered an indiscreet thumbs up. Balthasar scowled, and whispered something to Lord Samad, but it seemed the sand lord wasn’t interested, as he waved him away. Interesting, Sorrow thought. Tuva Marchant gave her a firm nod. And Kaspira did the same. But before Sorrow could think about what it might mean, the announcer stopped speaking. It was Sorrow’s turn.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice echoing into the space. “My name is Sorrow Ventaxis and I’m here to tell you why you should vote for me tomorrow.” She looked down at her paper, then out at the faces watching her raptly.