The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [119]
“How many houses in Birthgrave do you think are warm?” the woman asked, but she was already turning away, helping her companion to his feet. As he stood, Isyllt saw his face for the first time—sallow with jaundice, the whites of his eyes a fierce yellow. Movement made him cough, deep and wet and tearing.
She took three strides toward them before she realized she was moving. The woman glanced at her, and looked away again when Isyllt didn’t speak. As she led her friend down the hall, Isyllt turned to the other mage.
“That isn’t—”
He cut her off with a gesture, rings flashing. His dark face was lusterless with fatigue. “It is influenza.” The words were dull with rote response. “We don’t understand the jaundice yet, but the other symptoms match.” His voice lowered as he leaned close. “Bronze fever doesn’t spread in the winter, and the last thing the city needs right now is a panic.”
She couldn’t argue with that, though for a moment she wanted to. Her jaw worked once, then closed tightly. “I understand.”
Relief flickered in his eyes. “Good. Then if you’ll excuse me—” He waved one blunt hand toward the rows of waiting wounded.
“Is that what I looked like when I was sick?” she asked Dahlia when he was gone.
The girl shrugged. “Not quite so bad, but yes.”
Isyllt shuddered, chilled through. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find something warm to drink.”
The royal audience began at noon, and the throne room was packed tight an hour before the bells rang. Savedra stood in an alcove near the dais that afforded her a view of most of the hall and the Malachite Throne as well, if too many taller people didn’t crowd in front of her.
The hall was a riot of color—gold and green and creamy marble, the rich blue banners of House Alexios, stained glass windows, and all the people contained within. Members of the Eight stood beside—or at least in the vicinity of—merchants and shop clerks and tradesmen, and a few who might have been beggars, all gathered to petition the king, or hear him, or simply remind themselves that he existed.
Savedra saw her mother at the far end of the hall, surrounded by the heads of other families. The Octagon Court could put aside ancient rivalries for a few hours, if it meant a good view of the proceedings. Ginevra Jsutien stood with her aunt—she caught Savedra’s eye across the room and smiled. Savedra smiled back unthinkingly, and bit the inside of her lip as she glanced away. Friendships had been rare since she moved into the palace—why couldn’t she find one she could trust?
The third bell tolled the hour, and a moment later horns announced the entrance of the king. The audience knelt as he strode the length of the hall, grim and austere as ever. His eyes were still shadowed and sunken after a day and night’s rest. Nikos followed, restored to his peacock splendor in green and saffron. Behind them came a handful of the Royal Guard in formal grey-and-white livery. A colorless reminder that they served the Malachite Throne, not the house that held it.
The issues brought forth by the supplicants were the standard sort: squabbles amongst the Eight, conflicts between merchants, bureaucrats requesting money for city projects. All things Nikos had handled in his father’s absence, but having the king’s attention for even a few moments was soothing to many.
While Aravinds and Hadrians squabbled over borders and orchards, the crowd shifted beside Savedra. A subtle rearrangement of limbs and body heat, but she tensed, turning before a soft voice spoke.
“Savedra Pallakis. May I speak with you?”
She looked up and up again at the captain of the king’s private guard. Mikhael Kurgoth was a lanky, rawboned man, scarred and seamed, with incongruously baby-fine sandy hair. He had led the royal guard for as long as Savedra had lived in the palace. A foreign mercenary made good, his rise to authority had been nearly as unlikely as hers. He could have been a general, but had chosen more than once to remain beside the king.
“Of course, Captain.”
His dark eyes narrowed, deepening