Chapter Nineteen
Mark couldn’t remember being this hung-over in his life. Ever. Not only did everything seem too bright and too loud, and not only did his head hurt and his mouth feel like he’d lined it with vellum, not only had he been sick twice that morning, but he couldn’t remember much of the night before.
And now he had to wear a mask for the first time. He stared at the mirror trying to will his imagination into coming up with something brilliant, but nothing happened.
I swear I will never drink like that again.
The easy solution rested in a small drawer in what had become his vanity, in his dressing room, in his house. He had a household again, and not as a servant this time. He had what had been the Pheasant Suite, a set of rooms with largely green and white décor and cherry furniture complete with both a private sitting room and a reception room as well as a bed room and a dressing room with a green tiled area and a copper bath in one corner. The colonel had asked him if he wanted to select different furnishings, and Mark had gaped at him like a dead fish. Actually, a dead fish had far more intellectual capacity than Mark had at the moment.
He powdered his face and throat, assuming he’d have to do at least that much.
Just put on the mask Gutter found for you and be done.
Mark edged his eyes in black and darkened his lashes. He smudged the liner because he didn’t feel like being a pretty, tidy little thing. That was another person a long time ago.
Lake’s cloak, a clear blue against the bloodied snow ...
The blue makeup he applied to his cheek sank the memories of that night into his skin. He formed it into an uneven diamond with an elongated point down the left side of his face. It needed edging—silver, like the steel that had cut him down, like the dove gray and white lining on Lake’s cloak. The right side of his face had to be black and edged in gold because Obsidian had led him here and money allowed him to make the journey. Both jesters had led him here—Lake unconsciously, Obsidian with a reason Mark had yet to learn.
He tried different colors on his mouth, but none of them worked for whatever he was looking for, though variations of half blue, half black all intrigued him. The color tended to stain and it was hard to rub off, making his mouth sore. He soothed it with cream ...
The pale on his mouth ...
His heart skipped beats as he applied white makeup, leaving as little pink showing as possible. He rubbed his fingers in the blue, mingled it with a little white, and carefully applied it to appear ...
Obsidian’s skin had turned a dusky white and his mouth blushed not pink, but blue.
It needed a little pale rouge. The blue was too clear.
When he got the color on his mouth right something shuddered inside him and recognized itself in the mirror.
Lark took in several shivering breaths, reassuring himself that he was alive and awake and real. The hangover didn’t bother him anymore. He had too many things to do.
In a rush he strapped on his sword, a pistol, and Lake’s former purse. He put on gloves—a gentleman always wore gloves when going out—and a hat. This one was all wrong but it was the only one he had. And a cane to remind himself to limp. Lark hurried out through the upper gallery to the colonel’s suite. He went through the servant’s doors into the suite, walked to the end of the hall to the private room door, let himself in and opened the door into the bedroom without knocking. “I need a signed note to assure the tailors I can use your credit.”
The colonel groaned and rolled over in his bed. He sat up in shock, groping for a firearm that sat on his nightstand.
Lark just held out his hand and the colonel paused. “Don’t shoot, just write.” His heart skipped up its pace and then settled. He wished he could feel fear, could feel anything other than the urgent need to make himself presentable.
“Lark?”
“Do you like it?” Lark turned himself around. “Because I don’t. I have some things in my colors, but none of them fit and they’ve been so abused they’ve been reduced to rags. And I need a new hat. When I get back, I hope you can find something suitable to match. But don’t match me too well. We’re not a couple going to a ball. This is our political debut.” Lark’s gaze traced over the colonel’s bare chest. He looked very fine draped in a pale sheet with his hair in disarray. The greenish upper lip didn’t suit him, though. “I suggest coffee and a lot of water. You need to work yourself up to dry crackers by noon at the latest, and it’s already ten in the morning.”
The colonel eased out of his large oak and bronze bed. Sadly, he wore underbreeches. “Where were you last night? I waited until one in the morning.”
Mr. Roadman. Lark’s gaze flicked sideways and up to watch a bit of sweet memory of them cheering and clapping while Mr. Johns danced in a way he’d said was peculiar to his home county of Kolo in Osia, his feet punching into the sand and kicking it up, his hands held above his head, snapping and clapping while three crewmembers sang and played on rough instruments they’d carried from their various homelands. Mark couldn’t remember it, but Lark could. He remembered the whole night with perfect clarity, though at a distance as if he were a member of an audience watching a delightful bit of theater. “I’ll be two hours at least. May I use the carriage?”
“Yes. Go. Just go.” The colonel waved him away.
Unfortunately going to town required all work and no play. As he made his way through town he watched constantly without allowing anyone to be aware that he was watching them, noting who stared, who pretended to ignore him, and who took exception to him.
He and Grant had forgotten all about directions to Halfrye Street.
No matter. He procured directions from a young gentleman who couldn’t keep his mouth closed and found the short, narrow street was almost entirely populated by tailors, seamstresses, cloth merchants, lace makers and all other manner of people associated with clothing. Lauderland had his space upstairs, and proved to be one of three reputable tailors that dealt with barons who had a military history. Lark explained and Lauderland, along with two assistants, went to work. He didn’t have time to be fussy. He chose a black coat of very light cloth to go over his waistcoat. They protested a little but he assured them it wouldn’t look overly strange if the blue waistcoat ended mid-thigh rather than going down to the knee. It was the latest cut that had been shown in the Cathretan Royal Court, though he refused to tell them that. He kept his breeches of the same blue, and ordered blue ribbons to cover the buckles on his shoes. As for the shirt, he chose a black one with thick ruffles and asked that the ruffles be edged in white in whatever fashion could be completed the most quickly. He promised them they’d have more work tomorrow, if they had the time.
They would make the time, they assured him.
While they labored to adjust what they had to fit him and create what they didn’t have, he went shopping for a hat. The closest he could find that would work was a plain black with a broad brim, though his eye edged in blue didn’t care for the slight.
Never mind, he soothed his left eye, just be patient.
He found a sapphire hat pin and pinned the brim up on the left side. Then he found huge white plumes and iridescent blue wing feathers to tuck behind the pin.
His left eye was happy.
He stopped back at the tailors’ to see if they needed him to check their work against his body. They did. Lark left them again to shop for better gloves. He found some black ones, and brought them to a seamstress so that she could edge the cuffs in white and silver trim. Later he would need black gloves with blue palms and white and silver edging, and he’d need a black neckerchief with gold and silver, and gold rings.
The tailors earned their reputation by having the work done by one o’clock. Lark thanked them with a tip from his purse and headed for home.
The carriage ride haunted him because he had nothing to do but to live with himself until the first party. He’d never felt such loneliness. Even the memories of walking in the snow seemed preferable
to the emptiness gaping inside him like a wound. He wished he could visit Mr. Roadman, even for a moment, but he knew the man would be afraid of him if he saw him like this. If he thought Mark’s eyes were cold, he would shrink back in horror from Lark.
And that was the core of his loneliness. He knew his body, his face, his clothes, everything was so artful and steeped in that awful night by the Swan Bridge it was inhuman. Lark would never know love. Mark might find it someday, but Lark would always be alone, a rare bird with no mate, a morbid painting standing beside his master for people to remark upon but never welcome, and never touch.
The carriage pulled up to the manor and Lark stepped out, relieved that he didn’t have to limp anymore. He found the colonel in the breakfast room with coffee and crackers. The colonel was halfway presentable in all black with a white ruffled shirt and neckerchief. The color revealed that his hair wasn’t quite purest black, but had hints of red mahogany. He glared at Lark and straightened up. “Surprisingly tasteful.”
“The crackers or my fashion sense?” Lark leaned on his cane. “I know you don’t like me like this, but we’re meeting jesters today and I have to be fashionable and wary and I can’t afford to be shy.”
“How can you—” The colonel winced and softened his voice. “How can you change like that? It’s like—”
“I’m one of them. And you hate them.”
“I don’t like it. Change back.”
“No.” It hurt to tell him no. He desperately wanted to be Mark again too. Maybe that was Lark’s saving grace.
He walked over to the colonel and allowed himself to lightly brush his shoulder as if by accident on his way by. “Have you heard from the general?”
“We’re expected at two.”
“Then we’d better leave soon.” Lark went out and waited for him by the door.
The moments stretched but all he could think to do was stare in the vague direction where the colonel would have to come from. He had no purpose but as a physical and intellectual adornment. Without the colonel he might as well have been empty clothes hanging by the door.
At last the colonel arrived, no gloves, no hat, but at least he had a dress rapier. Lark opened the door for him, and they waited on the step for Philip. The carriage was still up front.
“I thought only living masks changed men,” the colonel remarked.
That wasn’t worth answering. Obviously the mask had changed Mark. Lark just hoped it wasn’t forever.
“I think that you’d do better without the mask.”
Please, just leave it alone. “This isn’t easy for me.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because I don’t know what I’ll have to do tonight. Debuts are tests. There will be welcoming gifts, and many of them will be connected to intrigues. They’ll test my skills, my knowledge, look for weak points, including my ability to wear a mask.”
The colonel clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels impatiently. “All right then. You have two masks. Why not wear one of those? At least you can remove those and wear them only when needed.”
“For one thing, one is a death mask.”
“You have a—”
“And,” Lark said, loudly cutting him off, which made the colonel wince, “for all I know the mask that Gutter gave me could be worse.” Philip finally approached from the back of the manor. “This comes from inside of me. It’s part of what I am. I’m sorry you don’t like it but it will always be there even after the mask is gone. It was there before. You just didn’t see it.”
The colonel waited until they were inside the carriage and on their way before he spoke again. “I suppose I could have deduced that the mask you took from your friend would be a death mask, but I wish you’d shared that with me openly.”
“It’s supposed to help protect us from the sins we do.” Obsidian had managed to spare his soul from murder, but he faced the morbai alone. Lark would have never left him to die alone like that. He wouldn’t have allowed vain hopes of saving Obsidian’s life distract him from what had to be done. It seemed so clear now. No wonder he hated himself.
His left eye reminded him that Obsidian had meant to murder Lake long before he went to the bridge. It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve to have the morbai after him.
The colonel appeared lost in thought. Lark waited until his expression changed ever so slightly before he asked a question that should have been asked a long time ago. “Are you sure you’ve never met Obsidian?”
“Yes, I’m certain.”
“You said you’ve been courted many times before. You don’t remember a young man about five foot eleven, curly dark hair, dark clothes with gold, and this rapier?”
At least the colonel bothered to glance at it. “No.”
It made no sense. Why would Obsidian trust a man he’d never met over what he’d implied would be Gutter’s objection?
“Wait.” The colonel sat up a little. “Sid. Obsidian. I remember someone from about two years ago. He didn’t court me. He was visiting someone in Perida. He stayed with the mayor.” The colonel’s eyes narrowed, perhaps in puzzlement but it also might have been suspicion or an unpleasant memory. “I met him only in passing. I was in town to look at horses and Feather introduced us. She forced me to accept a dinner invitation. I couldn’t have spent more than five or six hours in his presence.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t have your memory, Lark. The only thing I recall about it now was how cruelly Feather teased me. I think she suspected. Men are so flattered and flustered by her ....”
“But you weren’t interested, and she’s either vain, or observant, or worst of all both, and she suspected that the only explanation for your indifference was that no woman has ever turned your head.” That was important to know, especially if Lark met Feather tonight.
“She’d be wrong, though. There are women I admire and respect, women who I would consider marrying.”
“Your passion overwhelms me,” Lark said dryly.
A faint smile briefly lit the colonel’s eyes. For that moment Lark’s loneliness eased, but then the clouds covered the sun again.
They arrived at a manor not too far from the governor’s estate. Uncomfortably the governor was there, but he let Fine manage his conversations and remained courteous to his son. Lark memorized the names of all the military men, only half of whom had jesters, and watched them interact. No conspiracies leapt out, at least not into the open. Aside from the governor’s cold manner toward his son, everyone seemed to get along well. It made for a dull afternoon. He memorized the wives’ names just in case he might need to ask about them later, including the ones not in attendance with their husbands. Lark smiled and joked and drank very little but behaved later in the day as if he’d kept pace with everyone. The colonel’s discomfort eased and he even rewarded Lark with a few smiles.
Then a messenger arrived with two letters. One was a formal invitation to dinner written in simple handwriting on expensive paper. Baron Gareth Newell, 124 View Road, Perida, would be honored to host a celebration in honor of Colonel Rohn Evan’s bonding to Lord Jester Lark at 6pm, dessert and a concert to follow. The second was a work of art—folded red paper adorned with gilding, dried and pressed flowers and feathers, embossing and ribbon. The script was written on white silk.
Welcome.
Eight P.M.
Feather’s signature had sharp angles and edges and she’d drawn a plume from the base of the first letter.
They had to leave directly from the general’s house to make it to the mayor’s house on time. They said their goodbyes and settled back into the carriage.
“You surprised me,” the colonel said. “You were very ... you’re very graceful.”
“Thank you.” His gut had tied up into knots.
“But now you seem nervous.”
Lark handed him the invitation from Feather. “Keep this for me. It may have a secret message in it and I don’t have time to look at it
between now and the party.” He had little doubt that she’d planned it that way. “I’ll be going to her salon partway through the dinner party. I don’t expect to be back home until after dawn.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I insist that you and I leave together at midnight. They’ll know you have to abide by my wishes.”
“Please don’t.” Lark appreciated the protectiveness, but he couldn’t allow it to interfere with his work.
“You’re exhausted. We’re both exhausted.”
“That’s what they want. They’ll test me tonight, and how well I perform will determine what I’ll be capable of on your behalf. If you interfere, you will sabotage my ability to serve you, and the islands may be lost because of it.”
“I’m concerned that you will make an error or even get yourself killed before we’ve even begun.” His hangover must have eased because he raised his voice without flinching. “You’re holding well, but it can’t last. Not through to the dawn. You’ll make up for anything that’s lost in the days ahead. I see no benefit.”
Lark wanted to slap him. “Every jester of note, enemy or ally, will be at that salon tonight. That won’t happen again until another jester debuts. This may be my only chance to see them together. They’ll tire out as well. When they do I hope to catch those little barbs and dark looks and nods and subtle smiles that will tell me more about the politics on this island than months of investigation. Yes, it’s risky, but it’s necessary. And by the way, no one is going to kill me tonight, or in the morning when I drag myself home with the last of my strength. Those with real power will not tolerate an assassination at or directly after a debut. As much as I want to learn about them, they want to know about me and what my arrival means not just to the islands but to the world. Even a young, new jester has connections and those connections must be unraveled far enough for them to determine if I’m a threat, a no one, or of help to their causes.”
“You seem wise for someone who claimed to be reluctant to become a jester,” the colonel said pointedly.
“It’s all academic. I have a good memory. I’ve read about these things. I know what’s expected,” Lark reminded him.
“I’m somewhat reassured,” the colonel grumbled. “But I hope you will bear in mind that things are different in Perida. Our religion isn’t the only thing that differs from the mainland countries. You may find that our jesters will turn to killing more quickly than your mainland kin.”
It was a good reminder, though foreknowledge wouldn’t help.
The mayor lived in town. His primary residence sat close to his immediate neighbors except in the back, where he had enough cleared land for a modest garden and to pasture two horses. Brick walkways separated the sand street from the more civilized landscaping and allowed people to stroll without danger of being run over by a carriage, though there were very few horses and carriages on the island to fear. The house was built something like a cake with ornate rails on each level. The top two levels were reduced just enough to accommodate handsome balconies. The entrance was recessed between the two large front rooms. Lark could see through the windows of the one on the left, where people had already gathered. Music played on violins and a piano seeped through to the outside, familiar pieces he knew well enough to accompany with his voice if he had to.
The girl who’d played violin so well ... he missed her music, and the sense of peace he felt in Argenwain’s garden while he listened to her play. He hoped she was all right.
The curtains were drawn in the other room.
The cane reminded him to hobble a bit as he stepped down from the carriage. The sun had begun to set.
The colonel paused outside the carriage and stared at the house with the same expression he wore when his father had so cruelly berated him, but tension around his nose signaled a tinge of disgust.
Lark took the lead and limped to the door. He didn’t have to knock—it opened under his hand.
Feather, the mayor’s jesteress, flashed a warm and disarmingly youthful smile that made him doubt that she could ever be anything but sweet and truthful.
She’d be very dangerous.
“Lark.” She wore red, and the dress took advantage of her sleek figure. She had little adornment around her hips, just enough to conceal the edges of her corset. The dress lay open in the front to expose deep red skirts and a stunning bodice in a brocade of warm and cold reds that gave it a velvet vibrancy like a fine red rose. The colors made her very pale, but not unappealingly so.
Her mask dominated her. Fashioned like a noblewoman’s disguise with soft leather and gems, decorated with an artful application of red feathers, it made her into a young lady going to a ball. He would swear, though he didn’t know how he knew, that she’d made it with her own hands. Against his will he felt a kinship to her because of that. Many jesters used old masks or employed a maskmaker.
He bowed with a brief flourish and accepted her offered hand, lingering in his kiss. It wasn’t difficult to pretend awe in the face of her beauty. She kept hold of his hand. “Feather. Thank you. I’m in awe. I have to apologize for the inconvenience. I know this is all extremely sudden, and I’m in your debt for all the trouble you must have gone through. And yet,” he said, peering past her, “no one would know that you haven’t spent months planning this.”
“I had a feeling the first time I saw you that I’d have you in my salon for your debut,” she said brightly, pulling him in. “Everyone, our guests of honor have arrived.” She gracefully stepped past him to accompany the colonel to the entryway into the drawing room. Everyone stood and applauded, fans flashing, nearly forty faces smiling, a few masked, most natural and human and eager. A few seemed too eager and nervous.
The jester with the unpleasant whorled design on his face stood out. He raised his glass of red wine to Lark, and Lark nodded to him. He tried to convey friendliness, but he didn’t trust that jester one bit.
Feather left the colonel in the care of the mayor and took Lark around the room. She walked arm in arm with him, her gaze constantly distracted and flitting. At times it seemed she looked away or past him for no discernable reason, and her breath often caught on the edge of laughter.
He allowed the names of guests to flow into his memory, bowing as necessary. The island convention made it easier in many ways. Everyone was referred to as baron or baroness, and all the jesters present had been bound, though after tonight he wouldn’t have to use the formal address. He was one of them, and they would all be on jester name basis from now on.
“Baron Kilderkin,” Feather said, finally coming to the trio Lark most wanted to meet. “Lady Winsome Kilderkin, and Lord Jester Juggler.”
Baron Kilderkin looked like the sort who married late in life and drank too much wine, as evidenced by his thick body, folds of yellowed skin and bloodshot eyes. He appeared unrelated to the lovely but clearly athletic lady of about Lark’s age with amber hair and blue-gray eyes. She’d dressed in a pale blue gown. He remembered her. She’d stood up during the trial and cried for a physician. Neither of them seemed to fit the whorled mask and wary, cat-like stare of Kilderkin’s jester.
Lark bowed to them all. “Pleased to meet you.” He gave more warmth to the inflection than he had to the others so far. He could only hope for two things—that he’d just identified his worst enemy, or had met his best potential ally. If Juggler wanted an alliance, it seemed he planned to make it very hard for Lark to earn their trust. Anything in between would end up as a long battle with nothing to gain from it but the usual social necessities.
“Are you recovering well?” Either Winsome didn’t know that one wasn’t supposed to interrupt when a jester was in the midst of a long stretch of interviews, or she didn’t care.
It made Lark smile. “Yes, thank you.”
Feather finished the introductions and then took him into the vast dining room, where two dozen more guests had already seated themselves at a few of the tables and were deep in conversation. She didn’t interrupt them, as n
one were jesters and therefore didn’t need to be formally introduced to him if they already knew the colonel. She murmured about them into Lark’s ear, somehow maintaining that sense of innocence while being very intimate. The most interesting group consisted of a man who made his wealth in sugar, a Cathretan lord who immigrated shortly before the war and fought nobly to keep the islands free, an admiral, two captains, and two single ladies whose parents were in the other room, and one of the lady’s brother.
Feather led him toward the back of the house to a sun room where a much smaller group sat in conversation—two families with three daughters and two sons between them, two more jesters one of which was attached to the admiral, a single gentleman visiting his cousin the captain, and the gentleman’s best friend.
Feather gathered everyone up at the dinner tables and the servers began bringing in a fragrant cream soup apparently made from a root similar to parsnip that grew exclusively on the island. The cook had combined it with imported carrots—exotic here but a common enough winter vegetable for Lark. The tropical seasonings, sweet and hot, made it uncommonly good. While he ate and asked about island life, he memorized the seating order so that he could write it down later. Feather no doubt took great care in arranging who sat where, and it might help him unravel the island politics later. She placed Winsome at the colonel’s right elbow, and she sat at Lark’s left at the head of the table opposite the mayor.
So the mayor wasn’t married. Even if he’d been married, Lark would have wondered if Feather adorned his bed most nights. If the mayor ever wanted to get married she might have serious problems enticing someone suitable to join the household. Few women would feel comfortable not just with having a beauty like her in the house, but the remarks people would make behind their backs about the mayor’s relationship with his jesteress.
That problem might prove to be an opportunity for him to grow closer to the imposing, heavy-shouldered mayor and his unique partner.
Roasted beef proved to be another mundane winter dish made fresh by a sauce based on a number of mysterious fruits. Their bread surpassed anything he’d had on the mainland. They served it with a surprisingly mediocre fruity red wine that worked passably with the meat. His mother wouldn’t have offered such a wine for a nobleman’s table, never mind for a debut party. Lark took it as a sign of ongoing strained relations between Cathret, which made the best wine in the world, and Meridua, rather than a comment on the butler’s taste and skill.
“What school did you attend?” Juggler asked.
“Tells and Keener.” Mark would have cringed but Lark didn’t hesitate. He had no other answer and wasn’t particularly ashamed of it.
“I’ve never heard of that school.”
“It’s a tutelage system.”
Juggler’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain I understand.”
“I’m afraid everyone would be bored if I went into detail. I can sum up by saying that it takes a little less than a decade to complete studies.”
“Is it something one does on one’s own?” Juggler asked.
“Not at all. A master instructor selects the individual tutors, and guides the overall study.” Lark knew what question would have to come next. “But that is something I’m not permitted to discuss openly. I could hint at why something like that would need to be kept secret. Unfortunately such hints would only inspire conjecture or doubts which aren’t suitable for a debut.”
“I’m satisfied with his credentials.” Those were the first words the colonel had ventured without having them forced out of him by social necessity. “And if I may add to the mystery, a colleague of his was a welcomed visitor to our island. It is through that person that we became acquainted. You should have no reservations in regard to his fitness.”
Lark wished he hadn’t said that. “And now it becomes a game. I apologize for that.”
“Please don’t apologize.” Feather laid her hand over his. He forced himself to blush and briefly lowered his lashes. His mask carefully concealed some of his expressions, but a good jester would notice his eyes and the color at his throat and he had to respond to her touch. The last thing the colonel needed was anything that would arouse more suspicions as to his lean. “This is the most excitement we’ve had in years, and it’ll give us all something to talk about besides the poverty of our wine cellars.”
“The wine paired beautifully with the roast beef, by the way,” Lark told her.
“You’re being too kind.” Her hand slipped away and he deepened the blush. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and made a subtle show of composing himself.
The servants began to take the plates away. Feather stood and curtseyed. “I’m afraid I’m going to be horribly rude and steal our new jester away for the remainder of the evening. I hope you all will enjoy dessert.”
The other jesters stood and Lark got up as well. The colonel gave him a stark look.
He doesn’t want me to leave.
Some of the cold and loneliness eased inside him, but Lark couldn’t afford to comfort him or even apologize. He certainly couldn’t stay, though he desperately wanted to. He left the only person he cared about in the whole house behind and allowed Feather to take his arm. He escorted her to the salon on the other side of the house.
Heavy mahogany double doors, fully carved and lined to thwart eavesdroppers, opened into a paradise of books, musical instruments, a large parquet dance floor, card tables, games and a vast liquor cabinet glittering with crystal. At least thirty jesters waited within. A group of six played cards. One set aside his book and stood, and the jester seated at a harpsichord playing a soft minuet concluded mid-piece with a flourish. Three old jesters barely gave him a glance from where they smoked in a dark corner. They sat as if they ranked alongside kings. Vanilla scented the oil in the lamps, filling the room with its sweet, warm scent.
And whispers ... he hoped it was the jesters, or a trick of the room, but he thought he heard something more, things that might only be in his mind.
So many masks in one place. The weight of that much skill, wisdom, intelligence and craft dragged down Lark’s carefully held calm. Giddy and terrified at once, he allowed himself to be introduced to the new jesters. She left the three elders for last.
“Onyx.” The dark porcelain mask with inlaid pearl glimmered with brief interest before he returned to his introspection. “Mortify.” Something like a silk scarf with rough holes for eyes and black lace edges dipped in acknowledgement. The mouth smiled. “Grin.” Grin wore a painted death mask of delicate wood, animalistic with a toothy grin and wild eyes that had holes in the pupils to peer through. Lark’s heart leapt in fear and he was grateful when Feather dropped a respectful curtsy to the three jesters and drew Lark toward the dance floor. “The worst is almost over,” Feather promised. “We’ve all been through this. I botched mine, so don’t crawl away never to come out again if something goes wrong. Promise me, Lark, that you’ll remain in my salon after your performance?”
He laughed, because he knew now what he had to do. Poets bemoaned the fact that some of the greatest artistic triumphs of the human spirit happened behind closed doors at jesters’ debuts. Most of the jesters joined him in a chuckle, no doubt remembering their own debuts. It didn’t matter that some of them wished him well, while others wished him ill, or even dead. For now they would all welcome him into their family.
It was a good thing that Gutter wasn’t there, because Lark didn’t plan on doing anything to make him proud. He wanted to do something he hadn’t done in a very long time.
He wanted to honor the boy that Gutter had destroyed piece by little piece until he’d become something Mark’s father wouldn’t have recognized.
Lark closed his eyes and took a breath of his past inside of himself. He smelled oak stained by dark wine, and fish, and baked bread and old cart horses and spilled beer. He smelled the piss, sweat and vinegar of the street where he’d grown up. He heard the endless crowds, the rattle of carts, cursing, singing, crying, laugh
ing, and children.
He heard his own laughter echoing in his memory as he ran with childhood friends whose names he could barely remember. Jenny and Mitchell he remembered, though time had smudged their faces. And he began to sing their favorite childhood chant that they always sang while playing stick-skip in the street. He added embellishments to it by the third verse. The song came alive and he mated it to a sea chant in the same key. He then altered it into classic aria form. His voice honored the beauty of that innocent boy’s voice, spoiled by lessons as cruel as the task master that insisted upon them. The aria honored that cruelty as well, because without that hardship, the boy would have had no chance of becoming a man.
He sang that aria from on high to the boy, and then returned to the sea chantey because the boy loved them. At last his voice settled low on its heels and softly sang the stick-skip song with skill the boy would never dream he could achieve.
But you do achieve it, Mark. And you will survive. Don’t let Gutter break you, and don’t let your own fears stop you. Grow up and be your own person. It’ll be worth it. I promise.
Lark opened his eyes. The masks stared back at him, expressions hidden, eyes unblinking. They seemed to take in a breath in unison, and then the applause came.
The applause converted to a rhythm. Jesters rushed to musical instruments and began to play.
And they began to dance.
“You’ll never see me in the company of these mainland-loving cold bloods,” Bell told Lark, dealing another hand of cards. “But I can’t resist a debut. There’s something about the beginning of things. It’s a birth as profound as a child’s.”
“And who’s the proud mother?” Juggler asked.
Lark laughed. “Oh, I’m an orphan.”
“Why do I get the sense that that’s true in more than one way?” Bell asked.
Lark didn’t let his shiver show through. It was amazing what they drew out of him, but he learned just as much from them. No book could describe the sensation of being carried by a flooded river with the wreckage of a city he’d never seen. Every shard of conversation came from a foundation he could only deduce and whose history he might never know. “Secrets are so rude, but we can’t live without them. They’re our skin.”
“So true.”
“You didn’t just deal him a new hand,” Furnish protested, striding over from a tight and laughter-filled conversation. “I won’t let you keep him. Burn! Take Lark’s place at the table.”
“Burn!” Bell called. “I’ll yield him if you come over. We haven’t spoken in weeks.”
Lark left his cards face down—he hadn’t even had a chance to look at them yet—and followed Furnish. Furnish didn’t take him to the group, but led him to the three elder jesters and dragged over a chair for him. “Sit,” Furnish told him. “Stay.”
Lark quieted under the old men’s long looks. One of them began to roll a fresh smoke. “Do you know who you remind me of?”
“No, lord jester.”
“Onyx,” he reminded him. Onyx drew out a case of dried leaves and carefully packed them into the paper. “You remind me of Gerson Habrick.”
“I hear he’s Dellai now,” Mortify said.
“Really.” Onyx delicately licked the paper and rolled it with practiced ease. Grin opened a lamp and held it for him so he could light it.
Onyx offered the smoke to Lark.
“No thank you.”
“They say you had leaf before the trial,” Onyx said. “And gracian for your cure.”
Lark nodded. “If you please, I’d rather not repeat those experiences.”
“It does not please me.” He held out the smoldering smoke.
“It’s a test,” Mortify told him. “We all go through it.”
“It seems to me I’ve already taken that test.”
The rest of the room quieted.
“You can perform gracefully before some of the most jaded and critical minds in the world,” Onyx said. “But you’ve yet to show us what your mind becomes when your skull is a sieve and your tongue is cut and your eyes see through the canvas that is this world into the place we all must go.”
“Take it.” Feather’s voice had none of its girlish charm.
“Take it,” Mortify told him, “or get out.”
Lark got up and limped out. He was furious with them, and himself, and he hated everything. It wasn’t even midnight. He let himself out the door and went out into the tropical night. The dark and stars and soft sea wind cooled his temper but deepened his despair.
They knew he’d refuse. They didn’t want him, and he didn’t want them. But at least he had Bell. He was sure he had Bell on his side.
Someone ran after him. Lark slowed down and glanced back.
And stopped.
Juggler slowed and stopped a few paces away. “Come back.” His voice had no inflection in it.
“It’s not just a test to me,” Lark told him, his anger rushing back. He wanted to say that he didn’t want to go back, but he did very much want to return to that magical place that the smoke promised to give him.
A place without pain.
“You made Onyx look like a fool.”
I did?
“He’s a dangerous enemy, but he’s old and he matters less and less. Come on. Don’t be such an obedient pup.” Juggler turned to the side, inviting but still lacking in emotion. The only thing that betrayed any feeling was his rapier. Lark couldn’t say for certain why the way that Juggler held the pommel to keep the blade in check with such familiar indifference betrayed the jester’s loneliness. But it did. As lonely as Lark felt, it was a shallow and passing emotion compared to the depths in which Juggler seemed to be endlessly falling.
“You don’t speak for the others, do you.”
“Fuck them.” A trace of smile appeared and vanished. “You showed a little strength back there. Now is your chance to really show them how strong you can be.”
“By accepting an invitation from you as easily as I allowed them to pinch my temper?”
“You killed my men.” Juggler turned back toward Lark and took a step closer. His hand tightened on the pommel. Lark had to focus all his control to keep himself from reaching for his own rapier. He trusted that Juggler couldn’t draw using the pommel faster than he could reach and draw in an off-line retreat. “Now does my invitation seem too much like an alliance against the others? If you walk back with me, you will still be very much alone.”
“So why are you asking me back?”
“Because if you walk away, you’ll win. I want you in the contest. The islands didn’t win the war, you know. Cathret sailed away and left us here to rot. We’re nothing but sailors who claim to have conquered the sea, when all we did was survive a single crossing thanks to a little grace and a great deal of luck bought with barrels of blood.”
If Juggler had understood that the colonel needed Lark solely to find a conspiracy that would give advantage to the mainland, he would have never given that away.
He had to become friends with this mask. “You’re wrong. The islands soundly trounced the mainland. Their naval forces are still recovering from their losses, some of which are tied to your docks and many more which decay at the bottom of the sea, along with a horrific number of their men. But if that doesn’t satisfy you, I suppose I’ll have to do. I think I represent about all the might the mainland can muster. Five foot six, barely over a hundred pounds and expensive shoes likely to trip me up if I ever got in a fight.”
That earned a smirk.
“Why did your men attack me?” Instinct drove him forward relentlessly, defying all reason.
“You would never understand. I could say it was your wealth that drew them. I would also be accurate if I implicated their hatred of everything from the mainland. I believe you made it easy for them to attack you. They may have even truly believed you posed a threat to the man you now serve. It would all be true, but none of it would be the real reason.” He spoke with real emotion now, his eyes bu
rning from behind his ugly mask. “When every hour of every day feels as if you’re asleep, and the world expresses its derision with handsome words of praise, you crave the purity found a breath away from your last heartbeat. All they needed was an excuse, and you provided them with many.”
Lark didn’t have to ask if Juggler craved the same thing. It was in his voice. And he was right. Lark couldn’t understand it. Every time he relived that fight in the street he hoped it would be the last time. “Thank you.”
“In exchange for my candor, I will expect you to do something for me sometime. I believe you’re the sort of person who will hold yourself to that.”
“I won’t disappoint you.” It was his first open pact with a jester, and Gutter would have rightfully lashed out in rage at him for making one with such a dangerous mask when he knew so little.
Lark hoped he knew just enough.
Masks Page 20
