The remark seemed to sting her. "It should be an easy guess," Melune said.
"The Red Mantis have found out. By contacting me, by confirming the marriage to the lord-mayor, you have broken your oath to them."
"I'll not be forgiven twice."
"They've come for you already?"
"I can lose them if I go quickly. There are fewer of them than there are routes out of Magnimar."
"Then you're taking a risk by waiting to talk to me," said Luma. "I must thank you for that."
"I thank you for seeing me."
"How could I not?"
"You scarcely owe me filial duty."
"I am not here out of duty."
"I have not been a mother to you. It was never possible that I could be. For that I am sorry."
Luma shifted in her chair. "I do not ask for your sorrow."
"Yet I regret nonetheless."
"Correct me if I misunderstand the story. You had but two choices. Stay, and be my mother, and get all three of us killed. Or go, so that all of us would be spared. The only way you could have avoided that choice was not to have me at all. For all that has happened, I am grateful for my existence. I am glad to hear that you gave my father happiness, for however short a span. The story explains much. Of my father's sadness. Of his willingness to marry my stepmother, for her money and connections."
"He doubtless hoped she would be good for you."
"We live in a world where hopes oft go unrealized," said Luma.
"Yes," said Melune.
"Were you always in Magnimar? Watching over me?"
"I go where assignments take me. Though I suppose I should say that in past tense, shouldn't I?"
"And whenever Mantis business brought you here, you were that figure, always at the corner of my perceptions."
"A series of foolish chances," said Melune, "that I was compelled to take."
"Did you ever kill someone we were hired to protect?"
Melune smiled. "Some graves are best left undisturbed."
"An assassin's motto if I ever heard one," said Luma. "To whose death do I owe my life?"
"I don't follow you, Luma."
"If you hadn't been watching when my siblings threw me to the golem-grinder, I'd be dead. But you watch me only when a contract brings you to Magnimar. Who died, so that fate could place you there, in a position to spare my life?"
"A man's heart still beats, because I distracted myself helping you."
"That's a consolation."
"Perhaps not," shrugged Melune. "He is quite a terrible fellow."
"Not that the Mantis only kills the terrible."
"They do not discriminate on that basis, no."
"Do you know who hunts you?" Luma asked.
"I can make certain assumptions. They'll be led by ...well, your grandfather."
"Your father, who must redeem himself after arranging your forgiveness."
Melune's voice wavered. "They may require that he forfeits his life, if he cannot take mine."
"You're not thinking of letting him?"
"I am not."
"Good."
"I would not cause him that anguish. It would be hard enough for him to kill me, but if he suspected I was letting him—already I fear that he might sacrifice himself, for me, and that I cannot permit."
"Will I meet this grandfather?"
"For both your sakes, I pray not." Wincing, Melune touched her hand to her side. Blood had seeped up through her dark-colored tunic.
"You're hurt," Luma said.
"It is nothing," said Melune.
"Then you truly do have to go. But there are so many questions—"
Melune smiled. "Which I ought not answer."
"The story Grobaras got out of you. I can treat that as correct?"
She nodded.
"Then only one question, before you go," said Luma.
"Go ahead," said Melune.
"You use a device that alters your appearance."
"Like your new trick, but not so potent."
"The face you wear now. Is that the real you?"
"There isn't a real me."
"You get what I'm asking."
"There hasn't been a real me since I abandoned you and your father." A tear snaked down Melune's cheek.
"Is this your true face?"
Melune pulled the diadem from her forehead, letting it fall onto the table. Her features blurred. Blond hair turned curly, then the same shade of red as Luma's. It tumbled down in a mad tangle. Luma stared at a version of herself—older, without the scars, but more like her than she'd ever imagined her mother to be.
Luma took her hand.
"My daughter," said Melune. Gritting her teeth, supporting herself on the back of the bench behind her, she rose. She replaced the diadem, transforming into a haggard human woman, her face obscured by wavy chestnut hair. Her doublet, tunic and leggings became a rough shift of sackcloth and linen. The spreading blood, however, remained visible. She brushed Luma on the shoulder and seemed for a moment pulled toward her, perhaps on the brink of an embrace. Then she turned and made quick strides for the tavern's back entrance. Luma watched her go, then unable to resist, hastened to the doorway she'd gone through. It opened onto a deserted back alley.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ceremonies
Luma sat at her father's desk, sorting through ledger books. The meaning of the numbers inscribed on their pages—mostly in her father's crabbed scrawl, which near the end gave way to Iskola's tightly controlled hand—eluded her. Written words came naturally to her, but these columns of red and black represented a language she had yet to master. Had she asked her father to teach her, he would have done so. But that was a regret, and thus useless, so she dismissed it. By regarding the ledgers as another puzzle, its massed numerals as reluctant witnesses from whom a story would eventually be extracted, she would work it all out. The dozens of servants, sentinels, and squadders on the Derexhi payroll had not been paid for two weeks, not since the incident at the Arvensoar. So far, they'd shown surprising patience, as much out of shock as anything else. Luma had met with the squad captains, assuring them that the house was not done yet.
They wanted Derexhi to live on as well, and trusted her to see them through. None said aloud that this was in doubt. Yet she'd seen the trepidation on their faces. Rival houses already circled, ready to poach what clients they could. They'd come for the best of the Derexhi forces, too, extending offers to several of the captains. These the captains swore they'd never take. For years, they'd granted allegiance to Randred, and to House Derexhi. In his memory, they would stand by it. Arrus, Iskola, and the rest were traitors not only to the city at large but to them, who'd served so faithfully. They wanted their pride back, to be able to wear Derexhi emblems and stride through Magnimar's streets with heads high. At the meeting, each spoke fervent words about the house and what it had done for them.
Luma, who had thought herself more or less alone, could not show how much these pledges moved her. She spoke to the captains as her father would have: steady, sure, paternal. Odd as it might have been to cast herself as fatherly, the other would have been stranger still. Reaching out into the city's shared consciousness for its history of leaders and heroes, from Alcaydian Indros to Aitin Derexhi to Randred himself, she became what they needed her to be. Because they needed to believe in her, they did.
As she performed this trick, it occurred to her that she would have to make it second nature. It would be needed when she took the family seat at the Council of Ushers. But that horror she could, at least, postpone for later.
The ledgers she would have to crack immediately. Neither loyalty nor fine sentiment could buy a sack of flour or appease a landlord. The men and women who served House Derexhi—who now served her—could not go much longer without pay. The difficulty lay in figuring out who was owed what.
Once she set that straight, she had the money to pay them. In fact, as near as she could tell, the family safes bulged with additional
coin that could not be accounted for. This could only be payment from the imperial sympathizers who'd joined Iskola's conspiracy. Some of it, perhaps, originated from the official coffers of Korvosa. Luma would use it to protect the house and savor the irony as she did so. Anyone attempting to reclaim the funds would identify himself as a member of the conspiracy, earning a place in the Hells and an early date for execution.
This cushion would only last for so long, through. As Randred had explained, the house sustained itself to a surprising extent on the earnings of its top squad. This might be remedied, by finding efficiencies and raising prices. But the latter could not be accomplished while the shame of the Arvensoar incident still clung to the Derexhi name. Sooner or later, Luma would have no choice but to assemble a new top squad. Of all the tasks awaiting her, finding city warriors to rival her siblings would prove the most daunting.
A tap on the door interrupted her thoughts. Noole entered, followed by Thaubnis. Noole wore a fine, new, and even gaudier doublet. Thaubnis had replaced her drab, threadbare clothing with an equally gloomy outfit straight from the tailor's. She tugged at the collar as if rendered uncomfortable by the extravagance.
"Is it time already?" Luma asked.
"Soon," said Noole. "But there's other business. Panayya Serelem sends word that her sentinel squad failed to meet its morning shift change."
Luma searched for the relevant record book. "Why do we hear from the client, and not the outgoing shift?"
"A reluctance to inform on colleagues, I'd imagine. Frankly, it's a wonder we haven't had more derelictions."
Luma found the roster sheet. "Yelgo Lezen's squad should be on duty. He didn't show for the meeting, did he?"
"You keep asking me these things as if I am some sort of interim factotum," Noole said.
"That's because you are my interim factotum," said Luma.
Thaubnis sat down and began sorting the ledgers into piles.
"You appointed me such," said Noole, "but I do not recall accepting."
"Then clearly you have forgotten."
"Forgotten what?"
"Your implicit agreement to my unstated offer," said Luma.
"Do I hear Luma making a joke?" Noole asked Thaubnis.
"A deadly serious one," said the dwarf, flipping open a ledger. "This system resembles that of the templars of Magrim."
"Magrim?" asked Noole.
"My deity, whom I worship still despite my alleged heresies. Surely I have mentioned his name before."
"It's the first I've heard of it," Noole said. "But to return to the point. Luma, I am no steward or castellan. I am a poet. How am I to write so much as a couplet if I'm spending my days chasing delinquent employees and inventorying the armory?"
"You wanted experience you could write about," said Luma. "What could be more fascinating?"
"Virtually every other activity known to gnomekind. And, not to repeat myself, but I am a poet. Which is to say, an exponent of a notoriously shiftless lot. Why do you trust me?"
"Can I trust you?" Luma asked.
"Absolutely, but that's beside the point!"
Thaubnis built a neat stack of ledgers. "This is not so bad a mess, Luma. It can be sorted."
"Then you're hired."
"I made that assumption."
Luma slid another pile of ledgers toward her. "Father warned me that this was the second worst part of leading House Derexhi."
"The first being politics?"
Luma nodded.
"That road might be smoother than it looks," said Thaubnis. "The lord-mayor's in your debt."
"This afternoon's ceremony expends my last chit with him," said Luma.
"Maybe yes, maybe no. And for every imperial you've terrified—and that's not such an awful thing—there's a fat-purse of the independence faction who credits you with saving his city."
"That is of no consequence," said Luma.
"It will be."
Bhax poked his head in the doorway. "It's time you dressed, milady."
Half an hour later, Luma proceeded down the grand staircase in an unornamented black gown. From a wispy bonnet dropped a sheer veil. Noole and Thaubnis waited for her at the bottom.
"As my master of etiquette," Luma asked Noole, "does this pass muster?"
"You have taken tastefulness to an unnecessary extreme, which is to say, yes. You might fill out the hips."
"With padding?"
Noole's nose wrinkled in annoyance. "No, with your form-changing gift."
"I won't be doing that," said Luma.
"Very well. You are supposed to look a warrior, after all. Do you intend to leave the scars today?"
"Today, more than any other."
They walked three abreast to the carriage house and stepped up into the Derexhi coach, which had been draped in mourning crepe. The chauffeur drove them along the Avenue of Hours, then down the Way of Arches.
For a while they sat in pensive silence. As the coach clattered along, Noole spoke up. "It must be a relief to show your true face without fear."
"Yes," said Luma.
"Not that we'll see a change of expression or anything so extravagant as that."
"I'll be relieved when it's over."
The carriage came to the Cenotaph. From its window Luma beheld an unexampled sight. A mixed group of Shoanti and Varisians gathered in the courtyard surrounding Magnimar's most hallowed monument. Black armbands added a mournful touch to the vivid Varisian outfits. The barbarians stood rigid, decked in their customary funereal gear: armor and weapons for the warriors, and outfits embroidered into stylized semblances of armor for the noncombatants. Furs adorned their shoulders; feathers jutted from the rims of their shields. Their faces they'd painted in ash and blood-red pigment pressed from the bark of the kajan tree.
"When was the last time this happened?" Thaubnis asked.
"Not for generations," answered Noole, "if at all."
Luma remembered to wait until the coachman dismounted from his seat and opened the door for her. Noole hopped out first, followed by a cautious Thaubnis. Luma exited last, performing her best imitation of the grandee she had now become. Back stiff, arms at her sides, she fell into a dignified pace, moving toward the mourners. They milled in two distinct groups: the Magnimarian elite, and the mixed press of Shoanti and Varisians. The latter assessed the former with evident suspicion; the former felt the same but made some effort to pretend otherwise.
Seeing Priza's wife and their children, Luma headed for them, but was intercepted by Urtilia Scarnetti. The matron used a black wimple and dark lace cuffs to render her voluminous crimson gown suitable to the occasion. She took Luma by the arm; Luma inwardly rankled while outwardly allowing her the liberty.
"I thought that I would find you here, my dear," Scarnetti said.
"I would be nowhere else," Luma replied.
Scarnetti leaned in, as if sharing a confidence. "You received my correspondence?"
"I apologize for my delay in replying," said Luma. "The task of putting the house in order ..."
"Yes, yes, I assumed as much. And I do not wish to add to your burdens. Since we are both here, however, I thought to reiterate: in no way was I aware of the treachery Iskola planned. It was she who sought the connection with me, through the favor of rescuing my nephew. Never would I have sanctioned murder of any kind. Especially not within a house." Scarnetti shuddered. "That way lies madness and disorder. The strength of this city depends on the integrity of its great families. History shows that when noble kin fall to slaying noble kin, disaster attends to all."
"That is my judgment as well, Lady Scarnetti."
"Naturally so, Lu—Lady Derexhi. You bear up well under what must be tremendous sorrow."
"I must, and therefore do."
"I'll not keep you. I simply wanted to say in person that if there is anything I, or those who share my views, can do to assist you in the coming days ...well, obviously, you need only say so."
"Your good will means much in this city."
"Your generosity is well appreciated."
"My friends and I consider ourselves above outdated questions of empire or independence. More complex issues face Magnimar in the days ahead. Perhaps you will accept an invitation to attend a less frivolous salon than poor silly Nirodin's, so that you might deepen your learning."
"I look forward to it. When my house affairs have been set right." Luma disengaged from her. "Now if you'll excuse me ..."
Grobaras, ringed by a new crop of bodyguards, signaled for her attention. The golem was nowhere in sight. Luma wondered if he had bothered to have it repaired. She went to him, the sentinels tensing as she came near.
"When this is done," the lord-mayor said, "the city finally will breathe again." It had been two weeks of ceaseless mourning as the victims of the Arvensoar incident had been laid to rest. Of the dozens of soldiers slain by the Korvosan mercenaries, a single one had been chosen as a representative and interred below the Cenotaph. Beside him had been buried a symbolic exemplar of the many ordinary bystanders killed on the bleachers or while fleeing the battle. Four grandees had been entombed here too, with the rest accorded funerals at simpler gravesites. Shoanti tradition, with its long gap between death and ceremony, had allowed for a convenient span before this last, fraught burial.
The remains of Ulisa and Iskola had been unceremoniously placed in the Derexhi crypt, on the manorial grounds. As for the Korvosans, they'd been thrown into the sea, to be gnawed by fish.
"This better not bite me," said Grobaras. "If it does, I'll know who to blame."
"Then I should see to it that it doesn't," said Luma, making her way at last to Priza's widow. Fidgeting with her black armband, the woman kept a sidelong watch on her children. Dried tears ran down the faces of the two younger children. The eldest, in barbarian gear, set his chin in stoic defiance. The axe he held was too heavy for him, pulling him off balance. From the notches on the grip she suspected it had been Priza's. When Luma bowed to her, Zhaana breathed deep, steeling herself for an unwanted encounter.
"You can see," said Luma, indicating the gathering of grandees, "that they have come, as I said they would."
Blood of the City Page 26
