She strode in front of him and stood there, looking up. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, his jaw tight.
"Tell me exactly what you did," she said.
"I have done whatever you believe."
She grabbed for his dagger, but he caught her by the wrist, squeezing as he bent over her. Now his gaze did meet hers as he said exactly what he had on the night she confronted him.
"I have done whatever you believe. I have deceived you. I have betrayed you."
Remember that, he'd added that night. Whatever happens, remember that.
She tried to shake off his hand, but he kept his grip tight as he leaned over her, so close his braids brushed her face.
"This is not a matter for negotiation, Keeper. I do not expect you to walk into that reception and pretend you are in love with me. But you will not act as if you wish to put a dagger between my ribs. You will behave as though you are pleased with the engagement. If you can manage that, we will both escape this trap unscathed." He straightened. "Now, I will ask Rametta to return and help you freshen up. Your face powder is smeared. You must be quick, though. My father will not be kept waiting."
If Gavril was in such a hurry, he ought to have told Rametta. By the time the old woman returned, Moria had stopped pacing and was sitting cross-legged on her sleeping pallet. Rametta shuffled into the room bearing touch-up powder and a folded towel with warm water. She fixed Moria's makeup and brushed her hair again. Then she motioned to the towel and water.
"I'm to bathe now, after I'm dressed and groomed?" Moria said.
Rametta made a show of washing under her arms, then sniffed, making a face.
"If you're saying I stink of sweat, then I'd suggest you bring sweet pine perfume to cover it, because in this gown, I'll be sweating all evening."
Rametta laid the towel in Moria's hands, then walked out. Moria tossed the towel to the floor. It hit with an odd clunk. She bent and unwrapped the towel to find . . .
Her dagger.
She lifted it carefully, as if it were a mirage that might evaporate the moment she touched it. It didn't. She lifted it and turned it over in her hands. Her blade. It was truly her blade.
Was it a trap? Perhaps Gavril had told the old woman to give it to Moria. He wanted her to try escaping so he could capture her. Prove to his father that this betrothal business was dangerous, that Moria was dangerous. Get her thrown back into the dungeon until he could negotiate terms for her release and be rid of her.
I don't care. If that's his plan, I'll upend it on him. I'll escape, and he can deal with the consequences of that.
She secured the blade deep within the sleeves of her voluminous gown. There, now she was properly dressed.
FORTY-TWO
Moria had never attended a grand reception, but she'd often read of them in books, particularly the type Ashyn liked to secret under her pillow while pretending to be enraptured by a tome on the social history of nomadic desert tribes. Receptions and balls featured prominently in many a romantic tale. This particular scenario seemed straight out of one. The awkward girl, transformed by silk and rice powder, walking into the party on the arm of a dashing warrior, as the gaping crowds part to let them through.
In books, Moria always skipped that part. And so she did tonight, at least mentally. She walked in on Gavril's arm, and the assembled guests could have pulled faces and stuck out their tongues for all she noticed. She was too busy looking about for escape routes.
If she did attract attention, it could be attributed to the fact that she was one of very few women at the reception. It mattered little anyway. When admiring glances lingered for more than a moment, they were scattered by a glower from Gavril. That was perhaps the most unfair part of all. She had to smile and twitter and act as if he was the most wonderful boy she'd ever met. He could be his usual cold and surly self, and if anything, it enhanced the performance, giving the appearance of a possessive and attentive fiance.
She did have one source of petty pleasure, and it came from the fact that he seemed as uncomfortable in his dress attire as she felt in her gown. He'd been wearing it earlier. She'd not noticed, any more than he'd noticed her dress. It was only when she caught him pulling and tugging at it now that she took note. It was, like hers, formal wear. His trousers were loose and pleated. Over his tunic he wore a robe nearly as intricately embroidered and bejeweled as the top layer of her dress.
As for how he looked in it, she did not allow that assessment to cross her mind. She knew him for what he truly was--a liar, a traitor, the young man who'd have let her rot in a dungeon--and that was all she saw when she looked at him. Which made it all the more difficult to feign those admiring glances.
Fortunately, Moria had too much else on her mind to simmer over the outrage of this charade. Each time they passed an exit--there were three--she noted how well it was guarded. She mentally configured this room within the outside of the building, based on her walks about the grounds, determining which exit led to which door and which would provide the best escape route. The answer seemed simple--the northern exit, which would take her to the less guarded northern end of the compound. And tonight, the goddess truly did shine on her, because that exit also led to the toilet pits.
Moria made sure to drink too much water and tea, ensuring she'd need to make se
veral trips to the toilets. When the need first arose, not long after they'd been in the reception, Gavril seemed happy for the excuse to leave the party. So happy that he didn't even insist on escorting her all the way, waiting instead in the first hall. That gave her time to explore.
In between trips, Moria took careful note of who she met. The main guests were the two warlords. They were debating whether to join Alvar's forces, which Emperor Tatsu would be very interested in knowing. There were others, too--men of varying positions who either hadn't declared themselves for the Kitsunes yet or hadn't done so officially, acting as spies in the imperial court. All useful information.
Moria and Gavril made their rounds of the guests. They ate and watched a poetry recital. Moria managed not to fall asleep during the recital, which would have pleased Ashyn. Gavril barely even feigned interest in it, looking about, paying her and the poet little heed.
"I'll need to use the toilets again soon," she whispered as the primary poet left the stage, to be replaced by the secondary one.