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JAMAILLIA CITY

H ER CHAMBERS WERE beyond anything Malta had imagined.

No matter where she turned her eyes, she saw opulence.

The frescoes of forests on the wall merged into a pale blue ceiling of birds and butterflies in flight.

The deep carpets underfoot were green as moss, while the permanently flowing bath of steaming water bubbled through an immense tub framed by marble water birds and screened by a wall of potted reeds and cattails.

And this was merely her dressing chamber.

The mirror beside her dressing table was larger than she was. She had no idea what half the little pots of cosmetics and unguents held. She did not need to. That was the business of the three maids who applied them artfully to her skin.

‘If it pleases my lady, would she lift her brows, that I may outline her eyes more fully?’ One of them requested gently.

Malta lifted a hand. ‘They are fine as they are, Elise. All three of you have done wonderfully by me.’ She had never thought she would get tired of being fussed over, but she was ready for some time alone.

She smiled in the mirror at the women around her.

Elise had shaved a part in her own dark hair.

A comb, decorated with red glass, rested there in artful imitation of Malta’s crest. The other two young women had plucked their eyebrows and replaced them with a glistening cosmetic made from flaked mother-of-pearl and colouring.

One had chosen red in Malta’s honour. The other’s shimmering brows were blue.

Malta wondered if this were an effort to flatter Reyn.

Another glance in the mirror assured her that no cosmetic efforts could make them look as exotic as Malta. She smiled at herself, enjoying how light moved on her scaling. She turned her head slowly from side to side. ‘Wonderfully,’ she repeated. ‘You may all go.’

‘But, lady, your stockings and slippers…’

‘I shall put them on myself. Go on, now. Or would you have me believe there are no young men anxiously hoping you may be released a few moments early tonight?’

The smiles that met hers in the mirror told her that she had guessed true.

A great ball such as this created excitement through all the levels of the Satrap’s palace.

There would be dancing in no less than four separate ballrooms, for every level of aristocracy, and Malta knew that the excitement and glitter would extend to celebration in the servants’ hall as well.

That it was the third such gala in less than a month did not seem to dim anyone’s enthusiasm.

No one wished to miss the chance to once more glimpse the grave and slender beauty that was the Queen of the Pirate Isles, let alone bypass an opportunity to see the Elderlings dance together.

Newly influential advisors and nobles of Jamaillia would once more convene to flatter and exalt the young Satrap who had so valiantly set forth to adventure through the wild world and then return home with such lofty new allies.

Tonight would be their last such opportunity.

Tomorrow, she and Reyn would sail north on the Vivacia with Wintrow and Queen Etta.

Tomorrow they would finally begin the journey home.

Malta drew on her stockings and then her little white satin slippers.

In the midst of tying the second one, she looked down at it closely.

She tried to remember how tragic it had been not to have new slippers for her first ball.

Her heart went out to the girl she had been even as she shook her head over her ignorance.

She took the white lace gloves from her dressing table.

They came to her elbow, and were cleverly fashioned to permit hints of her gleaming scarlet scaling to show through the lace.

Yesterday, one of her maids had told her that in the bazaar, they now sold gloves with glittering insets to mimic the effect.

Malta looked at herself in the mirror disbelievingly.

Everyone, everyone thought she was beautiful.

Her gown was a confection of white with hidden panels of scarlet fabric that would flash only when Reyn whirled her on the dance floor.

The seamstress who had created it had told her it had come to her in a dream of dragons.

She set her hands to the tiny waist of the dress and spun before the mirror, nearly falling as she tried to turn her head to catch the flashing of the red.

Then, laughing at her own foolishness, she left her dressing chamber.

Moments later, she tapped twice at a door, and then boldly let herself in. ‘Etta?’ she gently asked of the dimness.

‘In here,’ the Queen of the Pirate Isles replied.

Malta swiftly crossed the darkened chamber and entered Etta’s immense dressing chamber.

Closets stood open, gowns were strewn on the chairs and the floor, and Etta sat in her undergarments before her mirror.

‘Where are your dressing maids?’ Malta asked carefully.

Wintrow had warned her of Etta’s temper.

Malta herself had never seen her anger, only the black depths of her sorrow.

‘I sent them away,’ Etta said brusquely. ‘Their chatter was maddening. “Try this scent, let us pin your hair so, will you wear the green, will you wear the blue, oh, lady, not the black, not again.” Like so many shrieking gulls, all come to feed on my corpse. I sent them away.’

‘I see,’ Malta said gently. A second door opened, and Mother suddenly appeared bearing a tray.

A steaming teapot was on it, and matching cups.

It was a lovely service, white with flowers done all in blue.

Mother muttered a soft greeting to Malta and set the tray down on Etta’s dressing table.

Her washed-blue eyes lingered on Etta fondly.

She spoke to herself as she poured tea for Etta, a gentle stream of words, soothing as a cat’s purr.

Etta appeared to listen, though Malta could make no sense of them.

Then Queen Etta sighed, took up the cup and sipped it.

Despite Mother’s status at court, she had refused title and chambers of her own.

Instead, she shared Etta’s chamber, and waited on her at every opportunity.

Malta thought such constant attention would chafe her to fury, but Etta seemed to take comfort from it.

The Queen of the Pirate Isles set down her cup.

‘I will wear the black again,’ she said, but there was only sadness in her voice now, no anger or bitterness.

With a sigh, she turned back to her mirror.

Malta found the black dress and shook out its simple lines.

Etta wore it to mourn Kennit, just as the only jewellery she wore was the little miniature of him strapped to her wrist and the earrings he had given her.

She seemed unaware that the tragic simplicity of her garb and demeanour had captured the dramatic interest of every poet in Jamaillia.

She sat before her mirror but looked down at her hands as Mother brushed her sleek black hair and pinned it up with jewelled pins.

From anyone else, Etta would have protested such decoration, but Mother hummed a calming little melody as she did so.

When she was finished, Etta’s dark hair was the night sky for a score of glittering stars.

Mother next took up a scent bottle, and dabbed her throat and wrists.

‘Lavender,’ Etta said quietly. Her voice broke on the word. ‘Kennit always loved that scent.’ She suddenly put her head down into her hands. Mother gave Malta a look. When the old woman withdrew to the other side of the chamber and busied herself rehanging garments, Malta humbly helped her.

When Etta lifted her head, there was no track of tears down her face. She looked weary, but she still managed to smile. ‘I suppose I must get dressed,’ she surrendered. ‘I suppose I must be the queen again tonight.’

‘Wintrow and Reyn will be waiting for us,’ Malta agreed.

‘Sometimes,’ Etta confided as Malta fastened the endless row of tiny buttons up her back, ‘when I am most discouraged, if I take a moment to myself, I swear I can hear him speaking to me. He bids me be strong, for the sake of the son I carry.’

Mother gabbled soft agreement as she brought Etta’s slippers and stockings.

Etta spoke on softly, almost dreamily. ‘At night, just before I fall asleep, I often hear his voice. He speaks to me, words of love, poetry, good counsel, and encouragement. I swear it is all that keeps me from going mad. I feel that in some way, the best part of Kennit is still with me. That he will always be with me.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Malta replied easily. Privately, she wondered if she were as blind to Reyn’s faults.

The Kennit that Etta recalled did not match Malta’s recollection at all.

She had felt only a shiver of relief when she had seen Kennit’s canvas-wrapped corpse leave Vivacia’s deck to slip beneath the saltwater.

Etta stood. The black silk whispered around her.

Her pregnancy did not show yet, but all knew of it.

The queen carried the heir of King Kennit.

None questioned her right to rule in his stead, just as none questioned the seeming youth of the man who commanded his fleet.

In pirate tradition, Wintrow had succeeded to Kennit’s position by a vote of his captains. Malta had heard that it was unanimous.

Wintrow and Reyn awaited them at the foot of the stair.

Her brother suffered in comparison to the Rain Wilder.

The close tailoring of his jacket did nothing to hide the slightness of his build.

The formality of Wintrow’s Jamaillian garb made him look even younger than he was until one noticed his eyes.

Then he seemed a fitting match for Etta.

As always, he wore black as she did. Malta wondered if it was truly to mourn the pirate, or if it was merely to complement Etta and mark them as a pair.