He rose into the air with a shaking of wings made more imposing by the confined space. The impact of his landing on Rien's fist drove her arm down as if she had been struck, but then he settled himself quite prettily and flipped his feathers into order.
She took the glass with her. Neither she nor Gavin had spilled a drop. And as the door shut behind her, she wondered where in her father's house he meant her to go.
She rather thought this was a test.
Rien recollected the way back to the entrance hall. Her newly perfect recall laid it out for her like a map. But who would she find there, except her father's mute servitors, and perhaps—if she wandered far afield—the major- domo? She sipped wine and thought.
'Go find the kitchen and steal breakfast,' Gavin suggested.
Rien narrowly avoided snorting wine out her nose, positive that it had been his intention. 'It'll be at least a week before I'm that high-handed in Benedick's house.' She glanced down the hallway. 'But I think I can find Tristen's room. Wasn't he led off this way?'
'Two down,' Gavin said. 'I can smell him.'
'Thank you.' Rien squared herself before the door in question, and realized too late that she hadn't a hand free for knocking. She was about to perform some complicated dance with cup and basilisk, but Gavin's head darted out on its long smooth neck and the curve of his upper beak hammered the door precisely, thrice.
And a moment later, the door swung open. Tristen stood before her, a pair of scissors in one hand, his beard cropped raggedly on one side. 'Rien,' he said. 'Come in.'
'Benedick threw me out so he could talk to
He sighed. 'I'm sorry. I was in the middle—'
'Carry on.' His room was smaller than the one she shared with Perceval, the color scheme cool blues. There was only one daybed. She sank down upon it. Gavin hopped off her hand and went to perch on the footrail, the mattress dimpling under his talons as he waddled across the spread. He looked completely ridiculous.
Rien drank her wine and made herself watch Tristen peering in the mirror. He had scissors and a bowl of water that steamed a little, a ceramic-bladed plastic razor no different from any razor Rien has ever used, and he was fastidiously trimming the coarse chalky spirals of his beard close to his chin.
When that was done, he wet the ragged remainder with a soaked towel, then rubbed soap into it, rinsed his hands in the water, and picked up the razor. While he inspected the edge, without turning, he said, 'There's more wine on the credenza.'
'Thank you,' she said. 'I'm good.'
'Would you pour me a glass?'
'It is my lot in life to serve,' she said. But then, he wouldn't understand the irony at all, would he? She got up, realizing that she had grown unsteady, and brought him a glass. Apparently, Benedick thought Tristen rated the good crystal.
She set the glass at his elbow while he scraped the razor along his jaw, pausing long enough to smile at her in the mirror before she backed away. She sat back on the bed, dizzy with the unaccustomed alcohol. 'Well,' she said, 'we're here.'
'And in good order,' he said, between swipes of the blade. He turned his face to inspect his cheek in the light, and gave it one more pass.
'What are we going to do?'
'Coming here was your plan, wasn't it?'
'Perceval's.' Although Rien had been party to it, throughout. 'And mine.'
Tristen set the blade down, picked up the towel again, and buried his face in it. Through steaming cloth, he said, 'We're going to stop the war. And remove Ariane from power.'
Rien drew her knees up, sitting bent forward between her legs with her arms wrapped. 'How are we going to do that?'
'I am eldest.' Tristen set the towel down. He had a fair sharp face, now that it was revealed. Planes and angles, pointed ears and a pointed chin. He looked less like Benedick without the beard, though the sameness remained around the eyes. 'While I live, I am rightfully Commodore, now that Father is gone.'
'But Ariane ate your father. She has his memories. She's taken his place.'
'I know,' Tristen said, and touched the hilt of his broken blade. 'I think Perceval will have something to say about that, don't you?'
'Well, maybe.' Rien bit her lip, wondering how much to tell him. And then he turned and offered the scissors, handle first.
'Come cut my hair,' he said. 'Please.'
'I'm drunk,' she said, and he laughed.
'Just take twenty centimeters off the bottom and try to get it straight across. And tell me what you mean by maybe, brother's daughter.'
She took the scissors and studied him. 'You'll have to sit. You're too tall.' The last of her wine went down with a gulp as he turned the chair around, and then she gave him the glass to set aside and took the comb he gave her in exchange. Carefully, she began to comb out his hair. It was softer than it looked, its weight pulling curls that might otherwise have been as tight as her own into waves. 'What I mean by maybe, is, I think we're being mani. .. manipulated.'
'You're not that drunk,' he said. In the mirror, she could see his eyes were closed.
His hair was as smooth as she could make it, and with the curl and the braid, it wouldn't matter too much if she made the edges ragged. She laid the comb on his thigh, tugged a section of hair taut with her left hand, and halfway up his back began to snip. 'Perceval fought with Ariane, and Ariane took her prisoner.'
'And treated her dishonorably.'
'But Ariane was exactly where Perceval would find her. And doing something that would ensure Perceval would challenge her. And just to ensure the action—she was led upon the crime.'
'Suspicious,' Tristen admitted. His hair was damp; it made the cutting easier.
Rien parted out another section and drew it straight, measuring it against the first cut. 'It gets better.'
He lifted his chin, and even when speaking kept his neck straight and his head still. Another lock as long as her forearm dropped to the floor. 'Elaborate.'
'Perceval was carrying a virus when she was captured. One that incapacitated her after we escaped. And that I also caught.'
'Not a deadly virus.'
'Very deadly,' Rien said, finally articulating the thought she'd not quite been able to force herself to accept. She wouldn't think of Jodin, or of Head. 'To a Mean. It laid both of us out, even with treatment. I think it was an influenza.'
'Someone used her as a vector.'
Rien nodded, her jaw muscles aching with the strain of holding back tears, and severed another lock of Tristen's hair. 'Half of Rule could be dead by now.'
'I understand.' He snaked a hand back, caught her wrist, and squeezed. 'Rien, I believe you.'
'It's a conspiracy,' she said, between small snips to get the edge even. She stepped back. He shook his hair out, and it fell around his shoulders like a rippled cloak.
'Yes,' Tristen answered. 'I do believe you are right. And I also believe we should have some more wine now. Don't you?'
'If you'll tell me how you got locked away,' she said, greatly daring to lay a hand on his shoulder.
He met her eyes in the mirror.
It was full light when Rien returned—alone, for Gavin had gone out exploring. Perceval slept curled tight around a pillow, sheathed in Pinion as if in a clamshell, both fists pressed against her chin, the blankets draped haphazardly. She wore an open-backed nightgown Rien had never seen, too white to have come traveling with them.
Her father must have brought it for her.
Rien wrapped her arms around herself. The flush of alcohol was already fading; she didn't know if that was
