House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(86)
“We dangle Carien before Eline, and we tell him exactly what I have done to her, to his unborn heir.”
“And what good will that possibly do?” Harun says “You suggest that we poke a stick at a sleeping sphynx and hope to survive – idiocy!”
“A very sharp stick, Harun, one dipped in poison.”
“You wish to anger him.”
“I wish to make him so outraged he can barely think straight – I want him drawn here when we will it, and to be blinded in his fury. I want him dancing to the tune I choose. Not us to his. And when he makes his mistake, we will be ready to retaliate.”
And if that isn’t enough to force this game out of the private sphere, then I have my own plans, hidden in ways that even Jannik can’t find. I am, after all, a good student.
*
Harun can barely hold a pen without shaking, so the job falls to Jannik. He writes with an elegant, slanted hand, something I have always admired. It is a calligraphy that says more about him than his looks do. He signs the letter with slow deliberation; it’s obvious he is reluctant to set his name to it. “There.” He holds the top corner between finger and thumb, waiting for the ink to dry. “Hire a messenger. We don’t want one of Harun’s staff to suffer for this.”
“And so some unknown should instead?” I say.
Harun takes the letter from him. “We use one of the Mata Court messengers. Eline will never make a move openly against the prince.” He reads, a frown gathering deeper folds between his heavy eyebrows then nods sharply. “It will do.”
“I’m so glad you approve.” Jannik’s head is bowed, the heels of his hands against his temples, long fingers pushing his dark hair in a scraggled mess. “I have never felt so soiled.”
“Your wedding night must have been remarkably uneventful,” Isidro says from the armchair in which he’s sprawled.
Jannik lurches back in his seat, all his gloom obliterated. “Will you please just shut the f*ck up?” he says in a low harsh voice.
Even Isidro seems caught by surprise, drawing up to himself like a prodded sea anemone. “It was a jest.”
“And I am very over your attempts at humour at my wife’s expense.”
“Yes.” Isidro stays withdrawn. He peers across at me, as if reappraising a doe at the nilly-markets, one that he previously passed over but now sees again in the light of other people’s interest. “So you are.”
“And I am tired of both of you.” Harun is looking frayed and belligerent. He is still not fully recovered from his seven-fold Reading, and the rather diminished supply of alcohol has kept him ragged and ill, prone to shaking fits and nightmares.
It’s also apparent from his tone that he has not forgotten what Isidro and Jannik have been to each other and that his forgiveness is not ready to be thrown down before either of them.
He seals the envelope and hands it back to Jannik to stamp closed with wax. The leaping dolphin crest of my House looks up at me from Jannik’s hands, their cetacean faces sly in their humour.
“There. Done.” Harun calls for a servant and explains what they are to do. “Now we wait.” He jerks the cork free from a new bottle of wine, pouring glasses for us all without asking. He spills only a little.
“Perhaps we should try and meet our foe in a state of sobriety?” I point out.
“Do whatever you like, Felicita. I am going to kill someone, and I’ll take what fortification I can, however I can.”
And there it is, the truth of what we are planning. Until this moment no one has put into words the finality of what we are proposing with this scheme. If it were reversed, Eline would think nothing of removing us. He has already made attempts on our lives, and people have suffered and died because of it. And yet, spoken now, with its hard cold edges, the words make it real, and I do not want to carry such a burden again. I am still bent-backed from my brother’s death. From Dash’s.
“I’m going to look in on Carien,” I murmur, not wanting to be here and reminded by the straight harsh lines of their faces that we plan to trap and murder our enemy in this spider’s web.
One of Harun’s new maids gathers extra tea from the kitchens, and more cloths. “I think a little food too, please.” I say. “Something simple – a meat broth and bread for dipping.” When we have everything we need, I ascend to Carien’s room, the maid trotting behind me with her tray of steaming bowls and pots.
I knock gently on the side of the door and receive no answer. Moving as softly and quietly as possible so as not to disturb her, I open the door.
Carien is peaceful in sleep, the waxy look she had earlier is gone. Her face is relaxed and the constant hard skewness of her mouth is slack. There is an infantile sweetness to her, one hand curled up and pressed against her parted lips. The ripe smell of blood permeates the room and I open the curtains a little so that I can force Harun’s unused windows open. The place needs airing. People kept like they are sick do not flourish.
The maid clears away the old things and sets out the new tray. The spiced meat broth coupled with the smell of tea and the rain-heavy air blowing in from the gardens helps lift the feeling of stagnant repression from the room. Even the light spreading through the windows is that eerie golden-grey that comes on the heels of some thunderstorms. A magical colour.