“He can make himself heard to the Isle,” Rath replied.
“Very well. I would like to see him sing, if that is possible in this crowd.”
“It is, indeed, Member Mellifas. Very well. Let us go and stand in discreet awe of Senniel College.” He turned to Andrei. “Will you accept the escort of Sigurne Mellifas as a guaranty of my good behavior and return to my godfather’s side?”
Andrei’s smile was slight. “As you wish. But be cautious, Ararath, if that is in you this eve.” Andrei knew well that were there to be trouble in the vicinity of any of the Magi, blame would be laid at the feet of the Order, regardless of who had actually started it.
“Cautious? We merely seek closer proximity to the Master Bard.”
It was harder done than said.
Kallandras of Senniel was enormously popular with the young ladies. He was, however, enormously popular with the older ones as well, and if the young men who hoped to make an impression on either of these formidable groups resented the ease with which the bard commanded their regard, they were wise enough not to show it. The charm and the diffidence for which Kallandras was famed was turned wholly toward his music at the moment, although bards were seldom called upon to sing during either the dinner or the following dance itself.
And bards, unlike servants and guards, were expected to socialize when they were not singing; they were expected to eat, drink, and if the occasion called for it, dance.
Sigurne sighed a moment, and turned to her companion. “Have you seen Lord Cordufar’s mistress?”
“No. She is striking enough that were you to see her, you would know.”
Sigurne raised a delicate brow. “Will she be present?”
“I cannot say with certainty. But in a gathering of this size? I think it likely.”
“She concerns you.”
“At the moment,” he said softly, “she concerns me less than Lord Cordufar, even given the dreams.”
“You spoke with him.”
“Briefly.”
“Your impression?”
“He is dangerous.” He gestured toward the stage. “I believe we might have an opening, if you still desire it.” He offered her his arm, and she took it. “I admit I had not expected to see you here, this eve.”
“I did not expect to accept the invitation,” she replied carefully, “but given our current concerns, Member APhaniel wished to be in attendance. I believe,” she added, “that he will be offending some minor noble in a corner somewhere; Meralonne is not easily confined in a setting of this nature.”
Rath raised a brow.
“It is true. He is irritable, and often irritating, in equal measure. He is seldom as serious about titles and wealth as most of the patriciate require when they seek the service of a mage. He can be brusque beyond bearing, even among the mages.” She stopped walking and turned to him. “But I admit that I have seldom seen him so focused or so driven as he has become in these last few weeks. He is almost a different man.”
“Oh?”
“He reminds me of the Meralonne I met in my youth.”
He remembered how they had met, and nodded. “If you fear—”
She glanced at his face, and then turned, quietly, in the direction of his gaze. A woman had entered the room. She was tall, for a woman, and clearly unconcerned with her height; she wore it in the bold and easy way the Northern men might. Her hair was one long drape of sleek black, straight from head to knees. She wore a deep blue gown, and it was edged in red and black; the gown was long, with a demitrain, and it was fitted as if it were skin. Her shoulders were exposed, and a thick gold chain circled her neck. But it was her eyes that caught, and held, attention; they were a brown so dark, they seemed all pupil.
“So,” Sigurne said wearily.
Rath looked back to the head of the Order of Knowledge with some difficulty.
“Come, Ararath,” the Magi said. “We would do well to be away.”
He allowed himself to be led. “It is hard to believe,” he told Sigurne, recovering his voice, “that such a woman could be hidden away at any man’s pleasure.”
“It is,” was the quiet reply. “And yet, she was. She is not hidden now,” Sigurne added.
“No. Perhaps she no longer feels she must be.”
“Which tells us much, and none of it to my liking.”
It was not to the liking of any woman present. Rath, well aware of the ways in which jealousy and envy could color a crowd, watched in quiet fascination as this woman—he could barely bring himself to think of her as a demon, although he knew it for truth—made her way through the great room, pausing a moment here or there to speak. He could not hear her voice at this remove, but he could feel it; had he still been young, he would have been drawn across the floor in fascination, like a moth to fire.
He grimaced. Were it not for Sigurne, he would, youth or no, be drawn to her regardless. Even knowing.
The men who did not, however, turned to her as she approached, even if she approached from behind; they were aware of her presence, and aware, as Rath was aware, of the promise implied by presence alone. The rest of the women, young and old, were aware of the sudden lack of their own. Talk shifted and died, souring in places as many of the younger women retreated.
“No,” Rath said quietly. “If she has ever been frightened at the thought of discovery, she knows little fear now.”
“She is bold, and I fear that it will not be to Lord Cordufar’s liking.”
“Perhaps. But in claiming her,” Rath replied, scanning the crowd for some glimpse of said lord, “he will underline his own power and wealth. Ah. There he is. And I would say, Sigurne, that I owe you an apology. He is not well pleased by the presence of his mistress.”
Lord Cordufar, trailing various guests, came to stand beside the tall, arresting woman. Rath did not think her beautiful, although in any natural sense of the word, she was. Commanding, striking, undeniably attractive, yes. But these were also accolades he might offer to the Generals of the Southern armies; there was something about that woman that reminded him of those men. She was—obviously—alive, but it was not life, in the end, that moved her.
Lord Cordufar, however, did. He caught her elbow firmly in his left hand, and the silk of her sleeve dimpled with the force of the grip, even at the distance that Rath had chosen to maintain. Or, if he were being entirely truthful, that Sigurne had chosen for him. He could not hear what passed between these two, but it was not short, and judging by expressions alone, it was not pleasant.
One or two of the men to whom she’d been speaking raised brows, and poured their own words into what was barely conversation. The woman glanced at them, and then at Lord Cordufar’s hand. He removed it, but slowly, silk running through his fingers. She smiled, then, and the expression was exquisite. Reaching out, she cupped the cheek of one of the men who had so clearly interceded on her behalf. He was not by any means a young man, certainly old enough to know better, but regardless, his face flushed in the light, which produced another smile from her.
And another few words from Cordufar. Whatever he had chosen to say this time, she heeded, but it was not to her liking. She did not pout or flirt or play the fool—these things, Rath thought, were, and would remain, beneath her. But she bowed to them all, spoke again, and smiled with just a hint of regret, before she turned and joined her lord. It was a subtle regret—but even so, one that could be seen halfway across the room with ease.
Rath, who had never been possessed of Jewel’s talent, nonetheless felt a momentary chill as he watched the man she had graced with the touch of her palm.
“Ararath?”
“I do not think that man will survive the evening,” he said quietly. He folded his hands behind his back.
“Do not,” she warned him, “draw those here.”
“As you say, Sigurne.” He forced his hands back to his sides. “But it is not clear to me, at this remove, who is lord here.”
“No,” she replied, “and that is
interesting. But I confess some curiosity about the Cordufar family; I wonder if the picture galleries are open.”
The picture gallery was, indeed, open. Of the varied galleries that framed the courtyard, it was the longest, and the windows were the most ornate; they balanced, in some ways, the visual pull of the framed portraits that ran the length of the hall. Between the larger windows were small, functional ones, and these were open; neither, at this time of night, provided illumination, and Rath regretted the hour of the day, because he thought the sunlight, seen through colored glass, would underscore both the colors of the house, and the gallery itself.
Still, in a mansion of this size, light could always be provided by other means. The wall sconces were decorative; the magelights were imbedded between the exposed beams of the ceiling above.
The gallery was by no means empty, but it was sparsely populated, and the conversations that the paintings invoked were muted.
Matteos Corvel had finally found Sigurne as she and Rath headed out of one set of open doors toward the gallery, and he joined them silently. Rath smiled, however, at his expression; he was clearly not a man who was comfortable in crowds of gaily dressed and well-decorated people. Rath surrendered Sigurne’s arm with a pang of regret; Matteos Corvel assumed his position like a starving man who has just found food.
Rath noted, however, that he had failed to find water, and smiled.
Sigurne, therefore, led. It was almost comforting to follow her, in part because any conversation that was in any way delicate could be made inaudible to inconvenient eavesdroppers. There was enough base magic on the grounds in lights alone that the use of such minor magic itself would go unnoticed, and even if it did not, the magic was of a legal variety.
They walked the length of the hall, noting the artists where the artists were noteworthy, and noting the family resemblances where the artist was not. Sigurne paid particular attention to the portrait of the current Lord Cordufar’s grandfather, standing in the midst of his sons. The sons, one of whom had reigned until he was almost eighty, were all dark-haired and dark-eyed, although the style of cut hair was outdated.
The son that had succeeded this man was represented by a portrait in which he stood alone, with no sons and no wife. “I think this is new,” she said quietly.
“He was a striking man, in his prime.” Rath noted the line of jaw, the prominence of brow, and the color of his eyes. “And his son is very much in the same mold.”
“He is. The painting,” she added softly, moving to the current Lord Cordufar, “does not do him justice.”
“No. It captures likeness, however.”
“It does. But his chin seems weaker, and the beard does not suit him.”
“No, but he no longer has the beard.”
“When was this painted, Ararath?”
Rath bent closer. “In 397.”
“Which would be the year his father died.”
Rath nodded. “What do you think, Sigurne?”
“I think you are correct in what you’ve surmised,” she replied softly. “The man in this painting and the man in the great room? I think they look identical. But I would not be at all surprised if the current Lord Cordufar rose to the occasion of the title in a way that surprised almost everyone.”
“He did,” Rath said, staring at the portrait. Wondering, now, if the current lord’s son was human.
As if she could hear the thought, Sigurne said, “but the heir is, at present, unpromising. Self-indulgent and wont to require money to resolve the issues that arise in his personal life.”
“That,” a familiar voice said, “is an unkind representation of my son.”
Turning slightly, they saw that they had been joined by Lord Cordufar.
Sigurne had the grace to look embarrassed; she retreated into the posture of the old woman she claimed to be. But Rath saw her eyes, and the slight tightening of her lips, and he knew that she was now as watchful, or ready, as he had yet seen her. Matteos Corvel, however, looked as if he had turned to stone.
Lord Cordufar’s smile was a work of art. It was genuine and it implied a softness or an amusement that, while it transformed his face, somehow failed to touch anything beyond it. “But perhaps it is true. Unkind words often are.
“The same, however, was said of me, in my youth, and I have, I think, disappointed my detractors.”
Rath wondered, silently, how many of those detractors were now alive to regret their opinion. “Responsibility often transforms those who accept it,” he said, instead.
“Oh, indeed. It transforms those who reject it as well.” He turned to the portrait, standing in front of it as if it were a mirror. “Which of those, I wonder, are you, Ararath Handernesse?”
“Don’t you know?” Rath replied.
“Based on your personal history, I would have assumed the latter.” He glanced at Rath, and if the gesture itself was casual, the sudden sharpening of his eyes, the shift in expression, was not.
“It would be the safe assumption.”
“No doubt,” Lord Cordufar said. “And yet, here you are. I find it curious.”
“Oh? What man would not wish to see Cordufar in all its glory? House Cordufar is not known for the frequency with which it opens its doors to society.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Times change, and people will change with them. Do you intend to return to your house?”
Rath, prepared for this, smiled. It was the practiced smile of the habitual liar, and it fit his face far more easily than Cordufar’s attempt. “There are advantages,” he said, “to be found in Handernesse at this time.”
“There were advantages, surely, to be had in remaining with Handernesse, that you did not fully consider at the time.”
“Perhaps. But Handernesse had not yet produced The Terafin. My sister and I,” he added softly, allowing—forcing—truth to seep into his words, and losing, in the process, some of the finer control of his expression, “did not always see eye-to-eye, but we were close in our youth, and the estrangement, I regret to say, was, and has been, largely one-sided.”
“Indeed? I regret that your sister did not see fit to accept our invitation.”
“She is The Terafin. House Terafin is, as you are no doubt aware, the foremost of The Ten. Her duties seldom permit her the luxury of an evening such as this.”
Lord Cordufar nodded. All pretense of the merely social had eroded; he was staring at Rath, as if by so doing, he could memorize every detail, every nuance. “And yet, you are here.”
“I am not The Terafin, nor will I ever be. I have always been second to my sister in ambition, and I was content to live in her shadow.”
“A long shadow.”
“Indeed. Long and powerful. Even when she resided in Handernesse, and it was assumed she would take the reins of the House. But Handernesse is not Terafin, and its resources, not Terafin’s.”
“And you have approached your famed sister?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Lord Cordufar’s smile was sharp edged and composed of teeth that were too white. “Perhaps you fear the estrangement is not as one-sided as you hope.”
Rath frowned. It was a very slight frown, but it, too, was perfect. “Perhaps, in the upcoming months, you will discover the truth for yourself.”
Lord Cordufar lifted a hand. “I mean no offense,” he said, the smile still curving his lips. “And hope that you will, when you visit your sister, remember the hospitality of this House.”
“I am certain he will, my lord.”
And there, at last, Lord Cordufar’s mistress, a vision of blue, with streaks of red, black, and gold to lend color to the majesty of her skin. She walked like a conqueror, and she walked without fear.
Lord Cordufar’s face lost the traces of smile, and he turned to look at the woman who had caused such a stir in the great room.
“Your pardon, my lord,” she said, and she offered him a curtsy. It was not necessary, and might have been considered old- fashioned had it not been s
o deliberately provocative. “But you have spent much time in conversation, and your niece is waiting your announcement before your worthy guests can be seated for dinner.”
“Indeed, I have been selfish,” Lord Cordufar replied, “in my attempts to further the interests of this House.”
“By talking?”
“Indeed.” He turned to Rath. “Ararath Handernesse, may I introduce you to Sorna Shannen?”
She held out her hand, and Rath stared at it for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he took it, and bent his head. He did not kiss the hand that was offered for just that purpose; the bow would have been considered enough, in most circles.
But her fingers tightened as he rose, and he felt the edge of nails press into his wrist before she released his hand. His hand was shaking at the contact, and if he could have ascribed the unsteadiness to something as simple as fear, he would have been comforted. It wasn’t fear. He experienced, firsthand, what he had watched at a distance: the intoxication of her simple proximity.
“You are Ararath Handernesse?” she asked. Lord Cordufar came to stand by her side, but he did not touch her; he merely waited, watchful.
Rath nodded. After a moment—when he trusted his voice to convey words in a manner that did not reduce him in all eyes to a simpering boy—he spoke. “I am, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The words were as smooth and polished as Lord Cordufar’s.
Sorna Shannen raised a soft brow. “You are gracious.” Her voice was cool. But the smile that she allowed to change the shape of her mouth transformed her expression slowly. “And perhaps I see so little grace that I am unaccustomed to it. We can remedy this.”
He bowed again, in part to force his eyes to leave her face. When he rose, he said, “I am not, unfortunately, as graceful as I should be. May I introduce my companions?”
Again her brow rippled. Lord Cordufar offered her his arm; she ignored it. “Please,” she said coolly.
“This is Sigurne Mellifas. You may have heard of her.”
“I don’t believe I have.”
City of Night Page 33
