Across a Star-Swept Sea

Eleven

“THAT WENT WELL,” PERSIS said as Andrine led the sister of Justen Helo away.

“It went somewhat differently than expected,” said Isla, “but at least you got a well-connected spy.”

“I mean for your first interrogation,” said Persis, smiling at her friend. “You scared her cold.” Remy would never have given them her name if she weren’t certain they were going to kill her otherwise.

“Do you think?” said Isla. “I was afraid I sounded a bit comical with all my threats. As if I needed a mustache to twirl like some sort of ancient villain.”

“Oh no,” Persis said. “It was perfect.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Don’t change a thing—except maybe . . .”

“What?”

“The eels.”

“Too over-the-top?”

“Not at all. The only thing was, you threatened to kill her where she lay, and then you mentioned eels down in the dungeons—it was confusing. To a prisoner. They can’t be intimidated if they’re busy trying to parse your geography.”

Isla waved her hand. “Semantics.” She plopped back on a cushion. “My father used to make threats look so easy.”

“Kill many people, did he?”

“Oh no, he was a softie.” Isla shrugged. “Then again, he didn’t rule in the midst of a war where he had to send his best friend to rescue tortured prisoners, so . . . who knows what he might have done?”

Persis smiled. “Would you really avenge me with neuroeels, Isla?”

“For you, darling, I’d gengineer a neuroshark.”

“Aww.” Persis pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s very sweet.”

“Well, you’re very special to me, Persis. I hope you realize that.” Isla’s voice was serious—true serious, not the royal serious she’d used on Remy, and Persis’s smile slid off her face.

Rescuing the Galatean prisoners was a worthy mission, and Persis bore no illusions that, were she to be caught by the revolutionaries, her punishment would be Reduction or worse, but she’d always figured she was only risking herself and those who’d chosen to join her cause. This was something they were doing to help the people of Galatea. To help Isla, who couldn’t manage to convince the Royal Council that war could come no matter how much you tried to pretend it wouldn’t, and that helping the Galatean people didn’t necessarily mean bringing war to their shores as well.

But Isla’s words had cast doubt in her mind. If she was captured by the enemy, what would Isla do? Would the ruler of Albion fight to free her? Might Persis be reason enough for her to defy the Council and jeopardize the very makeup of the government?

“Neurosharks might be overkill,” she said at last. “What’s the point of their teeth, if their bite contains neurotoxins?”

“True,” Isla replied. “Well, I’ll leave the details to the gengineers.”

Persis wanted to say, “Isla, if they catch me, don’t you dare do anything rash.”

She wanted to say, “Isla, I know what I’m doing, so think of our country and not our friendship.”

She wanted to say, “If I thought this might cause a problem for Albion, I’d stop.”

But she didn’t. Especially that last one, because the truth was, Persis didn’t know if she could. People were being hurt. Innocents. Children. Aristos and regulars alike. Maybe Isla should force Albion to take a stand against the atrocities happening in the south.

But until she did, the Wild Poppy would do what she could.

Isla saved her by changing the topic. “Do you really think we can trust her?”

“Yes.” Remy Helo was a lot like her brother. Persis remembered what Justen had said last night. How passionate he’d been about his hopes for his country, for a cure for the Darkened. The propaganda from Galatea said the Helos were model revolutionary citizens, but Aldred had no idea how accurate that was. They were true revolutionaries. They believed in justice for all Galateans, regular and aristo.

“And are you sure we shouldn’t keep her here to appease your little boyfriend?”

“Does he even have to be my boyfriend now?” Persis asked. “There’s no need to keep Justen’s reasons for being here a secret if we have his sister safe.” Persis could already visualize the look of joy on Justen’s face once he was reunited with his sister. And it would make everything easier on her, too, if she was no longer forced to squire him around and keep her mask on at home.

“Oh, Persis. Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying his company just a little bit. Justen is handsome, politically motivated, and the grandson of the savior of New Pacifica.” Isla tapped her finger against her lips thoughtfully. “Isn’t that pretty much your dream boy?”

Persis found it highly aggravating how well the princess regent of Albion knew her. “Yes, but I’m Persis Flake, remember? He can barely tolerate me.”

“Give him time. He’ll fall prey to your charm, just like everyone else.”

Persis shook her head. No, not Justen. He needed something more than she was allowed to show him.

“Fine,” Isla said. “Beyond trusting her, do you think Remy can actually help us?”

“Living in the palace with Citizen Aldred?” Persis pointed out. “Definitely. She’ll have information about new prisoners before anyone else. And you heard Justen. He thinks his sister is a helpless little girl. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what she’s been up to.”

And maybe that was the most useful thing Remy Helo had to offer. She’d already shown herself to be resourceful beyond her years—hacking the military records to give herself a position in the army. She was a spy long before she ever met the Poppy. And no one in her household seemed to know what she was capable of: not her brother and not the Aldreds, either. The best spies were those everyone underestimated. Persis knew that better than anyone.

“And she’s so young,” Isla added. “Even if she got caught snooping, how could Aldred risk harming her? A child and a Helo? He’d lose too much support with the Galateans.”

Persis wasn’t sure about that. She’d seen Reduced children—aristos, yes, but still innocents—and the Galateans didn’t seem to have too much trouble with that. Still, a Helo was another matter.

“She’s not so very little,” said Persis. “A year younger than Andrine and every bit as brilliant as her brother, it seems.”

“Her brother is ‘brilliant’?” Isla said, raising her eyebrows. “From you, that’s high praise indeed. The very highest.” She nudged Persis. “Maybe you are enjoying playing the devoted girlfriend!”

She might be, if she wasn’t forced to pretend to be someone else. She might not even think of it as playing at all. Persis unclasped her gray robe and dropped it to the cushion behind her, shaking out the candle-flame-yellow skirt of her gown. “It’s not just me who thinks so. Noemi has been so pleased to have him at the sanitarium this past week. She’s as starry-eyed as everyone else when it comes to the Helos.”

Noemi Dorric was the de facto head of the DAR sanitarium nearest Scintillans. She was also the chief medic for the League of the Wild Poppy and the Blake family’s private—very private—nurse. And she’d practically done backflips when she heard Justen was coming and bringing along Persistence Helo’s own research.

Isla sighed. “I can’t believe he wants to hide away in a sanitarium. It’s not exactly the high-profile position I’d prefer for him.”

Persis bit her lip, but it did little to lessen the sting of Isla’s words. Justen’s arguments came back to her then. Maybe they weren’t as enlightened as they thought in Albion. Darkening shouldn’t be an embarrassment to any family, even an aristo family, so why were they keeping her mother’s condition a secret? Why wasn’t working in a sanitarium a more honorable, high-profile job? There was an argument to be made that Justen was behaving in the only honorable way a Helo could. Instead of sitting back and enjoying the celebrity Persistence had won for his family, he was devoting his life to fixing the single mistake she left behind. Why didn’t Isla get that? Would Persis, too, fail to see its importance if she hadn’t been touched by the ravages of DAR?

“Speaking of Noemi, how are her extremely low-profile patients doing?” Isla asked. “Have Lord Lacan’s grandchildren recovered?”

Persis shook her head. “Still compromised. Detox drugs don’t seem to work quite as rapidly on the younger ones.”

Noemi and the other medics had expected the opposite to be true. Young minds were more elastic and so they should bounce back more quickly from their ordeal. But after detoxing so many of the Poppy’s rescued refugees, Noemi was developing a new theory on how the drug worked. Now, Noemi guessed the gap was due to the way the Reduction drug the Galateans were using not only blocked neural pathways but also prevented new ones from forming. The older victims recovered more quickly as they regained access to pathways their unhindered brains had long used first, then more-recent neural pathways later. But in young minds, the pathways weren’t as familiar, and there were fewer. It took longer for children’s minds to remember what they’d once known and to start forming new pathways again.

Isla grimaced and fell into step beside Persis. “That can’t be easy for the Lacans to see. When I think of someone doing that to Albie—Persis, in that case, I would be out for blood. Neuroeels would be too swift a death for Citizen Aldred.”

Now there was a sentiment Persis could get behind. “Would you like to come to the clinic and see them? I know it would mean a lot to the Lacans, and you could drop in on your newest medic, too.”

The sanitarium was the perfect hiding spot for the recovering Galatean refugees. Since so many of the symptoms suffered by the Reduced were similar to those of the Darkened, the sanitarium already had resources to deal with them. And Persis knew well that Noemi could be trusted to remain discreet. She was one of the few who knew about Persis’s mother, one of the even fewer who knew Persis was the Wild Poppy.

Isla made a face. “I have no particular desire to see Justen at work. I’d much rather you spent some time dragging him out in the open. Canoodle a little, my friend. You could start by taking him out and getting him some nicer clothes. Everyone expects you to, anyway.”

They exited the throne room and emerged into the bright sunlight of the Albion court. “If I do, you won’t get public canoodling. It’ll be a public fight.”

She’d already tried once to get Justen some new outfits. He’d come to Albion with nothing other than the clothes on his back, and they were in such a severe, revolutionary style that even the Scintillans servants were snickering at the laundry. Justen didn’t care.

“I haven’t come here for a shopping trip, Persis,” he’d said, his tone as dour as his suit.

“Of course not,” she’d replied. “Everyone knows the best silks are Galatean.”

Justen had not been amused, and after being the recipient of yet another of his contemptuous glares, she hadn’t seen much to laugh at, either. In another time, another life, she could have talked to him for hours about what he had come to Galatea for—about politics, about medical research, about everything they truly did have in common. She could have admired him for what he was, and maybe he’d do the same. But what was the point in this world, where he seemed uninterested in the only parts of herself she could risk showing him? From what she’d seen, Justen hardly noticed her appearance and found her taste in Albian fashion faintly ridiculous. She could hardly get to know the attractive Galatean medic better if she couldn’t risk being anything other than a silly, spoiled aristo in his presence.

She shrugged. “I have other things on my plate, you know.” Sending Justen to work in the sanitarium had a twofold benefit as far as Persis was concerned. He’d be kept busy enough that he wouldn’t question when she disappeared for a day or two at a time on her secret trips south. With Remy in the League now, it was likely she’d see the sister more even than the brother.

“I know you have commitments,” Isla said, “but you really mustn’t neglect your social life.” She nodded meaningfully in the direction of Councilmen Blocking and Shift, who were standing in the courtyard below, deep in conversation. Shift caught sight of Isla and started up the stairs toward her.

“Uh-oh,” said Persis’s friend.

“Your Highness,” Shift blustered at her. “There you are. Your aides said you were sequestered all morning. Another fitting with Lady Blake, I see?”

“What do you wish to discuss, sir?” Isla said, ignoring his dig.

“Princess, it’s imperative that we deal with the situation in the east. The regs in Sunrise Village have been blatantly trading with the Galateans, despite the local aristo governor’s warnings.”

The eastern governor was Councilman Shift’s brother, Lord Shift. Persis knew the Council chief didn’t think much of Isla, but underestimating her wasn’t going to be useful to his cause, either.

“The Lord Shift’s embargo is not approved by the Council or the monarchy, Councilman, as well you know,” Isla replied smoothly. “And Sunrise Village is an independent township. They are not required to adhere to the advice of the governor.”

“But—”

“I can certainly craft a letter of disapproval if you think I ought to, Councilman, but as it happens, I was just discussing this issue with the Galatean lord Lacan—who as you might recall, was recently rescued by the Wild Poppy and brought to our country. He knows well the denizens of Sunrise Village, as they are the closest Albian outpost to his lands. Now that he’s here, he wishes to settle in Sunrise Village, as he has many friends in that area due to his family’s long association of trading taro for Sunrise Village’s milk and cheese across the strait.”

“But, Princess—”

“Your brother owns a taro farm, does he not, Councilman? How he would gain if the villagers were required to buy all their taro from him instead. Perhaps he should seek to compete in a more forthright manner.”

Persis wanted to cheer for her friend as Councilman Shift’s face turned red and he cast about for a response. Isla dismissed him with a nod of her head, then turned to go.

“You ignore regs at your own peril, Princess,” he said to her back. “The more they think they can make decisions independently from you, the more they will. And the more they collude with their revolutionary friends in the south, the more likely they are to decide they don’t need you at all.”

Persis saw Isla stiffen, but her friend did not stop walking.

“You think they like you because you’re soft on them. But all you’re teaching them is that you’re soft.”

Now Isla did turn, and fixed Councilman Shift with her most royal glare. “And if I let your insult pass unpunished, sir? What am I teaching you?”

Shift’s mouth snapped shut.

Isla walked on, and Persis followed, dying to speak, but knowing they’d have to be well out of earshot of any Council spies.

“Isla,” she whispered at last, “that was amazing.”

“I don’t need your approval, Persis,” Isla snarled under her breath. “I need your cooperation. I rule a nation of free people, and I cannot have the aristos and the regs at one another’s throats. They need to know we’re all on the same side. You and Justen are going to do that for me. And you’re going to do it soon. Do you understand?”

Persis paused, then lowered her head in deference. Isla was her friend and her protector. She was also her ruler, and Persis couldn’t fail to support what she’d been encouraging her friend to do for months. “Yes, Your Highness.”