A loud splash sounded from somewhere on the lake. They stood in time to see a billow of yellow silk sinking beneath the surface near a barge crowded with members of the Kerch delegation. One of the merchant’s daughters had fallen into the water and was sinking fast.
“Jump in,” whispered Genya furiously. “Go save her.”
“There are Grisha—”
“Nikolai wouldn’t wait for the Grisha.”
She was right, but … “I can’t swim.”
“Please tell me you mean that metaphorically.”
“Afraid not,” he said, panic rising.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It never came up!”
“Just jump,” said Genya. “And don’t you dare flail. Sink as fast as you can and we’ll do the rest.”
Isaak couldn’t believe she was serious, but one look at her expression made it clear this was no joke. Well, he thought as he leapt onto the railing and launched himself into the water with what he hoped was a modicum of grace, at least if I drown, I won’t have to sit through dinner.
The water was bitterly cold, and as he sank, everything in Isaak’s body demanded that he move, fight, do something to get back to warmth and air. Do not flail. He remained still, the ache building in his lungs as panic began to set in. He looked up, up, to the dim glow of light at the surface. It seemed impossibly far away, the lake dark and silent around him, an endless, starless sky. A rotten place to die. Is this it? he wondered. Am I really going to drown to preserve the king’s reputation as a hero?
Then Nadia had hold of his arm. She was surrounded by a bubble of air that she had created and that two Tidemakers beside her were propelling forward. She yanked him into the circle of air and he took a long, gasping breath.
“Come on,” she said. He felt the current around him moving, dragging them along like a fast-running river.
A bundle of yellow silk billowed in the water ahead of them. The girl—Birgitta Schenck—wasn’t moving. Her eyes were closed and her hair was splayed around her face like a corona. Oh Saints, was she dead?
“Grab her,” said Nadia, and as soon as his hand closed over her wrist, they were shooting through the water again.
They emerged on the opposite side of the tiny island at the lake’s center, away from the pleasure crafts. Tolya and Tamar were waiting. They pulled Birgitta onto the steps of one of the practice pavilions and began the work of trying to revive her.
“Please tell me she’s alive,” said Isaak.
“There’s a pulse,” replied Tolya. “But there’s water in her lungs.”
A moment later, Birgitta coughed, lake water spewing from her lips.
“Scatter,” commanded Tolya.
“Be charming,” Tamar said as she disappeared with the others into the mist. “You’re a hero.”
Isaak bent over the girl, trying to remember that it would be the king’s face she would see. “Miss Schenck?” he said. “Birgitta? Are you quite well?”
Her long lashes fluttered. She looked up at him with dazed green eyes and burst out crying.
Well. Perhaps being handsome wasn’t a cure for everything.
“You almost drowned,” he said. “You’ve cause to be emotional. Come, we must get you warm.”
Isaak felt frozen and exhausted too, but he forced himself to do what he thought would look best. He slipped his arm beneath the girl’s legs and lifted her into his arms. All Saints, she was heavy. Was so much silk really necessary?
She leaned her head against his chest, and Isaak strode across the island, his teeth chattering, his boots squelching wetly, until they emerged from the trees onto the island’s opposite bank.
Everyone was peering at the water as would-be rescuers paddled around the Kerch boat and Grisha Tidemakers pulled back the lake in sheaves of water that hovered above the surface.
Someone caught sight of Isaak and Birgitta and shouted, “There they are!”
“She’s right as rain!” Isaak called. “But twice as damp. We could both use some dry clothes and some hot tea.”
The crowd burst into applause. Isaak set down Birgitta before his arms gave out, depositing her on the sand like a pile of wet laundry. He bowed and managed to stop his teeth chattering long enough to kiss her hand.
He’d graduated from minor breaches of etiquette to nearly getting himself and someone else drowned. Perhaps tomorrow he’d manage to burn down the palace.
Birgitta Schenck and Isaak were hustled onto the royal barge, wrapped in blankets, and dosed with hot brandy as servants chafed their hands. But it wasn’t until he was back in Nikolai’s quarters and submerged in a steaming bath in the king’s vast tub that Isaak finally started to feel warm again.
Genya and the others had remained in intense conversation in the sitting room while Isaak had been left to soak in peace. He was going to miss this tub when the king returned. The rest he could do without.
He stayed in the bath until the water turned cold and he’d started to prune. He didn’t particularly want to face the people waiting next door, but he forced himself out of the tub and dried himself off with one of the long linen bath sheets.
Nikolai employed no valet, which had been a relief to Isaak; he hadn’t had anyone help him dress since he was a child. He put on the king’s soft breeches and boots, the shirt and suspenders, the fitted coat embroidered with the Lantsov eagle. He could admit the clothes weren’t a bad part of the deal either. They had been constructed meticulously and were as comfortable as they were elegant. As Isaak adjusted his coat, his fingers touched on something in the right pocket. He was always finding things tucked away in the pockets of the king’s clothes—a note the king had scrawled to himself or a sketch of what might be a new invention, a small silver bead. This time he pulled a tiny knot of wire from his coat. It had been fashioned into the shape of a sailing ship. He set it on the king’s vanity.
“We think this may actually be a good thing,” said Tamar as Isaak entered the sitting room.
He joined them by the fire, glad for the warmth. “So I should try to drown more often?”
“It wasn’t ideal,” Genya said, pouring him a cup of tea. “You missed your chance to chat with Princess Ehri. But we made the best of it, and the king looked like a hero.”
“The carry was a nice touch,” said Tamar.
“Very heroic,” said Tolya, “like a prince out of the epic poems. And so Ivan the Gilded Hair bore her across the—”
“Keep reciting poetry and I will personally drown you in the lake,” said Tamar.
Tolya scowled and muttered “It’s a classic” into his tea.
Isaak didn’t agree, but he doubted this was the time to debate poetry.
Genya nudged David, and he looked up from the treatise he was reading. “We traced the trigger device used to rig the king’s door with arsine gas. It’s most likely Fjerdan.”
“Will they be arrested?” asked Isaak.
Tamar looked almost bemused. “Of course not. It’s not something we can actually prove, and, in a way, this is good news.”
“Of course,” said Isaak. He scratched his ear. “Exactly how is it good news?”
“We already suspected the Fjerdans didn’t come to play. If it had been the Kerch or the Shu, we would have had real cause to worry. This means the Shu are still open to an alliance. We were curious to see who might attempt the king’s life.”