The Queen of Lies by Michael J. Bode Read Free Book Online

positions.
    Barring the miraculous ascension of a compassionate Stormlord to the Coral Throne, it is difficult to see such a system ever changing. Not so for our experiment in democracy. With each generation the will of the Assembly drifts further from the will of the people and the lofty ideals of freedom and welfare for its constituents. I see how readily people are willing to trade their independence for personal security, as if freedom were merely one means to an end.
    It is not with admiration that I describe the workings of our enemy, but resignation and disappointment. It is my hope that democracy will reign eternal, but if we are to see our nations suborned once again to the interests of powerful men, we could do worse than follow our enemy’s example.
    —A TREATISE ON COMPARATIVE POLITICS, BY DORIAN BRAND , WRITTEN IN THE HUNDREDTH YEAR OF THE PROTECTORATE’S FOUNDING BUT STILL WIDELY READ
     
    J ESSA AND S ATRYN walked down the circular wooden staircase to the marble foyer of Silverbrook Manor. The curving banister was a single piece of Maenmarth timber polished to a glassy finish.
    Bronze automatons, like men in polished armor, moved about the foyer, tirelessly cleaning the floors and dusting the furniture. Jessa couldn’t begin to hazard how much each of those must have cost as she made her way to the sitting room through the foyer’s eastern set of double doors. The doors parted automatically, triggered by a pressure plate.
    Countess Muriel was an aficionado of clocks. Different mechanical timepieces, in various states of working order, sat in alcoves and adorned the walls. Jessa read that the old nobility of Rivern displayed wealth by craftsmanship and quality rather than art and precious substances.
    Countess Muriel Silverbrook was an elderly but sprightly woman in her seventies. She wore a bold green dress with a hard leather corset like one might wear on a hunt. One hand rested on the armrest of her chair, absently fingering what looked to be a large air-compression crossbow that leaned against it.
    Behind her, two men in black cloaks floated by the wall of books. Invocari. Jessa could see only their pale hands, folded in front of them. They appeared every bit as menacing as people said. The shadowy enforcers were a feature of Rivern that visitors tended to like the least. Mother had dismissed them entirely, which only made Jessa more uneasy.
    “Your Majesty,” Muriel said with a hint of sarcasm. She did not rise.
    “Muriel,” Satryn cooed as she took a seat on a plush couch opposite the countess. “You’re looking well.”
    Muriel made a dismissive wave. “Try not to sound so disappointed.”
    Satryn laughed. “I’m learning that the stories of your wit weren’t an exaggeration.”
    “And you, Satryn, are…much as I imagined.” The countess moved her gaze from Satryn to Jessa. “Please dear, have a seat. You’re making the Invocari twitchy. And your lip appears to be bleeding. Let me call for the healer.” She reached for a tiny bell on the side table.
    “Please don’t waste the Light on my expense. I bit too hard trying to loosen the clasp of a necklace.” Jessa chose a chair off to the side and sat primly, her hands folded.
    “Before we begin,” Muriel said, “can I offer you any refreshment? A Lowland clover tea perhaps?”
    “Do you have anything stronger?” Satryn leaned back, crossing her leg and luxuriously draping her arm over the back of the couch. Jessa half expected her to prop her boots on the mahogany table, but thankfully she abstained.
    “I suppose it’s late enough in the morning.” Muriel nodded knowingly and produced a flask from a concealed pouch in her dress. She poured a generous two fingers of brown liquid into her own glass before passing it to Satryn.
    Jessa watched for Muriel’s reaction when Satryn drank directly from the flask. Long ago the Stormlords had been corsairs, and when they had taken rulership of Thelassus, they imposed many of their