by Amy Raby
She put the broom away, sank into a chair behind the counter, and placed a hand on her belly. No movement there yet, but soon there would be. She’d had no moon blood for two months, and she was nauseous all the time. The signs were unmistakable.
Jauld’s eyes lit on her as he came in from the back room. “Feeling all right?”
“Fine,” she said, offering him a shy smile.
“You’ve done a wonderful job brightening this place up.” He laid a hand on her shoulder.
She placed her hand on his, hoping the gesture would inspire some warm feelings. She was struggling to love her husband. He wasn’t a bad man, but he was lazy. Isolda, after helping her father in his apothecary for years, had become accustomed to certain practices that she regarded as normal: cleaning and organizing, turning over stock regularly so that it stayed fresh, inspecting supplies for quality, keeping the books up-to-date. It had not occurred to her that another shop owner might not consider these things important. Jauld ran his shop in a scattershot fashion, occasionally doing a bit of work to improve things, but mostly he was just idle. She did all the work.
It wasn’t all bad, though. She liked the work, and business was excellent. A good thing, now that she had a baby on the way. And Jauld was kind, at least. Her mother had warned her not to expect much from her marriage, and Isolda allowed that she could have done worse.
The bell rang, and three men entered the shop. They were rough-looking fellows in patched-up work clothes—unmarried farmers or lumberjacks, perhaps. Isolda tensed at the sight of them. Since wealthy men monopolized most of the marriageable women in Sardos, Sardossian men who lacked inherited assets generally could not afford to marry. These so-called strays had little to lose and were inclined toward violence. Isolda had been cautioned all her life to be wary of them.
“Jauld,” called one of the men, and Isolda relaxed a little. It appeared these were friends.
“Rosche, Essim, Dane. How can I help you?” Jauld’s gait was stiff as he moved to greet them.
His body language suggested some tension in the relationship. Isolda sat perfectly still behind the counter. Like most plain women, she had acquired the ability, through practice, of being as close to invisible as one could possibly be.
“We heard you got married,” said Rosche. “Where’s the poor girl who got stuck with a horse’s ass like you?”
“Least I can afford a wife,” said Jauld, positioning his body so that he blocked her from their view. “Unlike you hedge-born scuts.”
“She got three tits or something?” asked Rosche.
“Hey, I see her,” said one of the others, leaning sideways so he could see around Jauld. “She’s behind the counter.” He looked her over and laughed. “I see why you could afford her, Jauld—the parents must have given you the deal of a lifetime.”
A trickle of hot shame crept up Isolda’s neck. Bad enough these men should humiliate her for her looks, something she could not control. But they were doing it in front of her husband, with whom she had a new and fragile relationship, and that terrified her. She was accustomed to this sort of treatment—didn’t like it, had learned to tolerate it. But for Jauld, this experience would be new.
“I paid a pretty bit of coin for her,” said Jauld.
“Sure you did,” said Rosche. “One coin.”
The others laughed.
“The store’s looking nicer,” said one of the men. “Maybe you needed a little money to fix the place up, and they needed to get this ugly bitch off their hands—”
“You’re not funny,” growled Jauld. “Get out.”
“Three gods, man, if you can’t take a joke—”
Jauld advanced on them, his chest swelling. “I said get out!”
The strays fled the store, leaving Jauld and Isolda alone.
Isolda watched her husband closely. She was proud and relieved that he’d defended her, but also worried. How might he react to being humiliated on her behalf? She fought the tears that threatened to well forth, knowing she could not afford to fall apart now. Jauld might lack the strength or even the desire to comfort her. She wished he would run to her, hold her, tell her he loved her, tell her he thought her beautiful no matter what his friends said. But he did not.
She let out a shaky breath. She had to be sensible about this. Jauld didn’t love her, and he certainly didn’t think her beautiful. He had settled for her. She was the best he could afford, and the men’s accusations, though exaggerated and cruel, were in their essence true. Because she was plain, she had been an inexpensive bride.
Even so, his friends were jealous. She wished she could tell Jauld that without offending him. They lashed out at Jauld for his plain bride because they had no bride at all, nor any prospects of ever having one. But she was afraid to speak to Jauld right now. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the door. His sides were heaving, and his face was red.
She rose from her chair and said softly, “I’ll go in the back and unpack those crates.”
“What?” He whipped around as if startled.
“I said I’ll go unpack those crates.”
He did not respond, but gave her a cold look and strode out the door. At least he had not struck her, but Jauld’s cool treatment stung more than any slap across the face.
Chapter 11
The carriage came for Marius the next day, just before lunch. Not the official imperial carriage, but Lucien had sent it nonetheless, and it was fancy enough to make him uncomfortable and perhaps to make the neighbors wonder. Marius climbed inside and flopped onto the seat. Lucien wouldn’t let him ride Gambler to the palace today, since Marius’s sister Rhianne was visiting Kjall accompanied by an entourage of Mosari nobles. As Lucien had said, “There will be dancing, and you don’t want to smell like a horse.”
“Cheer up,” said Drusus, nudging him with an elbow. “We’re going to a party, not a funeral.”
He’d lost Isolda again. After he thought he’d reeled her in with his invitation to supper—he’d thought himself so clever with that wink and making the soup decision for her when she refused to make it herself—she’d taken Rory and absconded yet again. He had no idea where she’d gone, and no notion of how to find her. Unless she or Rory became desperately ill, he’d probably never see her again.
Why did it bother him so much that she was gone? He shouldn’t be so interested in her. She was not young, rich, educated, connected, or even beautiful, yet there was something about her that fascinated him. Perhaps it was just that he felt comfortable in her presence, that he could be himself instead of pretending to be some fashionable, social-climbing scion of the empire. She’d praised his handwriting. She liked his food. She hadn’t aimed any dirty looks at his tunic and breeches.
Gods rot it, why should he even care what someone’s social class was? Five years ago, he’d been an uneducated journeyman apothecary in an obscure rural village. Only an accident of birth had catapulted him into the emperor’s inner circle. This idea of station, of class, of one person being inherently better than another—it was an illusion. He knew that better than anyone.
When the carriage arrived at the palace, he went to the room Lucien kept reserved for him, where he changed out of his tunic and breeches into a silk syrtos. From there, he headed to the Cerularius Hall. Lucien had described this as an intimate gathering, but Marius had figured out by now that when Lucien said intimate, he usually meant a hundred people or more. The Cerularius was the imperial palace’s second-largest and most opulent ballroom. As he walked past six Legaciatti through the double arched doorway, he looked about the room and estimated there were fifty people present already.
The polished floor of the Cerularius was so bright it was blinding. Five chandeliers illuminated the room: a grand one in the central dome lit with glows of pure white, and four smaller ones in the corners with multicolored glows, creating a more muted scene along the periphery for conversation and dining.
He heard a delighted squeal and turned just in time t
o catch his older sister Rhianne as she flung herself into his arms. Rhianne was a bit of a stranger to him compared to his younger sister, Laelia, but it was impossible not to like her. He’d met her for the first time soon after his arrival in Riat. She’d come all the way from Mosar to see him, and the moment he laid eyes on her, all doubts as to his heritage fell away. He could not deny the physical resemblance, not so much between himself and Rhianne but between her and Laelia. As he and Rhianne had talked, he’d observed that she’d inherited their mother’s passion and their father’s steady heart.
Rhianne had children, a daughter and a son, Marius’s niece and nephew. They had not come for this visit, however; today they were at home in Mosar.
Rhianne’s husband, Jan-Torres, the King of Mosar, joined them to make his greetings. He was more reserved than his wife, and Marius was secretly a little afraid of him. Jan-Torres clasped wrists, offered a few pleasantries, and moved off. As he departed, Marius could not help aiming a surreptitious glance at the strawberry-and-white ferret that rode on the king’s shoulder. Mosari mages, unlike those of all other nations, partnered with animal familiars, in the tradition of the gods of old.
“Come and sit down,” said Rhianne, gesturing at a table. “I’ve saved you a place, you and Drusus. Tell me all about your new surgery and dispensary. Being a Healer in the big city must be fascinating.”
His parents were already sitting at the table, and Laelia too. He relaxed at the sight of them. “It is. I love it.”
Rhianne was easier to talk to than most upper-class women, because she enthusiastically supported his choices and his life’s ambitions. A lot of people at the palace looked down their noses at him when he told them he was a Healer. It wasn’t high class, healing the citizenry. Women who sought to increase their status desired military officers, governors, or idle rich men as husbands. He could have been any of those things if he’d desired; Lucien would have set him up in whatever role he’d chosen. But he hadn’t wanted to be idle or in the military, or to govern some obscure province as Lucien’s puppet. He wanted to help people. And he had no patience for anyone who didn’t respect that.
Laelia leapt from her seat to greet him. She was now a fully qualified war mage, working for Empress Vitala in a covert organization called the Order of the Sage. She was often away from Riat, but today she was at home, wrapped in a sparkling green dress that put him in mind of Isolda’s peridot eyes.
He hugged his mother and father next. They’d reclaimed their given names upon returning to Riat, and Marius was trying his best to remember them as Sabina and Anton rather than Camilla and Tertius. His mother had calmed considerably since that fateful day in Osler, but in gatherings of this sort, Anton wore his terrified rabbit look. Marius suspected his father would never feel comfortable in the imperial palace. It had taken Marius four and a half years to warm up enough to tolerate a party like this. In that respect, he was his father’s son.
Anton loosened up a little as he greeted Marius. “How’s business at the surgery?”
“Good,” said Marius. “Too good, sometimes.”
“I always knew you’d make something of yourself,” said Anton. “Whether here or in Osler.”
His father’s praise warmed him like a sunny springtime afternoon. Marius was aware that his accomplishments paled in comparison to his sisters’. Rhianne was the Queen of Mosar, and Laelia a war mage working for the empress. He was merely a licensed Healer and apothecary, and a money-losing one at that. But he knew Anton’s appreciation was genuine. Marius’s father did not measure Marius against his siblings, but appreciated him on his own merits.
Marius took his seat, and Rhianne plopped down beside him. A servant set a goblet of wine on the table along with a plate of sliced fruit and cheese. Marius picked up the wine and sipped. He could use a bit of liquid courage.
Rhianne smoothed her dress. “I’ll have you know that I brought eleven single women with me from Mosar. All are from excellent families, and they’re dying to meet you.”
Laelia winked at him from across the table. “No pressure, Marius, but you’re booked for the first eleven dances.”
Marius choked on his wine and glared at his younger sister. “Is your dance card full yet? Because if it isn’t, I’m sure I can find eleven single men to keep you occupied.”
Laelia grinned.
“Am I putting pressure on you?” asked Rhianne, her eyes full of concern. “That wasn’t my intent. I thought that the more women I brought, the more you’d have to choose from. But you don’t have to dance with any of them, Marius. Not if you don’t want to.”
“I’ll dance with them.” Why not? He could dance well enough; it had been part of the education Lucien had provided him. But he didn’t understand why his family was so eager to marry him off. Laelia was equally unmarried; why not focus on her? He was the elder, but at age twenty-six, hardly an old man. “Provided they understand it doesn’t mean much. I’m not looking for a wife.”
“Oh, they know—I mean, it’s just a chance to get to know somebody. Eleven somebodies.” Rhianne winced. “Perhaps I should not have brought so many.”
Later that evening, when the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play, Marius danced with each of Rhianne’s imported noblewomen in turn. All of them struggled with the language, being Mosari, but each of them was a delight in her own way. All were beautiful. Most were kind, several were clever, and one had a biting wit. But when they asked what he did for a living and he replied that he was a licensed Healer and apothecary in the city of Riat, he got more than a few raised eyebrows. He sensed the usual disapproval of his choice of profession, and what would they think when they saw him in his tunic and breeches instead of his imperial silks?
Marius was no intellectual, but he did know his own mind. He could not be happy with a woman who disapproved of the way he lived. Any one of these women would be a showpiece on his arm, to be sure, but she would be constantly dissatisfied, hinting that he should give up the surgery and do something more prestigious. Then if Marius relented, Lucien would give him some meaningless job or title so that he could stomp about and act important while doing nothing of consequence. His wife might be happy, but he wouldn’t be.
After the dancing, he spent some time in the washroom, not to attend to any physical need, but just because the party had become overwhelming. So many people, so much noise. He could take it in small doses, but not all at once.
When he returned to the table, dinner had been served. He’d missed the first course, soft-boiled quail eggs with chopped nuts and honey, but the plate was waiting for him, and as he sat down, a servant added a plate for the second course, scallop fritters with greens. How much of this would he have to eat in order to be polite? He scooped up some of the chopped nuts and honey in his spoon and privately hoped that bread would be served with one of the later courses.
The imperial heirs came by the table and were fawned over by all present.
“It’s almost their bedtime,” explained their nurse. “But they wanted to see the party.”
Marius liked the imperial heirs, all the more so because their existence meant that the imperial throne had no chance of ever falling to him. Jamien, the eldest, was eight years old, outgoing, and intelligent beyond all reasonable limits. His younger brother, Maxian, age five, was a quieter and more introspective child. Maxian had a sleepy look sometimes, like he wasn’t paying attention or was bored by his surroundings. Marius suspected that in truth, the boy was not dull. He had hidden depths, and when he found his voice, he would have a lot to say. But that time had not yet come.
The heirs’ manners were flawless as they bowed to King Jan-Torres and Queen Rhianne. Once the formality was out of the way, they ran in for hugs with cries of “Aunt Rhianne!” and “Uncle Marius!”
Marius was not the boys’ uncle any more than Rhianne was their aunt—the actual relationship was more distant—but Lucien and Vitala had taught their boys to address Marius, Rhianne, and Laelia in such a w
ay because Lucien had been raised alongside Rhianne and thought of her as a sister, even though she was actually a cousin.
“What have you been up to?” Marius asked Maxian.
“I beat Papa at Caturanga,” said Maxian.
“Well done.” Knowing what he did of Lucien’s prowess at Caturanga, Marius guessed that had been an act of generosity on the emperor’s part.
“Lupa had puppies,” said Maxian. “Two bitches and three dogs. One of the bitches is gold and white. You want one?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Marius.
“All right, young masters,” called the nurse. “Off we go. Careful, Jamien, you’re wrinkling the queen’s dress.”
Maxian climbed reluctantly off Marius’s lap. As the boys walked away, Marius eyed Jamien, the Crown Prince. He was the same age as Isolda’s boy, but what a difference in upbringing. Jamien had everything—two parents who loved him, an education, all the resources the empire could provide for its future emperor. And Rory had so little.
Suddenly everybody at his table was standing up. He knew what this meant. The emperor or empress had arrived. He stood and followed the gazes of his fellows to see who was honoring them with their presence.
It was both the emperor and the empress. Lucien was dashing in blue silk, while Vitala dazzled the eye in a mauve gown over which she’d draped a layer of glittering silver lace.
“You look stunning,” said Marius to the empress when she and her husband gestured for them to sit.
“You’re very kind,” said Vitala. “I have always wanted to wear silver, but it’s not my color.”
“I beg to differ. It’s very much your color,” said Rhianne.
“When I combine it with something else,” said Vitala.
“If anyone is unclear on this point,” said Emperor Lucien, fixing his gaze on each of the men at the table, “the empress is mine.”
“We were just admiring your boys,” said Rhianne.
“The empress is an overachiever,” said Lucien. “Produced an heir and a spare right from the start. From now on, we’re hoping for all girls.”
