Free The Spy Princess by Sherwood Smith

hadn’t then. Before we got out the door, I said, ‘You aren’t gonna . . . hexacute me?’ and he said, ‘No, you’re too small.’ He was joking.”
    Bren whistled. “That’s a joke?”
    â€œMy uncle’s kind of joke. He’s pretty much ignored me ever since.”
    â€œSo that ended Lilah’s political career,” Peitar said. “That is, until this visit.”
    Now Bren looked confused. “We’re going so I can get betrothed,” I moaned.
    â€œWell, that’s pretty disgusting,” he said, making a hideous face. “Marriage! And that’s another reason I’m glad I’m not a noble.”
    Peitar gave him a wry look. “I’m reliably told that most people, whatever their degree in life, eventually grow up, pair off, and have families.”
    â€œMaybe. But no one makes you when you’re a kid, just because of politics.”
    â€œThere’s the city gate ahead.” Peitar gestured for us to get ready for our arrival.
    â€œYes,” Bren said. “And a betrothal for Lilah!” He snickered all the way down the rest of the road, until we got there.

nine
    T he gates stood open. All along the walls paced armed guards. One saluted our drivers with a gauntleted fist; the blade of his spear gleamed red in the light of the sinking sun.
    The buildings on the south side were crowded together, and warriors patrolled in great numbers. Everything appeared orderly, but as we headed uphill to the west side, where the nobles lived, people stared, their faces closed. Twice someone threw things at our carriages. I jumped at a loud
thok!
against the door. The second time, there was a yell, “Soul-sucking noble! You’re all thieves! Go to Norsunder where you belong!”
    I stayed put, not wanting to see the angry face behind that voice—or what the warriors would do if they found the shouter.
    Many of the fine mansions along the west side were empty. Nobles preferred to stay on their country estates during the summer, where it was cooler, if they weren’t invited to the lake palaces.
    At long last we neared the royal palace, on the highest hill overlooking the lake. Bren peered intently at the slate roofs and ironwork rails until we were waved through the palace gates. Our carriages rolled past the great flagstone parade court, through the carefully tended gardens, and came to a stop in the secluded, tiled entrance to the family wing.
    â€œOnce I’m out, take my desk,” Peitar said to Bren. “Keep it with you. It’s important. Don’t let any of the king’s or my father’s servants near it.”
    Bren nodded, then opened the door and went to let down the stairs.
    Father was just getting out of his coach, and his valet fluttered around him, making sure that the folds of the traveling coat draped properly over the jewel-chased sheath of the dress sword and twitching the side curls of Father’s wig into place. I could hear Father complaining as another handed him his ensorcelled handkerchief of pure lace.
    I followed my brother down the steps as a damp wind gusted off the lake, pulling at my hair and skirts. Bren, clutching Peitar’s lap desk tightly, sent me a last, nervous look.
    A steward bowed to Father. “You are requested to wait upon His Majesty at once, Your Highness, if that pleases you.”
    My father turned up his nose as he undid his baldric and handed his sword to his valet. “Well, then, I needn’t keep that.” No one went armed to private interviews with the king. He beckoned impatiently, and we took the wide, curving stair, our steps muffled by the thick violet and blue carpet until we reached Uncle Darian’s informal parlor. Old, gray-haired Steward Halbrek opened the door, his face blank as he bowed us in.
    Father swept a low courtly bow, for there was the king, standing by the window with its view of bleak sky and wind-ruffled