“Alright, Jace, here we are.”
“Why am I armed for a picnic?” I ask, frowning.
“Draw your sword, remove your shirt, and jump in the water.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Do I have to explain everything to you? What happened to your commitment?”
“In public.”
“Ignore them. They’re fawners. No one likes fawners anyway.”
I look around, and none of the lords and ladies have taken notice of us yet. With a muttered curse, I whip off my shirt and slide into the water. The late Spring sun has warmed the water to a pleasant level, and I wade out until I’m about chest deep.
“Now what?” I call to Reknor.
“Kill me a fish,” he shouts back, pointing down into the water. “The more you kill, the more you get to eat tonight!”
My lowered gaze reveals dozens of fat, lazy fish swimming sullenly around, disturbed from my entrance. I sigh. I lift my sword out of the water, poised to thrust down at one of the fattest, when Reknor shouts.
“No, no, no. All under water. Start your attack underwater, finish underwater. Think of the colored poles,” he says, giving me a thumbs up.
My cursing isn’t nearly so quiet as I slowly lower the sword into the water. Seeing a particularly slow and juicy specimen gliding past, I swing down at the creature with everything I have. My sword moves slowly, gaining speed like a lumbering elephant. The fish is two feet past when my blade cuts through where he was, and the motion doesn’t even disturb him.
“They can feel you coming!” Reknor calls lazily as he lays down on the blanket.
“Thanks,” I growl back at him.
Slashing isn’t going to get me very far. Whenever I do manage to anticipate a fish’s path and it looks like I’m going to connect, the swelling of the water allows it to dart aside with ease. My arms burn from forcing the sword through the water, and my legs ache from taking the impetus of the attacks. The colored poles were a difficult mistress, but the water is swiftly kicking my ass.
When I switch to thrusting, some of the fish look a bit nervous instead of just blithely ignorant. They start to avoid my section of the pond. With a growl, I chase them, sloshing mud about and ruining my sight of them in the murky depths. I thrust blindly in frustration, ten or twenty times into the silted water.
The last time, I pull my sword out of the filmy water with a fat fish skewered neatly on the end of my blade. Pure luck. Reknor laughs at me from the shore, and I glance over to see him miming my frantic attacks. When his eye closes for a particular motion, I bring the fish up stealthily, take aim, and flick it out of the water. The fish strikes him squarely in the face, and his laughs turn to a surprised shout as our bloody, wriggling dinner bounces to the ground.
It’s my turn to laugh, neck deep in a pond in the middle of a public park. Reknor's horrified expression as he dabs at the guts on his tunic only spurs me on. He motions me out of the water, shaking his head in disgust. We didn’t bring a towel, so I settle onto the blanket and let the late Spring sun bake my skin dry. The bread and cheese are the perfect complement to the day, and I’m content to lazily spend the afternoon with Reknor, talking and laughing.
“What’s wrong?” Reknor asks after a while. Of course he’s realized something is off about me. “Is it a girl?”
“More like the lack of one,” I say.
“What are you waiting for? You’re young, handsome, a fearsome swordsman, and witty to boot. How are you not swimming in ladies?” Reknor asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“What?” I ask, more to stall than anything. “I, well, that’s… really?”
“Or is there a particular girl?”
“Particular? Maybe. But… I doubt she’ll ever notice me.”
Like the fool I am, my mind jumps to Iliana. The impossible quarry.
“Women like to be chased. While the patient hunter waits for his prey, a real hunter knows when his prey needs to be stalked.”
“Maybe I will,” I mutter, but I know I’ll never approach her. Princesses and beggars just don’t mix.
“There you go. All is right again. Now, if this Juliet stomps on your heart, I have an entirely different remedy, which involves a tavern and that—”
“Who?” I ask, frozen in shock.
“Hmm? Oh, you mention Juliet at times when you’re sleeping. Don't be alarmed, but you do talk in your sleep from time to time.”
“Juliet...” I sigh, remembering my promise to see a leper girl nearly a season ago. I made that promise easy as breathing, and I’ve broken it just the same. Guilt washes over me. How could I have forgotten her? My heart drops to my toes.
“Well, go find her,” Reknor says. “Be back for dinner, and I’ll have Pies do this fish up nicely.”
But I can’t just go back to her. Guilt weighs me down far too much for me to just walk up and apologize. Juliet has to be light on trust and lighter on friends, so it doesn’t make sense just to pop back into her life. I need something that’ll surprise her and make her happy, a gift fit for the girl she used to be. Wracking my brain, I can come up with only a single person I know that can help me.
***
Though I’ve called on him a half dozen times before, this time, my palms are sweating as I knock on the sturdy oak door in front of his offices. Every time before, I came to Torlas as a friend, a confidante, but now I’m here to ask him something. For something. And I have no idea how he’s going to react. The door opens to Watkins’ careful somber expression. I nod merrily to him, grinning. It’s a constant competition to see whether he can keep a straight face looking at me. Well, I kind of figure it’s a competition. He still hasn’t smiled, nor even had a twitch of the mouth, but the sparkle in his eyes tells of a man begging for a smile.
“Master Jace,” he says in his typical butler voice. “The duke is expecting you.”
“Is he? I do so hope his legs work this time,” I say with a wink.
The joke is getting a bit stale after all of this time, but, at Torlas’ urging, we convinced Watkins three times that Torlas lost the use of his legs. It gives the poor old man a heart attack every time, but Torlas just thinks it’s hilarious. For Watkins’ part, he doesn’t alter his behavior at all, though even his infinite patience has to be tested by our rambunctious pranks. Torlas and I are like twelve-year-old street rats. We figure out a scam to run on someone important or of a particular dislike to Torlas, and, well, we run it.
Watkins leads up the four flights of stairs and through the well-furnished hallways, ignoring the paintings that inspired awe in me the first time through the building, ignoring the doors that branch on either side, opening to judges and lawyers that all work under Torlas to ensure justice is upheld in the city. We come to Torlas’ door at the end of the hall, and I struggle not to gulp as Watkins knocks twice, opens the door a fraction, and then swings it wide to permit me a view of the third most powerful man in the city.
He glances up from a piece of parchment he’s reading and brightens, grinning at me like a child. As I step into the office, I can’t help but pause to admire the view. The room has more windows than Reknor’s entire house, revealing a wide, panoramic vista of the city that always makes me struggle not to gawk. Just the dozens of Stars of Donir visible from his office are breathtaking. Apparently, it was his father’s office before the late duke’s death last year, some kind of illness that struck suddenly when he was far from Kranos’ healing hand. Torlas’ original office was a ‘dank cave,’ as he described it.
“Jace!” Torlas exclaims, setting the paper down and coming to his feet. “No need to plan today, I’ve already got something in the works. Just come…” he trails off as he notices the serious look on my face. “Is something the matter?”
“I would love to hear about your plan, Torlas,” I say evenly. “But perhaps later. I have come to you with a… serious request.”
Torlas sits back down, his smile wilting slightly. He gestures wordlessly for me to sit. As I lo
wer myself into the gorgeous leather chair, Watkins clears his throat behind me.
“If I may sir, I told you—”
“Watkins, that will be all. I’ll ring if I need you.”
“Yes, my lord,” Watkins responds, his voice stiff as he bows his way out of the room. A glint of anger blazes in his eyes as our gazes briefly lock, and I wince. What’s that about?
“Watkins believes that you are only cultivating a friendship with me to curry favor with a powerful lord,” Torlas explains as I turn back around.
“Is that what you believe?”
“No,” Torlas says succinctly. He doesn’t have to add or you wouldn’t be sitting here. “What can I do for you, Jace? If it’s within my power, I’ll do my best to grant it.”
“Well, Torlas, I have a friend, and, well…” I trail off, squeezing my fingers into my palms nearly hard enough to draw blood.
“Creator’s breath, Jace, you weren’t nervous when we snuck into Lord Frayen’s manor and stole his statuette of the Mind Razor, and he had thirty guards defending him. What could this possibly be?”
I close my eyes, taking several deep, solidifying breaths.
“Torlas, what do you think of lepers?” I ask softly.
“Lepers? As in those poor diseased folk living in the fenced colony in the Corpses? I pity them.”
“But what do you think of them? Do they scare you? Are you frightened of the idea of coming in contact with one?” I press, leaning forward.
“No, no more than I fear the plague or a sudden fever. If such wrongs are to afflict me, then so be it, but I can’t live my life in fear of them,” Torlas answers easily.
“Good,” I say in the same soft tone. “That will make this easier. I have a friend, among the lepers in the colony outside the walls. She is… dear to me.”
Torlas sits back, his expression one of confusion.
“I see…” he says in a probing tone.
“Her condition is very advanced, and I fear for her life if she remains in that filthy place any longer.”
“I can’t just ask them to let her out of the colony, Jace. I’m sorry, but the populace—”
“Let me finish,” I cut in. His eyes narrow slightly, but he gives me a nod to continue. “She was once a known acquaintance to the Lord General, a student of medicine under his care. I believe she may still be known to him, at least as she was before the disease. I was wondering, hoping, that you could speak to him, entreat him to heal her…”
I trail off as Torlas slowly shakes his head. The sorrowful determination stamped on his face leaves little doubt as to his answer. I slump, head down.
“I wish I could Jace. Really I do,” Torlas says sincerely. “But there are a very few truths that are to me unshakeable. My life, my position, my betrothed, these are all potentially fluid truths. They can be changed. But a rule I have lived by for the last ten years is that I will never allow myself to go into debt to either the King or the Lord General. As soon as that happens, I’m a slave. I don't know if you quite understand how much such a favor would cost me. I would spend my entire life trying to repay it. I’m sorry, Jace.”
I look up at him, meeting his eyes and nodding once.
“I understand, Torlas. I wouldn't want to put you in that kind of situation. It was just a hope, and a faint one at that.”
“Jace, you are a valuable friend. My most valuable friend. You keep me sane when all others are struggling to drive me the opposite direction. If there was anyone in the world I would do a favor for, it’s you. But what you ask for is beyond my ken to give.”
“I understand. Thank you for even thinking about it. Though...”
I trail off suggestively. Jonah once taught me an old bargaining trick to convince your mark agree to the term you genuinely wish for. You start out astronomical, a shot in the dark so high that your client can't reasonably accept. Now, if you’re as blind lucky as it gets, they agree, and you have your wildest dream achieved. Otherwise, you back down, ask a much more likely request, and seem like a reasonable human being.
“Yes?” Torlas asks, looking hopeful. It feels bad to manipulate him, but the man is brilliant and extraordinarily powerful. Friendship aside, I need his help.
“This friend I spoke of, she is fascinated with a particular artist. A 'Caldero.' I want to find one for her so I can brighten her life at least that much.”
“First you ask what I cannot do, then you ask the impossible,” Torlas says, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask, indignant. Surely a piece of art can’t be that difficult to obtain.
“Caldero is the most reclusive and eccentric man I’ve ever heard of, and no, I haven't met him. He’s a master, head and shoulders above any of his contemporaries, and he’s created less than a score of paintings in his entire life, despite approaching seventy Winters. Each Caldero is hanging in a different museum or private collection, or is under the Sealord's personal care.”
I sit back, a bit deflated. I had no idea the man is so revered, or that he’s been so spare in his gifts.
“Now, come to think of it,” Torlas says, tapping his chin. “I do remember that I was going to present a plan for us to execute when you walked in. It involved a certain duke and stealing his favorite dog, but perhaps the target can be changed to his single, solitary, priceless painting created by a certain master...”
“Yes,” I say, practically bouncing in my seat. “Pick me.”
Torlas laughs and stands, coming around his desk to clap me on the shoulder.
“Now, come with me so that we can spend the day on the town and plan our victory.”
“So what? We'll be sniveling young nobility?”
“What, in your opinion, makes us sniveling?” he asks like he’s wondering if he should be offended.
“Oh, you know, the usual for powerful nobility. Walking into stores and refusing to pay for anything, saying that a retainer will be along. Humiliating everyone we see who is lower than us, which is everyone. Looking down on people's clothing, whispering loudly behind their backs so that they can hear, causing a ruckus like we're a small natural disaster.”
Torlas waves his hands in surrender. I give him a cocky grin as one of his eyebrows slowly rises upwards. His head slowly drops down to meet his hands, and he stands like that for a long moment.
“So that's what you think a duke would do, eh?” he says through his fingers, his voice muffled.
“Just the sniveling ones,” I say with a shrug.
“Right. I think that your education is sadly lacking in this particular measure,” Torlas says, raising his head. “It’s my duty, here and now, to educate you otherwise. Walk with me. You don't have any other pressing duties today, do you? Or are you afraid we’ll cause enough of a ruckus to give the wealthy a bad name?”
“A bad name? The wealthy?” I ask skeptically.
“Okay, okay,” Torlas admits, standing and turning me to the door again. “Most wealthy people give wealthy people a bad name. But there is only so much good a man can do to outweigh the idiocy of his class. Still, being a sniveling duke has far greater privileges than the rest of the populace get a chance to see.”
We walk out of his office and down the hallway. Every door we pass, eyes drop respectfully. Torlas' strides are purposeful as he grabs his coat and shouts for Watkins to bring the carriage around. We ride out of the city a short distance into the countryside, and Torlas shows me what it really means to be a duke. He takes me to his summer cottage (castle), and we proceed to go hawking and riding, before we feast and laugh the night away. All the while, we plot the downfall of Duke Paloran, fifth arm of the council of eight. They say that money can't buy happiness. I fully believe that. But there, with Torlas, I’m happier than I ever was in the gutter.
Maybe it’s just luck. Maybe I’ve found the few wealthy people who actually have hearts. The money and the surroundings probably have nothing to do with it. Well. They probably don’t have that much to do with it. I'm not saying that I woul
dn't love to spend time with Torlas if we were living on the street and begging for coins. We probably would laugh less, though.
Chapter 15
Iliana
The Fifty-Sixth Day of Spring
In the Year 5222, Council Reckoning
“How’s Eleanor?”
Torlas shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.
“She’s… fine, I guess,” Torlas says. “She went to her father’s lands for the rest of Spring. I haven’t seen much of her the past few weeks.”
“They’re still looking for Teldaran, you know,” I say, watching Torlas’ reaction as he stuffs a large bite of biscuit into his mouth.
He coughs, choking on the crumbs and pounding a fist into his chest. A faint glimmer of a smile ghosts across my lips, but I’m too worried to really feel the humor. I take a sip of my coffee to give him time to recover. I glance around, but no one looks in our direction despite the early disturbance. My weekly breakfast with Torlas is my one regular venture into the city proper. It’s the only time I feel like I can be something other than the princess of the kingdom, the one time in which the responsibilities of my station don’t weigh quite so heavily on my shoulders. The endless negotiations and judgments and policy… I need the breaks these visits provide.
“Really?” he says when he can speak again, his voice still raspy.
“Teldaran Hollenzar. The phantom noble. An imposter, so it seems. Messengers have been dispatched to Hollen, but Father and Uncle are certain he’s not the son of its lord. They believe he’s still in the city.”
“They are that interested in punishing someone who crashed the King’s Ball? Still? After ten days, wouldn’t you assume he would already be long gone? I mean, did he steal something?” Torlas asks, his expression totally sincere. Too sincere.
“I don’t know why they’re still so concerned,” I answer honestly. “Father hasn’t been very forthcoming when I ask him about it. He’s interrogated me twice on everything I can remember about Teldaran.”
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 38
