‘What this time?’ he asked in despair.
‘I believe he made a bad choice of business partners. Something about a deal falling through, and a large debt to established merchants. Apparently they get quite serious about such things. Especially nowadays, what with the city being run so efficiently. After all, law and order must prevail.’
‘I can’t help.’
‘I understand. You have standards. But it will break his mother’s heart if he’s sent to Trampello; it might spell the end of her engagement, as well. That single fragile chance to bring some happiness into her life. I only mention this because he’s family.’
‘Then why don’t you offer to help your family if it’s so important?’
‘If only I could. I don’t have any spare cash right now. All my money is tied up in new enterprises, investing in the future for my own children.’ She smiled lecherously, and turned back to the lad sprawled across the couch. ‘Are you going to watch now?’
A furious Edeard wrenched his farsight away, but not before her vicious amusement had infiltrated his perception. ‘Fuck-the-Lady!’ he spat.
Salrana! The one name he could never ever mention in the Culverit ziggurat any more. Kristabel’s patience on that topic had run out decades ago. Salrana: who he’d tried to help time and again over the years. He watched and waited, believing that her old self would one day reassert itself, that Ranalee’s mental damage would wither away. It was never to be. Ranalee had been too skilful at the start, whilst his opposition was too crude, helping the new false emotions establish themselves in her thoughts until they were no longer false. Salrana hated him.
It had been a battle lasting for years before he admitted defeat. Eventually, even Ranalee had moved on to more rewarding endeavours. The five children Salrana had borne for men Ranalee selected proved unspectacular, especially their psychic ability. So Ranalee got to administer the final indignity by discarding her. Now Salrana was engaged to Garnfal, a carpentry Guild Master more than sixty years her senior. Edeard was fairly sure Ranalee had nothing to do with it, so the attraction (whatever that was) might just be genuine. Ranalee could have been truthful, it was a chance for Salrana to be happy on her own terms.
I can’t interfere.
But Salrana was his fault. She always would be. Which meant she was his responsibility, too. A charge that would never end.
Just for a moment he thought of going back a couple of weeks, of warning Vintico off whatever ridiculous deal he’d got himself involved with. That would mean another two weeks of electioneering, of parties he’d already been to, of reliving the whole livestock certificate debacle.
Edeard groaned at the notion of it. Impossible. He directed his longtalk towards a specific little house in the Ilongo district. ‘Felax, I have a job for you.’
Edeard sensed Kristabel’s thoughts while she was only on the sixth floor. He grinned at the tone – she was in a foul mood again. Something he found even more amusing now his own temper had abated. He had good reason to be confident again. Felax was clever and discreet, and the Vintico problem would vanish before dawn. Not that it would ever do to let Kristabel know of his reaction to this particular temper, but the predictability was entertaining. Their children must have known of their mother’s disposition, too. All of them had contrived to be out of the Culverit ziggurat this evening, at parties or just ‘meeting some friends’; even Rolar and his wife were absent with their children. Don’t blame you, he blessed them silently.
‘What are you doing out there?’ Kristabel’s longtalk lashed out, suffused with anger.
‘Stargazing,’ he replied mildly. When he looked into the study through the tall external doors she was silhouetted in the doorway from the hall. The fur-lined hem of her purple and black ceremonial Grand Council robes was held off the floor by her third hand, while its hood flopped back over her shoulder. It allowed her to jam her hands on her hips.
Edeard remembered the first time he’d seen her strike that pose: the day Bise refused to sign their wedding Consent bill in the Upper Council. She had stormed out of the chamber with a face set in a mask of fury. Nervous District Masters crept out of the door behind her, and got the Honious out of the Orchard Palace as fast they could. Even Bise had looked apprehensive.
‘Well that’s useful just before an election,’ Kristabel snapped as she walked through the study. ‘And why is it so dark in here?’
‘Light sewage,’ he told her.
‘What?’
‘It needs to be properly dark out here for the telescope to work at its best. Something to do with the eye contracting. You can’t pollute the night with light.’
‘Oh for Honious’ sake, Edeard. I’ve got real problems, you’ve got obligations, and you’re out here wasting time with this genistar crap.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What’s wrong?’ She reached the hortus. Her hair was shorter these days, and her maids had their work cut out each morning to try and rein it in. Tonight it had frizzed out of the elegant curls and ringlets arrangement she’d started the day with, as if the sheer heat of her anger had pushed it into rebellion. ‘That little tit, Master Ronius of Tosella, slapped a whole lot of amendments on the trade bill. Five months I’ve steered that through the Council. Five Ladydamned months! Those tariff reductions were vital for Kepsil province. Has someone stolen his brain?’
‘The bill was never popular with some merchants.’
‘There were balances,’ she growled back. ‘I’m not stupid, Edeard.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘Don’t patronize me!’
‘I—’ He made an effort to calm down. You know she’s always like this after an Upper Council meeting. And a lot of other times, too, these days, he added regretfully. ‘I have something to show you,’ he said, with the excitement rising in his voice and mind. ‘Come.’ He led her across the strip of hortus to the telescope. It was truly dark now. Makkathran was laid out below them, a beautiful jewel of glimmering light stretching out towards the Lyot Sea in the east where the orange-hued buildings sketched their amazing shapes against a cloudless night sky. The network of canals cut rigid black lines through the illumination. He could see the gondolas in the Great Major Canal at the foot of the ziggurat, their bright oil lanterns bobbing merrily across the water. Occasional snatches of song slipped up through the balmy night air. The city was a vista he never tired of.
Kristabel bent over the telescope, her third hand pushing her hood aside as it slid round. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Tell me what you see.’
‘Alakkad, but it’s off-centre. You haven’t got the telescope aligned properly.’
Every second sentence is a criticism these days. ‘It is centred correctly,’ Edeard persisted stoically. He permitted a hint of excitement to filter through his mental shield.
Kristabel let out a sigh of exasperation and concentrated on the image. ‘There’s a . . . I don’t know, it’s like a little white nebula.’
‘It’s not a nebula.’
She straightened up. ‘Edeard!’
‘An hour ago it was several degrees further from Alakkad. It’s moving. And before you ask, it’s not a comet, either.’
Kristabel’s anger vanished. She gave him a shocked look, then bent to the telescope again. ‘Is it a ship? Has it come from outside the Void like the one which brought Rah and the Lady?’
‘No.’ He put his arms round her and smiled down into her confused face. ‘It’s a Skylord.’
*
Mayor Trahaval was throwing a large party every second night, moving through the districts at a relentless pace to drum up support for himself and the local Representative candidates who endorsed him. The Seahall was the only place in Bellis grand enough for such an occasion. With its unusual concave walls shaded a deep azure, supporting a roof that was made from clashing wave cones, it really did have a marine theme, even down to the unusual ripple fountains that curved around the ten arching doorways. This even
ing the usual seating had been removed to make room for tables laden with food, and a small band playing at the centre. The guests had been chosen with almost as much care as had gone into the lavish canapés. There was a broad mix of Bellis citizens to socialize with Trahaval and his entourage of stalwart supporters, from the smaller merchant families desperate for political influence, to street association chiefs, local guildsmen, and ancient Grand Family patriarchs and matriarchs, as well as a vetted selection of ‘ordinary working folk’. The idea was the same as it was for every party in every election. Trahaval and the Upper Councillors would mingle with and talk to as many people as possible, so they would spread the word among their friends and family that he wasn’t aloof after all, that he understood everyday problems, that he had a sense of humour, and knew a good bit of gossip about his rivals and some Grand Family sons and daughters.
Edeard had no idea how many times he’d been to identical parties over the last four decades. The only number that registered was too many.
‘Oh come on,’ Kristabel said quietly as they made their way under the gurgling water that surrounded the main doorway. ‘You can do this.’
‘There’s a difference between can and want to,’ he murmured back. Then people noticed the Waterwalker and the Mistress of Haxpen had arrived. Hopeful smiles spread like wildfire. Edeard put on an equally enthusiastic ‘happy to be here’ face for everyone to see, twinning the burst of enthusiasm from his mind. He helped Kristabel out of her scarlet and topaz cloak, unbuttoned his own signature black leather cloak, and handed them both to a doorman.
I wonder if the Opera House cloakroom fiends are here tonight? They’d get a good haul out of this lot.
‘Macsen and Kanseen are here, look,’ he said cheerfully.
‘You’re not to talk to them until you’ve talked to at least fifteen other couples,’ Kristabel ordered. ‘Once you and Macsen start that’s it for the evening.’
‘Yes, dear.’ But he grinned, because the rebuke wasn’t as sharp as they had been of late. Kristabel had actually brightened up considerably in the last few days since he’d spotted the Skylord. And anyway, she’s right, Macsen and I are a pair of dreadful old bores.
A third hand pinched sharply. ‘And less of that,’ she warned.
‘Yes yes, dear.’
They both smiled at each other, then parted. It was easier to work the crowd separately they’d found.
A wine importer cornered him first. The man and his very young wife were keen for trade with Golspith province where some excellent vineyards were producing some wonderful new varieties. In proof, the merchant’s third hand plucked a glass from a waiter. It turned out he was proud to be sponsoring all the party’s drinks for Mayor Trahaval tonight. Edeard took a sip and agreed the new wine was all he had promised. ‘So if you could see your way to mentioning the ruinous tariffs to your beautiful wife . . .’ Which Edeard promised he would do.
Funny how people still thought he was the boss in their marriage.
Then came the street traders’ association chief. The man assured the Waterwalker of his vote and those of his fellows for Chief Constable; but then Edeard had always taken care to maintain good relationships with the associations.
Next was a guild master from the shipyards. A local councillor, a woman: ‘Just completely inspired by your wife, so I stood at the last election and now I’m on the council.’ Three sons from the district’s Grand Families, wanting his opinion of joining the militia regiment. A shopkeeper. A chinaware dealer called Zanlan, who was the fifth son of a third son in a big merchant family, inordinately pleased to have broken free and set up for himself, importing interesting new cargos from many provinces. ‘I’m a member of the Apricot Cottage Fellowship,’ he told Edeard proudly.
‘I think I’ve heard of it,’ Edeard muttered diplomatically.
‘We’re new, a generation like myself who aren’t going to sit about living off our families. Things are changing on Querencia. We want to grasp those opportunities for ourselves.’
‘That’s the kind of talk I like to hear,’ Edeard said, genuinely impressed.
‘Of course, none of the established guilds and associations recognize us. They’re probably frightened of the competition. And the Orchard Palace ignores us completely, so we get frozen out of so-called open contracts.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Edeard promised. ‘I’ll make some enquiries.’
‘All we ask is a fair market.’
Then there was a blacksmith. A female apprentice from the Eggshaper Guild who was a little overawed and a little drunk.
He was on his fifth glass of the appalling new wines and his third plate of heavily spiced pastries when he caught sight of Jiska, and hurried over. ‘You count as a party guest,’ he told her. ‘Talk to me.’
‘Oh poor Daddy, is Mummy bullying you horribly again?’
‘I’m on a quota.’
‘Sounds dreadful.’ She gave him a knowing grin. Jiska was the second of their seven children, blessed with her mother’s fine-featured beauty, but with his dark hair. She was wearing a simple sky-blue dress with a narrow skirt, contrary to this season’s fashion. But then Jiska had never gone for the excesses of Makkathran’s society, for which Edeard was extremely thankful.
‘So where’s Natran?’ he asked.
‘He sends his apologies. There was some crisis at the ship. The new sails weren’t right, bad rigging or something.’
‘There’s always a crisis with that ship. Is it actually seaworthy?’
‘Daddy!’
‘Sorry.’ Actually, he quite liked Natran. The man was from a trading family, but after serving time with the family fleet he’d acquired a boat of his own. He was determined to found his own fleet and fortune.
‘He’s doing very well for himself, you know,’ Jiska said defensively. ‘His agents have several profitable cargos lined up.’
‘I’m sure they have. He’s a smart young man with a whole load of prospects.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Uh . . . have you ever heard of the Apricot Cottage Fellowship?’
‘Yes, of course. Natran is affiliated. It’s made up from people with a similar background to himself who’ve banded together for a greater political voice. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. It’s a good idea. I like the way some family sons are striking out for themselves.’
‘Well the older merchants should start taking notice of the Fellowship’s grievances. The way they treat legitimate competition isn’t exactly lawful.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You want to hear that, do you, Daddy? How my boyfriend and his friends spend their drinking time grumbling about unfair competition from larger rivals, how no one listens to them, how the world ignores them? I can talk for hours on the subject if you wish.’
‘That’s fine. I’m sure they’ll find a way of making their presence known in Council. Every other pressure group in the city certainly seems to manage.’
‘Daddy, you’re such a cynic.’
‘So when are you going to take him out to our beach lodge for a week and the day?’
The look she screwed her face up into was one of pure dismay. ‘Urrgh! I thought you wanted to rid Makkathran from useless tradition, especially something as demeaning as that one.’
‘Er . . .’
‘You know I was eight before I found out the Ignorant Man song was all about you. That was a fun day at school; even my closest friends . . . Oh never mind.’
‘Ah yes, I never did forgive Dybal for writing that one.’
‘It’s horrible.’
I thought it was quite funny, actually. ‘It’s in the past, darling. Don’t worry about it. But my question still stands. You could do a lot worse.’
‘I know. It’s difficult for him. This is only his second year as captain. And we’re not going to rush in to anything.’
‘You’ve been going out for five years now,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘When you know,
you know.’
‘I’m sure love at first sight worked well for you and Mummy. But I need to know someone more than a couple of days.’
‘It was not two days,’ he protested. ‘I spent weeks wooing her.’
Jiska’s delicate eyebrow shot up. ‘Daddy, tell me: you didn’t just say wooing?’
He sighed in defeat. ‘You know, maybe if your generation did a bit more wooing, I might have a few more children married off.’
‘I’m not even forty yet.’
‘And still beautiful.’
She pouted. ‘You old charmer, no wonder Mummy fell for you.’
‘Just so you know, I don’t have any problem if you and Natran do want to go before the Lady and marry.’
‘Yep, got it, Daddy. Actually, got that four years and eleven months ago. Anyway, my big brother is certainly doing his bit. You know what?’ She leaned in, eyes agleam.
‘What?’
‘I think Wenalee is expecting again.’
He gave his daughter a sharp look. ‘You haven’t farsighted that have you?’
‘Really, Daddy! No I did not. And I’m shocked you should think so.’
‘Yeah,’ he growled. Jiska had a farsight even more powerful than his own. Maybe I should get her to track down my secret watcher. But the idea of Wenalee being pregnant really buoyed him up. A third grandchild. That would be something. He loved having little Garant and Honalee (everyone called her Honey-dew) running round the tenth floor. Rolar, his eldest, certainly hadn’t wasted any time settling down and starting a family.
‘Uh oh,’ Jiska murmured silkily. ‘Twins warning.’
Edeard scanned round to see Marilee and Analee worming through the guests, heading straight for him. His fifth and sixth children were identical twins, and right from the start they’d relished making a play of their matched looks, always styling their hair the same and wearing indistinguishable clothes. Tonight they’d dressed in synchronized satin gowns, except Marilee’s was shimmering burgundy while Analee sported yellow-gold. Edeard smiled indulgently at them; not that they deserved it, but what could a father do . . . ? They were twenty-five, and the absolute stars of Makkathran’s high society. As tall as him, slim like their mother, faces where girlish wickedness forever lurked among exquisite fine-boned features, and thick raven hair that came from his own mother’s family. Add their good looks to their status, and basically whatever they wanted they tended to get, from clothes to pets and parties to boys.
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