by Neil McGarry
“Who?” Tremaine’s narrowed eyes followed her gaze. “That’s Lord Larric. Not someone to address lightly. He’s Empress Violana’s brother-in-law, the Princess Esmerelda’s uncle. What on earth gave you the idea his name was Tiles?”
She fumbled for a reply; it wouldn’t do to tell the guildmaster she’d first seen this man in a brothel, throwing a fit because a whore had let him win at tiles. “I...must have played a game with someone who looked like him.” She made a note to keep her thoughts to herself. The last time she’d been in Garden she’d managed to start the Evangelism. She hoped this party would turn out less disastrously.
Tremaine must have been thinking the same thing. “This is not a place for any of your tricks,” she hissed. “You are here as a part of our bargain, and, if possible, to impress your betters that your business is more than a passing trend.” She nodded to a woman in white, who nodded politely in return and then returned to her conversation.
“You know,” Duchess hissed back, “we haven’t made any such deal yet. I’ve not signed a contract.”
“I’m pleased you know something of business matters,” Tremaine said through a frozen smile. “I see your time with me has not been entirely wasted.”
Duchess decided silence was the best rejoinder, certain Lysander would have found a better one. As if summoned by her thoughts, he came into view on the arm of a man with puffy gray hair, dressed in blue. His eyes found hers and she felt her chest loosen; it was good to see him, particularly looking so magnificent. He wore a deep red tunic of fine damask, belted at the waist with a tasseled golden sash, and his shapely legs were shown to their best in tight satin breeches of gold and white. With his freshly washed and trimmed golden hair he shone like the sun, and even Gloria Tremaine looked at him with interest.
“Stephan, look who’s here!” he said to his companion, who smiled vaguely in the direction of the women. “You recall Duchess, yes? And I’m certain you’re acquainted with Guildmaster Tremaine.”
The fact that she was introduced after Duchess was not lost on Tremaine, who glared daggers at Lysander. “It seems anyone can get an invitation to such events these days. For the right effort.” Her gaze dropped significantly to Lysander’s nether regions.
“I do what I can,” Lysander replied with a grin. “Still, from the look of it, there’s some who haven’t seen the backend of effort for an age.” He glanced meaningfully at Tremaine’s own nethers. Duchess smothered a gasp and Tremaine’s lips pressed together so tightly they seemed to vanish.
“How amusing,” the guildmaster replied flatly. “I’m quite overwhelmed by such hilarity. I believe I’ll take a turn in the garden; the air in here feels a bit...common.” She showed them her back and made her way through the crowd.
Lysander patted Stephan on the arm. “I think we passed more of that spice wine on our way over,” he whispered into his companion’s reddening ear. “If the evening goes on like this, I think I’m going to need another glass. Would you be a dear and fetch one?” Stephan, still blushing, mumbled a reply and moved off. Duchess stepped into his place and took Lysander’s arm.
“You’re terrible!” she giggled, trying not to attract too much attention.
He shrugged. “When you paint a target on your chest, don’t be surprised when someone picks up a bow. Besides, she’s no more noble than I am. No one here cares if I insult her.” He fiddled with his sash. “You’re late, by the by. You missed the fortune teller. She looked older than Anassa herself.”
She followed in his wake as he wandered gracefully through the crowd. “Fortune teller?” She thought of Jana and her cards. “That sounds...heretical. Why would they have such a thing?” She gestured to the finery they passed. “It hardly seems to fit.”
He shrugged. “Stavros, the youngest Davari, is apparently mad for that sort of thing. It went over well enough with the rest, though. The line was so long I couldn’t have gotten a chance at her even if I’d wanted to.”
Duchess sighed. “Tremaine was late in picking me up. I think she wanted to make me wait, and in these shoes that was no joke.” She flexed her ankle in a vain attempt to ease her pinched right foot. “Have I missed all the fun, then?”
Lysander grinned wickedly. “There’s always fun to be had while I’m in attendance.” Taking her hand he led her through the hall, dodging guests with drinks and servants with trays. “You missed the unveiling, but the main attraction’s still here.”
“Main attraction?”
Lysander smiled. “Martin Davari is apparently showing off his collection, but all anyone’s talking about is his new replica of the Ruling Mask.” They pressed further into the hall. “Let’s go see it.”
She glanced behind, having lost sight of Stephan long ago. “Are you sure it’s all right to leave Stephan behind? He’s a lord, isn’t he?”
Lysander scoffed. “In name only. His father was a lord, with an estate and everything. Then he crossed Violana’s father and lost his lands and his gold. He only just managed keep the title. Stephan’s really just a minor investor at this point, hardly higher than a merchant. Sometimes I think he’s sent invitations out of pity.”
“An invitation’s an invitation, and I’m glad you managed one.” She mentally cursed her shoes. “So, what have you learned? Who’ve you seen?”
“Of the Davari?” She nodded and he leaned close. “Venn’s here,” he murmured, “but everyone seems to think this is really Martin’s party. He certainly seems to be in charge this evening.”
“Wait...Venn’s the lord, right?”
He nodded. “Head of the house since just after the Fall, when the old man died. Martin’s the next oldest after him—wait, no, sorry, that’s Iris.”
“She’s the one who was twice married.”
“And twice widowed. Nobody wants to risk being her third dead husband.” He grinned wickedly. “Especially since they say it’s likely she poisoned the first two. Apparently, being a devotee of Mayu has its benefits.”
Duchess had heard of Iris’ dear departed husbands—everyone had—but that she frequented the Gardens was interesting. She wondered idly if Jadis had helped the widow lead her husbands into Mayu’s arms.
They were approaching a pair of enormous oaken doors, each set with a brass ring the size of a dinner plate. The right door was ajar, and they stepped through into a large, pillared hall, with an arched ceiling painted with frescoes of garden scenes and forested landscapes. Windows set high on the walls admitted the very last light of day, supplementing the glow of the oil lamps that hung from the stone columns supporting the ceiling, some thirty feet above. More paintings hung on the walls and plinths stood here and there, supporting casks containing various pieces of art. She saw a marble cat set with tiny sapphires, a polished lute with strings impossibly made of silver, a collection of delicate crystal birds that seemed fragile enough to break at the barest touch. Although some of it was not to her taste—what was the point of a bejeweled stone carving of a peach?—it all certainly looked expensive. Hector had once said that some people knew not art but value, and that seemed to apply to House Davari.
Given the immense wealth on casual display here, she imagined that guards lurked just out of sight, ensuring none of the guests took liberties. She noted in passing that the casks were locked, though not impressively. She could have tickled them open in moments, were she so inclined.
“So Martin’s...third eldest? Why would he be in charge?” she asked when she’d taken stock of the room.
Lysander shrugged. “Who can say? Maybe Venn’s weak, or just trusts his younger brother too far. You never know with the Davari.” He gestured. “We’re nearly there.” At the end of the hall, between two enormous pillars, stood a wooden cabinet, attended by a servant in livery. Lysander leaned in and whispered in her ear. “The underbutler, there, near the cabinet. Look at his left arm.”
She saw what he was talking about. The man was in his forties, seeming hale and hearty, but the sleeve of his jacket could
not quite conceal that his left arm was noticeably shorter and thinner than the right. She remembered the tale she’d only just told Jana, of the day the first emperor of Rodaas had tried to take Iceni’s mask. The same mask that the Davari now held. All saw that his left hand had withered. “You don’t think...”
Lysander shrugged. “There’s always some truth to tales.”
The cabinet was bolted to the pillars and stood some five feet tall, old but well maintained, its wood polished to a high sheen and adorned with gold clasps and hinges. A locked glass door both guarded and displayed a carving of what at first she took for ivory.
It was, indeed, a mask: a flat and perfect face, with an expressionless line for a mouth. Four vertical lines, inlaid in silver, extended upwards and downwards from each of its empty eyes, each ending in a small dot. The silver shimmered in the lamplight and she leaned closer to see.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of it. It was as familiar as her own face. She knew it was not ivory. Its pallid surface shone a pale yellow in the lamplight and she knew how warm its surface would feel beneath her fingers. She’d felt its like before, in Jana’s cards, when she’d told Duchess’ fortune. The girl had said they were carved from ibex horn. The most sacred of animals.
But that was not the worst of it.
She knew this face. Knew it as well as her own dreams. She’d seen it on the card Jana had called Ouroboros. She had seen it worn by the dreaded figure of He Who Devours.
The air suddenly seemed too heavy. Every sound grew so sharp as to be painful. The rustle of her skirts sounded like the rumble of thunder. The flicker of the lamps seemed to slow. Light filled her eyes, sound filled her ears, and the air thickened until she thought she would choke. There was something so strange and so familiar here, something pulling her forward and down. She would fall through the solid crystal of the air, shattering the glass of the cabinet to be swallowed in the dark hollows of the eyes of the mask and—
—Lysander was gently shaking her and the sensation was gone. “What are you looking at?” He leaned in to take a look for himself, and if he sensed anything strange he gave no sign. “It’s a bit plain, if you ask me, although it’s amazing how they managed to make those engravings without shattering the whole thing.” Then he yawned. “Why isn’t it better guarded? It’s only a replica, but it’s still valuable. A good thief could smash the glass and be away before anyone noticed.”
She stepped away from the cabinet, shaking the strangeness from her head. “Who would you sell it to if you did? I doubt there’s a fence in the city who’d dare take a piece like that.” He let her guide him back to the main hall. She’d had enough strangeness for one evening.
“One of the Davari at last,” Lysander said as they pushed through the doors. Duchess saw a slender woman with light brown hair in a dress so blue it seemed almost to shimmer. Her smile was broad and her laughter easy. She was surrounded by a crowd of young men, each eager to capture her attention. “Isabelle, flirting as usual. Shame none of them stand a chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like half the well-born women in the city she’s being reserved for Attys.”
The name chilled her heart. She had not forgotten the tale Gant had told. “Is he here?”
“I don’t think so, which is a shame. I saw him once at a spring ball and thought him devilishly handsome. Wouldn’t mind seeing him again.” He pointed to a young man—more a boy—sitting on his own in a corner of the hall. “Stavros is adorable in his own way, though a bit young for me.”
She watched the boy as he watched the crowd, seemingly neither bored nor interested. His face had the same cast as Isabelle’s, though his hair was darker. “He’s the youngest, right?”
“Right. Isabelle’s older, but by a different mother. They all have different mothers, as I understand it. Gregor’s older still, but he and Isabelle are full siblings. Above them are the twins, Fiona and Martin. Fiona looks like she’s swallowed a lemon tonight, probably because Venn nixed a marriage the old man arranged for her before he died. Maybe he wants Attys to have a choice of brides. She probably hates him for that, but from what I hear she hates Martin even more.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Oh my...look who’s coming over.”
Duchess turned in the direction Lysander was looking and saw a giant of a man making his way towards Isabelle through the crowd of her admirers. He had the same blond hair she did, except his was cropped short. His gait was angry, and from where she stood Duchess could almost hear his teeth grinding. He came up behind Isabelle and laid two giant paws on her shoulders. Isabelle glanced up unconcernedly, but the young man she’d been chatting with made hasty excuses and turned away.
Duchess looked to Lysander. “Gregor, I presume?”
“Indeed, and he is not happy this evening, though I don’t know if it’s the attention Isabelle’s been getting or something else. He’s scary on the best of days, but tonight he looks ready for a fight.”
Scary hardly covered it; there were a number of tales told about Gregor Davari, each darker than the last. Of course, rumors were more common than rats, but with so many about Gregor, at least some of them had to be true. And surely it was no coincidence that no other nobles seemed eager to offer him their daughters in marriage, regardless of the advantages in marrying into such an influential House.
Lysander gestured behind her. “There’s Stephan coming back,” he said. “Given the money he’s paying me, I’d better pay him some attention.”
Duchess nodded. “I need a drink, and hopefully by now Tremaine’s calmed down. I’ll see you later.” She moved off towards the tables, which held platters of cold meat and fresh-baked breads and pastries, flagons of wines ranging from cloyingly sweet to mouth-puckeringly tart. She sniffed around for something in between, but before she could pour a voice interrupted from behind.
“You seem to turn up in the most unexpected places.” She turned to see Dorian Eusbius, clad all in dark blue, with the flail-and-pitchfork symbol of his House stitched upon his padded silk doublet.
Duchess fumbled for a reply. “They say bad pennies always do.” She gave him a wry smile.
He returned a smile of his own, dazzling white under blue-green eyes. A year ago she would have said Lysander’s were more beautiful, but now she was not so sure. Dorian glanced over the bounty of the table. “A good deal of wine, but I recommend the one on the left. It’s made with oranges, the last of the summer. May I pour you a cup?”
She nodded and he handed her a brimming goblet, and where their fingers brushed she felt a tingle. “Thank you, my lo—Dorian.”
His smile widened. “You have a good memory, Duchess of the Shallows. I can’t claim the same, but I seem to recall that the last time we met you were in the company of Guildmaster Tremaine.” He glanced around. “Is she here tonight?”
Duchess nodded. “It’s the only way someone like me gets invited.” She sipped the wine, which was choice. “I’m afraid I didn’t make the original guest list.”
“I wish I hadn’t, in all honesty,” he confided, leaning close. He smelled of wine and mint. “Another night of standing about drinking with and insulting the same people you drank with and insulted the week before. But since House Eusbius must be represented...”
“Is the baron here?” She doubted he’d recognize her from that long-ago night she’d stolen his prized dagger, but you could never be too careful.
“I’m afraid the baron didn’t merit an invitation. He has the title but not the birth, you see, and that matters this high up the hill. My lady mother was invited, but chose to decline. That left me.” He shrugged. “Perhaps we should just scrap all this business of who is a baron and who a count and start over with something different. I sometimes wonder where the whole nonsense started in the first place. Did you know the Ulari elect their leaders? They rule for seven years and then must stand once again for election each time. And yet we’re told they’re a bunch of unwashed savages.” He s
miled, abashed. “I’m sorry...I’m lecturing you like a scholar when I should be congratulating you on your success. You’re the woman who discovered that wonderful Domae cloth everyone is talking about, yes?”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I’m surprised you heard about that. I wouldn’t say ‘discovered’, because my business partner has been weaving that cloth for years, but I hope I’ve been able to bring it to everyone’s attention.” It was disconcerting to hear a noble openly question the prerogatives of rank, but also a bit refreshing. She decided to take a chance. “Would you like a sample? I didn’t bring any with me, but I could always send you some.”
“Or I could come to your shop myself.”
She gave him a mischievous smile. “If you think your reputation will survive a trip to the Wharves, I’d be happy to see you.”
He returned the smile. “Oh, I think my reputation could use some damage. That way I might stand a chance of being disinvited to parties like these.”
Gloria Tremaine appeared before she could reply. “Lord Dorian,” she said politely, her eyes flickering over him with cool interest. “What a pleasure to see you again.” He nodded cordially. “Pardon the interruption, but Lord Venn has asked to see my attendant, and we cannot disappoint our host, can we?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Dorian turned back to Duchess. “In the Wharves then?” She nodded and he gracefully withdrew, disappearing neatly into the crowd. Tremaine watched him go, then turned back to her.
“Far be it from me to interrupt your attempts to improve your status, but we must be off to the library. Lord Venn awaits us.” She gestured impatiently and Duchess followed her across the hall, weaving around knots of nobles and servants with trays.
“I wasn’t improving my status,” Duchess told her, surprised at how nettled she was. “I was talking to a very pleasant young man.”
Tremaine gave her a skeptical look. “A very pleasant highborn young man, which means he has little interest in you beyond the most common.” Some emotion—nostalgia? sadness? regret?—flickered across the guildmaster’s face, almost too quickly to see. “Allow me to share with you some small bit of wisdom. When a man with two names speaks that way to a woman with just one, he’s not looking for stimulating conversation.” Tremaine turned in a swirl of skirts and strode across the hall, leaving Duchess to hurry after, feeling strangely humiliated. Dorian Eusbius might gently mock the nobility, but was he enlightened enough to view Duchess as anything more than a pleasant diversion? The city was full of noblemen who dallied with down-hill women—at least until they married properly.
