by C. E. Murphy
Javier scowled and the boy aimed a kick at him, unknowing and uncaring of his passenger's rank. “Look winsome, signor, or the lady will not care about your tale of woe.”
“My tale of what?” It was too late: the boy had leapt from his own boat to the neighbouring, causing a shriek of dismay and then of laughter as he knelt beseechingly at the woman's feet. Javier, hoping to look lovelorn, unwisely thought of Beatrice, and felt his expression turn to rage. He dropped his face into his hands, and listened to the story of how he was a cloth merchant's son, wealthy enough to dress well but beggared when his father's silk shipment had been drowned in the Primorismare. Now all his hopes of love and happiness rested on wooing a beautiful girl who did not yet know of his misfortunes.
He had, according to the boy, promised her a gown of extraordinary beauty, of rare and subtle cut, and his heart was inspired by this woman's dress, though in truth even his beloved could never fill it so generously or well as this woman herself did. It was his fate to be unable to look so high as to this woman herself, but perhaps she might share the name of her dressmaker, and where to find her, so that the poor cloth merchant's son might take the last bolt of good fabric he had to his name and have a wedding gown made to change his destiny.
Through all of this Marius and Tomas held fast to the other boat's side, so the boy could return, and through all of it they kept straight faces while Javier's flush of anger faded into amazement. The woman gave a name and an address, and the boy leapt back with an air of unmistakable triumph. “You will pay me very well,” he told Javier, and then, thoughtfully, said, “and perhaps introduce me to your lady friend, for I am a better talker than you, and you might need help.”
Too astounded to be offended, Javier asked, “How can you tell? You haven't given me a chance to say anything.”
The boy sniffed and leaned his weight into poling. “A man who talks as good as me would have put his words in.”
ELIZA BEAULIEU
There has been a rumour that the prince-the king-of Gallin is come to Aria Magli. The courtesans have talked about it with great interest, gathered in Eliza's receiving quarters to examine material and finery and to stand for fittings and argue over trimmings. They've asked her, because she is Gallic, if she knows the king, and have laughed merrily when she has said yes, she does. They have asked for stories of him, and she's told them, from the story of the pauper girl who fell on him and broke his arm while trying to steal pears from the royal gardens to the story of a minor Lanyarchan noble who wore Eliza's fashions to court and caught the prince's eye. She does not speak of her rage at Javier's engagement, nor of the knuckle she broke in bruising Beatrice Irvine's jaw. The others are stories everyone knows a little of, and that she is Lutetian-born, and speaks with quiet confidence, delights the courtesans and sets them to laughing and teasing, which is enough.
They are her best customers, these beautiful and intelligent women. Well, mostly beautiful: there are those whose wit outstrips their looks, but Eliza, who is beautiful herself, is coming to learn that beauty can be made up of imperfect parts, if there is enough cleverness and kindness in their making. There's one woman, a true blonde of icy perfection, who is possibly the most flawless woman Eliza has ever seen, and who is so haughty it steals her beauty. There are moments when Eliza wonders if her own pride has turned her into that kind of woman, and in those moments she thinks of Javier's oft-made offer to take her away from her cheapside beginnings. It may be that the courtesans of Aria Magli have taught her something about both pride and regret that may do her good in later years.
She has surprised all of her customers with her language skills: a woman from Gallin is not expected to have the Parnan tongue so thoroughly in her mouth. The courtesans love it, and laugh uproariously when she tells them that the prince taught her the languages she knows. Eliza's not accustomed to having fun, and it's taken her several weeks to realise that she's enjoying the small life she's built here. She's stolen enough from Javier over the years to have started her business, but because she is young and lovely and has coin, she's widely assumed to be a courtesan herself.
This, to her surprise, bothers her not at all. There's a certain amusement in letting the men wonder which of them she's bedding and for what price, and when they all protest that it's not they who are lucky enough to find pleasure in her arms, they all believe each other to be lying in order to maintain discretion and keep competition at bay.
There are even one or two she might consider taking into her bed, when she feels ready to become that committed to this vibrant community. It is not at all like Lutetia, this city: it seems to grab and give more, both at once, with a madcap fascination for other people's business that is familiar, but more heightened here. Perhaps it's that she's never been quite so included; in Lutetia she was always aware that she was the pauper, and the wealthy folk around her were even more aware than she was. Here, she is merely who she says she is: Eliza Beaulieu, a Gallic woman with a talent for dressmaking.
She is not a woman who expects a king to turn up on her doorstep, staggering from a gondola to the stairs with a leap as clumsy as anything she's ever seen from him. It's only because the gondola boy, a handsome lad with a broad bright grin, is bellowing her name, that she comes to the window at all, another dark-headed flower amid a bouquet of curious courtesans.
The women around her call out cheers and raspberries at Javier's awkwardness, while Eliza simply gapes. A girl at her side elbows her and offers a wicked grin. “No wonder you've stayed away from Parnan men, if it's gingers you like. Do his cuffs match his collar, lovey?”
“They do,” Eliza says absently, though she knows this from young adulthood, when they were all still free enough with their bodies to dive into the Sacaruna bare as babes, and not from any more intimate experience.
She cannot actually believe he's here; it's a little as though one of Parna's ancient sun gods has come down from the sky to alight in her courtyard. She knows of Sandalia's death, of course, and knows that Beatrice Irvine proved a spy and an assassin and worse, because neither winter nor Echon's breadth keeps stories from spreading, but regardless, it's quite impossible that Javier should have travelled all this distance, most particularly to find her.
Which is clearly his intent, because while the boy has stopped bellowing her name, Javier has lifted his eyes to the window, and for the first time in their lives, his gaze is only for her. There's a smile in his grey eyes, and relief, and joy, and love, though not the depth of that last that she might wish. At least, that's what her head tells her, while her heart bumps and crashes and makes sick places of wild excitement inside her.
It's impetuosity that makes her call, “Have you a pear, my lord?” though at ten she'd had nothing like the wit to have asked such a question.
Javier, though, responds perfectly, patting his pockets with increasing alarm in the gestures and brightening laughter in his eyes. When he comes up empty, the boy in the gondola sighs with terrible exasperation and jumps to the steps with all the grace Javier lacked. He, somehow, has strawberries, if not pears, and he presses them into Javier's hand, then gives Eliza a look that suggests she'd be better off with his young self. Amused and full of roguish hope, Javier lifts the berries toward the window. Half a dozen women squeal and reach for them, but Eliza is not among them. She watches, not quite letting herself smile, and says, “If I fall I'll break your head, and there was trouble enough when I broke your arm. And you were a lesser man, then.”
“I was the same man I've always been,” Javier says, and lowers the berries. The women all coo disappointment, but their giggling and delight fade into the background until Eliza is barely more aware of them than she is of the light breeze that cools her. Something must cool her, at least, because the warmth within her seems to be growing, and if there's no breeze she may well light into fire, burning up the skies out of not-so-secret hope and joy.
“I was the same man I've always been,” Javier repeats, more softly, “only younger
and more foolish. Much more foolish, Liz. I didn't know until you were gone how badly I needed you.”
There's murmuring in the background, and Eliza takes her eyes from the young king of Gallin to look at the gondola, where Marius appears to be translating Javier's words for the benefit of the gondola boy. The boy's mouth is pushed out, ducklike, and he wobbles his head dubiously, then finally turns his palms up in reluctant approval. Marius grins and ruffles the boy's hair, then turns his attention back to Javier and Eliza, offering a bow from the waist when he sees she's looking at him. Javier twists, offended, to see what's taken her attention from him, then turns a plaintive look back toward her window.
“The boy thinks I'm poor with words, and shouldn't be allowed to speak for myself. He may be right, as I've had a lifetime to say the things I should, without realising how badly I wanted to. We've been so careful of our balance, the four of us,” he whispers. “I should have seen long ago that you were worth upsetting it for. I have been rescued from my own folly and have brought these,” he says wryly, and offers up the berries. “Hardly a fitting gift for wooing, but pears are not yet in season, and I find myself on the edge of desperation. Will you have me, Liz? I go to war, and need you at my side.”
The women all around her are silent now, clutching one another, clutching her, holding their breath to hear her young lover's words more clearly, turning to her with wide eyes to see how she might respond. Oh, whores all of them, perhaps, but born to a culture that admires the ideal of romantic love and plays to it, even if they don't believe in it themselves.
And there is the grain of truth at the centre of it, the few rare moments when love does conquer, and makes glad fools of all. There's a stillness in those moments, a greatness waiting to happen, and not even the most jaded courtesan wishes to let those grains escape when hands might clasp to catch them.
“Damn you, Javier de Castille,” Eliza finally whispers, and her throat is tight with the curse, and her eyes bright with tears. “Damn you, for there's nothing I can deny you, least of all my heart.”
JAVIER, KING OF GALLIN
The courtesans, not one of them believing Javier was in truth the king of Gallin, left in a drove, scattering to the canals to tell tales of how the king of Gallin had come to make love to an impoverished but beautiful woman under their watch. Truth hardly mattered; it was the delight of the story they wanted to share.
When they were gone Eliza came into her courtyard and caught first Javier, then Marius, and then both men together, into a hug with strength enough to belie the softness of her gown and long shining hair. None of them spoke for long minutes, until Eliza finally took back a few steps and pulled her wig off to rake her fingers through short matted locks.
Her hair had grown out in the months since he'd seen her last; had grown out considerably since she'd begun her business under Beatrice's tutelage, but it was still too short to be anything but a man's cut. Even that couldn't take away from the delicacy of her face and the largeness of her eyes. Given a crown, she could stir men's hearts to wonders, and it was a wonder to Javier that he had never seen it. Unaware of Javier's thoughts, though, she gestured to her gown, muttered, “I feel ridiculous in this,” and fled upstairs to change.
Bemused, Javier watched her go; watched her leave behind the vestiges of softness that had shaped her moments ago. He thought it strange, that she could be soft and feminine more easily when surrounded by strangers, but when her family of friends arrived she fell back into more masculine ways, making herself hard and practical. If that was what their friendship cost, then the three men who were her near-brothers had done her a disservice.
She returned in clothes that were familiar to him, lightweight pants and a loose linen shirt, cinched at the waist with a belt of leather and metal. There was a dagger at her hip, a new addition; she had not needed one in Lutetia, even dressing as she did, not with all the city knowing she was under Javier's protection. With it, she looked the part of a pirate, soft boots and all, though no pirate had such curves, and his straining memory couldn't remember seeing the shadow of her breasts so clearly before.
Tomas, at his side, made a sound of dismay. Eliza's eyes flashed to him, then darkened and came back to Javier. “Don't tell me you've brought a priest to mend my wicked ways.”
“Not unless he'll mend them by marrying you to me,” Javier replied, and felt ice slide down his spine at the weight of both Tomas and Eliza's gazes.
Tomas recovered first, if barely, hissing, “She wears men's clothes, my lord, and shows her body without-”
Javier snapped a hand up, cutting off his words. “She always has, and always may, so far as the king of Gallin cares. Do not condemn her, not in my hearing nor out.”
Tomas's jaw tensed, but Eliza curled a smile and glanced from Javier to Marius, then beyond the priest. “Sacha?”
“In Gallin still, searching for you, the last I knew.” Javier came up a few steps toward her and offered his hand.
Eliza's faint smile stayed in place as she put her hand in Javier's, though her gaze went to Marius again. “So you're the one who betrayed me, are you?”
“Sacha didn't know where you'd gone.” Marius arched an eyebrow at Eliza's hand in Javier's. “And I think you're not as betrayed as you might pretend, Liz. Tell me you didn't want us to come after you.”
Eliza shrugged, a small tight motion that said even more than her words did. “I didn't believe you would.”
Javier tugged her closer, pulling her off-balance on the steps and catching her weight when she might otherwise have fallen. “I will always come for you, and I beg forgiveness that it's taken this long. I was a fool, Liz. I've always been one.”
Eliza put her hands on his chest and pushed herself back, one eyebrow cocked dubiously. “Marius, who is this man? He looks and sounds like Javier de Castille, but my prince only apologises when he's drunk.”
“There have been some dramatic changes these past months,” Marius said drily, then glanced at Javier and made a face. “Let him explain, and when you think you're as mad as he is, come have a flask of wine with us and be told that we all are.”
“My curiosity is piqued,” Eliza said, and laughed as Javier turned her around with his hands at her waist. “I can turn myself about, my prince. You need only ask.” But she went upstairs with her hips swaying, a more provocative sight than Javier had ever noticed. He looked back, dropping a wink at Marius, whose expression was a mix of pleasure and melancholy, but who nodded them off with a gentle smile.
Eliza led him into what had to be her own bedroom, open and airy, windows flung wide to let in sounds of the canal, but with gauzy curtains that forbade anyone from glancing inside with too much casual ease. Only the neighbours might, but the neighbours unquestionably would. He caught her waist and tried to pull her to the bed, but she smacked his hand as if he were an unruly child, and went to close first the shutters, then the door, against sound and light alike.
Quietude settled over the room with the shadows, taking some of Javier's good mood with it. Eliza stood in front of the door, arms folded under her breasts, and glowered at him: not at all the expression he wanted to see on a woman he intended to marry. Befuddled, hopeful, feeling more than a little foolish, he asked, “What's wrong?”
Eliza snorted. “Where to start? Four months ago you'd all but broken with all of us over Beatrice Irvine, and today you're here pleading love and marriage, which are words I've waited my whole life to hear and which make no sense to my ears now that I do hear them.”
Javier clenched his teeth. “Beatrice-Belinda-was a mistake. I'm sorry, Liz. I was a fool.”
“And he apologises again.” There was no pleasure in Eliza at his modesty. “I could start there, too. What's come over you?”
“God's light.” That was not what he'd intended to say, not at all how he'd meant for this conversation to go, but Eliza's anger was greater than he'd imagined it would be.
Her glower hardened further. “Is that a curse or an answ
er, Javier? Has the priest addled your brains? He's pretty enough.”
“Eliza, you need not speak to me so.” Too much tension leaked into the words, his jaw aching with it, but a note of recognition and satisfaction leapt into Eliza's eyes.
“There's my king,” she said, though a note of mockery seemed to hang in the word. “My sullen prince.”
“If all you want is to rail at me,” Javier said tightly, “why do you still wear that ring?”
Caught out, she glanced down, then covered her left hand with her right, as though the pale stone might disappear if it couldn't be seen. A long time passed before she whispered, “Because a boy I loved gave it to me, Jav All right. All right, you have my ears, I am listening.”
“God has given me a gift. Please don't scream.”
“Scream? I've yet to see a gift God's given a man that made me want to scream. Laugh, perhaps-”
The dimness in the room was a gift now, too, as Javier cupped his hands and called the witchlight. Silver spilled through his fingers and down to the floor, crawling over itself, pushing motes of sunlit dust out of its path as it swirled toward Eliza. She caught her breath, then scrambled away, jumping onto the bed and staring first at the dancing witchlight, then at Javier, and back again. He remained where he was, letting the magic flow, watching it, watching her; most especially, watching her.
“All my life I've feared it was the devil's power, Liz. It's what's kept me remote from everything. From you. But I knelt before the Pappas to be crowned and the power leapt at his touch, and he welcomed it. A holy man would know if I were the devil's get, and has told me instead that I'm blessed.”
“I don't understand.” The intensity of Eliza's voice pushed the witchpower back, almost frightening Javier. “What is it? How-Javier, it's-”
