Rogue Wave (Waterfire Saga #2)(13)

Neela leaned in close to him. “When my father finds out that I was here and you turned me away, you’ll be guarding the door to the broom closet!”

The subassistant nervously tapped his chin. “I suppose you could fill out a form,” he said. He searched the shelves behind him. “I’m sure I have one somewhere. Ah! Here we are. Official Application for Grant of Consideration of Request for Petition of Possibility of Permission to Enter the Royal Presence.”

Neela, seething, said, “If I fill this out, will you let me in?”

“In six months. Give or take a week.”

At that moment, the doors to the Emperor’s Chamber opened and three officials exited. Seizing her chance, Neela skirted around them and into the room, sending the subassistant into a tizzy.

“Wait!” he cried. “You must fill out a form! That is the way things are done! That is the way things have always been done!”

The Emperor’s Chamber was incredibly sumptuous, designed to awe both friends and enemies of the realm. Delicate coral screens covered the arched windows. The white marble walls were inlaid with piecework images of Matalin royalty in lapis, malachite, jade, and pearl. Hundreds of lava torches—their glass globes tinted pink—cast a flattering glow. Murti, statues of divine sea spirits, stood in wall niches. The room’s immense domed ceiling was made of faceted pieces of rock crystal that caught the light and cast it down upon the two golden thrones standing on a high dais. On those thrones sat Aran, the new emperor, and Sananda, his empress. Below them was a crowd of courtiers.

Neela caught her breath, taken aback for a second at the sight of her parents in their opulent robes of state. They looked almost engulfed by them, and so remote upon their high thrones. She knew there were rules for approaching the emperor and empress and that even she had to follow them, but joy at seeing her mother and father so overwhelmed her that she forgot about royal protocol and rushed to them.

She also forgot about the palace guards—who were stationed in a tight circle around them. As she approached, they drew their swords, stopping her.

“Who allowed this swashbuckler to come into the royal presence?” Khelefu, the grand vizier, thundered.

Neela was nearly unrecognizable. Her bleached blond hair was coiled up on her head, and she was wearing a jacket held together with fishhooks.

“Khelefu, don’t you know me?” she asked, upset.

The grand vizier, imposing in a blue jacket and gold turban, didn’t even acknowledge her.

“We do not know how she got in, sir,” a guard replied.

“Forms will have to be filled out,” Khelefu said darkly. “Many forms. Remove her at once.”

“No, wait! Khelefu, it’s me, Neela!”

Stunned by the unseemly noise, the court fell silent.

Hearing her daughter’s name, Sananda turned toward the raised voices, a look of hope on her face. When she saw the young mermaid—a scruffy mess—an expression of bitter disappointment took its place.

“Take her away, Khelefu,” she said, waving a heavily jeweled hand.

“Mata-ji! It’s me, your daughter!” Neela cried.

Sananda snorted, a contemptuous look on her face. “My daughter would never—” She stopped speaking. “Neria be praised,” she whispered. She swam to Neela and threw her arms around her. Aran followed, and swept both his wife and daughter into a tight embrace.

After a moment, the three released one another and Sananda took Neela’s face in her hands. “I thought we would never see you again. I—I thought…you were…”

“Hush, Mata-ji. Let us not speak of it,” Aran said, his voice husky. “She is here now.”

Sananda nodded. She kissed Neela again, then let her go.

“Is Yazeed here?” Neela asked hopefully.

“No,” Aran said sadly. “We’ve heard nothing from him. Nothing from Mahdi.”

Neela nodded, swallowing her disappointment. “I was hoping that somehow they’d escaped.”

“We must not give up hope,” Aran said firmly. “Do you know what’s become of Serafina? And Desiderio?”

“Sera’s alive. I don’t know about Des.”

“Where have you been all this time? We’ve all been worried sick!” Sananda said.

Suddenly aware of all the eyes and ears around her, Neela lowered her voice. “The situation is very…difficult. And very urgent. I’ll tell you about it over tea.”

Tea was a light afternoon meal that the royal family took in a private dining room, away from the court. Neela knew she would be able to speak without being overheard there. Her experiences had taught her to be wary. Spies could be anywhere.

“Khelefu, we will have tea now,” said Aran.

“Now, Your Grace? That would be most unusual. It is only three twenty-one, and tea is always served promptly at four fifteen,” Khelefu said.

“Now, Khelefu.”

Khelefu, looking unhappy, bowed his head. “As you wish.”

Before he could act on Aran’s order, however, a minister—anxious and pale—approached him and whispered in his ear. Khelefu listened, nodded gravely, then said, “An emergency meeting of the war cabinet has been called, Your Grace. Your presence has been requested.”

“I will come,” Aran said. He turned back to Neela. “Tea will have to wait, I’m afraid.”