by Stina Leicht
“All right, Em,” Mal said. “Time to earn your keep.”
“You don’t keep me,” she whispered, irked by his use of her first name outside of their sanctuary. “Supposedly, I keep you—at least for tonight.”
“Most here aren’t aware of art’s seedier side,” he whispered back, and winked. “They actually think I earn my keep with my brush.”
She arched an eyebrow at him.
“My paint brush,” Mal said. “It’s best to maintain their illusions.” He offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”
She looped her arm through his and then handed off the invitation card to the footman. The music drifting through the open doorway faded away and vapid party chatter took over. Apparently, Mal was a regular. The footman didn’t so much as blink, and they were ushered into the entry. She was relieved of her cloak, and they were led to the room where the salon was being held. Candles and lamps blazed in the huge room. Two stately fireplaces, one on each end, kept the chill and damp from the air. Their painted screens protected guests from stray sparks. Richly dressed nobles with fine crystal goblets or porcelain plates in hand clustered together around food or conversation. They chatted and laughed with others who clearly didn’t belong in such a setting—like Mal and herself—as if nothing were out of place. In spite of this, an aura of genteel daring permeated the room.
One or two individuals spared her an eyebrow of refined disdain, and she checked her appearance in the closest mirror for whatever sign had advertised her lack of status. It took her a moment to understand that it was her open awe. She decided not to care.
Burning beeswax, incense, perfume, and cigarillo smoke helped boost the atmosphere of refined creativity. A new group of musicians finished their preparations and began playing. Their music was Tahmerian—all jovial violins, mandolins, harpsichord, drunken woodwinds, and deep, dull drums. Three half-dressed dancers, two female and one male, gyrated in filmy silks. Silver coins and bells displayed in their hair and on their skin jingled as they danced. Their feet were bare on the cold white marble floor. Their dance was as foreign and lost in the lordly setting as she was.
“Can we go home now?” she asked Mal, hating herself for her unease. Her uniform provided a certain amount of protection. The rules for behavior were distinct, and she knew them well. In this dress, she wasn’t herself. While that was fine when she was alone with Mal—she relished that aspect of their time together, in fact—in this room, it was anything but.
Mal squeezed her hand. “Stop scowling.”
“How does she get away with it?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“None of this falls within Fortis’s rigid artistic standards. You know, those standards you complain about so much.”
“She is Lady Marca. That’s how,” Mal said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I don’t know that ‘wonderful’ would be the word I’d use to describe it.”
“We should present ourselves to the hostess. Are you ready?”
“No.”
“Right. Time to fix that. Stay here.” He briefly abandoned her in order to fetch two crystal goblets. Lazy bubbles drifted in the pale pinkish wine. “Best I could do on short notice. They won’t bring out the stronger stuff until later. Drink up.”
She swallowed the pale pink contents of both glasses in one gulp apiece. The light taste carried a hint of sweet, while the memory of bitter lingered on her tongue. He abandoned the delicate crystal flutes on a nearby table. With the wine still burning in her throat, she let him tug her through the crowd. He didn’t stop until he’d located the hostess, who chattered in the center of a large group of admirers.
Lady Marca was younger than Drake had expected—a year or two younger than Drake herself. Her features were flawless, and even Drake had to admit she was a beauty. Masses of silky black curls were artfully arranged on top of her head and tied with some sort of purple wrap. Clusters of diamonds and pearls set in silver were draped around her throat. On the surface, Lady Marca was everything Drake hated about noble women. However, within a few moments, Drake detected a carefully monitored intelligence behind Lady Marca’s eyes—intelligence and a hidden strength. Drake recalculated her estimation. Lady Marca was no spoiled, thoughtless child, at least not in the sense that Drake had come to expect. For a start, Lady Marca lorded over the room with no visible male backup. Her husband was nowhere in sight. Drake began to wonder what dangerous games Lady Marca played at to maintain her power. Patient, Mal waited until Lady Marca turned away from the dandy at her side and offered her hand. Mal kissed it while half-hiding the canvas behind his back.
“Mallory McDermott, you’re late,” Lady Marca said. “I should be very angry with you.”
“But you won’t be,” he said.
“You’ve brought me a gift?” she asked.
“I have.” Mal presented the painting with a flourish.
Drake prepared herself to hate the woman. Mal’s art, like many of those who lived and worked in the Creeksbend area of the city, didn’t always fit within the guidelines dictated by Gens Fortis. Drake expected a dismissive wave of the hand. Instead, Lady Marca let out an appreciative gasp.
“Oh, Mallory. It’s incredible. I adore it.”
“Careful,” Mal said. “It’s still wet.”
“Then you shouldn’t have risked damaging it by bringing it tonight.”
“A promise is a promise,” Mal said.
“I’ll take special care, then.” Lady Marca moved away. “Everyone! You must see Mallory’s latest effort! Isn’t it divine? Come. I’ll have it put on display, and you can tell me what you see.” After the painting had been deposited on an easel and a large number of admirers were shepherded in front of it, a lively discussion of its merits and flaws began. Lady Marca didn’t retreat until the conversation had been sufficiently established. Finally, she returned to Mal’s side, smiling. “It’s even better than the last. You must take something for it.”
“Being able to present it to you here is payment enough.”
“I insist.” Lady Marca tugged a servant aside and whispered in his ear. She turned to face them once again, and Drake felt her take her by the arm. “Mallory, you’ve been rude. I regret that I have joined you in this offense. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Emily Drake,” Mallory said. “This is Lady Marca.”
“I apologize, Mistress Drake, but Mallory’s art takes away my sense,” Lady Marca said, and then leaned toward Mal. “She is lovely.”
Liar, Drake thought.
“What sort of artist is she?” Lady Marca asked.
“She isn’t.” Mallory gave her one of his most mischievous smiles and lowered his voice. “She’s a Watch captain.”
“And you brought her here? Why, Mallory, that’s positively shocking,” Lady Marca said with amused approval, and then whispered just loud enough for Drake to hear. “I love her already.”
“I thought you might,” Mal said.
Lady Marca placed a hand on Drake’s arm. “So, you have a taste for dangerous art? Don’t worry, dear. Your secret is safe with me.”
This wasn’t for Drake’s benefit, she knew, but for Lady Marca’s. If the guests knew a member of the Watch was present, they’d flee in droves and that would spell the end of any future salons. Of course, if Drake’s superior knew where she was and that she wasn’t here to make any arrests, there would also be grave consequences. We both have something to lose.
“Would you two care to join me for dinner?” Lady Marca asked.
“I leave that question entirely up to Em,” Mal said. “She was to have my undivided attention this evening.”
Uncomfortable, Drake nodded permission nonetheless. Anyone with power enough to openly thwart Gens Fortis was someone Drake didn’t want for an enemy. Besides, she thought, she’s Mal’s patron. I can’t damage that relationship for him. I won’t.
Drake and Mal were introduced to a new group. Intent on listening, she limited her respon
ses to smiles and nods. All in all, Mal’s intent of securing more financial backing appeared to be successful. Still, it annoyed Drake that regardless of guild membership, Mal’s work wouldn’t have been noticed without Lady Marca’s enthusiastic support. His signature was on the back of the painting and not the front. None of these people would acknowledge him, nor would his name be spoken aloud outside of this room. If any of them came to him for a commission, they’d do so in private. Ultimately, while Mal’s work might become popular and might bring him a certain amount of wealth, it would never be enough to make him more than relatively comfortable. Whereas if Lady Marca were to sell the gifted painting, it would fetch a handsome price. What angered Drake most was the knowledge of all that it had cost him to get this far.
While Mal was intent on conversation with one of the other guests, Lady Marca turned to her.
“Mistress Drake, would you mind if Mallory and I left you for a moment?” she whispered. “I’ve something that I’d like to discuss with him. I promise not to take too much of his time.”
“Feel free,” Drake said. And with that, she was abandoned in a sea of strangers. Uncomfortable, she made excuses and drifted to a quiet corner. She knew herself for a pessimist at heart. She didn’t buy into the Regnum’s self-aggrandizing claims surrounding mercantilism. A social system entirely dependent upon trade was far from egalitarian. The gentes hoarded power, worthiness, and money in the same manner that nobles of other countries hoarded power, worthiness, and land. Freedom was not, in fact, freedom if it required purchase. She felt the same way about morality, which was why she’d chosen not to care about either.
An attractive young man with long dark hair approached. She was about to tell him to go away when he said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
It took her a moment to recognize Fortis Caius. “You’re out of uniform.”
“So are you,” Caius said. “Your hair is different.”
Mal had spent a quite a while taming her locks with a pair of hair tongs. It wasn’t in her to bother with such things. “It is.” She suppressed an urge to ask if he liked it. With alarm, she remembered Mal. It will be all right. Mal will be gone for a while, and I don’t want to be alone. Just make sure to get rid of Caius before Mal gets back. “What are you doing here?”
Caius smiled and nodded at an elderly guest from across the room. “I’m here because of my father. Displaying a rebellious streak makes family events during the winter holidays more tolerable.”
“The father of a Warden patronizes deviant art?”
“You’re assuming he approves of the Brotherhood.”
“He doesn’t? Then why did you join?”
“Why did you become a Watch captain?”
She hushed him and checked to see if anyone had heard.
“Don’t worry,” Caius said. “No one here cares about the Watch. That’s for other people. So? Why?”
“If you’re a woman, there aren’t many opportunities within the Syndicate that don’t involve earning your keep on your back,” Drake said with a shrug. And I didn’t want to end up like my mother.
Caius said, “This is the Regnum. There are no restrictions preventing—”
“Syndicate membership isn’t cheap. And even street harvesters are particular about who they allow within their ranks. Women are charged twice as much as men. This is true of all guilds, with a few … exceptions. It was less expensive to buy my stripes. And the only reason that was the case is because no one thinks women would want such work.” She noticed his cheeks had grown pink. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“You’re offended?” she asked. He’s a Warden. You know what that means. If he knew what you really are, he’d—
“I never took you for an insurrectionist.”
“And I never took you for an uptight traditionalist. Apparently, I’m mistaken,” she said. “Excuse me. I have to go.”
He reached out for her arm. “Wait.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend insult. May we try this again?”
“Is there a reason why we should?” At that moment, she caught sight of Mal. He was talking to someone who looked familiar. It wasn’t until the other individual had turned around that she understood why her heart had stopped. “Oh, Mithras.”
Caius blinked at her profanity. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s him. Arion. What is he doing here?”
Caius shrugged. “Perhaps he’s interested in deviant art and music. Quite a few people are.”
“Let me go,” she said. Mal is talking to Arion. Mal. My Mal.
“You can’t say anything about his license. He can have you killed for—”
“Don’t you think I know that?” She pulled free of Caius’s grasp. She wasn’t thinking about anything but getting Mal away from the hunter. He may only target children, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t kill Mal if given a chance. She’d forced her way between them before she’d given thought to what she’d say.
“Hello, Em,” Mal said, smiling. “This is—”
“I know who he is,” Drake said. She searched the room for an excuse to pull him away and her gaze lit upon the painting on its easel. “Mal, someone has a question about your work I don’t feel I can answer for you.”
“Oh,” Mal said. “Very well. I … er … It was nice to meet you, my lord.”
Arion nodded. Again, his manner was subservient, even frightened. Drake fled with Mal before Arion could catch her eye. As they walked away, she could feel Mal’s rage in the tremor of his tensed muscles.
“What in all of Sandrion’s Hells was that about?” Mal asked between clenched teeth.
“I’ll explain later,” she said. “Just … stay away from that man. He’s dangerous.”
“Really?”
“I’m serious, Mal. Please.”
Mal said, “If you say so.”
“I can’t explain right now,” she said. “It’s connected to something I’m working on. Something to do with the Watch and the Brotherhood.”
“All right, I trust you.”
“Good.”
“But you’re telling me later. I don’t care what means I have to undertake to get it out of you.”
Drake placed a hand on Mal’s arm. “That sounds … costly.”
He leaned in closer to breathe into her ear. “It might be, but I’ll make it worth the price. I promise.”
The proximity of his mouth sent a pleasant shiver through her body. “In that case, I think I could spend one more night in your company.”
“Glad to hear it, my lady.”
“Don’t spoil the moment.”
Lightly brushing his lips against her throat, he whispered, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Mistress.”
“Mistress.”
They spent the rest of the evening with Lady Marca and her other guests, but Drake found she couldn’t avoid Caius’s gaze. It was clear he had questions regarding her escort, but she was intent on never answering them.
BLACKTHORNE
THE HOLD
GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN
NEW ELEDORE
EIGHTH OF MAITOKUU, 1784
Blackthorne hauled bundles of supplies onto the sloop Clár Oibre Rúnda while the others finished their goodbyes. It gave him something upon which to focus his nervous energy.
It was six o’clock, and the sun had crested the horizon an hour before. While their numbers had dramatically decreased as summer approached, Colonel Hännenen had wanted to be certain the malorum had retreated before setting out. The first part of the journey would be to meet the Clan Flounder frigate Star in the port of Wyeth. The journey would take four days, sailing east on the Kristallilasi River. Blackthorne dreaded the prospect of stopping. He didn’t want to tour the ruins of Eledore. It would bring back too many memories. He hadn’t served long in the war, but it had been long enough.
In spite of himself, Blackthorne couldn’t shake the feeling that he di
dn’t know the whole of the plan regarding Novus Salernum. He wanted to believe otherwise. Unfortunately, after the business with the new weaponsmith, he found such trust difficult to muster.
It is a Retainer’s duty to—
You aren’t a Retainer. You never were. Retainers have contracts with their masters, indentured or not. You have no contract—
—Masterless Retainers are without honor—
You gave up everything in order to be your own. You have a choice.
He realized with a start that he’d been avoiding not only the anxiety of discarding everything but responsibility for having made certain decisions. I could have said no to this journey, Blackthorne thought, testing the idea. I still can. But he knew he wouldn’t. Just as he knew he wouldn’t discard the Retainer’s Code. Not now. Maybe not ever. This, in and of itself, was a choice, and for some reason, being aware of that made him feel better. Is it possible to keep the Retainer’s Code and all that goes with it but view it from a different perspective? Until now, I’ve followed Talus’s interpretation without question. What if his isn’t the only approach?
Blackthorne set down the bundles intended for the larder in the galley and retraced his steps through the narrow passage to the stairway.
Focus on the path in front of you. Nothing of import exists in the past. Contemplating the multiple implications of that line, he almost walked into Slate, who was making his way down the stairs.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Blackthorne made room for Slate to pass.
