House of Shadows

by Rachel Neumeier

  “Snobbish?”

  The woman blinked at this, but agreed, “Just so, lord. The keiso at the House of Butterflies are famous for their good cheer.” She gave him an appraising stare and then went on, “Though the more discerning often consider that the keiso of Cloisonné House are more graceful.” From Nala’s matter-of-fact tone, he might have asked her for the names of the best spice merchants in Lonne.

  “The most artistic? The most accomplished?”

  “Ah, now, that is likely Cloisonné,” Nala said decisively. “They have very fine dancers there, and the best instrumentalist in Lonne came out of that House.”

  Taudde inclined his head, acknowledging the woman’s expertise. “I will be dining at Lord Miennes’s house tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, lord. The invitation arrived this morning.” Nala indicated a slim scroll in the letter rack, bound with an ivory-colored ribbon.

  Already? Taudde lifted the scroll, undid the ribbon, and glanced over the graceful script. The hand that had written the invitation appeared to be the same that had signed it. “He wrote this himself,” Taudde commented, not quite a question, angling the letter for Nala to see.

  “Oh, yes, lord. That’s the custom with invitations.”

  “Is it?” This seemed, for a reason Taudde could not quite grasp, an important tidbit of information. He let the scroll roll itself up again. “You know everything, Nala—let me ask your advice. I believe there may well be noble guests present. I may wish to invite one or more of these guests to a later function of my own. Do I correctly gather that a keiso House is considered a suitable venue for such an event?”

  “Oh, yes, lord! Nothing could be more suitable.”

  After a moment Taudde managed to frame the sort of elliptical question preferred in Lonne. “As a foreigner, Nala, I am naturally not very familiar with the keiso of Lonne. But in Miskiannes, that, um, sort of establishment is not often considered proper for, ah, a high-class gathering.”

  “Oh, no, keiso Houses aren’t that sort of establishment at all,” the woman exclaimed. Her voice held underlying tones of both amusement at the foreigner’s ignorance and shock at the suggestion he had skirted. “My lord is thinking of aika, not of keiso, and that’s no wonder, I suppose, since no other city in the world has keiso. Not but that our aika aren’t also the most glamorous anywhere. But, see, my lord, if a man wants more than elegant companionship from a keiso, he must handfast her as a flower wife, a keimiso. Then he must buy her a house of her own, and maybe a shop or restaurant if she wishes such a thing, and he must acknowledge any left-hand children she might bear him and set the boys up in a trade—the girls usually follow their mother’s path and become keiso, of course.”

  “I can see,” Taudde told her, “that you will need to teach me more of your Lonne customs, if I do entertain guests. But first we shall see how this dinner of Lord Miennes’s goes. It is to be a formal occasion, I believe. Have I anything suitable to wear?”

  Nala pursed her lips consideringly. “There are very good tailors in the Paliante, my lord. Benne can guide you.”

  “A man of multitudinous talents,” Taudde murmured.

  “Lord?”

  “Never mind.” Taudde went to find the big man.

  Lonne, as befit the most refined city of sophisticated Lirionne, possessed many elegant treasures. Perhaps the queen among these was the Paliante, which lay immediately below the King’s District. Farther back, the Laodd climbed the rugged cliffs. Immediately south of this fortress, the Nijiadde River flung itself over the cliffs and fell a thousand feet to shatter into diamond spume where it struck the stone below. Together, fortress and waterfall formed, as though by design, an imposing backdrop to the graceful Paliante.

  Homes in the Paliante were faced with carved stone or expensive pale gold brick; the intricate wrought-iron work that guarded their spacious courtyards and windows was twisted into fanciful dragons or dolphins or eagles. Shops in the Paliante sold the work of the best perfumers and jewelers and woodcrafters to an exclusive clientele that, after dark, drifted across the Niarre to the theaters, aika establishments, fine restaurants, and keiso Houses of the candlelight district.

  Far to the south of the Paliante, sprawling mercantile yards received overland trade from across the mountains—less trade than usual, in these tense times. Near the great tradeyards lay manufacturing districts where the dyers and coppersmiths, the woodworkers and stone masons had their establishments. And besides all this, street vendors held busy and crowded open-air markets down by the docks where they sold many odd and interesting objects.

  This was where Taudde found himself an hour after dawn, in a morning that promised at least beauty if not clarity or confidence. The Paliante would be the place to purchase formal clothing for the evening, but it was the sea itself that drew Taudde. Slate gray where it washed up on the shale beaches, the sea turned brilliant sapphire farther out. The rhythm of its waves coming up against the shale formed a harmony with the clamor of the streets, the rattle of wheels across cobbles and the singing calls of vendors advertising their wares.

  A fine three-masted ship had made its way out past the crowd at dock and was heading out toward the sapphire horizon. Taudde wished, suddenly and intensely, that he was aboard her—heading for Erhlianne perhaps, away from duty and peril and the hope or threat of vengeance. What would it be like to stand on the deck of a moving ship, surrounded by measureless blue fathoms? The music of the sea would not be a thin trace barely audible behind the clamor of the city, but all-enveloping. He half closed his eyes, listening for that music.

  And heard an echo of it, captured and transmuted to a more familiar form.

  The vendor was clearly an old sailor stranded ashore by age and infirmity. He had a thin bony face, deep-set eyes, and hands crippled by years of hard use. His booth was set low, tucked nearly out of sight under a dock, where the sea broke across the slate. It was a small booth and held very little, mostly rough objects made out of driftwood. But Taudde had been caught by the sound of a flute the man played.

  The old sailor played with his eyes closed and his face tilted toward the sky. The flute was a crude instrument. But in it, the man had managed to capture an echo of the drawing tide. Intrigued, Taudde gave him a small silver coin for the flute. Then he spent an hour sitting on the rocks below the dock, sea spume dashing across his toes, discovering the little instrument’s range and breadth and listening to the breathy echo of the sea hiding behind all its notes. It was a very simple flute, much plainer than Taudde’s own, with no metalwork to increase its range or multiply its notes. But Taudde almost thought he might finally have found a way to begin binding the mysterious magic of the sea into a form he could actually understand and use. If he had time to work on it… time… what was the time? Taudde looked at the sun and jumped to his feet.

  Lonne styles were set by law and by strict custom: Foreigners, no matter how wealthy or distinguished, were expected to comport themselves with modesty. The richest dyes were for Lonne nobility. Lavenders and blues were for wellborn or wealthy women, or for keiso. Flat red was for the military, black for the King’s Own, and saffron only for the king’s family.

  As a foreigner, Taudde was expected to dress plainly. Yet he, as many foreigners who came to Lonne, was a man of wealth and breeding. Thus, many of the best and most expensive purveyors of cloth goods in Lonne were accustomed to providing the very finest clothing possible within the prescribed limitations. The tailor to whom Benne escorted Taudde brought out a rich brown outfit, accented with pale yellow, with a pair of calf-high boots with turned-down tops threaded with pale yellow ribbons. Taudde thought the ribbons excessive, but Benne so clearly approved of them that he allowed the tailor to add the boots to his purchase.

  Then there was another complete outfit in charcoal gray with red accents, including soft suede boots that were clearly not intended for the winter streets. Taudde inclined his head. “I see I shall indeed need an equipage,” he said to Benne, a touch
drily. “Find one for me, nothing too extravagant. A single horse should certainly be sufficient.”

  The servant nodded quickly. Neither he nor Taudde had referred in any way to the incidents of the previous evening, but Taudde thought that the big man seemed, if anything, a little more wary and cautious this morning. Now he hesitantly sketched a saddle in the air with his hands, tilting his head inquiringly.

  “Yes, both a small carriage and riding tack.”

  Benne nodded a second time as the tailor apologetically presented his bill. Taudde strolled out of doors to wait discreetly while his servant argued the bill up to an amount Taudde could properly pay.

  Down the street toward the tailor’s establishment came a black-and-red company: ordinary soldiers accompanied by half a handful of officers from the King’s Own guard. Taudde turned with casual curiosity to watch the company pass, but found his eye unexpectedly caught by one man who rode in the midst of the guardsmen. A tall man, with strong, stark features and a face as cold and austere as the mountain heights.

  Though he had not seen him for fifteen years, Taudde recognized the man at once, half from memory and half from the sheer sense of ungiving power that spread out from him like a river pouring down from a high cliff. This was Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes, the Dragon of Lirionne himself, riding through the streets he ruled like any common court noble. Though, indeed, there was nothing common about the Dragon.

  Taudde recognized the harsh, stark features of the king: the falcon-sharp bones, the ungiving mouth. But what he recognized first was the Dragon’s sheer intensity of power. He had not been prepared to meet that power, not here or now, and took an involuntary step backward.

  As though drawn by that movement, the king turned his head. The fierce gaze of his ice-pale eyes crossed Taudde’s face. There could not possibly have been recognition in that glance, for a boy of ten can hardly be recognized in the man of twenty-five. Yet Taudde’s breath caught with a conviction that the King of Lirionne had recognized him, that those soldiers would turn aside from their ordinary business to pursue and apprehend him. The Dragon’s men would bring Taudde before the granite throne… He would be condemned and cast into the silent cells within the Laodde, or from the heights into the sea, which was how the Seriantes Dragon disposed of his enemies… Then the cold gaze passed on, and the King of Lirionne looked away indifferently.

  The company clattered forward, iron-shod hooves ringing on the cobbled street, passersby hurriedly making way for it. Taudde put a hand out blindly, bracing himself against the door of the nearest shop and stood still, not because he intelligently resisted the temptation to give way to terrifying fancies, but simply because he found himself momentarily frozen by indecisive panic. It took every rational faculty he possessed to stop himself reaching for his flute. If the Dragon had indeed disregarded him, then flinching in terror and bringing a bardic sorcerer’s flute out in plain sight would probably be a good way to get his attention. But Taudde found it impossible to stand quietly in the street and let the Dragon’s company ride by so close, either.

  Instead, and with a sharp effort, Taudde turned on his heel and plunged, without looking, into the shop.

  “May I assist the noble lord in locating any poor oddment that may be offered in this humble establishment?” inquired a rather nasal voice.

  Taudde, most of his attention still fixed on the sound of the passing horses, tried not to flinch noticeably at this unexpected address.

  The horses’ hooves clattered loudly in the street… They did not halt, but went on past. Taudde blinked and took a quick breath. He found his hand had indeed gone to touch the reassuring smoothness of his flute. He took his hand away, trying to cultivate a bland expression while his heart settled gradually back to a slower rhythm.

  The shop, once Taudde glanced around it, proved to hold an interesting display of oddments: porcelain lamps, brass sconces, small glass bottles, mysterious confections of copper wire and glass bobbles, delicate bowls, and small musical instruments. The proprietor was an elderly man, but one who appeared prosperous. Despite the formal humility with which he had addressed Taudde, the man’s attitude was far from humble. Taudde suspected he was of noble blood himself, perhaps the son of some lord’s keiso mistress—no. His wife, he corrected himself. A keiso was not a mistress, but a flower wife. The mother of left-hand sons, who were, according to Lonne custom, recognized by their noble fathers.

  “Ah—” Taudde managed. “Ah, I don’t—I wasn’t looking for any specific item.” But his attention was caught by a diminutive finger harp strung with white fibers so fine they were all but invisible. Distracted from his urgent worries, Taudde bent to examine it. The harp was an exquisite instrument, made of some unfamiliar fine-grained red wood with pearl facing and pearl knobs. The strings did not seem to be silver wire. He touched one with a fingertip and frowned in surprise. It made an odd sound, not pure, but with a faint burring undertone, almost a buzz. Trying another string, he found a note not quite in tune with the first and affected by the same buzzing quality. Attempting to tune the second string to complement the first produced a flatter quality to its note and only accentuated the buzz.

  “A pretty thing, but for display perhaps more than use,” the proprietor murmured, correctly reading his expression. “It is from the great island of Erhlianne. The wood is poppy teak, which grows only in the far mountains of Erhlianne. Very rare and expensive. The strings are made from the feathers of a beautiful white bird called the miarre, which flies out at sea for all but three weeks a year, and comes inland for those three weeks to nest upon the branches of trees that stretch out over the sea from the cliffs of Erhlianne. Strings made from these feathers never break, for they have the endurance of the bird to which they once belonged.”

  “Ah,” said Taudde.

  “Or so it is said,” murmured the proprietor smoothly. “Now, a connoisseur such as my lord… hmm. If my lord would care to step over here…” He guided Taudde toward the rear of the shop. Along the far wall were blanks of wood and sea ivory and bone and horn, racked in order of size; pegs and buttons of exotic wood or polished stone; spools of copper wire, or silver, or gold; tubes of brass and copper; delicate reeds oiled and curing in the gentle warmth of a lamp. A small table, lit by the lamp, was cluttered with clamps and carving tools, polishing cloths, and fine brushes.

  “I believe my lord might prefer an instrument such as this,” suggested the proprietor, reaching into the midst of the clutter and finding, apparently without needing to search, a set of pipes as broad as the palms of both hands. “Now these are meant for the hand of a skilled instrumentalist. They are made, as you see, of bone and copper. The inlay is abalone shell. The reeds are simple sea reeds, but treated with a special technique of my own to prevent warping or splitting and to purify their tone. Perhaps my lord would be pleased to try these pipes?”

  The confidence in the proprietor’s manner was sufficient that Taudde was not surprised to find the notes of the pipe unusually clear and delicate. The hum of the reeds lent a deep resonance to each note without harming its clarity. Taudde wondered how the effect had been achieved. He squinted into the pipes to see the thin reeds within each, noting their faint purplish sheen. Perhaps they had, in fact, been treated in some manner he did not know. “You made these?”

  The proprietor gave a modest little bow. “My poor efforts are assuredly not sufficient to match those of the craftsmen with whom my lord is no doubt accustomed to do business.”

  Taudde played a quick set of trills, running through the surprisingly broad range of the pipes. They were not tuned to the familiar descene scale but to the far less common ioscene scale, every other note set half a step off.

  “The pipes are not out of tune,” said the proprietor, seeing Taudde’s eyebrows rise.

  Taudde returned a noncommittal nod. He lifted the pipes again and produced another brief ripple of notes, listening curiously to the odd catch and drag produced by the ioscene tuning. It seemed to him that
the breathy resonance of these pipes was well suited to the sea. If he went down to the shore where the waves broke on the rocks, he wondered whether he might be able to capture the changeable sea winds in the reeds of this instrument. “Though I have traveled widely, I do not believe I have often seen better,” he said at last. “And I see you are accustomed to such work.” He gestured to the generous and varied supplies that occupied this part of the shop, the faint beginnings of a new inspiration murmuring at the back of his mind. He still would not claim to have a distinct plan, but he felt himself closer to one than he’d dared hope.

  “I dabble from time to time,” conceded the proprietor. “When an interesting idea occurs to me.”

  “I see. Well… I believe I will purchase these, if you are willing to part with them.” Taudde began to turn back toward the front of the shop and unexpectedly found Benne at his elbow. He blinked. Benne flinched back slightly and dropped his gaze immediately.

  Taudde hesitated for a moment. Then he said at last, “I will purchase this item,” gave the pipes to Benne, and walked away, to wait politely out of earshot for Benne and the proprietor of the store to settle a price.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Mother of Cloisonné House, disposing of the iron custom of the flower world with a fine arrogance, made Karah into a keiso three days after the girl had been bought into the House. Leilis had hoped for exactly this, but the speed with which Narienneh made her decision impressed her anyway.

  “You haven’t the training, of course,” Narienneh told the girl. “You will have to work very hard at your lessons.” Karah could play the knee harp and sing some of the short gaodd poems that every keiso was supposed to know, but there was no pretending her accomplishments were up to Cloisonné’s usual standards.