Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) (33 page)

Bray led the way on foot. The constable’s headquarters was a bit of a walk, but with the constant traffic on the roads it would be faster on foot. She and Adearre weaved their way in and out of the crowds.

She was not looking forward to seeing the head constable of Accord again. She rather despised the man—he had clearly earned his place through politics rather than skill. He had a way of looking at her as if undressing her with his eyes, and everything he said rang with dishonesty.

The constable’s office appeared to be a miniature of the library. It had the same brick face and pointed roof. Bray climbed the steps and proceeded inside, glad to be safe from the wind.
 

She was disappointed to see the constable still had the same assistant, a young man with a pointed face, a high voice, and a bad attitude.
 

“Back again, Mistress Chisanta,” he said with a kind of nasal arrogance.
 

“I need to speak with Mr. Abbort as soon as possible,” Bray said, lowering her hood.

“I’m afraid that won’t be very soon—Mr. Abbort is tremendously busy.” The assistant opened the schedule book and began thumbing through the pages.

“How does three weeks from tomorrow suit you?” he asked, poising his pen to write her in.

“It suits me very ill,” Bray said through clenched teeth. “I need to speak to Mr. Abbort on a matter of extreme urgency.”
 

“I appreciate that,” the assistant said, looking up at her placidly. “But Mr. Abbort leaves for an inspection of the constables out west in two days’ time. He won’t return for three weeks.”

“I am sure that you can arrange something,” Adearre said with a wink, his tone velvet.

The assistant gulped and turned pink, his fingers danced pointlessly over the calendar.

“What is he doing now?” Bray asked.

He bristled at her impertinence. “He is out dealing with city matters.”

“And tomorrow morning?” Bray pressed.

The assistant turned the pages in his scheduler to verify. “Several court hearings.”

“And in the evening?” Bray asked, her patience growing thin.

The young man laughed, a false, irritating sound. “He will, of course, be attending the King’s anniversary ball. I’m quite sorry, but the soonest I can arrange a meeting is three weeks from tomorrow.”

“Thank you for your help,” Bray said, her voice hard with sarcasm. She bowed, pulled her hood up over her head once again, and strode through the doors, Adearre at her side.

“You should have allowed me to do the talking,” Adearre said.

She glanced sideways at him. “Why, could you have seduced us into an appointment?”

“Perhaps.” He flashed her a smile.

“I don’t think I could have stomached that.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“I really hate that man.”

He put an arm around her shoulder as they walked, letting her share his warmth. “And you think I can do better? I am touched.”

She smiled and patted his hand affectionately, glad that their friendship had returned to solid footing. Though their relationship had always been as rocky as the Verdant Peaks.
 

“What shall we do now?” he asked.

“Something very dreadful,” she said, her voice sour. “Ask Arlow Bowlerham for the name of a dressmaker.”

Bray stared dubiously at the dress in the maid’s hands—a deep green gown with a slim, restricting bodice and absurdly wide skirts.
 

“You know how to work this thing?” she asked the maid who had been sent to help her dress.

“
Work
what thing, mistress?”
 

“The dress—all of those laces and such.”

The maid smiled. “Yes, I know how it works.”

Bray huffed. “Very well. Let’s begin the procedure.”
 

The maid laughed aloud. She was young and rosy-faced, with long golden hair. She would have looked much better in the dress than Bray, who, with her bald head, was liable to look somehow grotesque.

“Are you really so unused to dresses?” the maid asked as she helped Bray into a fresh petticoat.

“I haven’t worn one in ten years.” Bray stepped into the gown. “And never one like this.”
 

The maid pulled the heavy fabric up and began tugging on the strings in the back, compressing the air out of Bray’s lungs.

“The way these women cripple themselves in the name of fashion is ridiculous,” Bray grumbled. The maid continued to pull mercilessly on the strings until Bray’s entire torso was immobilized.
 

Bray tested her range of motion and scowled. She could not bend over or turn naturally in any direction. The boning in the dress had already begun to poke into her left hip. The fabric hung heavily and moved strangely around her legs.

“Here, mistress,” the maid said, pulling her over to the mirror. “Aren’t you bonny?”

Bray snorted at her reflection—the dress completely changed the shape of her body. She suddenly had a pinched waist and wide hips. She looked…well, rather pretty, she admitted grudgingly. Save, of course, for her lack of hair. But there was nothing to be done for that. She would not, for any King, put on a wig.
 

“Now for the shoes, mistress,” the maid said, holding them up to her. They were the same deep green as the dress, with perilous heels. This part of the whole ridiculous costume concerned Bray the most; she did not know how to walk in such shoes. Why anyone would wear them utterly bewildered her.

She sat on the bed, or rather tipped herself back onto it, as sitting required a level of flexibility she no longer possessed. The mattress springs creaked beneath her weight. The maid bent and carefully placed a shoe on each of her stockinged feet. She then took Bray’s hands and hoisted her back up into a standing position.
 

Bray took a delicate step. The shoe nearly fell off as she did so. Hidden beneath the mass of green skirts, Bray worked her foot firmly back into its holder. She stepped again, this time curling her toes to hold the shoe in place. She stepped yet again, without grace, but more or less successfully. If she had to keep her toes clenched in this fashion with every step, she had no doubt the muscles in her feet would be spasming long before they reached the palace.

“You’re a natural,” the maid praised.
 

Bray didn’t think so. She made her way slowly and awkwardly to the door, pulled it open, and sidled into the hallway. She let out a great sigh—
stairs!

Clutching the banister for support, she took the steps one at a time, collecting herself on each landing. By the time she reached the fourth-to-last step she had become so over-confident that she unclenched her toes, her shoe fell clean off, and she would have tumbled into a great, green heap, but for the hand that caught her by the elbow.

She turned to discovered the identity of her rescuer.

“Having trouble with the shoes?” Yarrow asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.
 

“I’d like to see you try them,” she said, leaning into his arm and allowing him to guide her down the remaining stairs.
 

“I think they would clash with my outfit,” he teased.

She looked him up and down. He was not wearing his usual robes, nor that ghastly robe-suit combination that Arlow had sported the night before. Rather, he was dressed in typical Dalish formal wear—a black tuxedo with a white neckerchief and shirt. He looked rather dashing, Bray thought. Though his long braid still marked him for what he was, as surely as the deep red symbol on his neck.

“Well?” Bray asked, looking up at Yarrow with a sly smile.

“Well what?” he asked.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how nice I look?” she asked.

“Putting a beautiful thing in a fancy wrapper cannot inherently improve it,” he said.

“So I look unimproved?”
 

“You look uncomfortable.”

“Yarrow Lamhart, you really know just what to say.” Bray laughed.
 

In the foyer they found the rest of the group, all of the men wearing identical suits, and each looking rather handsome.
 

Peer whistled when they walked in. “You’re looking beautiful, Bray.”

“Thank you, Peer,” she said, shooting Yarrow an amused look.
 

Ko-Jin opened the door and they approached their carriage.

“Well,” Bray said with no enthusiasm. “Let’s get this over with.”

Yarrow descended from the carriage as, up and down the main drive of the palace, many dozens of guests in costly garments did likewise. He might not
look
out of place, but he felt it—he was, after all, just the son of a shop owner.
 

The palace loomed before them with suitable impressiveness. Its wide white face stared across a sizable, perfectly manicured lawn. Yarrow and his party set out across the drive, pulling many gazes as they passed.

“So many Chisanta! This
is
a big event,” a woman said in a carrying whisper.

A well-dressed manservant with stark white gloves collected their invitation and gestured for them to proceed inside. Yarrow stepped within the entrance to the palace, a wide marble space with two grand stairwells arising to the right and left and meeting on a second landing. Overhead, a massive crystal chandelier glittered, casting dancing glints of light across the floor and the guests below.
 

“Yarrow.” Arlow’s nasal accent announced. “Bray, my dear, you are a vision.”
 

He swooped in gallantly and kissed her hand. He’d donned another peculiar robe-tuxedo hybrid, this one black. In fact, it was so black it made Yarrow’s own suit look gray by comparison. Yarrow smiled to himself—only Arlow could upstage others by the darkness of his black.
 

After several long minutes, the royal herald approached the balcony and the crowd hushed in anticipation. He began to announce the names of the gentry in a resonant baritone. A laugh bubbled in Yarrow’s throat as a long unthought-of memory surfaced. One of his brothers—had it been Allon?—had appointed himself the Lamhart herald for a summer. Yarrow couldn’t enter a room for months without hearing, “Mr. Yarrow D. Lamhart, Archduke of Ho-hummery.”
 

Yarrow shook himself, returning to the present. His eyes roved to Bray, engaged in a struggle to return her shoe to her foot beneath the skirts of her dress. She leaned on Peer and bit her lower lip. Yarrow could hear the rumble of her frustration in his mind.
 

“Their Royal Highnesses, Prince Jo-Kwan Bellra and the Princess Chae-Na Bellra,” the herald, at last, pronounced. Yarrow looked up with interest. The Prince and Princess appeared and made their way gracefully down the spiraled stairwell. Yarrow thought them both attractive, not to mention unique.
 

Back when the three kingdoms had been separate, the royal lines of each had intermarried frequently to promote peace and trade, resulting—quite unexpectedly—in a single man, some two hundred years ago, as the rightful heir of all three kingdoms. Since that time, the Bellras had ruled the three nations peacefully.

The Princess and Prince bore the deep skin tone of an Adourran, though several shades lighter; they possessed the distinctive eye shape and dark, gleaming hair of the Chasku, and there was something in the bone structure of their faces that was decidedly Dalish. They were the physical embodiment of Trinitas—three nations, harmoniously existing as one body.

“His Majesty, King Oren Bellra the Second of Daland, King Oren Bellra the First of Chasku, King Oren Bellra the Sixth of Adourra, and Her Majesty Queen Seo-Nee Bellra,” the herald’s voice boomed.

King Bellra stepped forward, a well-built man of medium height. He shared similar features with his son, though they came together less handsomely on his face. He escorted his wife down the stair, a small Chaskuan woman with graying hair and a rosebud mouth.
 

Once the royalty had swept past, the murmur of conversation once again sounded. Discussion of the Queen’s dress, the Princess’s hair, which young ladies the Prince looked upon as he strode by (his eyes must have been busy indeed, given the number of women who claimed to have been the object of his gaze).