Sigurne was waiting at the edge of the floor, in silence. She glanced at his face, her eyes tracing the scratch across one cheek. “That was unwise,” she told him, the words stiff with mingled disapproval and concern.
He bowed. “It was entirely unwise.”
“If your intent was to anger her, you succeeded.”
“I had no conscious intentions, Sigurne. I did attempt to gracefully refuse her, if you recall.”
“Given the way you were dancing, I was not entirely certain that you did.”
He chuckled, but he found himself glancing toward the great hall. “I understand,” he said softly, “where the danger lies in those who are not mortal.”
“I would have imagined you would understand it well, by now. You’ve met many who were not.”
“Yes. And I killed them. But the purpose of those encounters was entirely death; there was no conversation, no exchange of information; I had no time to appreciate any nuance, any subtlety. And truthfully, it is neither of those things that I find compelling, in her; she is not particularly subtle.”
Sigurne waited.
“She does not doubt. She does not fear. She scruples to hide what she is because it is necessary to achieve her goals—but it is only for that reason that she bothers. And even so, she does it poorly. She—” he shook his head. “I am not besotted, Sigurne; you needn’t look at me like that.”
“It is not some youthful fancy that I fear.”
“She used no magic. Had she, the entire gathering would have known. But . . . she requires none. She is compelling simply because she is strong.”
“A very narrow definition of strength, I think.”
“She is like your white bears,” he replied, “but she can talk and think and feel.” He turned away from the great hall, and toward his companion.
In the poor lighting, she seemed old and bent. Age of this type would never grace Sor Na Shannen; it would never diminish her fire. But it would also never lessen her pain or calm her anger.
“Ararath?”
It would never lend her wisdom. He smiled at Sigurne Mellifas, a woman who had, in spite of age and the vagaries of mortality, made power her study, her goal, and her responsibility. It was this last that defined her. Had it always defined her?
No. No, he thought. But in weakness, she had learned the core of what she required to be strong. And because she owned weakness, because she did not fear it, she could afford to be kind. “Yes,” he said. “It is a narrow definition of strength. It is, perhaps, a younger man’s definition of strength, and at heart, we are foolish enough to gloss over the misery and ignorance that was youth; we see only the things that burned, because we cling to their very odd, very painful beauty. Come. Let us repair to the great hall. I find myself thirsty.”
He bowed, and then offered her his arm; let Matteos flounder. “Where,” he asked, as they began their leisurely stroll toward the refreshments the great hall housed, “has Member APhaniel gone?”
They were almost upon the great tables at which food had been laid out when they had an answer, of sorts: The distant sound of thunder, and the sudden, sharp, shock that traveled through the mansion.
Sigurne grimaced, and caught Matteos’ arm. “Wine,” she told him, more command in the single word than she had used all evening. “Ararath.” He had dropped his arm and spun, although the tremor was not directional. She lifted her arm, and that wordless gesture was also a command; he at once offered her the arm he had removed.
Matteos was grinding his teeth in frustration, but to Rath’s eye, fear was in the mix. “I told you, Sigurne.”
“Indeed you did. And next time, he will have to do far more than just ask politely.”
“Are you so certain that it is Meralonne?” Rath asked softly.
Another shudder shook the floor.
Sigurne lifted a white brow; she did not otherwise dignify the question with a response. “Do you see Lord Cordufar?”
“Yes. He is standing by the musicians.”
“Does he seem overly concerned?”
“Not at this distance.”
“Good. Be visible, Ararath, and allow me to be visible as well. I believe that I see our young master bard, and I would very much like to have his attention now.” She began to make her way through the crowd, to where said bard was flirting in a charming and entirely proper way with a number of young ladies.
Age, Rath thought, had its privileges. Sigurne was entirely polite in her approach, if one did not consider the audience that had already gathered around the bard.
The bard, however, understood the social standing that age granted women; he disengaged almost instantly, and he tendered Sigurne a very respectful bow. “Guildmaster,” he said, as he rose, introducing her without the trouble of actually offering her the names of the young women surrounding him.
The young women were wise enough not to look displeased; they were aware enough, in fact, to look slightly troubled.
“Kallandras.”
“If you will excuse me,” he said to the four young women. His smile as he offered this apology was, to Rath’s practiced eye, perfect; it implied regret at being forced to abandon their company due to the burden of the more onerous manners and attention expected by the elderly, without ever descending into actual words.
Sigurne, however, lifted a brow at the performance. Kallandras’ smile deepened into something that was very wry. “Your pardon, Member Mellifas. I did not expect to have your company, and I have duties to Senniel.”
“Visibility?”
“Indeed. Would you care to join me in the hall?”
“I would,” she replied, “because if I am not mistaken, I will soon be approached by a somewhat angry Lord Cordufar.”
Kallandras raised a brow. “You mean we will have excitement at this ball?”
“Beyond the excitement caused by his mistress?”
Kallandras laughed. “She is very striking.”
“Oh, indeed. My companion was lucky enough to dance with her.”
Ararath, who vastly preferred to be mere witness to the conversation, lifted a hand. “It was a single dance,” he said, “And only a dance. We hardly exchanged a word.”
“I see,” the bard replied, and from the tone of his voice, he did. While Rath understood the value of the bards to both the Empire and the Kings, he found them disconcerting. “Pardon my manners. I am Kallandras of Senniel.”
“I am Ararath of Handernesse.”
“Handernesse?”
Rath nodded.
“Will you join us, Ararath?”
“He will,” Sigurne replied. “I would like it to be noted that both he and I were present, and in your company.”
“You expect a writ to be served.” Kallandras’ smile had lessened as they walked.
“I expect a writ to be served, or rather, I expect a writ of exemption to be demanded, and before you ask, no, I do not yet know on what grounds.”
“And do you carry such a writ?”
“I would prefer not to speak about writs of exemption,” she replied. “As they are exceedingly rare, and I am the guildmaster. I am old for this, Kallandras. It is a young man’s game.”
Kallandras, very wisely, chose to offer no opinion on this subject, but from that moment on, as he made his way through the small enclaves of Lord Cordufar’s esteemed guests, he drew their attention, and made certain, both in subtle and less subtle ways, that their attention was also caught, for a moment, by Ararath, Sigurne, and even the taciturn Matteos.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, Lord Cordufar suddenly stiffened. Ararath, watching from the great hall with a lazy and suitable ennui, touched Sigurne’s shoulder briefly. She did not speak a word; she was otherwise engaged in conversation with a middle-aged woman from Lessar, a merchant house that was neither as old nor as wealthy as Araven.
Rath turned to the conversation at hand as if it were suddenly of interest.
Lord Cordufar apparently thought it might be.
“Lord Cordufar,” she replied. She inclined her head slightly; more was not required of a woman of her rank and her age.
“Ararath of Handernesse,” Lord Cordufar continued. “I was not aware that you were an acquaintance of the guildmaster.”
Rath raised a brow. “It is, of course, my privilege, but I was not aware that it would be of significance, here.”
“One can hardly dally with a First Circle mage as a matter of happenstance.”
“Ah, no. I have some well- known interest in the antiquities, and I have spent countless hours within the Order itself.”
“And those interests would lead you to the woman who governs said Order?”
“Clearly,” was the dry reply Rath offered. “She herself has no little knowledge of an area in which I had hoped to be considered an expert.”
The silence was slight, but notable.
“Where, Member Mellifas, is your other companion?”
She frowned. “Member APhaniel?”
“Indeed.”
“Matteos, have you seen him recently? I must apologize,” she added, in the sweetest and most conciliatory of tones, “but Member APhaniel is famed for his intense dislike of dancing. I confess I am not entirely certain why he should dislike it so; I myself do not attempt to dance, but find much of interest in merely observing.”
Sigurne, Rath thought, was a marvel. Had he not known better, he would have said all of her words were entirely genuine.
“As an example,” she continued, and Rath tensed, “your very lovely Sorna Shannen accepted Ararath’s invitation to join him on the floor. Did you see them?”
Lord Cordufar looked at Rath. It was a look that hovered between glare and gaze, with the intensity of the former and the neutrality of the latter. “I was myself much occupied in my duties,” he told Sigurne, although his eyes did not leave Rath’s face. “But indeed, as you say, she is an elegant, powerful dancer.”
Those eyes certainly noticed the scratch across Rath’s face.
“If you would like to speak with Meralonne, we can attempt to find him. He favors his pipe after dinner,” she added, “and it is likely that he will be outside, in the pavilion.”
“I will search for him myself.”
“Is there a problem or a concern?”
“Believe that if there is, Guildmaster, you will be among the first to know.”
“My gratitude for your consideration.”
He raised a brow and then his eyes narrowed, but she was hidden behind the mask of her face, and what was there beyond it, not even Rath could say. He wanted, briefly, to introduce Sigurne to Haval, just for the sheer joy of watching their conversation and their silences.
Lord Cordufar desired to say more; that much was clear. But he was aware of the presence of his guests, in particular the young master bard, and after a moment, he bowed curtly and made his retreat. It was a long retreat, and it carried him directly out of the great hall, through a door that led to the kitchens and the rooms beyond.
“Member Mellifas,” Kallandras said, bowing. “Perhaps we should seek Meralonne APhaniel.”
“He is not in a particularly social mood,” she replied, “And I, for one, do not desire more of either his pipe or his complaints. You, however, are far more familiar with the patriciate than I; I was raised in a simple village in the North, and much of what occurs here is beyond my ken. If you think it wise, Kallandras, I will bow to your experience.”
He offered her his arm, and she accepted the offer; the hall was quite warm, and the night, cooling in the light of the moons. Doors led from the ballroom itself onto large terraces; there were three. From the middle terrace, winding stairs led to a path that was three men wide; this path was lit, and led, in turn, toward a garden that even in the fading light was impressive, to Rath’s view. The scent of rowan was strong, but mingled with the scent of lilac, and indeed, white lilac, and violet, grew near the path.
But as they descended, Kallandras said, “Be wary of the lord, Sigurne.”
She raised a pale brow, and in turn offered the bard a weary smile. “I am wary, young man, of almost everyone.”
“There is something . . . unusual . . . about his voice.” He glanced at her, as they reached the flat stones.
“Indeed?”
“And you are not surprised in the slightest to learn of it.”
She smiled. “I am flattered that you feel it is important enough to tell me, and I admit that you are charming enough that your concern pleases me.”
“Which is entirely unlike surprise or fear.”
“Believe that I am concerned, Kallandras.”
“You are also adept at speaking with the bard-born.” He smiled. It was a smile made different by moonlight and breeze from the smiles he had offered both Sigurne and any other woman with whom he had spoken in the hall.
“I am old,” she replied. “At my age, dignity is possibly the last bastion on which to shore up pride. I would like to think that dignity requires an ability to choose what is heard when one speaks.”
“Many a man your age—or older—would let his voice say more and care a great deal less.”
“Oh, men.”
He laughed. “As you say, Member Mellifas. I see the pavilion, but I do not see your mage.”
“No.”
He glanced at her. “You are not worried about his absence.”
“I am. But I am not worried about his well- being. And I do not miss his pipe. If it comforts you at all, I am considering strangling him when he does choose to show his face. If he does,” she added.
The slight shift of expression across the bard’s face caught Rath by surprise. “He must be a brave man, indeed, if he is willing to risk your anger, here.”
“I wish I could call it brave. At my age, brave and reckless often seem the same, and regardless, he is not a young man. He is not brave; he is merely bored.” She smiled. “And if I were this open in all of my discourse, Master Bard, would it not in the end tell you far more than you would want to know?”
He laughed. “No. There is music there, if one knows how to listen, and Sioban Glassen is my Master; I know how to listen. Lord Cordufar is not pleased, but his fear is not of you, not precisely. It is broader and deeper, and it is tinged by some constant malice and no little anger.”
“You’ve met him before?”
“No. I have, of course, heard of him. But this is the first time that I have had any cause to speak with him personally.”
“Surely he spoke to you when you agreed to grace his ball?”
“No. I am not entirely certain he appreciates the role of bards in Averalaan. But I would say he understands the unofficial ways in which the bards are beholden to the Twin Kings.”
“If he does not appreciate bards, it is a wonder that Sioban acceded to the request at all.”
“Ah,” he said, smiling slightly. “The actual request did not come from Lord Cordufar. It was tendered to the bardmaster, in person, by The Darias.”
“Personally?”
“Even so.” He shrugged. “I am often on the road, and it is pleasant to play and converse this close to Senniel. But I will offer you this much; even at the insistence of The Darias, I do not think Lord Cordufar was pleased to have me in attendance.”
“Oh?”
“His manners, where he must treat with his guests, are of course very fine. But the only time I have heard him speak more than a few words in my presence was when he spoke with you, and he spoke, I think, less guardedly there than he has all eve. He is aware of what I am,” Kallandras added, “and he has not your practiced patience in speaking with the bard-born.”
“But he is aware of the need for such practice.”
“Even so. I believe that your presence, and the presence of your guest, has been noted.”
Sigurne did not correct his misapprehension, and Rath, therefore, remained silent.
“I will now, if
you will countenance my lack of manners, go in search of your missing mage. I think any contest of wills between the Order and the Cordufar family would, in the end, go through The Darias, and therefore through the Council of The Ten, and I do not feel that such a confrontation would be in the interests of Averalaan.”
She was silent for a long moment as she considered this. “Nor,” she said quietly, “would it be in the interests of Senniel to be embroiled in the same contest.”
“Sioban can barely control the bards as it is, and this is known.”
“I have misgivings.”
“Indeed, as a First Circle mage, you must. If you did not, you would not now live in the tower.” He smiled, and the smile was slight. “Very well, Member Mellifas. If Sioban cannot control her bardmasters, I think it unlikely that the concerns of the Order could. The Order must, by necessity, keep those born without talent calm; in order to achieve this calm, they maintain decorum, and where possible, foster the public image of mages as dotty and obsessive individuals.
“The bardic colleges are seldom the focus of public fear or scrutiny. Our power is not your power, for good or ill. If The Darias or Lord Cordufar object, in Council, to any behavior of Senniel’s, Sioban will, of course, hear it. But both House Darias and Cordufar will also hear, in response, the lyrics of Senniel brought to bear in the most public and amusing way possible.
“Those lyrics will be sung at every tavern and home in Averalaan before the month is out, and power, in society, is based in large part upon reputation.” He bowed. But when he rose, he was looking at Rath, not Sigurne.
“You must forgive my boldness,” he said, in a tone of voice entirely shorn of lilt or charm. “But you are of Handernesse?”
Rath knew that bards could watch a play once and recite almost all of the lines from memory thereafter; he therefore recognized the question as a polite overture. He nodded.
City of Night Page 36
