He had since observed a very good likeness of that face upon the visage of his own daughter Alyson, King Michael’s second wife. Alyson was a woman very much like the record described Nasa: libidinous, gorgeous, querulous, athletic. Above all else and in most situations easily bored. Marvel was as proud of her beauty as he was ashamed of her shallowness. She drank palm wine to excess with her handmaids and had bred a line of small dogs since she was nine years old, improving their appearance markedly in each generation. Other courtiers bought them from her now, so a parade of small black dogs with ribbons tied behind their ears was a feature at any court gathering.
Alyson had caught the king’s eye (if such a thing can be said, for it was questionable that any woman or man anywhere had ever truly distracted Michael from his spiritual quest) after the unfortunate death of his first queen, Rachel Moonstorm. Rachel had been allowed to “fall from a tower” since she had not conceived a child in ten years of marriage and she came from a noble family too powerful to risk angering with a divorce. It had been Marvel’s idea. Michael, reluctant because he actually loved her, had seemed unhappier since then, but it was not a matter that could be rectified by anything but time.
Marvel—gently—suggested that Alyson might make a lovely bride for him. Michael never asked why Marvel himself had sired only one child; perhaps he sensed Marvel’s attentions ran in another direction. Children were a distraction to a religious man, anyway. And yet Marvel loved his daughter. He tried not allow himself to think of what might happen to her if she, too, failed to conceive for Michael. She had only been queen a few years. There would always be Michael’s inattention to blame it on. He was forever at his meditative walking. Or having his horoscope made. Impractical and kind. The king’s nature irked Marvel as much as it inspired him. He had controlled things for Michael for the better part of twenty-five years.
If Marvel left, however, Alyson would have to fend for herself.
He would write her something that explained why. He did not know what to say yet. But when he did, he would write. He might even invite her to join him, though he knew she would not.
Standing, Marvel dusted off his knees. So many hands holding back the pieces of his heart. So many people he would betray if he left. So many dangers he would face, alone or with Juniper as his guide. But truly, he had already made the choice. He felt an urgency now, a gift from the heavens to move him forward.
He went to his desk to mix poisons.
* * *
The Receiving Room was in Endeavour Tower, several levels below Marvel’s private quarters. The chamber required formality to achieve its purpose, which was to intimidate and impress, so Marvel had kept all the fine chairs, the woven carpets, the embroidered hangings recording the Cape’s history. Some of them were centuries old. The king’s chair sat on a raised dais alongside another, smaller chair and Marvel sat there unself-consciously. Someone had to. Michael never used this room.
Finding his company waiting for him, he strode straight past the chair and only faced them once he had arranged himself. There stood three men of vastly different ranks: Juniper, still dressed in his shabby guard’s uniform and now covered in dust from riding; Tygo, earless, wearing new clothes that didn’t fit; and John Sousa, who looked as he always did—like a man who was so far from knowing he was good-looking as to persuade everyone that he wasn’t. It rankled Marvel, that obliviousness. John’s dress was, as ever, impeccable and fussy, though Marvel suspected this was entirely due to his overcapable manservant. Sousa was more than convinced of his own brilliance, however, and as soon as Marvel had seated himself in the grand chair, John said, “Do you have any idea what a nuisance you’ve caused me? What danger you’ve put us in to travel here? When there is an outlaw carnival camped just minutes away? Damn you. I have tolerated you forever, seemingly forever. I won’t anymore. And that is all I have to say.”
“You came a long way to say it, then,” Marvel replied in a dry voice.
“Indeed I damn well did come. Because your man compelled me. The prisoner and I are at work on…” He sputtered, began to pace. “On a thing that could be everything. Do you understand? The light in the sky? Have you seen it?”
Marvel looked on with an icy stiffness.
“I want to talk to Michael,” Sousa said at last.
“I don’t think so. He is at his meditations. Tell me what this is about, because I have urgent need of this prisoner at the moment and will send you away.”
Tygo paled, but mastered it so quickly that no one but Marvel noticed. Marvel leaned forward to get a better view of those ear-holes. Tygo shook his hair over them on purpose. Juniper was gaping at the wall-hangings, the floors, which were made of polished limestone and inlaid with mosaics of the shuttles, and the ornately carved chairs. A bench at one side of the room was covered in dark green silk that Marvel had
