Grim (19 page)

 

The king's palace sat on a hill at the outskirts of Limbo, close enough to overlook the city, but far enough away to spare the royals a view of the poverty. When the halls were lit, as they were tonight, the residence looked like a jack-o'-lantern perched on the shoulders of a giant. The souls of Limbo were drawn to that glow, but were too afraid to leave the city limits. On nights that the court gathered, millions of other faces also showed themselves to the moon, their shoulders pressed so closely together on the roofs of Limbo's buildings that the skyline looked gnawed on and rumpled.

The road to the king's estate started at the base of the hill and wound up in one long gravel drive. At the gates, palace guards stood in traditional white, with long bronze-tipped spears in hand. They saluted Jegud's carriage as it trundled past.

As they entered the grounds, Erika brushed aside the curtains for a better view. A lake sprawled to the left, its surface aglow with lanterns. An army of black swans skimmed through the glittering field, curved necks bobbing. Beyond the lake, an orchard grew in a web of hanging lights. The silhouettes of strolling couples signaled that the ball had begun.

Jegud's driver tugged the horses to a stop at the palace's front steps and jumped down to hold the door for his passengers. Jegud climbed out first and took Erika's hand to help her down. He surveyed the front walk and the light that came from the palace's frosted windows, looking underwhelmed.

“I hate parties,” he said under his breath.

“So do I.”

Jegud tipped his head toward Erika and smiled. “I think my brother would call you out on that,” he said. “You're a rose, love, but we aren't here for you to charm
me
. I don't think you could if you wanted to.”

“Am I not your type?”

“You could put it that way.”

“Jegud!”

The young prince sighed. “Oh God.”

Erika flapped out her fan at the sight of Uriel, who turned on his way up the steps and glided over to meet them, his hand flat against the back of a girl who dripped with pearls and peach batiste.

“Good evening, Uri.”

“Good evening! And it's been such a long time.” His eyes flickered over Erika. “You don't think you can hide, do you, darling? I see that there's been some double-dipping of the ostracized princes. Is little Jeremy actually staying away, then?”

“I hope I'm not yet ostracized, Uri,” Jegud said. “And as for Jeremiah, it would seem that the council neglected to invite him.”

“Blast the council,” Uriel said. “They never think about the principle of the thing, do they? It would've been a stunning send-off. I'm sure you've seen the decree?” He flashed a smile. “Though you must have. I noticed you signed it.”

“I signed for Gabriel's succession,” Jegud said stiffly.

“Yes. Good of them to put both birds in a basket, hmm? One little paper to give Gabriel his wings and take away Jeremiah's.”

Jegud tucked Erika's hand around his elbow and glanced toward the open palace doors. “You should know by now that Jeremiah always has an escape route.”

“Yes,” said Uriel, “but you two are here with us. Who does he have left?” He bowed to Erika and turned away with his guest.

 

The first room of the king's palace resembled a stadium, with a thin line of marble leading to steps that descended to a low-level floor. There, lines of couples waltzed to the vibrato of a string quartet. On the other side of the hall, across from the doors, a platform supported a pair of thrones whose gilded backs reached the skirts of the domed ceiling.

“The king hasn't arrived yet,” Jegud said into Erika's ear. “But keep an eye on Uri and you'll know exactly when he's due.”

Erika had already lost sight of the third prince. He'd vanished into the swirling, dipping crowd of silk, velvet, and organza. The opulence of the hall, radiant with white marble and gold relief, made her head swim, and she stumbled on her way down the steps. Jegud caught her by the waist and waited as she steadied herself against his arm.

“Too much?” he asked.

“A bit.”

He sank down on one of the steps, offering Erika the place beside him. A scatter of other guests were doing the same, putting the staircase to practical use. Erika covered her flushed cheeks as she sank gratefully to the marble.

“We are the bourgeoisie of the underworld,” Jegud said, a light apology in his voice. “It's a caste system that Earth's socialites would kill for. In fact, most of them have.” He smirked. “Only they all end up on the wrong side of the gate.”

A sharp clap of laughter came from behind them.

“If it isn't the fifth son.”

Jegud turned to his right, where a tall man stood, arms linked with a girl in copper satin.

“Peter.”

“My wife.”

Jegud gave her a flickering smile.

“You've done well, Peter,” he said. “For a roguemaker's son.”

“I have,” Peter said. “And is this …?”

“
My
wife? No. This is Erika.” Jegud touched her chin. “This is the reason you all are here.”

“Then I am honored to meet you, Erika,” Peter said, doffing his top hat. His wife dropped a low curtsey.

“Well,
you
at least are convinced, darling,” Jegud laughed. “And I hope that you won't be the only one. But now that I've said it, where
is
my father?”

Peter checked the empty throne.

“I couldn't say,” he admitted. “Fashionably late, I suppose. You'd better hope so, at least.”

“And why is that?”

“I've heard that Prince Michael brought his own guest early,” Peter said. “A lovely angel from the High Kingdom.” He raised an eyebrow at Erika. “She isn't …?”

“No,” Jegud said. “Not quite.”

“Not that there's anything …” His voice died in his throat. “Nevertheless, if the contract is being drawn with Michael's name on the header, then Jeremiah can forget his pardon.”

Jegud coughed quietly into his fist and Peter's young bride turned wide-eyed to her husband.

“Oh, come now,” Peter said. “Everyone knows that you aren't one for social gallantry, Jegud. You wouldn't be here at all if Jeremiah hadn't asked.” He turned away. “But just the same, for your sake and his, I hope that your offer's face is as pretty as her hair.”

Jegud glanced at Erika as Peter walked away.

“Maybe Jeremiah was right,” he said to himself.

“Right about what?”

“Oh, nothing. He just said that you reminded him of someone, is all.”

A yelp came from the yard — high-pitched, miserable, animal, and cut short with a resounding whip crack.

“Gabriel's living trumpet,” Jegud muttered, getting to his feet.

The quartet stopped halfway through its waltz, bows clicking against music stands. The rush of guests found itself greeted by the baying of hunting dogs. Erika let Jegud lead her to the front doors, holding on to his hand as if it were a lifeline.

For a heartbeat, she thought that she had lost him in the swelling crowd, but then she felt his fingers tighten around her wrist and let herself be sucked out of the throng, vacuumed through like a champagne cork. She took a breath of the crisp night air and smoothed her dress.

The coach glistened bone white, accented by cream, and drawn by a double line of silver hounds. A handsome gift from the High Kingdom, to serve the needs of the future Middle throne. They were huge, stocky, with dinner-plate paws and long teeth that dripped saliva.

A procession of black carriages trundled past, serving as a backdrop, matte boxes pulled by high-stepping ponies. Jegud took special note of the last driver, who had forgotten his cap. When the steps of Gabriel's carriage clattered into place, Jegud's attention turned back to the prince's coach.

A footman leaped from the rear of the carriage and took the curved handles of the cabin door. A break followed, like a slip in time. The air of the courtyard felt alive with the static hum of expectation.

Gabriel stepped out.

He had his hat in one hand, and accepted with the other a plain porcelain mask from the footman. He returned the favor with a quick nod and an underbreath whisper. The soft laugh that followed prickled the ears of his neglected audience.

Then Gabriel turned, his hat and mask still in his gloved hands, and his hair, smooth, freshly clipped, and shining in the candlelight, was a streaked blond that reminded Erika of sun-blanched beach walkers. Gabriel let his eyes wander across the breathless faces, his interest subdued. His own expression was perfectly composed and perfectly patient.

“Am I late?”

His audience exploded, applauding, laughing, crowing, glowing, as if a dam had broken and left a rush of water thundering down the king's front steps. He could have said anything. He could have asked for the jewels from their necks and fingers and hair and they would have stumbled over one another to drop them into his gloved hands. There was rapture in the mob, and, for one glittering moment, it was not the crown or the throne or the Sickle that mattered, but the cradle it had built.

 

The curtains flapped against the open window, drawing themselves taut against the wooden sill and then fluttering back into the room as the Middle Kingdom breathed in and out. A cloud, the deep silver-gray of charcoal, slipped over the sill with a gust of wind that smelled of the city below. The specter hovered over the carpet, uncertain, and then a pair of heavy boots lowered themselves from the swirl of smoke. Michael walked across the bedroom, hardly making a sound, and looked at the bureau. There were paint pots of makeup and pretty blown-glass bottles of perfume. Combs and pins and clean strips of dark linen. There was, also, a single pearl earring and an emerald necklace.

The second prince smiled.

 

Jegud brought Erika to the front of the spectators, but the couple was among the last to seek out the crown prince's audience for themselves. Jegud leaned against one of the lawn's marble statues, feigning conversation to keep others away, and kept an eye on his eldest brother.

“Gabriel's far from the worst of the family,” he admitted. “I do think he would try for change.”

“Change in what?”

Jegud rubbed his forehead. “I couldn't say. He
is
a traditional, but underneath all the spit and polish, he has a good heart.” He took her by the arm. “Come on.”

They walked across the gravel drive to where Gabriel stood, wrapping up a conversation with a High Kingdom ambassador and his two daughters. When the group moved on, Gabriel finally smiled at his brother.

“Am I seeing ghosts?” he asked, tugging off his glove before he accepted Jegud's hand. “My father's favorite son back from a decade's worth of pilgrimage!”

“You flatter, Gabriel,” Jegud said. “But I think we all know that the throne's affections are played by number.”

If the crown prince felt the sting of those words, he did not affect to show it.

“Then you will be
my
favorite, Jegud,” he said. “I would repeat all of this grand entrance nonsense just to see you here, and happy.”

“Here, in any case,” Jegud said.

“And with a proposal? The throne
will
be pleased.” Gabriel bowed to give Erika's hand a kiss. “You're an ice princess, milady, with a discourteous chaperone to keep you in the cold. Or is that my fault?” He offered his arm and led her back toward the house. “Your name?”

“Erika.”

“Charming. And what brings you and Jegud together, Erika?”

“Well, I …” She glanced over her shoulder and faltered.

“Has he gone already?” Gabriel asked. “I would have given him ten minutes more. He's a matchmaker, Erika — don't worry. We'll be seeing him again before long.” He leaned in close to her ear. “Between the two of us, I would say that he's looking for your
actual
chaperone.”

Erika's heart jumped to her throat. “I don't understand,” she said. Pounding. Pounding.

“Don't be coy, Miss Stripling,” Gabriel murmured. “What kind of an heir would I be if I had fewer eyes than the king himself?” He led her up the stair, taking short steps for her benefit. Her skirts rustled over the gleaming marble. “I find it admirable, but I think my brother hopes too much.”

“You won't say anything?”

“Why should I? I grew up with Jeremiah. I won't forget that. Right now,” Gabriel said, “it is the king's business, not mine. Speaking of which, is it too bold to ask for a first waltz with my stepmother-to-be?”