by Stina Leicht
“Come sit by the fire, then.”
“It’s too chilly in here for that.”
“You’ve had enough laying about, lazybones,” he said. His voice was cultured in contrast to her own. “And you’re escorting me to Lady Marca’s salon tonight. You’ve an hour to get ready.”
She groaned. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I need you. You’re the only way I’ll get in,” he said. The curfew restrictions could only be avoided by nobility, the Brotherhood, and the Watch. “And you agreed. Remember?”
“I’ve brought nothing to wear.”
“That’s quite all right,” he said. “I have something. And if I’ve nothing that will suit, Lydia most certainly will. She won’t be needing any of the available gowns for a few months.”
Drake inwardly winced at the mention of Lydia. Lydia lived in the much more elegant apartments next door. A close friend of Mal’s, Lydia shared his profession, but since Mal didn’t entertain men, he had far less business than she did.
She couldn’t stop herself from asking “Was she arrested?”
“Much worse,” Mal said. “She’s pregnant. Which is odd. It’s not like her to be so careless.”
“Oh.” Changing the subject, Drake moved to the stuffed chair angled in front of the fireplace. “I suppose I’m to be trussed up like a prize turkey?”
“Honestly, I don’t understand your need to wear trousers.”
“I’m a damned Watch captain, not a pampered lapdog,” she said. “I work for a living.”
“So does Lydia. And pampering is underrated.” A smile curled the corner of his wide mouth. “Trust me.”
“You know what I mean. Well?”
“In answer to your question, yes. You’ll have to wear a dress.” Mal tucked a thick quilt around her and then handed her the plate of toast.
“Oh, Mithras,” she said. “Why do you do this to me? I’ll never be taken seriously, you know.”
“Someone must civilize you. I’m stunned your mother never did.”
“I didn’t have a mother.” They both knew she was lying.
“There are certain advantages in not being taken seriously, you know. As a Watch captain, it may even work in your favor. Someone might slip up. Say something they shouldn’t.”
“The Watch doesn’t involve itself in the affairs of nobility.” She thought again of the Brotherhood and suppressed a shudder. “They have their own law. And you know it.”
“Then why worry about what they think? Anyway, tonight isn’t for your benefit,” Mal said. “It’s for mine. I’m presenting Lady Marca with a new painting, and it will be more advantageous to do so in front of witnesses.” He winked.
“You finished it?”
He nodded.
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” He crossed to the studio door behind her.
The scent of turpentine wafted into the room. Strangely, she liked that smell. She couldn’t have said why. She supposed it was the association with Mal. The message birds he kept in the studio made soft cooing noises.
“This is new,” she said, indicating the dinnerware. “It looks Eledorean.”
“Ytlainen, actually. The set was a gift from a friend,” Mal called from the studio. “Although Fortis would have us believe it’s a new process they invented. Porcelain has great strength and yet it’s thin and light.” He continued to rummage around. “Hold it up to the light. It’s translucent. Isn’t it beautiful?”
She drained the cup and did as he suggested. It seemed to glow as firelight filtered through. There was a nautilus-shell emblem of Gens Fortis clearly stamped on the bottom in black. Fortis, like the other four predominant gentes, had areas over which it lorded power. All legitimate businesses—and, frankly, even the illegitimate ones—held guild memberships, and the guilds were controlled by the five gentes. Fortis regulated the medical, scientific, and arts ventures. It also oversaw prostitution, which was but one of the reasons why Mal didn’t retain as much of an income as one would think at the prices he charged. He maintained two guild memberships.
“What’s taking so long?” she asked. It occurred to her that if he’d just finished a painting, it shouldn’t take this long to find. She stood up, keeping the quilt wrapped around her.
“Stay there,” he said. “I’m only letting in one of my birds.”
He was oddly strict about anyone entering his studio, and although she’d known him for a year and his house was fairly spacious by her standards, she’d only ever seen the one room—the room where he conducted his more social business. His studio was, he’d explained, his private sanctuary. No one was allowed to enter. No one. She respected his wishes, and it was a sign of how much he trusted her that he’d let the door remain ajar while fetching the painting.
“Hurry up,” she said. “You’re letting in the cold.” In truth, she was more frightened of a malorum discovering the open window. She didn’t want an attack to ruin their evening.
“Don’t be an infant.” Metal clattered against glass as the sash thumped closed. The windows in the front of the house were silver-mullioned and fitted with pocket shutters. She imagined that the rooms at the back of the house were less expensively secured.
She poured herself another cup of hot chocolate. The chocolate pot had been painted with golden nautilus-shell swirls. It was beautiful and expensive. She knew exactly what kind of friend would’ve made such a gift. She didn’t let it bother her. Mal was what he was—like she was. Much like we all are, she thought with an inward sigh. That was one of the things she liked most about him. He didn’t present complications. She liked Mal quite a lot. She enjoyed his company. She didn’t need anything more than that.
An image of an earnest face, black hair, brown eyes, broad shoulders, and a Warden’s uniform came to mind.
“Got anything to drink?” she asked.
Mal closed the studio door one-handed. In the other was a three-foot-wide by a little over two-foot-tall canvas. “Isn’t that what I served?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I need you alert. You’ve hardly touched your toast. And here I went to all the trouble of making it for you.”
“If I wanted a lecture, I’d be visiting my mother.”
“You don’t have a mother, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
He leaned the canvas against his chair, carefully resting it so that the furniture’s padded bulk was between it and the fire. She contorted herself in order to get a good look at the painting while he went to the tallboy where he kept his liquor.
“Don’t touch it,” he said. “I only finished it the day before yesterday. The paint is still wet.”
The image was a foggy landscape executed in gauzy pastel hues, bordering on the monochromatic. The hills, trees, clouds were all done in faint but cool blues, greens, and browns. The sun itself, seen through blurry atmospheric conditions, was painted in a smudgy soft warm gold. The painting lacked detail. Close up, it looked like nothing but a series of indistinct brush strokes, but when she sat back in the chair, it formed a valley at dawn. Emotions she couldn’t name clogged her throat.
The musical tinkle of glass came from across the room as Mal made a selection from the rows of bottles inside the upper half of the tallboy. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s … amazing.” She finally pinned down the unfamiliar emotion blurring her vision. Hope.
A small, fragile smile appeared on his lips. “I hope she buys it.”
“She’s an idiot if she doesn’t.”
“Thank you.” Genuine warmth colored the words.
“It’s too bad it isn’t larger.”
“What do you mean?”
“We could pretend to walk into it together and forget everything else for a while.”
“Why, my dearest Em, you have quite the imagination.”
“Oh, shut up, damn you. Just bring the bottle already.”
“Which one?”
; “I don’t care.”
“Since you’re buying, let’s go with the brandy. It’s a nice one.”
“Nice is worthless to me.”
He winked. “That’s not what you said a half-hour ago.” He opened the bottle and made the requested adjustments to her cup. “What’s got you in a mood?”
“I’m not in a mood.”
He set the bottle down to breathe and arched an eyebrow at her.
She debated not saying anything but knew she would talk to him anyway. It was one of the many reasons she’d come to see him. He listened. And if she didn’t talk to someone about what was bothering her, she’d do something she’d regret. “Have you associated much with Wardens?”
Mal blinked. It bordered on a flinch. “Me? Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid I am.”
He shrugged. “Beyond the census? Not if I can help it. And not that I should tell you even if I did. You know the rules.”
“I wasn’t asking about your other clients.”
“Weren’t you?”
“You don’t entertain men.”
“I never said never. Preferences don’t always dictate one’s clients in my business,” Mal said.
“Then you do?”
“That isn’t any of your business. And why would you ask a thing like that?”
“I apologize and withdraw the question.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, why do you want to know if I associate with Wardens?”
“Something has happened.”
“Did one of them forget to pay for a horse and lacked a solicitor or coin to sort it out?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I …” She let her sentence trail off unfinished. It was possible that she was putting him in danger by saying anything to him. On the other hand, she supposed he held a large number of secrets, and if he were inclined to reveal them, he would’ve been dead long before. “I made an arrest yesterday.”
“That isn’t all that unusual, is it?” He got up and, as if in search for something to do, moved the painting across the room. She couldn’t see his face, and it bothered her.
“Not particularly,” she said, continuing. “But there were Wardens present.”
“Is this your way of telling me that you’ve taken up census collection in your spare time?” The question was hard—much harder than she’d heard from him before.
“Absolutely not. I’d never do such a thing.” Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so comfortable, because she knew it for a lie. She would bend with the prevailing wind. Everyone did who wanted to survive. “I—I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“That’s what everyone says. I thought I knew you. I thought—”
“I know; just … listen.”
He paused and nodded. He didn’t turn around to face her, but he didn’t order her out of his home, either.
“Someone has been smuggling nonhumans out of Acrasia,” she said. Did he just twitch?
“If half the stories are true, there’s always someone smuggling nonhumans out of Acrasia.”
Don’t make anything out of his reaction, she thought. You pass for human. He doesn’t. This affects him more than it does you. He’s bound to be more sensitive. At that moment, she began to understand just how far her defenses had slipped around him. “It was an innkeep. A member of Gens Aureus. They took her away.”
“I thought you were there for an arrest. Why isn’t she in your custody?”
“I was told to make the initial contact, but—”
“The Wardens took care of the rest.”
She nodded.
“Why are you telling me about this?”
“Before she was taken away, she mentioned one of Lydia’s … acquaintances.”
“Who?”
Drake paused. “Ricci. Octavia Ricci.”
“Oh.”
“Did— Do you know her?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
She couldn’t help noticing he sounded frightened. “Look. I’m telling you this so that—so that you can do whatever you need to protect yourself.”
“You honestly think I’ve been smuggling nonhumans out of Acrasia?”
She laughed. “How stupid and paranoid do you think I am?”
“We’re nonhuman, you and I.” He finally turned. “We’re all paranoid, Emily, no matter how much money we have. None of us are safe. Not even Watch captains. We’re paranoid, or we’re dead.” He only used her first name when he was being absolutely honest with her.
I pass, and you don’t. It’s different for me, she thought. But she also knew he was right. The only difference between them was that she had the luxury of pretending otherwise, and the ability to reap those benefits. Which only serves to make living more dangerous. Those who attempted to pass and failed were particularly detested and punished in kind. I can’t forget myself. I can’t. She thought again about Caius. “I only wanted to warn you. They may come calling. I didn’t want you to be … surprised.”
“Thank you,” he said. His expression was genuinely grateful. “I’ll even pretend it was entirely for my sake that you told me.”
Her face heated, and she looked away.
He sat down and took her hand. “Don’t worry. They won’t find a connection between myself and Octavia. That inn only handles women, and Octavia doesn’t frequent my circles.”
“Will you tell Lydia?”
“And risk questions from the Brotherhood?” he asked. “You don’t know Lydia. She has quite a few friends in high places. For all I know, she may even have been the one to turn Octavia in. They share a particularly generous client. Octavia might have decided to cut out her competition. Particularly now that she’s … indisposed. It would be like her.”
Drake nodded.
“Time to fill the bath,” Mal said. He retrieved the copper tub from the studio and arranged it inside the stately stone-carved fireplace.
“Whatever for?”
“You’re not getting out of tonight’s little party. I need you cleaned up.” He opened the cistern located a few paces away. “Count yourself lucky that I’m heating the water first.”
“Well, all right. But only if you join me,” she said.
“Of course,” Mal said. “Someone has to see to it you scrub behind your ears, my little heathen.”
TWO
Drake exited the coach and attempted to ignore her anxiety. She’d never attended a salon before, although she’d heard about them. It was one thing to imagine; the reality was quite another experience. Upon setting foot on the cobblestones, she gritted her teeth with a hiss. The street felt like rounded ice slabs through the bottoms of the thin kid-leather slippers. Her feet were painfully cold in no time. Mal gave her an arched eyebrow, and she stopped hopping from foot to foot at once. Why insist upon my wearing these flimsy things? No one would see my boots under all these skirts, she thought, but knew better. Why can’t women wear actual shoes? Once again, she battled a powerful ambivalence toward women’s fashion. A part of her couldn’t help enjoying the sumptuous feel of silk against her skin and the softness of kid leather on her feet. At the exact same time, she hated the impracticality of it all. She huddled inside the velvet hood of her cloak and hoped they would get inside quickly.
Of course, “inside” was relative. The evening entrance to Lady Marca’s estate, like that of all the great houses, was underground, well guarded, and brightly lit. The affluent areas of Novus Salernum were riddled with tunnels and subterranean roads. Some were intended for servants and deliveries. Others, like this one, were created to circumvent curfew, as legally such roads were considered indoors. In this way, coaches rarely exposed their wealthy passengers to the nighttime dangers aboveground.
The hollow percussion of horse hooves and wagon hardware overshadowed the muted strains of string instruments. Both echoed off the tunnel’s walls while guests were greeted by well-dressed footmen. All of their faces were as dark as their linen ruffles were white. The passag
e was wide enough to accommodate two coaches at once. However, it wasn’t big enough to diffuse the smell. The tunnel reeked of greasy lamp oil, unnamed filth, mildew, and horse dung. Night-blooming flowers growing beyond silver-plated gates lent their perfume to the mix. From the moment their rented coach had entered the tunnels, Drake’s jaw muscles had tightened at the sight of the myriad of lamps and torches. She wondered who paid for it but could make a good guess. Gallons upon gallons of lamp oil were being wasted to shield the rich during their nightly revels. Meanwhile, the poorer sectors of the city fought to survive in darkness.
Hold your temper. Don’t ruin Mal’s evening. A grim smile curled the corner of her mouth. Think of this as his opportunity to fleece as many of the bastards as he can.
Expensive Retainers waited at the ornate gates like menacing shadows. Rows upon rows of potted hothouse plants and trees formed an ordered garden close to the house’s entrance. With no natural light, she considered how long the greenery survived and how the gardener managed such a feat in the first place. She supposed no one cared, provided they lasted the night. On the other hand, the pots are probably moved aboveground during the day by an army of slaves. She imagined the backbreaking work it would require and swallowed yet another bout of resentment.
The footmen checked invitations at the door. Drake waited to join the line of guests until after Mal had paid the coachman and his Retainer. She hid under the dove-grey velvet hood of the cloak Mal had loaned to her, and dreaded shedding it. The formfitting borrowed dress was fashioned from delicate powder-blue silk. It fit almost perfectly after Mal’s deft alterations, although it was too small in the bust and smelled faintly of its owner’s perfume. The stays also pinched her ribs, making taking a deep breath a challenge. She hated wearing stays and had almost refused to let him cinch her into them. It’d taken a great deal of thorough coaxing from Mal, but since she wasn’t being charged for said motivation, she hadn’t minded a bit. Perhaps a little pampering isn’t so bad.
Just get this over with without tripping on your skirts or starting a fight, she thought. Enjoy the expensive food and liquor. You aren’t likely to see anything like it for the rest of your life. She felt like a stranger to herself, clad as she was. The clothes restricted movement, let alone the thought of protecting herself. She found the sense of vulnerability more annoying than the stays. Mal had insisted she leave her weapons behind, but she’d secreted a silver knife in her pocket hoops nonetheless. She would’ve brought a pistol, but it simply wasn’t possible or practical. She entertained herself by counting security flaws and estimating the worth of various guests and their jewelry—a habit born of her childhood. She could’ve made a fortune in silk handkerchiefs alone. Such thoughts were reassuring. Mal could change her clothes, but she would keep some aspects of herself no matter what.
