The Ruling Mask

by Neil McGarry

  She shook her head and moved to catch up with the guildmaster. Gloria Tremaine was right about at least one thing; it would not do to leave Lord Venn Davari waiting.

  Chapter Fourteen: Red for red

  Venn had chosen to hold court in the library, a world apart from the bustle of the rest of the house. The room itself was an extravagance of leather-bound books, thick carpets and overstuffed chairs, yet Venn still managed to be the center of attention. He was a short man, with large hazel eyes and dirty blond hair, wearing a black coat over gray breeches. His features were sharp and fine, his mouth wide and generous, and he moved with an easy grace. He was surrounded by a circle of flatterers, hangers-on and advisers, the most prominent of which was a serious-looking taller man, somewhat younger than Venn, with dark brown eyes and hair formed in a widow’s peak over arched eyebrows. Duchess guessed him the second-eldest brother, Martin. From time to time he leaned in to whisper into his brother’s ear and when he did, Venn paid attention to little else.

  Tremaine was steering her through the circle, with a nod here and a polite greeting there, until they stood before Lord Davari himself. The man focused upon her, but it seemed to her that his lovely hazel eyes were ringed with weariness.

  “My Lord Venn,” the guildmaster said politely, curtsying slightly. “Allow me to introduce the young woman who discovered that wondrous cloth you asked about. Duchess, of the Shallows.” A stir went through the attendees, but Venn himself hardly seemed to notice the effect of such an unusual name and Martin merely smiled vaguely.

  “A pleasure,” Venn replied, diffidently taking her hand but making no move to kiss or shake it. He acknowledged her curtsy with a slight nod, then turned his attention back to his brother, and Tremaine gracefully escorted her away.

  “You said he asked to see me?” Duchess whispered, when they were well away.

  “I did, and he’s seen you.” Tremaine paused before a long, gold-framed mirror to check her hair. “What did you expect? A dance?”

  “I expected more than two words.”

  Tremaine gave her hair a final pat and moved back towards the main hall. “Two words from Lord Davari mean more than a whole day’s chatter from anyone you may know. Watch.” Sure enough, a woman perhaps six or seven years older than Duchess emerged from the crowd, wearing a dress of cream and brown with ruffled cuffs and collar. When she reached the guildmaster’s side, Duchess saw that she had dark eyes and a widow’s peak. She must be Martin’s twin.

  “Lady Fiona,” Tremaine greeted her. “We were just discussing how graciously your brother received us.”

  Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it was good of him to tear his attention away from Martin.” She turned dark eyes upon Duchess. “Is this the one they call Contessa, or some such?”

  “Duchess,” Duchess replied.

  “I’m sure.” Fiona looked her over critically. “A lovely dress. One of yours, Gloria?”

  Tremaine smiled politely, although Duchess could see she did not appreciate being addressed by her first name. “It is. I am not surprised you noticed, given your discriminating taste.”

  Fiona’s returning smile was indulgent. “Easy enough given the contrast ‘twixt the wearer and the worn.” By the time Duchess realized she’d been insulted, Fiona had already turned back to the guildmaster. “I really must see this magical Domae cloth for myself, but I rarely get down to the Deeps.”

  Duchess tried to rein in her temper. “My business is done in the Wharves, my lady. A different district entirely.”

  Fiona’s smile turned sharp. “You would know the difference better than I.” For the first time she looked Duchess in the eye. “As Gloria noted, fashion is my bailiwick, so allow me to offer a bit of advice. Be careful of that lovely dress. I imagine it will have to last you a long time.” With that, she was gone, disappearing back into the crowd.

  Duchess sighed. “Three Davari down.”

  Tremaine raised an eyebrow. “You recognized Martin, then? Another personage whose opinion you should care about. He’s one of the city’s most prominent and discerning art collectors. It’s said there is not a sculptor in the empire who has escaped his notice, and his private gallery is exquisite.” She glanced about impatiently. “Well, my work on your behalf is done, so I will see you at the carriage at evening’s end.” Duchess blinked at this brusque dismissal. “I believe I saw Lady Vorloi by the stairs to the gallery; I must see if I can get a word with her. You may expect to be approached by the rest of the family before the evening is out, but try not to attract more attention than you must. You’ve made a decent impression so far, and, like your dress, it will have to last a long time.”

  The guildmaster was gone in a swirl of fabric before Duchess could reply. She supposed she should be grateful even for the introduction to Lord Davari, but she felt slighted and small. She wandered through the hall, watching the nobility watching each other, full of sneering contempt and whispered malice. The Kells had not been of the highest nobility, but her family name, had she kept it, might have gained her access to parties like this one. Dorian had been right; if this was the high life, she’d take the Shallows any day.

  Still feeling alone, she scanned the crowd for Lysander and caught sight of him and Stephan in a circle of partygoers. They, in turn, were gathered around a pair of dancers, one male and one female, both fit and lithe, dressed in wisps of silk that hid everything and covered almost nothing. The musicians in the gallery had begun a more jaunty tune, and the dancers whirled and spun in time to the music. She weaved her way towards them, but was too late to watch the rest of the show. Just as she reached Lysander’s side, the dancers finished with a double leap that coincided with a final swell of music.

  Polite applause sounded and the dancers bowed and took their leave, escorted by several of the house servants. As they disappeared through a side door, a short, curly-haired woman with fat cheeks turned to her companion and said, “I love reminders that the gods made us man and woman, don’t you? Shame we so often see...other arrangements.” Her voice was nasal and loud enough to be heard even in the library.

  All eyes turned to Stephan and Lysander. Stephan flushed red, but Lysander smiled brilliantly. “Did I do something to offend you, my dear? If so, remind me what it is so I can do it again.”

  Laughter sounded all around them, and the woman’s jaw tightened. Lysander was a master of the insult, and he was wise enough to know a good target when he saw one. Duchess suspected the woman—clearly as low-born as Lysander himself—would soon regret she’d started with him. Duchess settled in to watch the show.

  “You offend me so much I can barely finish this wine,” the woman threw back, brandishing a half-full glass.

  “Oh dear. You know what they say about drinking on an empty head, darling.” Duchess smothered laughter against her hand, but the others were less restrained. One old woman leaning on a gold-tipped cane nearly fell over, and a gentleman dressed in military garb announced a point for Lysander.

  The woman turned to her companion in outrage, but he was laughing harder than the rest. Duchess shook her head; if a woman one step above a whore thought a nobleman would come to her rescue, she hadn’t been in the business very long.

  The woman’s cheeks were red as apples, but still she did not back down. “People like you shouldn’t be allowed in decent society!” she flung at him, nearly spilling her wine.

  Lysander raised an eyebrow. “Where was your concern for decent society when you were buying those shoes?” The room went wild, sending mocking laughter pealing up towards the vaulted ceiling, and the woman shrieked and pushed her way through the crowd, seeking escape. As she went, she stumbled over the edge of a carpet and the remains of her wine flew out in a red arc, splattering a few of the guests even as they roared with raucous laughter. She staggered but did not fall, and guests made way as she fled, weeping in anger and shame.

  The remaining guests were wiping at their own tears or leaning against columns or tables as they composed t
hemselves, and the man in the uniform handed Lysander a full goblet of wine, proclaiming him the night’s champion. A dozen glasses were raised in salute, a chorus of voices raised in praise. Lysander lifted his own cup in acceptance, but then his smile suddenly flickered and died. Duchess turned to discover the why standing directly behind her.

  Gregor Davari, seven feet of angry disapproval. Beside him stood his sister Isabelle, blotting at her dress with a lacy handkerchief. She had gotten the worst of the spilled wine, although she was laughing all the same.

  “Someone has ruined my sister’s dress,” Gregor rumbled in a voice thick with menace. The laughter died off, leaving the hall in silence.

  “Gregor, please,” Isabelle placated, still wiping at her dress, “it was just that little whore. We all saw.”

  The man’s face was as implacable as stone. “She’d never have spilled her wine if she hadn’t been provoked.” He turned a murderous gaze to where Stephan stood beside Lysander. “You brought that...person into my house, and now see what has happened. I believe you’ve insulted my sister’s honor.”

  Another woman with a Davari look stepped up. “Gregor, let it go. Nobody’s honor was insulted, and Isabelle doesn’t even care about that dress.”

  “I like this dress,” Isabelle spoke up indignantly.

  “And it’s so precious it’s worth Gregor dueling some boy?” the woman said, indicating Lysander. This must be Iris, she of the dead husbands. She was Duchess’ height, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun, wearing a severe black dress. She shared Venn’s hazel eyes, but otherwise she looked much like Martin and the others. Iris’ mouth pulled into a moue of distaste. “Even you wouldn’t sink that low.”

  “I wouldn’t sully my blade in such a manner,” Gregor replied. He looked at Stephan. “You’ll answer for this insult, my lord, with a blade if you have the courage. If not, I’ll simply bleed you a bit. Red for red, aye?”

  Before Iris could draw breath to reply, Lord Venn entered, with Martin close behind. The crowd about them pulled back in deference. “Iris, enough,” Venn stated imperiously, “this does not concern you.”

  Iris looked first to Martin, then to Venn, then she slowly shook her head and stepped away. “I wash my hands of it,” she said.

  Stephan’s mouth was opening and closing. “I am not a man of the sword, sir,” he said tremulously. “I would be pleased to pay for a new dress for your noble sister. Two new dresses. Would that be sufficient?”

  “Yes!” Isabelle chirped, delighted.

  “No,” Gregor replied, looking at Stephan with eyes like stone. He called to one of the underbutlers. “Fetch my dueling steel.” The servant hurried off. “We shall repair to the garden to settle this. I do not wish to get blood on my lord brother’s carpets.” He turned and strode off, followed closely by Isabelle, then Venn and Martin. The other guests followed in their wake, the hall filling with their excited chatter in expectation of the show to come. Stephan walked numbly behind them, moving like a man half in a dream.

  Duchess snagged Lysander. “Why is he doing this?” she whispered. “Stephan didn’t insult anyone, and you didn’t insult anyone who mattered.”

  “He’s doing it because he likes to hurt people,” Iris Davari replied, who had come up unnoticed. “Reason enough, for Gregor.” She turned to Lysander. “You’d best stay at Stephan’s side. If he isn’t skilled with a blade his best course might be to go down quickly, then cry for mercy. These duels are to first blood only, after all. A humiliating end to the evening, to be sure, but better than what will happen if he resists. I don’t think my brother will kill him, but then again Gregor is in quite a mood tonight.” She said the last lightly, as if discussing the weather.

  Duchess considered Iris, who had no reason to offer a kind word, much less any advice. “Thank you for your counsel, Lady Iris,” she said, wondering just how far she should go. The hell with it. “I didn’t think someone of your station would concern herself with the likes of us.”

  The Lady Iris smiled cryptically. “I do so because the young man is obviously special to you,” she replied, stepping forward and taking both of Duchess’ hands in her own. She turned them palms-up, revealing the scars on her fingers. “And because when we bleed for Mayu, we are all the same.” She nodded curtly, then vanished into a side hallway.

  “What was that about?” Duchess asked wonderingly.

  “Iris Davari has a reputation for being eccentric,” Lysander replied. “Come on, let’s get out there before Gregor slaughters Stephan.” They hurried into the garden, where the guests had formed a large circle around the intended combatants. With the aid of his valet, Gregor had shed his outer coat and had rolled up his sleeves in preparation. Somehow having fewer clothes made the man look even bigger, while Stephan seemed like a rabbit that did not know which way to run. Gardeners hung silver lanterns from posts to illuminate the area, while liveried servants circulated with wine, to refresh the guests while they watched. Soon enough, the underbutler returned with a leather-wrapped bundle, which he handed to Gregor. He unwrapped two long, slender blades, thinner than the sword Duchess had seen Castor use. From the wary way Stephan handled the weapon handed to him, she imagined the blade was just as sharp.

  Fiona Davari appeared at Lord Venn’s side and spoke urgently in his ear—the one Martin had left open. Venn glanced at his brother and then shook his head. Fiona spared Martin a glance like death that he answered with a wide smile. No love lost there, Duchess noted, and no help for poor Stephan. She saw Gloria Tremaine at the other side of the circle and tried to catch her eye, but the guildmaster looked at her as if she were a stranger. She and Lysander exchanged a stricken look, but there was nothing to be done.

  “My Lord Venn.” A voice rang out across the garden, and Dorian Eusbius stepped into the circle. “The duel is an ancient custom, almost forgotten”—he glanced significantly at Gregor—“but I believe tradition allows for each combatant to choose a champion.” He turned to Stephan. “Would you permit me to take up steel in your cause?”

  Worry stabbed at Duchess, but Stephan looked so relieved he seemed about to cry. He gratefully handed over his blade with trembling hands. “I will permit it, Lord Dorian,” he said in a voice that did not shake too badly, “with thanks.”

  Gregor looked at the Eusbius heir with narrowed eyes. “Why would you involve yourself in this, boy?”

  Dorian lifted the blade and looked down its length with a practiced eye. “Because you are a bully, sir, and nothing would improve my night more than putting a bully in his place.” A gasp swept the gathered nobles and servants, and Duchess belatedly remembered that Dorian had been carrying an empty scabbard at the Fall of Ventaris. It had been a sign that despite the ban on weapons in the imperial presence, he was nonetheless prepared for a duel. She’d assumed that merely ceremonial, but he certainly seemed confident enough tonight.

  Gregor’s jaw tightened until Duchess thought his teeth would crack. “I never agreed to a champion. Stephan will fight for himself.”

  “I think not.” Lord Tiles—Lord Larric—stepped forward into the circle. “Young Lord Eusbius speaks truly. According to the laws and customs of the duel, each combatant may select a champion. If you do not permit this, Gregor, then it is no true duel.” Larric’s word carried weight, Duchess saw; one by one the nobles nodded, and even Venn dipped his head in acknowledgment. Larric gestured grandly to Gregor. “Do you wish to nominate a champion, Lord Davari, as is your right?”

  Trapped, Gregor shook his head. “I would not wish to break custom,” he allowed in a tone that indicated he wanted very much the opposite, “especially one so old.” To Dorian he said, “Take a moment to prepare yourself. I intend to be harsh.”

  Duchess moved to Dorian’s side, with Lysander close behind. “Dorian, do you know what you’re doing? That man’s a monster.”

  “Then I must be fast,” Dorian replied, removing his jacket. In his tight blue vest his torso was lean and v-shaped.

  “He
’s a very large monster,” Lysander echoed.

  “Then I must be very fast,” Dorian replied, feeling the balance of the blade.

  Stephan tugged Lysander’s sleeve. “Let us give Lord Eusbius a chance to prepare.” Lysander looked at her with wide eyes, but allowed himself to be pulled away, leaving Duchess alone with Dorian.

  She looked at him levelly. “Dorian, this is no game. If Iris Davari is to be believed, Gregor means to hurt someone tonight. He may even mean to kill someone. I would not like that person to be you.”

  Dorian smiled, but she could see the fear in his lovely eyes. “We can’t have that,” he replied. “I will endeavor to come out of this duel as healthy as I went in.”

  A thought came to her, but she hesitated; would Dorian take advice well? She glanced once again at Gregor, seven feet of might and malice, and made her decision. She wasn’t going to let Dorian be hurt, not if she could help it. But could she make him understand what she had in mind? She’d only done it herself the once, and had never thought to have to explain it.

  “Dorian,” she whispered, drawing in close, “do you dance? How’s your timing?”

  * * *

  Gregor Davari, wide and hulking, moved forward, his rapier in his right hand, his close-set eyes full of savage delight. Dorian Eusbius, slender and lithe, slid to the slide, his own blade at the ready. Gregor wasted no time but bulled right in, sword flashing in the light of the lanterns. Dorian parried the first blow and spun away from another, keeping his left hand behind his back so as to present a smaller target. He answered with a thrust of his own, one that came within an inch of his opponent’s vest before Gregor jumped back. The crowd oohed.