Chương 81: Book 2, Chapter 20: Heirs

"Pedro de Bragança. It was you who wrote this play, wasn't it?" asked Iris." You killed Anis Clovos." Lord Pedro did not flinch, nor did he so much as set down his cup.

"That is a grave thing to say to someone who will soon be your family," he observed mildly. Then he took another sip of his coffee—which had a rather dreadful smell, even worse than the one from the shop in Westwick—and let the silence stretch.

"And yet you have not denied it."

"I have not confirmed it, either. Yet I confess to curiosity, at least. Please, do share your reasoning, Lady Iris." Iris raised her chin, clasped her hands behind her back, and started pacing around the sitting room.

"When I heard you had been accused, I did not believe you could be guilty. Murder did not fit your reputation. You are the great reformer of the Duchy of Bragança, the champion of its people, the magnanimous. For someone like that to kill a common merchant abroad? No, that couldn't be." Iris's steps were measured, just the way she'd learned from a certain advocate, though she would sooner perish than admit to imitating anyone.

"Yet when it came out that Anis Clovos was a slaver, my thoughts began to shift. I thought it might be possible. After all, you are your mother's son, and you would not stand for slavery, wherever you found it. So it wouldn't be that surprising if you decided to deal with the matter yourself and accidentally caused an international incident. A tidy little story." Lord Pedro raised an eyebrow.

"Surely I would have had better ways to deal with a slave trade ring, even if I knew of Anis's wrongdoings. Couldn't I simply have revealed myself and demanded an audience with the Sultan-Basileus?"

"Indeed. Assuming dealing with Anis Clovos was your only goal, you could have cited the treaty and forced the Empire to act, solving the problem." Iris tilted her head.

"So why didn't you? And furthermore, why did you leave behind incriminating evidence in your room, as Prince Justan claimed? I do not for a moment believe the Empire would have identified you as a suspect if you had not allowed them to. Not someone so well-versed in magic as you, who taught both Professor Morris and Mama." Lord Pedro said nothing. He simply watched her intently as she moved, his smile impeccable, his eyes warm.

"You could have been framed, of course," she continued.

"Prince Sellem, or one of his associates, could have decided to get rid of a rival slave trader and pin it on you, like Clara suggested in court. Yet that seems far too risky a way for an imperial prince to dispatch an enemy—Sellem would not have wanted the attention of accusing you if all he wanted was removing Anis."

"Then what do you think the truth is?" Lord Pedro asked.

"The murder was never really the point, was it? It was just a means to an end. You wanted to get caught. You wanted a trial," said Iris.

"And that got me thinking. Why would you possibly want that? What would that accomplish?" He raised an eyebrow, but didn't answer.

"And that is where we get to the second half of the puzzle. For a trial needs a judge—our young kadi, Princess Mikhaila. The poor, trembling child who could scarcely keep her veil upon her head, who readily admitted she thought she was only there to listen to her brother." Even I believed her, for a while.

"Every eye in the Empire is fixed upon the eldest children, upon Justan and his ruthlessness, Sellem and his wealth," said Iris.

"Who among them will win the throne and cull their siblings upon their ascension? Someone as young as Princess Mikhaila has no choice but to act harmless, to pretend she is the safest, least important piece on the board, so that maybe she will be spared when the time comes." Iris shook her head.

"But a meek child is not who she is. Far from it. She buried every inconvenient thread with the deftness of a senior magistrate, produced the threat of the bastinado at the precise instant required to crack open a lying witness, and, when it came time to rule, she arrived at exactly the conclusion that ruined one brother and shamed the other, while she alone emerged smelling of flowers." Iris chuckled.

"She deserves credit—her performance was far better than Helena Rosewood has ever managed." Iris stopped pacing and looked straight at Lord Pedro.

"Sultana-Basilissa. Is that what she wants? Is that what you want?"

"That is a mighty dose of ambition to ascribe to a small child who spends her days playing with animals," he said.

"I thought so too, at first. Yet she was the one who asked her father to allow her to judge this trial—the Sultan-Basileus confirmed as much earlier today," said Iris.

"She is making her play, and the courtroom was her stage. Which brings me back to you, Lord Pedro. Because the little kadi could not have written the script by herself. Someone special had to be the accused, so that there would be a trial worth the blood's attention. Someone had to have researched and understood the underground slave market in Istantinople, a place which you so conveniently chose to visit incognito.

Someone had to have slipped my advocate a ledger, so that the defense itself would do the work of dragging Prince Sellem into the mud. And, of course, someone had to commit the crime and leave traces of having done it." Iris sat back down, arranged her dress, and folded her hands in her lap.

"Two prominent princes diminished, and their little sister elevated in turn. A slaver dead, and another exposed—publicly, in a way that the Empire cannot sweep under the rug as an isolated incident, forcing them to tackle the root of the issue. And the architect of it all walks free, sipping coffee in the Arcadian Embassy." The room was quiet. Somewhere down the corridor, she could hear the faint, indignant murmur of Auntie Bel arguing with Conrad about something.

"So," Iris finished softly, and her tone could not entirely hide her sense of triumph.

"I have been turning it over for quite a while, and I am pleased with my reasoning. Have I got the shape of it?" Pedro de Bragança closed his eyes and stroked his beard.

"It is a rich theory, Lady Iris—dark and deep, with the promise of sweet bitterness underneath. Yet you have handed me ground beans and no water. How, precisely, am I to make coffee? How do you imagine I would have orchestrated this with the daughter of the Sultan-Basileus? Do you suppose Imperial Princesses go for casual strolls at the bazaar, where they might stumble upon undercover Arcadians?" This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Iris narrowed her eyes.

"I admit the specifics of that still elude me. Yet I am confident someone of your skills could have found a way." That was when he began to laugh. A warm, boisterous laugh that fit his daughter more than it fit him.

"Have I said something amusing?"

"No, no. Forgive an old man. It is only that you remind me of—" He set down his coffee at last, and looked at her with a sudden fondness.

"Everyone says young Conrad is just like his father, you know. Maximilian's bearing, Maximilian's coldness, even Maximilian's scowl, the Goddess help him. The boy cannot enter a room without someone thinking how thoroughly von Rhenia he is."

"He is rather like Papa," Iris admitted, uncertain where this road was meant to lead.

"Perhaps. But if you ask me, my dear, I believe you are your father's daughter, even if no one else sees it. Much like Mikhaila and Murad, in a way." The morning after the trial, Bel and Pedro left the embassy early and went to the Hagia Topkapi to discuss the slave trade and the alleged treaty violations.

They'd apparently decided to take a diplomatic approach as long as the Empire cooperated, and so, with no looming trial or gunboat threats to worry about, Clara found herself relaxing near the cooling crystals in the Arcadian Embassy's breakfast room. A pot of bergamot tea steamed on the table, and she buttered a piece of flatbread and exhaled contentedly. Across the table, Iris nibbled a fig with a serene smile, glancing briefly at Clara and then looking away. For the third time in as many minutes.

"Alright," Clara said.

"Out with it."

"Out with what?" Iris asked.

"You've been smirking into your tea since you sat down. What is it, my lady?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to." Clara narrowed her eyes.

"Is this about whatever you and Lord Pedro talked about last night? Don't think I didn't notice both of you staying behind in the sitting room." Iris took a slow sip of her tea.

"Please, Clara. A lady of House von Rhenia does not discuss private conversations over breakfast. It is uncouth."

"Since when do you care about uncouth when it comes to gossip, my lady?"

"I care about it a great deal, actually. I am simply selective about when." Iris set her cup down delicately.

"All I can say is that Lord Pedro and I reached a mutual understanding, the details of which are not your concern, Clara. You see, some matters are better appreciated from afar, like a fine painting, or the Esperança's guns." A 'mutual understanding'? From the same girl who orchestrated an entire school play as part of a plot to get one over on a classmate? Is this something I need to worry about? Clara sighed.

"You know what? Keep it. I don't want to know. The rest of this trip is a vacation." Iris blinked, visibly disappointed.

"You're not even going to attempt to cajole it out of me? What if it's related to your case?"

"Not this time, my lady." Clara had practiced law long enough to know that becoming personally invested in every case you took was a recipe for disaster.

"An important part of being an advocate is knowing where your role begins and ends. I realize there's probably more going on behind the scenes, but as far as Clara Casewell is concerned, the case is over."

"Hmph. How unsatisfying." Iris pouted.

"Very well. If you insist on being so dull, then we shall simply have to find our entertainment elsewhere. The trial is finished, your client is acquitted, and we have a few days until our departure." She rose, smoothing her skirt.

"I have been remarkably patient about the matter of your promise to me, Clara. So today, we are going shopping. Emma! Fetch my parasol." The rug merchant's shop was a few streets past the Spice Bazaar, in a higher quarter that smelled of wood and dust. Inside the shop, dozens of beautiful rugs hung from the walls, and even more lay stacked in great rolled towers, their deep colors arranged in patterns so intricate Clara struggled not to gawk.

And standing near the back, frowning at a folded carpet, was Warren Righton, sweating in his suit.

"We're leaving," Iris announced, turning on her heel.

"What? We just got here." Clara caught her sleeve.

"Lady Iris, you dragged me across half the city for this specific shop, saying Duke von Rhenia had praised it."

"I have reconsidered. The light is unflattering. The selection is provincial." Iris tugged toward the door.

"It has been many years since Papa was here, and by now there must be a finer establishment elsewhere." Clara glanced from Iris's sudden fury to Warren's oblivious back, and something clicked into place. Hang on. Iris had been hostile toward him the entire trip—if not even before that. She had been asking Clara about him constantly, and she practically spat whenever his name came up. The over-the-top dislike. The refusal to be near him. Wanting to always know where he was. Does Iris have a crush on Warren?

There was a brief, complicated emotion surging in Clara's chest that she decided not to look at too closely. Okay, that's—no. Whatever that was, it's going away now. Because, really, this was kind of sweet. Iris was an impressionable teenager. Warren was confident, arrogant, and occasionally charming when he wore his cravat just so, and if Clara remembered anything about being sixteen, it was that a crush on an older boy with good cheekbones was practically a rite of passage. A harmless little infatuation.

The poor girl was probably mortified; no wonder she wanted to flee.

"Casewell? Lady Iris?" Warren had spotted them. He crossed the shop, and, curiously, there was a faint stiffness to his step, a far cry from his mood yesterday.

"Righton. Fancy seeing you here." Clara tilted her head.

"I didn't take you for the type to shop for rugs."

"I am capable of appreciating fine craftsmanship," he said, perhaps too quickly, before clearing his throat.

"But if you must know, I am buying a gift." Iris frowned at that.

"A gift? For who?" Oh Goddess, is she jealous he might be buying a gift for a woman? That's adorable.

"For my father." Warren looked away.

"We have been… distant, of late. I had hoped to bring back something he might appreciate." Iris softened briefly. Then she walked to the back of the shop, parasol tucked under her arm, and peered at the rug Warren had been examining.

"Absolutely not," she declared. Warren took a step back.

"I beg your pardon?"

"This?" Iris held up the corner of the rug.

"Lord Warren, this is just dyed wool. Look at the sheen—or rather, the lack thereof. Don't tell me you can't tell Sasanian silk from this coarse thing. Even a child could see the difference."

"It looked perfectly—""And purple? I don't expect much from an Albion education, but surely even there they teach that purple would clash horribly with your house crimson. Honestly, you'd present this to the duke? It's no wonder you're estranged!" Warren crossed his arms.

"I was not aware I'd hired a gift consultant."

"You haven't. I am here for Clara, of course. But I have decided to bestow my charity upon you, as I cannot in good conscience allow this travesty to proceed. You may thank the Goddess for this blessing, if you like." Iris snapped her fingers at one of the servants tending to the shop.

"You. Bring me that cochineal and gold rug, third from the top. And then bring out whatever other silk ones you have in the back—and don't even think about showing me wool. I am not here to furnish a guest room." But I also thought it looked nice… Warren gave Clara a pleading look as Iris ordered the shop staff around and meticulously inspected the rugs they put before her. Clara shrugged—by now, she'd learned that when Iris got like this, there was no stopping her.

Shopping aside, it was convenient that they'd run into Warren here. With the trial over, Clara's thoughts shifted back to her overarching ambition of judicial reform in Arcadia. It had seemed so far away before, but House de Bragança now owed her a favor, and she intended to leverage it. And for her plans to come to fruition, the support of House Albion's heir and of a daughter of House von Rhenia would also be invaluable.

"Righton, Lady Iris. What do you say we grab some lunch together after this? There's something I want to discuss."