Page 30 of Mistress of Bones
“Strange way to invite someone,” Oren said. “Guests aren’t usually found at the end of a rapier.”
“My men grew overzealous, nothing more,” Zenjiel said.
“Then the sireses are free to go?” Anané asked.
“It would be in their best interest not to.”
Oren’s mouth tightened with resolve, and Azul knew that he was willing to offer his life if it meant giving them a chance to escape.
“Nereida,” Azul whispered, although she wasn’t sure what she wanted to ask.
Nereida didn’t look at her. Instead, she cleaned and sheathed her rapier. “The invitation would be accepted more eagerly if our guards were allowed to leave uninjured.”
“A fair request.”
“Sirese, no,” said Anané. “Allow us to go with you at least.”
“Go,” Nereida said, “tell Sirese Del Valle that we are the ambassador’s guests and will be taken care of.”
“As you wish, sirese,” she answered stiffly. “But we shall remain here for a few days. In case you change your mind.”
Nereida acknowledged this with a nod, then addressed Silvo Zenjiel. “Take us to our new gracious host, then.”
Azul kept her chin up, but on the inside, she was prodding at every window, every entrance of the room, seeking another way of escape.
They were in Valanje’s hands once again.
To her surprise, the moment the black tabards turned toward the door, Nereida pressed a dagger into her hand so quickly Azul almost dropped it. Swiftly, she slipped it under her long waistcoat.
The hilt was made of animal bone.
Another two men were waiting outside the inn, holding on to their companions’ horses.
“Such an escort,” Nereida commented. “Are the roads this unsafe?”
“No one will dare touch you,” Zenjiel answered easily.
Azul and Nereida exchanged a look. They were as good as caught and caged.
De Biel opened the door of a covered carriage.
Grimly, Azul stepped inside and made space for Nereida, De Biel, and Zenjiel. She tried to hold Zenjiel’s gaze, but he ignored her and grew a faraway look.
His disinterest rattled. She was prepared to barter her way out of being dragged to Valanje, scream and kick if need be. She hadn’t counted on being treated like an unimportant package.
And there were so many questions she wanted to ask of him. But she couldn’t. Not with an audience.
Instead, she studied him, cataloging his blank features and comparing them to other Valanjian men she’d seen through the years, to Enjul, the Emissary of the Lord Death. The emissary had been easy to read—he hated her. Zenjiel offered no such ease. The world appeared to leave no mark on him, and the observation left a pool of unease deep in her gut.
Would Isadora have looked like this, given enough time?
No, Azul reminded herself. Not Isadora. Isadora would not have gone through life like a cart through a well-trodden path. She’d have broken the wheels and cut across the fields, no matter how difficult, and she’d be laughing her heart out.
The trip to the ambassador’s estate took a few hours. Azul had no real experience with the gentry’s country homes, and her grim determination gave way to disbelief as she stared at the massive gardens leading up to the main house. All straight lines and right angles, the way Sancians liked their buildings. Two stories tall with high windows looking onto the front, it was a rectangle of beautiful stone, so light gray it was only a few steps away from blinding white.
The inside was just as awe-inspiring. Two black tabards stood at attention by the main door, and a third one preceded the group while Zenjiel led them across a grand entrance hall and down a side corridor. Azul walked carefully, afraid to crack and sully the polished tiled floors.
A slight breeze carried through the corridor, and Azul allowed herself to enjoy the coolness, allowed herself to study the mosaic of Anchor discard filling the upper half of the wall with different hues of blue. It took a big block of Anchor to collect the small pieces used in jewelry and other shows of wealth, and the resulting refuse, while nowhere as valuable, was itself a treasure. Here, displayed along the corridor, elegant and carefully arranged, was Sancia’s pride. What a contrast with the bare hallways of the Great Council House in Diel.
