Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(162)

“I understand from his silence that the Emperor is not used to such … luscious gifts. You will soon become accustomed to the trifles that befit your exalted station, Your Radiance.”

Kaden risked a glance at the other guests. Micijah Ut sat ramrod straight in his chair, arms folded across his chest. The two monks watched Kaden with blank expressions. He looked away, turning to Triste in desperation, casting about in his mind for something to say. The normal monastic subjects of conversation, the things he had talked about day after day, night after night for years, seemed suddenly drab and pointless. This woman didn’t care about the level of snowmelt from the Triuri glacier or the sighting of a crag cat on the Circuit of Ravens. He tried to imagine his father or mother entertaining guests in the comfortable opulence of the Pearl Hall, their easy manner as the servants poured the wine and arranged the plates.

“Triste, where are you from?” he asked at last. The words had sounded all right in his head, but as soon as they were out of his mouth, he felt ridiculous. The question was at once pedestrian and awkward, the kind of thing you might ask a merchant or a sailor, not something you put to a beautiful woman moments after she had joined you at the table. Triste’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, Adiv interceded.

“Where is she from?” The councillor seemed to find the question amusing. “Maybe she’ll tell you tonight, over the pillow. Now, however, it is time to eat.”

Triste closed her perfect lips and for a sliver of a moment Kaden saw something flash through her eyes. Terror, he thought at first, but it was not terror. Whatever it was felt harder, older. He wanted to look closer, but the girl had dropped her eyes, while at Adiv’s command the servants, who had left the table after everyone was seated, glided in through the side door, carrying delicate plates of artfully arranged food.

After setting up the refectory, the Mizran’s men had taken over the kitchen, going to work with a stock of ingredients carried all the way from the markets of Annur. Kaden couldn’t begin to recognize all the flavors and smells. There were battered locusts and duck with plum sauce, some kind of delicate cream soup that reminded him of summer in the south, and noodles mixed with sausage so hot, it made him sweat. Each course came with a different kind of bread or cracker, and between plates the servants produced tiny silver bowls filled with mint or lemon ice or essence of pine drizzled over rice to cleanse the palate.

Each plate arrived with an accompanying wine, delicate whites from the Freeport hinterland, and rich, heady reds from the plains just north of the Neck. Kaden tried to take only a sip or two of each, but he had spent years drinking only tea and water from the mountain streams, and he quickly found the alcohol dizzying. Triste, on the other hand, drained every glass the slaves set in front of her until Kaden worried she might be sick. After a while, Adiv directed the man to stop pouring for her with a curt motion of his hand.

When the whirlwind of the first few courses had finished, a silence settled over the table and Kaden took a deep breath, steadying himself to ask the question that had been tugging at his mind since the men first fell to their knees before him and recited the ancient formula, the question he had somehow forgotten to ask.

“Councillor,” he began slowly, then threw himself into it, “how did my father die?”

Adiv put his fork down, lifted his head, but did not speak. As the silence stretched, Kaden felt himself growing dizzy with a sort of vertigo, as though he stood at the lip of a great cliff and stared down countless fathoms at the surf pounding the rocks below. He dropped his eyes from Adiv’s face, focusing on the plate in front of him, and only then did the minister answer.

“Treachery,” he said at last, his voice edged with anger.

Kaden nodded, his eyes still fixed on the table in front of him, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wood, its intricate twistings and unravelings. It had been possible, of course, that Sanlitun had choked on his food, or fallen from his horse, or simply died in his bed, but somehow Kaden had known—maybe it was Ut’s grim transformation, or the alacrity with which Adiv wanted the retinue to depart for Annur—he had known that his father did not die a natural death.

“A priest,” Adiv continued, “Intarra’s High Priest, in fact. Uinian the Fourth, he styles himself. We departed before his trial, but no doubt his head has been taken from his shoulders by now.”

Kaden picked up the pigeon wing before him then set it down again, untouched. He had a vague memory of Intarra’s splendid temple, but knew nothing of this priest.