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Evander knows the invitation is coming before it arrives. The invitation—a diplomatic joke, of course. It’s not as though he can refuse, prisoners as they are, even if they’ve been treated well and provided with noble hospitality. But they are not, after all, guests: and so when Mirencaia Luneste requests Evander Dillestone’s presence in their sitting room, he is obliged to attend.
He has at least been allowed to make himself presentable. His clothes are clean; he has been provided with water to bathe and the cosmetics he requested for his face. When he sweeps into the room, trailed by a pair of whip-smart Luneste cavalry guards, he looks every bit as though he is attending a political salon in the capital. His armour is on. He has made no concession to his position.
Mirencaia is dressed down when Evander enters, in trousers and loose-fitting white shirt, and a sleeveless overrobe of delicate Luneste lavender. They look entirely at ease, chatting casually with the servant who is setting out the cakes and tea service on the table in front of them. They wave her off with a smile as Evander walks in and rise to their feet, gesturing him to a seat on the sofa.
“Thank you for joining me,” they say, once they’ve both taken their seats and the guards have dispersed themselves to the corners of the room.
“Of course,” Evander says evenly. He knows how to play this game. “I could never turn down such a courteous invitation from my host.”
Mirencaia just hums noncommittally. “Tea?”
“Please,” Evander says. “One sugar, if you would.”
Mirencaia pours him a cup of tea and adds a single sugar cube, then makes up their own—two sugars, a splash of cream—before sitting back and looking at him cannily over the rim of their teacup. “We needn’t stand on ceremony, you know,” they say. “It’s not as though we’re strangers.”
Evander waits until they’ve taken their first sip of tea before he drinks his own. It’s nothing remarkable—some Luneste brew, lightly spiced with cardamom and cloves. “Very well,” he says, and sets the teacup down. “Then let us dispense with the fiction that I am anything other than a particularly cooperative political prisoner. Why am I here, Mirencaia? It’s not as though I could refuse your summons.”
“Caia, please, if you wouldn’t mind,” Mirencaia—Caia—says. “This is hardly an affair of state.” They, too, set their teacup down, folding one leg elegantly over their knee. They regard him for another moment, and then say, “I am under no illusions that you’re unaware of the bargain I struck with your Oake. The man is remarkably devoted.”
Their tone is entirely bland, and it’s not as though Evander’s relationship to Rowan is a secret, but it still makes something in him bristle. “He is,” he says. “And yes, I am aware. Why are we discussing it? Have your terms changed?”
“No, no,” Caia says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been quite satisfied with the terms of our agreement, his information has been very useful.” Useful, Evander knows, in targeting the traitor Oakes—but how soon before that turns on Dillestone? He doesn’t want to think of it. “It’s not my terms you need concern yourself with. What of yours?”
“Mine?” Evander says. His heart squeezes uncomfortably in his throat, just once; he doesn’t let it show on his face. “I see no reason to change anything. His information for our safety, was it not?”
But Caia just laughs—not a false or mocking or gloating laugh, but to all appearances genuine delight. “Come now, Evander, give me some credit,” they say. “You’ve been working quite diligently to maintain your family’s position. Am I meant to believe you would simply roll over and accept Dillestone’s defeat? That you would enable it? Of course not.” They shake their head, still smiling, almost as though they’re inviting him to share in a private joke. “I’m quite sure you’ve been scheming ways to turn my deal to your advantage. So tell me again, like we’re equals this time—do you intend to adhere to your side of our terms?”
For a moment Evander feels entirely unbalanced. That he intends to turn their deal to his advantage—that’s only a sensible assumption, is at least half the reason for making a deal like this in the first place. That he and Rowan and Somerled might be trying to play both sides: reasonable, if not necessarily the first leap to make in a situation as desperate as theirs was. That they could have been double agents from the start—that’s something Evander would have assumed. He did not expect it from Caia.
“If we are equals, as you say,” he says carefully, “then you cannot expect me to simply reveal my intentions at your request. Give me some credit.”
Caia only laughs again. “Of course not,” they say. “Of course.”
They pick up their tea, and with it one of the little round rose cakes sitting on the plate between them. They bite into it with every evidence of enjoyment, apparently entirely content to take their tea in amiable silence, as though this really were a social call. Evander picks up his teacup to echo them, but soon finds he has to say something. He does not like being at a disadvantage in any sort of encounter.
“If it were my intent to betray the terms of our agreement,” he says, “what, precisely, would you anticipate doing about it?”
“I’m going to be honest with you,” Caia says. “I don’t know that there’s really much of anything I would need to do.” Evander arches an eyebrow in inquiry, and they give an elegant shrug. “You and the two most important people to you are currently my prisoners. You have no line of outside communication to make a deal with anyone else. I’ve vetted my people thoroughly, and I deliver most of your meals myself. You could pass me faulty information, of course, but anything you could tell me is already considerably less valuable than it was last week in any case, and everything your Rowan has given me I’ve also had corroborated by a source I trust. I’ve already made use of it,” they add. “I don’t need you anymore.”
Evander has to tamp down a surge of irritation. He makes sure his face has smoothed over before he says, “If that’s the case, why bother making a deal with us at all?”
Caia just smiles. “It’s always useful to have hostages, wouldn’t you agree?” they say. “Just in case everything comes flying apart at the last minute.” They pause, considering him with a tilt to their head. “If I really needed to keep you in line,” they add thoughtfully, “all I’d have to do is take one of your lovers away from you.”
“Don’t,” Evander snaps, unable to hold it back. It’s a moment of weakness; he lets his voice go hard, his best hope of salvaging it. “You won’t like what happens if you try.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure I won’t,” Caia says agreeably. “But wouldn’t it be better if neither of us had to find out?”
Evander sits back, his hackles still up. Further conversation has done nothing to settle the nagging feeling of imbalance. “I note that none of your guards are Antyre,” he says. “Do you not trust your allies?” If he can just dig his fingers into that crack, pry something open—
But: “Would it surprise you to learn that we’re not allies?” Caia says. “We’ve come to a temporary agreement, that’s all. I trust Helvius, but that’s personal, not political.” For a moment their lips are touched by a fond smile, and Evander is almost fascinated to see that they do nothing to hide it. “He knows what we’re speaking of. He’s left it to me.”
Begrudgingly Evander takes another sip of his tea. It’s starting to go cold. “He trusts to your political acumen far more than I’d have thought to,” he says. It’s an admission, unfortunately, and almost a compliment. “I had you for a frivolous socialite with no interest in political games.”
“I have no interest in political games,” Caia says comfortably. “But I grew up in the imperial court of Resshe, darling, and my mother is a bastard daughter. I much prefer to be a frivolous socialite.”
That makes Evander pause, and he considers them for a long moment. “In that case,” he says, “what difference should it make to you who wins this war? You can be a frivolous socialite just as well in a Dillestone court as one ruled by Luneste. Help my family reclaim our throne, and you could certainly have more than just the safety you’ve offered us.”
“And you can guarantee that, can you?” Caia says, leaning forward with their elbows on their knees. There’s a look in their eye that Evander does not entirely like. “I rather thought you were out of your family’s good graces, after that manufactured peasant rebellion you managed to set on your own people.”
Evander recoils before he can catch himself, and Caia laughs, clapping their hands in delight. “Oh, that was you! It was a shot in the dark, really, but it seemed like your kind of ploy. It could have worked spectacularly if you’d actually pulled it off.” They shake their head, almost patronizing, and something seething and sickly writhes up in Evander’s stomach. “No, let me be clear, Evander: yes, I could help your family keep their throne, and I’m sure I’d do fine under their rule—that is, if you could win me a position, and if they could ever bring themselves to trust a traitor. Or I could do nothing at all, and leave my own family right where they are, on top, and when the dust settles do you know what they’d do?”
They pause there, hiking one eyebrow, and belatedly it becomes clear that they expect an answer. “They’d reward you, I expect,” Evander says.
“They’d leave me alone,” Caia says. “I’m dreadfully inconvenient, you know, the child of a bastard, they’d much prefer not to acknowledge that I won them this throne, and you know what? That suits me fine. With your family, I’d have to keep playing politics just to keep my head. With mine I can do whatever I please.” They sit back, folding their arms across their chest, and flash him a wry little smile. “The fact of the matter is, you have nothing I want.”
Evander’s entire body feels too hot. He almost thinks he might be ill. “What was the point of this conversation, then?” he spits, acid. “To toy with me? You’ve already made up your mind.”
“No, darling, not to toy with you. To see where you stand, of course,” Caia says, and lounges back against their chair. “This didn’t have to be a combat, you know. You’re the one who brought the fight to me.”
What was this conversation, if not a fight from the start? Well, whatever it is, Evander thinks: he’s done with it now. He throws back his tea, gets to his feet, and says, “Thank you, I’ll be going.”
Caia just nods and waves a hand carelessly at the guards. “You’re welcome to take some of the cakes back with you, if you like,” they say, entirely pleasant. As far as Evander can tell, it’s even sincere. “There are far more than I need, really, you’d be doing me a favour.”
Evander wants to stalk out in a huff, but then he thinks of how Somerled’s face would look at being presented with a plate of pastries. The one silver lining, he decides, to this whole sordid business.
He takes some fucking cakes.