Sol and Sergio took seats in the front of the vehicle, lounging against plump cushions embroidered with Ciro’s wolf rampant, the whole interior trimmed in Ciro red, just to remind them whose wealth and power surrounded them. The constables sat between them and the disguised mage and driver. The engine started with a grinding whir, settled into an easily ignored whine and the land-yacht moved forward smoothly.
“She’s too young for you,” Sol said to Sergio when he noticed his cousin stealing sly looks at the mage.
“But pretty enough. It’s not that, Sol. I just don’t understand why Orellana decided you needed one of her pages. Pepito is more than adequate for the task.”
Pepito, youngest son of the manor’s butler, was Sol’s usual page when he came to Ibarra City. The boy had been hurt when Eloisa had shown up, carrying Sol’s papers.
“It’s not my place to question the church,” Sol said. “Besides, Eloisa has been studying politics. She’ll be able to offer some opinion.”
His cousin snorted. “She’s welcome to it. There’s few things more boring than listening to seven old windbags prattle on about tax and imports and roads.”
“Old windbags? We’re not all old. Besides, Isabel is going to be there.”
Sergio pretended to choke. “Isabel? That woman is an evil bitch. I suspect she’s a demon.”
Sol laughed. “Only because she rejected you… how many times? The duchess has taste, not a lack of emotion.”
“Don’t let Bolivar hear you defending her. He hates her as much as I do and you can’t deny she’s been incredibly nasty to him.”
“Cousins are meant to be nasty to each other.”
Sergio grunted agreement. “That’s why you make me come with you to these boring meetings.”
It was a long ride to the palace. Sol and Sergio discussed a few small matters and Sol showed him once again the small portrait he had of Aracelle and Sebastian. In back, Eloisa was mostly silent, even when Constable Jacobo settled in beside her with a wink to his friends. She answered his questions pertly, shyly looking at the passing city.
Eventually, the vehicle pulled up at the gates of the palace. A de Ibarra Knight inspected the yacht thoroughly then allowed them in.
“Saint Sevastian’s balls,” Sergio breathed as they rolled into the palace grounds, “what are those?”
In the distance were four tall, slender towers rising far above the buildings around them. A dirigible hung beside one, lines holding it to the top of the tower.
“Air-docks,” Sol said, awe creeping into his voice. “Aracelle told me Alamar had been planning on building them. I didn’t think he’d build that many.”
“Air-docks.” Sergio almost drooled. “We have to get one.”
“The airfield is good enough.”
“No, it’s officially pathetic next to those air-docks. We need an air-dock. Imagine it, never having to sit through another rickety lift off or landing again. My ears wouldn’t be ringing for days afterward.”
Sol grinned at his cousin’s enthusiasm. “It’s a waste of time and resources. The dirigibles have to land at some stage for maintenance. We’d still need an airfield. Besides, it’s either sit through a landing and take-off, or climb all those stairs to the top of the tower.”
“You’re no fun.”
Space was a luxury in Ibarra City and the duke could afford to squander it. The palace sat on grounds that challenged the church for size and grandeur. The palace itself was massive, a vast monument to the longevity of the Ibarra ruling family. In all Delaluz, Ibarra remained the only duchy with an unbroken line of inheritance. From the day the saints divided Delaluz amongst themselves and appointed a family to govern the new duchies, the Ibarra family had held Saint Ciro’s lands. Each successive generation had added their own touch to the palace and it had grown organically over the centuries into a confusing maze of disproportionate corridors and forgotten rooms. There were rumours of people getting lost for days, and whispers of some never being found.
Duke Alamar Antulio Ibarra Madera de Ibarra’s addition had been more in line with technological progress. He’d added an Engineering wing, where engines were created, improved and perfected, the land-yachts being his greatest achievement; the air-docks his latest initiative.
Sol couldn’t help but be impressed by the size and industry of the Ibarra ducal palace, even as he was a little saddened by it. Roque City had drifted over the centuries, as the ruling seat had passed between different families and new palaces built on new sites. Though the city itself had settled around the harbour two hundred years ago and didn’t seem likely to move again for a long while, there were two old palaces on the outskirts of the city. One had been converted into the royal constable barracks, the other was so worn and broken by neglect and time Sol considered several petitions a year to see it knocked down. He couldn’t quite bring himself to sign the orders yet, still fantasizing about the events that had seen its occupants dethroned and their descendants lost to obscurity.
Duchess Amaya Chelo Montserra Quiroz de Montserra had ruled Roque for a score of years, earning respect and unconditional loyalty for her devotion to the duchy. Then she’d destroyed it all by falling in love with an Air Mage, betraying her husband and the church. Details of the affair were scarce by Sol’s time, but his wild imagination as a boy had filled in the gaps until the mage was flying through windows on dark nights for a stolen moment with his lover and the duchess was fighting for the church to annul her marriage so she could be with the man she truly loved. However the affair had progressed, it had ended in bloody mystery. After rescuing the entire dragon-fleet from a storm of disastrous proportions, the mage had spent the night with the duchess, but when she woke in the morning, her lover was lying in bed beside her, dead, his throat slit, his eyes removed and his genitals severed. No one could discover how it was done and the scandal had brought down the Montserra ruling, allowing Sol’s family, the Deleons, to move into power.
There were no such stories in the Ibarra lineage. A direct, untroubled line from the first Duke of Ibarra to the current. No other duchy could boast such a feat, and boast Ibarra did.
The vehicle stopped at the front of the council chambers. It was a separate building to the main palace, to signify the independence of the Council from the ruling of individual duchies. Each council chamber in each duchy followed the same design. Surrounded by a flat lawn, the long, narrow building contained a council hall, with a table the councillors could fit around comfortably, a kitchen to supply sustenance during sessions that could extend from dawn to midnight and private quarters for each ducal party.
The Council of the Second Estate met every six months, each meeting taking place in a different duchy. This was Sol’s fifth meeting as Duke of Roque and his first time in Ibarra’s chambers. Externally, it looked much like those of Navarro, Valdes, Leon and Herrera, but he had a suspicion that inside it would reflect very heavily Ibarra’s self-inflated idea he was somehow superior to the rest of them.
“Sol!”
He turned at the excited voice and grinned. A second land-yacht had stopped behind his and Duke Bolivar Santana Ocasio Ceja de Leon leaned out of it. Bolivar was two years older than Sol and they’d struck up an instant friendship at Sol’s first council meeting. At that time, Bolivar had been accompanying his mother as her aide. She’d been ill and knew her time was short. The duchess had died weeks later and Sol had made the long journey down to Leon to be with his new friend during his transition into power. It helped that Sol’s family had ties in Leon and were distantly related to the Ceja family.
“Cousin,” Sol said, meeting Bolivar in a rough hug.
Bolivar pushed him away. “You’re no cousin of mine, Deleon. Any de Leon who left our beautiful lands to go live in the north doesn’t deserve to be my cousin.”
“I know, we’re betrayers, one and all. We did it for the wine and sea air.”
“Tsk tsk. But speaking of the wine, I seem to have run out of that last vintage of Semill
on you sent me.” Bolivar slung a friendly arm around Sol’s shoulders. “Could you possibly see your way to sneaking me down another crate or two? The wife loves the stuff.”
“Karyme’s only misjudgement in taste was marrying you,” Sol said. “I will send her whatever I can spare. She’ll need it to deal with you.”
Bolivar grinned, but it faltered at the edges. He shook it off and went to Sergio, slapping his back in greeting. “Have they managed to tie you down to one woman, yet? Or are you still hoping for a chance with that other despicable cousin of mine?”
Sergio scowled. “Isabel had her chance. I think it’s time I went after less dangerous prey. Tell me, is Karyme here and did she bring that lovely friend of hers, what was her name? The one with the black hair and dark eyes and curves like the sail on a dragon-ship at full speed.”
Bolivar winced. “Her name is Ovalia Chimene Rael Cadona de Leon and I’m afraid she’s still in Leon, my friend.”
“Oh well. Karyme have any other friends I might like to get to know?”
“Perhaps. You and Sol will meet them tonight. I’m having a dinner at the Leon manor. Or rather, Karyme is having a dinner and I have to attend.”
“We’ll be there,” Sol said as they headed for the steps of the council chambers.
“Though I’ll be the only one in the mood to be social,” Sergio announced. “Sol will be busy mooning over the portrait of Aracelle and his son.”
The Duke of Leon stopped mid stride, face devastated. Sol wanted to hit Sergio for his unthinking comment. Bolivar and Karyme had been trying for a child for years, completely unsuccessful.
Still, Bolivar pulled a smile from beneath the despair and embraced Sol again. “Congratulations, cousin. I’m happy for you, and Karyme will be ecstatic. Best prepare yourself for constant questioning tonight.”
“Thank you,” Sol said.
Bolivar grinned. “A son. Wonderful. He should tame the wild Duke of Roque like nothing else could.”
Sol glared at him. “I don’t know where the ‘wild’ rumour came from so stop promoting it. Come on, we’d best get a hurry along. Wouldn’t want to keep Ibarra waiting.”
Bolivar’s entourage of a Leon Knight, four constables and a page laden with cases and books fell in beside Sol’s.
The doors were opened by a pair of Ibarra servidors, a senior page waiting inside to greet them. They congregated in the foyer while the pages sorted out various matters of seating and storage, then they were ushered through to the council hall. Only the pages were allowed in with the dukes and their aide. Sergio took the role of Sol’s aide, while Bolivar’s Knight was his.
The long room was as Sol had feared, a display-case for the might of Ibarra. Wooden floors polished to a high sheen reflected the arched ceiling and its frieze of a map of Delaluz, the duchy of Ibarra painted in exquisite detail while the others were barely marked in. Chandeliers of perfectly clear de Ibarra crystal lit the room and displayed the wall hangings, images of Saint Ciro and his pack of wolves holding back the marauding Talamhians single handed; Luz handing a golden horn to Ciro before vanishing from the world; de Ibarra troops riding to the rescue of Soledad Redoubt in Giron; of other moments in history where Ibarra’s might couldn’t be questioned. Sol noted no weaving showed the defeat of Ibarra by Roque three hundred years before. He smiled at the idea of commissioning a piece depicting it in time for the meeting in Roque.
“And well you should smile,” a loud voice boomed from the far end of the hall. “A son, I hear. Strong and handsome! Of course, he’s half de Ibarra, so it’s only to be expected.”
A smattering of laughter followed Alamar’s words and Sol nodded to those who added their congratulations. Duke Ibarra strode down the length of the room, arms wide, engulfing Sol before he could think of a way out of it. Past animosities had been smoothed over but Sol had never truly felt comfortable with his brother-by-marriage.
“The message we received was broken.” Alamar let Sol go and guided him toward the table. “I know Aracelle birthed a boy but we didn’t get his name.”
A score of expectant faces turned toward Sol, waiting. Amongst the aides and pages were the other four ruling representatives of the duchies. As he’d heard, Duchess Feliciana de Valdes was missing, replaced by her brother-by-marriage, Marquis Sarabia de Valdes, an elderly man supported by two walking-canes, age spots across his hands and bald scalp. Duke Galo Izador Rendon Delao de Giron stood next to the marquis, a middle-aged man who never seemed to grow older, slender with a lean face further lengthened by a thin moustache, slick goatee and shoulder length, wavy black hair. His clothes were a fine example of his personality, an explosion of wealth and a healthy conceit that rivalled Ibarra’s, displayed in rich fabrics, ruffled cuffs, gold buttons, silk cravat and boots of the finest, intricately tooled leather.
Next was Duchess Caritina Grasia Abreu Matos de Navarro, and despite being Sol’s neighbour, he knew little about her. She ruled quietly and well, with very few troubles in her twenty year reign. Her children were grown and stable, producing heirs with stately precision. Of the three duchies sharing a border with Alarie, Navarro had the best relationship with them, trading across the Prideux River and rarely allowing politics to get in the way of a good deal. She was dressed in a neat, almost understated gown, her sash of Otoneil blue bearing the badge of her Saint proudly.
Lastly, there was Duchess Isabel Dora Carvajal Ocasio de Herrera. Her mother had been Bolivar’s aunt but that was where the familial similarities ended. Where Bolivar was rather short and rotund, Isabel was tall and willowy. Where Bolivar’s face was often likened to the wrong end of a horse, Isabel had been compared to Saint Casilde and it was the saint found wanting. In a ball gown she was unparalleled, but most often she wore form fitting trousers, ruffled blouses and tailored jackets in velvet and satin, simply trimmed but elegant. Today her pants were a rich brown, her blouse brilliant white and jacket rust-red. Her wealth of white-blond hair was piled on top of her head in artful disarray, eyes rimmed in kohl and lips the same shade as her jacket. She was striking and Sol didn’t blame Sergio for his repeated attempts to woo her. Yet despite her obvious appeal, she had not married nor taken a lover so far as rumour knew. It was whispered she was a virgin, despite her thirty-six years, and would remain so until Ibarra decided to marry again.
Isabel watched Sol with unfathomable eyes, neither bored nor interested in his news. The others at least pretended.
“Yes, Aracelle gave birth to a son,” Sol said. “Prince Sebastian Xavier is fit and healthy and, as I’m constantly told, luckily looks like his mother.”
Sarabia let out a loud laugh. “Congratulations, young man. Good work, good work indeed.”
Caritina nodded her approval and Galo offered a small, neat bow. Isabel managed a tiny smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Yet it was Ibarra Sol was keen to see react. The duke stood back, contemplating the implication of the name.
He was a tall man, still lean and fit, a full head of dark hair lightly touched by silver, despite being nearly twenty years older than Aracelle. Alamar seemed to fill any space he occupied, an unshakable confidence allowing him to immediately own any situation. It was a characteristic Sol had seen grow in the man over the years they’d known each other. Sol could remember as a child meeting a younger Alamar who was not so daunting, who tended to hold back and allow others to dominate the room. Alamar and Aracelle’s father had been the forceful presence back then, intimidating to a young boy. After the birth of Alamar’s third child, Prince Aden Delfino, the man had begun to change. As his father had started to decline, Alamar had begun to take his place, both in rulership and indomitable pride.
“Sebastian to honour Saint Sevastian,” Alamar said. “Fitting. But Xavier?”
“Aracelle and I both stand by our son’s name,” Sol said, firm but not aggressive. “Gabriel is our friend, no matter what he may have done.”
Alamar’s eyes drooped, almost as if he was tired, then they brightened again. “After the meet
ing we’ll talk.” He returned to his seat at the table. “Perhaps we should call this meeting to order. I understand Duchess Karyme de Leon is preparing a wondrous party for us tonight. I’d hate to be late.”
There was a protracted scuffle of chairs and murmurs as everyone found their seats. Sol sat between Sergio and Eloisa while Alamar’s page circulated copies of the agenda. Alegria’s petition had been scheduled for the following day. The first topic was the war.
Alamar motioned his page to unroll a large map on the table. “This map marks the most recent information we have on the progress of our protective effort in the Valley.”
Sol hid his grimace. Our? Just because Alamar had bullied Bolivar into lending aid and Isabel, willing to roll over for Alamar for any little cause, had happily offered whatever support he needed, it was suddenly all of Delaluz in the Valley. Of course, now there was a de Roque presence there, so Sol leaned over and studied the map.
Delaluz was, at base, a strip of land between Alarie and Talamh. The Talamhian Ranges marked their eastern border, while the Prideux River and Fournier Chasm separated them from Alarie. Neither river nor chasm had existed until just over a thousand years previous, when Luz had split the land. The trauma to the earth had ruptured the fifth of the Great Lakes in what was now Valdes, diverting the water into the northern part of the fracture.
To the south, the hostility of the Valley created a natural border. Delaluz was land locked but for its northern edge and that was mostly sheer cliffs, except for the eastern portions of Roque where there were several natural harbours.
Apart from the border with Delaluz, Alarie was surrounded by the ocean. There was a vast amount of coastline; a few small, round toped ranges; scattered, sluggish rivers and acres of land so flat water tended to pool and create seasonal swamps. There was a desert in the south, worse than the Valley in terms of lack of water and dangerous life forms.
The frontline of the war in the Valley was actually several separate lines, defined by the shape of the valleys. The curving lines of ragged mountain ranges reminded Sol of waves on the ocean, all lined up one after the other, ready to crash onto southern Delaluz. The positions of the various battalions were marked in red and Sol wondered which one Gabe was with.
Dead Bones Page 10
