The Deep and Shining Dark

by Juliet Kemp

  Reb was chewing at her lip again, obviously deep in thought.

  “But when it comes down to it – this is still not your business,” Marcia said. “Cato has done nothing wrong.” That any of them knew of, at least.

  Reb, clearly frustrated, opened her mouth to reply when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Marcia saw Reb tense at the same moment she did so herself, before Jonas appeared at the door.

  “So,” Jonas said. “How are you all doing up here?”

  “Wonderfully,” Marcia said. “Did you find anything out about my brother?”

  “Impatient, ne? Fine, fine. Two nights ago he was drinking at the Purple Heart – his local, so the barmaid knows him well. Someone – hired muscle type, she said – came in to talk to him. Trying to be all quiet like. Cato said, very loudly, he wasn’t about to be summoned for some Marekhill idiot, next time send the puppetmaster not the puppet. The barmaid says she was bracing for a fight, but the hired muscle just walked out again. Then came back, she reckons an hour, maybe two, later, with a tall, thin bloke in a hooded cloak. Cato clocked him, laughed, and got up and left with them. She reckoned he looked more than a bit surprised. She was pretty sure the new bloke was Marekhill, he walked that way. And he paid Cato’s tab happily enough. She didn’t get a good look at his face, I’m afraid, but she said he had a sharp sort of nose, under the hood.”

  Tall, thin, Marekhill. Marcia’s stomach flipped. But it was absurd to think… no. There were plenty of men matching that description. But also…

  “Cato hated Marekhill folk,” she said. “He liked working here. He says he gets more interesting problems here than he would if he were – more reputable.” They’d argued about that a lot, over the years. Marcia had never yet won. “He wouldn’t just have gone off with some rich person.” Still less if it was… But that was absurd, surely. She had no reason to think it.

  Reb had been pacing the room while Jonas was speaking, running her fingers lightly over the dusty furniture and unmade bed. She turned round, a single strand of long dark hair across her palm.

  Cato’s hair was mid-brown, like Marcia’s, though Cato’s had a touch of red. And Cato kept his hair close-cropped. This could be from a lover; Cato surely had lovers, though he rarely mentioned anyone to her. But she didn’t believe it was.

  She looked up again to meet Reb’s gaze.

  “You seen Daril b’Leandra lately, then?” Reb asked.

  “He’s Thirteen Houses,” Marcia said. “It would be illegal…” She didn’t want it to be true. She didn’t want Cato to be anywhere near Daril.

  “Didn’t stop him ten years back,” Reb said, ripping straight through her paper-thin argument.

  Marcia shook her head, teeth clenched. “I haven’t spoken to him, more than for public courtesy, in ten years. But yes, he’s still around, if that’s what you’re asking. And Cato definitely wouldn’t have gone anywhere voluntarily with b’Leandra.”

  He wouldn’t. He still remembered that time, too. She was sure he wouldn’t. Her stomach felt hollow. If it was him who had come for Cato, was it all her fault for being so stupid ten years ago? It couldn’t be. That was all deep history, now. Dead and buried.

  “Well,” Reb said. “It’s a starting place. If b’Leandra was here – maybe Cato isn’t the one to blame, in all of this.”

  Jonas was looking between them. “You reckon it was someone called Daril b’Leandra? He’s Marekhill?”

  “Leandra is one of the Thirteen Houses,” Marcia said.

  “You know him?”

  “I… It’s a long story.” She felt unutterably weary.

  “Nasty piece of work,” Reb said. “Or he was, ten years ago.”

  Marcia could feel Reb’s eyes on her, but when she looked up, Reb’s gaze was warmer than it had been, just a little. She laid her hand briefly on Marcia’s shoulder, and Marcia relaxed, just a little. Enough to start to think again.

  “There’s – there’s a party tomorrow night,” Marcia said, taking a deep breath. “A formal event. Everyone will be there. Including him. Whatever else is going on.”

  “And you?” Reb asked.

  Marcia nodded. “I will – I don’t know. I can ask? Talk. Say something. See how he reacts.”

  Reb’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t go alone.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Who am I to take?” Marcia said. “I can hardly tell anyone all of this. And in any case, I won’t be alone. I will be in a room full of people.”

  “I want to know what you say to him,” Reb said, her voice cold again.

  “It was ten years ago!” Marcia snapped, suddenly furious. “My brother is missing! What reason do you have not to trust me? I just want him safe.”

  “That’s exactly it. I’m saying that we may have different priorities,” Reb said. “Something has happened to the cityangel, your brother is talking to spirits, and Daril b’Leandra is involved. I don’t know what you’d trade, or agree to, to get your brother out of trouble.”

  Marcia bared her teeth. “Fine. Well. Are you intending to escort me, then?”

  Her tone was harsh, and Reb flushed.

  “I don’t scrub up well enough,” Reb said, with a shrug. “And Beckett is right out.”

  Marcia wasn’t sure she agreed with the scrubbing up remark, but Reb would certainly stand out. Her eyes fell on Jonas. Young, attractive, Jonas. He would stand out a little, too, but in a way that was much more explainable. Marcia flouting convention with some young Salinas visitor, that wouldn’t raise anyone’s suspicions.

  “Jonas?” she said. “Do you want to go to a party?”

  FIVE

  Marcia’s hand shook slightly as she picked up the pot of eyeblack. She put it down, rested her hands on her lap, and took a couple of deep breaths. This was just a party. Just another party, like hundreds of other tedious Marekhill parties she’d been to over the last ten years. Many of which Daril b’Leandra had even been at.

  Except that for the last ten years she’d been assiduously avoiding him and his hangers-on. And now, she was… Well. What? What exactly was she intending to do? She could hardly ask a direct question. If he did have anything to do with Cato’s disappearance she might as well just hire a crier to announce her suspicions to him.

  But then, was there any way of avoiding that, really? Even short of a direct question, the fact that she was approaching him at all would give him pause. If he had nothing to do with this, he’d just be surprised; and she wasn’t sure how he’d react after that. If he did know about it, there was nothing, however indirect, that she could say at all that wouldn’t have him drawing conclusions. Ideally she’d get someone else to do it, but who was there that she could take this to? Especially given that as Fereno-Heir she shouldn’t be dealing with Reb, even socially. Was there any mileage in the fact that Daril, even if he wasn’t Heir, should also most certainly not be engaging with sorcerers? But then, that was back to being obvious.

  She bit her lip savagely. She had to find something, some excuse. That was all there was to it. She picked up the eyeblack again and began to apply it delicately, forcing her hand to hold steady. Really, this was just another form of politicking, and she’d been Heir for four years now. She knew all about politicking. She grimaced slightly as she closed the pot and put it down. Of course, that also meant that she should consider the political effect of being seen talking to Daril – ha, then again, perhaps that gave her other options. That conversation after Council with Gavin Leandra could potentially provide cover – even if Daril wasn’t Heir, she could imply that she had some interest in making nice with the House now. Would that ring true as a reason for suddenly seeming to want to be on terms with Daril? Or could she get some mileage out of Jonas as a visitor? She tapped her fingers on the table. Perhaps it was best to wait and see when Daril showed up before making a decision.

  Gods. She was going to have to talk to Daril. Her stomach churned. She was going to have to talk to Daril, and she was going to have to forget about any of their histo
ry, at least for now, otherwise she was highly unlikely to manage anything.

  She found herself wishing it had been Reb, rather than Jonas, who agreed to come. The idea of Reb’s solid presence was somehow comforting and, unlike Jonas, Reb knew about what had happened, which… She shook her head to clear it. An absurd idea. A sorcerer in the middle of a Marekhill party? It would be ridiculous even if Marcia could be seen with a known sorcerer. It was bad enough that it was common knowledge that she was still in touch with Cato. That was – reluctantly – accepted, because half-hidden, and because of the relationship. Reb had neither of those attributes. Of course, Marcia wouldn’t actually be committing any crime, but the perception of it could be nearly as bad.

  And surely it would be worse, not better, that Reb knew about her history with Daril? It wasn’t like Reb trusted her, after all. She’d said as much. Marcia swallowed and raised her chin. It didn’t matter what Reb thought. She was in this for Cato, and that was all. And if she didn’t get on with her face, she wouldn’t be ready in time anyway.

  Some time later, face painted, hair arranged, and dressed, she sat in her sitting room watching the clock. Where was that wretched messenger? It was going to take more than a minute or two to get him clean and appropriately dressed – she had raided the clothes Cato left behind to get something for him to wear – and at this rate they would be late enough to be rude.

  The door opened.

  “Jonas t’Risali, madam,” a servant announced.

  Marcia frowned. Surely Jonas would have the sense to come to the back door? Marekhill did not officially receive messengers. He must know that. Angels, why hadn’t she been more specific?

  “Your servant, m’lady,” Jonas said, stepping through the door and bowing.

  Marcia’s eyebrows flew up. The scruffy messenger she’d met the day before was clean, his long hair braided neatly back in a complicated pattern that she thought she’d seen before on the Salinas ambassador at formal events. His loose trousers and bright blue tunic were Salinas-formal, not Marek-formal, with richly-coloured panels of embroidery. Together with his bare face, it emphasised his foreign-ness, as borrowed Marek-formal and face-paint might not have done, but that might work to his advantage.

  His lips twitched, and Marcia realised that she’d been gawping. She flushed slightly.

  “I thought I might attract less attention visiting like this than if you were to be spiriting some street messenger into your house to be cleaned and dressed.”

  “Yes,” Marcia said, then added, fairly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that you would have anything suitable. I apologise, I shouldn’t have made assumptions.”

  Jonas shrugged, and sat himself down on a chair at right angles to hers.

  “Not unreasonable,” he said. “You wouldn’t have expected a Mareker living in the squats to be able to dress for a Marekhill party. Why expect me to?”

  “I know Cato,” Marcia said. “So I should know better. I should at least have asked rather than assuming.”

  She sighed, and rubbed at her fingers to keep them away from her face paint.

  “Cato is fine,” she said, hoping to convince herself. “He always lands on his feet, however much trouble he gets into. I just – want to make sure.” And to find out what Daril b’Leandra was up to, if anything? That too, maybe. She had a bad feeling about the whole situation.

  Jonas looked back at her and quirked a smile. “Brothers, eh?”

  She laughed, and the moment eased.

  “So,” Jonas said. “What do I need to know about tonight?”

  Marcia considered. “Do I need to talk about etiquette and so on?”

  Jonas shrugged. “My –” he paused for a fraction of a second. “I learnt Marek basics, along with the other trading states. As long as I’ll have a little slack for being foreign, I should be well enough.”

  Marcia desperately wanted to know more about his background now (what had he been about to say?), but she couldn’t think of a way to ask that wasn’t rude.

  “Well. This particular party is in honour of some visiting dignitary from Teren, but more importantly, it’s being held by House Haran – one of the Thirteen Houses – which means it is socially obligatory. That in turn means it will be full of politicking and social manoeuvring. Lots of behind-the-scenes Council talk.”

  “Do you have a position in the Council?” Jonas asked.

  “I am Fereno-Heir,” Marcia said. “I will take over from my mother in due course.” Which didn’t exactly give her a position now, or power, not exactly, but Jonas didn’t need to know that. She thrust aside the memory of her meeting with Madeleine that afternoon.

  Jonas nodded.

  “But at any rate – for a long time, Daril b’Leandra avoided all those things, but he came back on the scene about two years ago. So he’ll be there, but I expect he and his cronies will be late.” She glanced over at the clock, and stood. “As will we if we do not leave. Come. We’ll walk. It’s only along the street, and I hate being carried on a fine evening like this.”

  “Is there anything I should know about Daril?” Jonas asked, as they made their way down to the front door.

  Marcia stopped in the middle of arranging her shawl.

  “In all honesty,” she said, “I don’t think I can say anything useful. And perhaps it will be best for you to have minimal expectations. I will say – be careful.”

  She set her teeth, and reminded herself firmly: it was a decade ago. She was Fereno-Heir now, and her youthful indiscretions were behind her. She could face Daril b’Leandra.

  She shivered, and tightened her shawl around her.

  k k

  House Haran was on the same level of the Hill as House Fereno, but away from the river side of Marekhill, closer to the Council. All the Houses on this level backed onto the manicured park that occupied the very brow of the hill. Jonas looked up towards it as they walked along the street, torch-bearing servants ahead and behind.

  “Doesn’t that annoy you all?” he asked. “Not being able to build all the way to the top?”

  Marcia laughed. “That was the point,” she said, “or so the story goes. When the Houses were first establishing themselves, and wanted to begin building homes suitable to their new status, there was a great deal of arguing over land, especially higher land. After a few deaths, the Council – it was still very new, in those days – agreed to draw a line around the top of the hill and put it out of bounds. Meaning any House on this level could claim parity. There was a bit more fuss over who got here and who got Second, of course.” She indicated the level one further down the hill, after the first switchback turn. “Though it is all a very long time ago now.”

  “Your family is high in standing, then?” Jonas asked.

  “Yes,” Marcia said. “Highest among equals, of course, you understand,” she added with a self-mocking half-bow, and Jonas grinned. “House Fereno has always been strong among the Thirteen.”

  Below them, Marekhill was dark, the brightly-lit fronts of the buildings all looking down towards Old Bridge, or angled slightly towards the river. Glancing back over her shoulder towards her own house, Marcia saw the edge of the cliff outlined against the stars,, and the bulk of the mountains far off on the other side of the river.

  The square courtyard of House Haran was lined with stands of night-blooming flowers, their perfume sweetening the air. The central three-storey building was square and blocky in the old style, much like Marcia’s own home. Built on around it were newer wings in various of the styles that had been popular whenever a Head of the House had a little more money over the last couple of hundred years. The effect was a little gaudy in places, Marcia felt. The extensions to House Fereno had always been done in the old style.

  And Beckett had seen them all built. Marcia shivered.

  Jonas, gazing around the courtyard, was looking a little apprehensive, but he summoned a smile when she glanced over at him.

  “Over in the squats, you’ve half a hundred familie
s in a building that size,” he said.

  True enough, but somehow she never thought of it when she wasn’t over there.

  They had reached the door by now, where two servants in green tunics were bowing them in and reaching for Marcia’s shawl. She noticed for the first time that Jonas was wearing no over-jacket.

  “You don’t feel the cold?”

  “Cold at night, out on the water. Well, in the winter, anyway. You get used to it.”

  “Marcia Fereno-Heir and Jonas t’Riseri,” the major-domo announced them. Jonas, with a small bow, offered Marcia his arm, and they swept into the big room.

  It was already reasonably full. Marcia estimated that they had arrived at a little past the halfway mark. Enough time to settle in before it became hopelessly overcrowded. Tonight would be well-attended, both for the political value of the Teren visitor and because this was part of the lead-up to Mid-Year.

  Even ten years after her first entry into society it still always took her a few minutes and a circuit of the room to feel comfortable. Or as comfortable as one ever could in a room full of acquaintances, friends, and enemies, both personal and political, all busily examining and analysing one another’s behaviour and speech. Marcia’s mother had described it to her once as “exhilarating”, and it was one of the rare occasions (increasingly rare, in fact) on which Marcia and Madeleine had been wholly in accord. Navigating these social and political waters was a challenge, and Marcia enjoyed a challenge. She’d been raised to this.

  She sighed. She had been raised to it, but Madeleine wasn’t letting her do it, not when it really counted.

  She nodded politely to various people as she and Jonas moved through the room. Tonight, in fact, it might be best to engage in as few conversations as possible. Being seen entertaining a Salinas visitor would raise questions, which might not be such a bad thing given the trading situation. Was this a sign that Fereno was dealing well with the Salinas, after the abortive expedition? Or was this merely a personal connection of Marcia’s own? The fewer conversations she engaged in, the less opportunity anyone would have to lean in one direction or the other. The ambiguity would be more useful than any certainties. Especially given that the real reason wasn’t one she could admit to.