And What Happens Tomorrow. Chapter Three. TORTALL
Chapter Three: Late Winter, 436
LOUIS: How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Some day they may be scarce.
Casablanca (1942)
It was more difficult to sneak out of the palace and into the Lower City now. His parents seemed to think Alanna’s death had aroused some latent suicidal tendencies in Jon. Telling them that going unescorted to the Lower City was much too uncertain a way to do that would probably only have made things worse.
That didn’t stop Jon from wanting to try telling them, though.
Just to see what would happen.
But that was hardly the behavior of a responsible heir to the throne. It would only have made things worse, and as it stood now, they were quite bad enough.
Jon pushed his way through the crowd by the door and spotted George, who at least looked pleased to see him. He slid a whore off his lap and pulled out a chair for Jon. “Sit, lad. I’ll get you a drink. Unless you’d rather talk upstairs?”
Jon shook his head. “No, I’ll just have something to drink.”
George waved Solom over and the small crowd of girls away. It wasn’t complete privacy, but Jon didn’t want that. He wanted people who wouldn’t treat him like he was made of glass. He said as much to George, who shrugged philosophically. “Well, what else can they do, Jon?”
“I think my parents want to distract me out of it,” Jon murmured.
George raised an eyebrow. “Horses? Women? War?” A smile hovered around his lips.
Jon shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “Uncle and…well, everyone, goes around whispering and looking at me sideways and changing the subject when I get closer.”
“All of the above then,” said George. “Congratulations, Jon, your life is about to get very exciting.”
Jon forced a laugh and toasted George, letting the silence settle in while they drank. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” he said after a long, long moment, “except her brother’s here.”
George said nothing in the most sympathetic way possible.
“They look so alike,” Jon whispered, and downed the rest of his beer. George called for another.
Jon shook his head. “I have to get home,” he said.
“I’ll walk you there,” said George. “Don’t worry.”
So Jon didn’t. George’s company was infinitely more reassuring than that of the men Myles had watching him. George knew the city better than anyone in Tortall. It would be all right.
*
Thom was packing.
Judging from the mess on the floor, he wasn’t very good at it, either. Alex let the door slam shut.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” said Thom from behind - or beneath? - the pile of clothes in his arms.
“You should let someone else pack for you,” Alex said, looking around fastidiously.
“Oh, no,” Thom said, “it’s far too important.” He dropped the clothing in an open trunk near Alex.
Alex frowned down at a miscellaneous mess on the floor. “You’re not very good at it,” he pointed out.
“Maybe,” said Thom, “but it’s still too important to let anyone do it for me.”
Alex arched an eyebrow and gently lifted the books now in Thom’s hands. “Let someone else do it,” he murmured against Thom’s jaw.
“Maybe it’s not that important,” said Thom quickly.
*
Thayet jian Wilima had grown up knowing that her mother was, by all accounts, the most beautiful woman in the entire world.
She had grown up knowing that this was the only reason her father kept either of them around. She had grown up very well aware that neither she nor her mother were wanted in Sarain.
Which was why she - Princess Thayet jian Wilima, the second most beautiful woman in the world, a lady of breeding and brains and beauty - was facing a future even more uncertain than a typical unwanted princess’s.
Kalasin was a canny woman. She knew her husband, she knew her people, she knew his people and she knew her country. It was not hard to see what way the wind was blowing Sarain.
The Warlord was not an especially intelligent man. He loved power, and if he wanted to keep Sarain it was only because he wanted to keep power. He recognized the danger his daughter would pose to the security of his position if she were to marry the wrong man or to come under the influence of the K’miri.
So Kalasin, like the clever woman she was, played on that.
When zhir Andua began angling himself for a coup, she pointed out that Thayet would be a useful way for Andua to cement his power. She told the Warlord that the girl meant nothing now, but in three months, in three years that would change. “It all depends upon her husband,” Kalasin told him. “The Tortallans would leave you alone; they might even aid you.”
Thayet was subconsciously aware of this. She knew what she meant to her father (almost nothing, unless…) and she knew that her mother wanted her out of Sarain. It was too late to save the country, but perhaps they could save themselves.
*
“Alex,” said Gary.
They were recovering from hangovers in Gary’s rooms. Alex was sprawled on the couch, hand over his eyes, and Gary was situated in an arm chair.
“Gary,” said Alex through gritted teeth, “what did we say about talking?”
Gary ignored him. “I’m worried about Jon.”
Alex rolled over on his side and took his hand from over his eyes. “Er, more than usually?” He opened one eyelid gingerly and decided it was a mistake.
“Yes,” said Gary. He chewed thoughtfully on a fingernail. “I think we should do something to help him.”
“What is there to do that Their Majesties aren’t trying?” Alex asked. “They’re parading girls in front of him. They’ve given him horses - though why I can’t think, because they’ve told him not to hunt - and swords and books.”
“Mmm,” said Gary, “they do seem to have exhausted all the traditional approaches.”
“Of course,” Alex said scathingly, “it would help if we weren’t hung over while trying to solve Jonathan’s problems.”
*
Delia pooled prettily at Roger’s feet. Her head was inclined at a graceful angle and her hands were placed on his knees. Roger tangled a hands in her hair, arched an eyebrow.
“My dear,” he said, “you ought to get married.”
Her head flew up at that. Delia stared at him, her face pale, her eyes bright and her brows snapped together. “If I am not yet engaged - ” she bit out. Roger waved the hand not in her hair lazily.
“I am hardly at fault for your inability to keep a hold on men,” he said. “Nor should you have expected to - ”
Delia sprang up, stopping the flow of words. “You are not at fault?”
“Delia,” he said coolly. “Control yourself.”
She shrunk in on herself, collapsing on a sofa. “I suppose I should go home for a few months.”
Roger nodded. “They will love you more in your absence.”
Delia threw him a scathing glance. “Don’t patronize me, Roger. If you want to drop me, tell me. I’ll manage on my own.” She tossed her hair. “I did before you, I will after you.”
It wasn’t precisely true, but Roger let it pass. Delia rose gracefully and went to the door. She paused, turned to look at him. “Who are you marrying?”
Roger smiled. “Good-bye, my dear.”
*
Delia of Eldorne left Corus early, just when the winter balls began to taper off. Corus in the spring was generally dull anyway, and Eldorne had suffered during the winter. They needed all hands and minds there to help recover and rebuild. At least, that was her excuse. She was not much missed - Delia was a beauty, but Cythera of Elden was newer, younger and prettier. And Cythera was not known to be the mistress of a powerful and dangerous sorcerer. She stayed longer, too.
It had not been a good winter. Eldorne wasn’t the only fief that suffered and Alex worried about Tirragen. He wrote frantic letters home until his mother replied with a short, snappish note saying that they were fine except his father had caught a cold during the winter. Alex didn’t care about that - his father was tougher than old shoe leather and about as appealing. So he stayed in Corus and worked on Geoff’s swordplay. It was slow going.
*
Myles couldn’t quite understand why Lianne and Roald thought throwing girls at Jonathan would heal his, apparently broken, heart. The cure for that illness was friendship and time, not romance. But try telling the king and queen that. Myles exchanged a wry glance with Duke Gareth as Lianne once more raised the possibility of Josiane Rittevon.
“Her mother is a very great friend of mine,” Lianne said defensively, intercepting the look.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Myles. “But the family has a history of insanity, and there is considerable political turmoil in the Copper Isles.”
“Marry him to a Tortallan lady when the time comes,” Gareth said gently. “We will need stability within our own country.”
Roald raised an eyebrow. “Our own political turmoil can barely even be deemed as such.”
“There are…tensions, Your Majesty,” said Gareth. “Forgive me, but they are there.”
“Surely it would not hurt to bring Josiane here for a few months,” Lianne said. Myles rubbed his temples. Had the woman heard anything?
“Of course not, my dear,” said Roald. “She will be presented at court in the summer, when the balls begin again.”
Lianne shook her head. “It should be Midwinter,” she said. “Midwinter…would be perfect.”
Myles would have given almost anything for a healthy queen or a king who loved his wife much less. The Copper Isles were better than Sarain or Scanra, but only just barely.
Roald dismissed them. It would not be completely inaccurate to say that Myles fled. Or, at least, he would have if Dermot ha Minch and Duke Gareth hadn’t interposed themselves between Myles and his exit. It wasn’t fair that Dermot was so much taller.
“Myles,” said Gareth, “I think we should talk.”
Note: Casablanca belongs, presumably, to Warner Brothers. Tortall is also not mine. As I think you all can tell.
Caitie gets tons of props and kudos and cookies and things for betaing this and fixing my grammar. Also, I’d like to apologize to anyone who was holding their breath for this chapter, and I hope it didn’t cause any lasting damage. May I suggest you not do so again?