Free The Seat of Magic by J. Kathleen Cheney Page B

from his library written in an unfamiliar script supposedly belonging to the ancestors of the sereia. His father had told him that, making him doubt the claim. The unknown book held little value to Duilio—he certainly couldn’t read it himself—but he hoped it would provide an
excuse
to talk to the ambassador without causing too much suspicion.
    His mother waited at the door of the library, her bandaged feet tucked into felt slippers and her hands hidden in the sheepskin mittens. Once Duilio gathered his things, she laid a hand on his arm and kissed his cheek. “Be cautious,” she told him, an unnecessary warning.
    â€œStay off your feet, Mother,” he bid her in turn, equally without need.
    The family’s carriage had been readied to transport him to the palace gate. He could have taken the tram or walked, but arriving in a carriage would grant him an air of importance. Posturing was everything when it came to dealing with bureaucracy. He would have to deal with guards and secretaries, all of whom considered everypetitioner an inconvenience. So he chose the carriage, hoping to start off on the right foot.
    The ride to the entrance of the palace grounds wasn’t long, only a couple of miles up the Street of Flowers. The road served as the primary thoroughfare between the water and the palace, though, and was heavily used. The driver wended his way through the early-afternoon traffic, likely more slowly than Duilio could have walked. The tram would have certainly been faster. The delay gave Duilio time to fidget with his black frock coat, his linen cuffs, and the creases of his charcoal pinstriped trousers. His valet would have exploded in a flurry of French curses had he known Duilio did anything other than sit perfectly still.
    But it was one of those moments when Duilio’s gift warned that his imminent choices would mean his life or death. So far he’d always made the correct choice. He wasn’t sure this time.

CHAPTER 7
    A fter passing through the densely wooded park that surrounded the palace grounds, the coach stopped before the first gate. Duilio stepped down, tucking the paper-wrapped book under one arm. He gazed up at the walls of the palace, asking himself whether he wanted to walk inside and practically proclaim himself a Sympathizer . . . but it was a moot point. He had no other way to seek out information about Oriana, so to the ambassador he would go.
    The palace rose above him, its fanciful turrets and walls painted in red and gold. Merlons topped each wall, suggesting a military usefulness that this palace had never actually exercised. It was decorative rather than defensible. It was also a maze, Duilio had heard, with several different levels, dozens of stairwells, and patios that looked out over the Golden City. The newest addition to the palace, built by the current prince’s father, was a square structure rising two stories above the clock tower that had once been the palace’s highest point. Its whitewashed walls failed to capture the whimsical spirit that the older parts of the jumble displayed.
    Duilio cast a glance up at the ornate entry gate with its tiles and arches. The source of the emblem on the Special Police’s badge, an open hand on the arch’s keystone, warned the intruder of the palace’s magical properties. Whatever those were, their secret remained unknown to the general populace. Not swayed, Duilio walked up to the gates to present himself to the guards.
    Unlike the building, the guards
did
have a martial air, making Duilio glad he hadn’t attempted any weapons. Their blue uniforms with red sashes and gold braid hailed back to the previous century, the cutaway coats revealing very businesslike sabers and formal daggers. He wouldn’t be surprised if each guard had a pistol secreted somewhere on their person as well.
    His request went over more easily than he’d expected. One of the guards eyed him narrowly