"Hardly so long," Rien said. But she stood, and tucked the feather into her pocket, and from a decanter on the desk poured two squat cups of wine, darker red than her own blood had been until recently. "Here."
She sat again, closer this time, and Perceval took the drink with gratitude. "In this case, I came upon something that demanded an intervention."
"Ariane was doing something horrible."
"Ariane was disciplining one of her followers."
"And you intervened?"
"It's a funny thing," Perceval said into her wine cup. "I was led upon her. By a man of Engine, who said the person she was preparing to space was his paramour, and thus through conjugal rights, at least in technicality, under my protection."
"And you challenged her to protect this person." Rien stuck her free hand under her thigh, so that she would not give in to the urge to reach out and stroke Perceval's.
Perceval seemed oblivious. "It seemed like a good idea."
"Yes," Gavin said from his perch on the chair back. "Until your neurons fired."
Perceval flinched and then laughed. "You're not easy to like, Sir Cutting-Torch."
"How fortunate that I have so many other uses." "Your story," Rien reminded, when Perceval's smile had dropped away and she sat again, staring into her cup as if engrossed. She didn't look up this time, but Pinion bowed forward, and the flight edges of trailing primaries brushed her face, as if in comfort. Perceval did not seem to notice, but the gesture made Rien shudder.
She would not care to be comforted by such a thing.
Or would she? Because there in her head was Hero Ng; aware, willing, his colony subservient to hers. The set of him had become encompassed in the set of her. Was this what Ariane had felt when she consumed her father, soul and memory?
Rien could only imagine it was so.
But surely that was different than Pinion.
"It was only after I'd challenged her that I realized I'd been lured into combat. And with whom." Perceval shrugged. "The battle is not always to the just."
She fell to swirling her wine moodily, and Rien thought she might have said more, but the door rattled under a tap and the moment was lost.
"Come in," Rien said. She hadn't even tasted the wine; she did so now, making a face at sour and tannin and then surprised by the flush of round flavors that followed. It went to her head, too, as if the fumes alone were intoxicating. She was still blinking when the door cracked open, and then fell wide.
It was Benedick. More casually dressed now in plain trousers and a pullover; his feet enormous in black slippers sporting skew eyes and draggled bunny ears. "May I come in?"
"I'll get you a glass," Rien said, standing. Not yet unsteadily; at least her dizziness was fleeting.
"No," he said. "Please. Actually, I must speak to my, to ... Sir Perceval. Rien, you have the freedom of the grounds—"
"Alone," she said. "Of course. I'll just give myself a little self-guided tour. And find the facilities."
"Thank you," he said, in a manner that turned it into an apology. He glanced at the basilisk pretending to sleep on the chair, and then back at Rien. "If you don't mind—"
"Come on, Gavin," she said. "We're being evicted."
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 his daughter," she said, and stepped inside before Tristen shut the door.
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?"