by Matthew Ward
“Don’t do that.”
[[Do what?]] The sing-song chimed with the innocence of a spring morning.
Josiri glared. He raised the glass again, only to break off as the whimper began anew.
“Ana!”
The whine faded. [[If you’re to be like that, I think I’ll take a turn on the terrace.]]
In other words, away from as many of the other guests as possible. “And leave me all alone?”
[[I agreed to accompany you. I didn’t agree to be stared at.]]
“No one’s staring at you.”
[[They will, once they find their nerve. They always do.]] Her fingers closed around his, rigid and yet somehow warm. [[Drink. Mingle. But don’t enjoy yourself too much. I see a lot of pretty and inviting faces here tonight. Remember that I can crush every bone in your body to powder.]]
“Yes, dear.” Josiri stooped to kiss her forehead. “Maybe you’d go with her, captain?”
“Gladly, sah,” Kurkas said feelingly.
As his reluctant companions retreated, Kurkas ducking awkwardly beneath the chandelier’s mooring rope, Josiri cast about for familiar faces. He found a few. Grand councillors with whom he’d exchanged words both fair and foul. One or two captains of hearthguard, their loyalties proclaimed by the colours and emblems of their uniforms, and none of them looking much happier to be present than the departed Kurkas. And somewhere between those strata, guests of less certain rank. Churchmen, artists and actors – merchants not yet rich enough to ease passage to a councilman’s chair. The good, but not yet necessarily great.
“Josiri!”
An enthusiastic wave heralded a train of ruby skirts and a trail of chestnut curls.
“Mistress Darrow.”
“Mistress Darrow?” Green eyes sparkled. “We’re very formal tonight.”
“We’re overcome by mortal terror. Anastacia gave stern warning about flirtatious behaviour.”
“Then we’ve something in common, my bonny. Vona gave me the same lecture. Manacles were mentioned, along with losing the key thereof. I had taken a fancy to one of the servants – they’re always so grateful – but if you’ve a better offer…?”
Josiri laughed. Hawkin Darrow was about as different from her wife in build and manner as could be imagined, with a dancer’s grace and a generous nature. She was also something of an oddity that evening. A steward had no place among the finery of her betters, except as a servant.
“Incarceration for one and pulverisation for the other?” he said. “I’ve no desire to end up as a tragic fable.”
Hawkin shook her head. Slender, musician’s fingers plucked a wine glass off a passing tray. She clasped it tight and gave a rueful shake of the head that would have been convincing but for the wicked grin.
“Woe is me. This is why I’m only a poor steward. I can’t even arrange a simple assignation with the most notorious man in the room. I might tell Vona you made a pass at me, just for appearances.”
“Please don’t.”
The smile faded. “She told me what you found this morning. I’m sorry.”
Memories of mist and a bloody archway flashed back. “We saved some. That will have to do.”
Hawkin nodded, her eyes glassy. “Last year, when the vranakin took me… I thought I was going to die. I woke from a wonderful dream, and they were there, at the end of my bed. Waiting. I didn’t even have time to scream.” Her voice tightened. “I hope you find them.”
“I intend to. And with Vona’s help, I might actually succeed.” He shook his head, the better to dispel unhappy memories. “Where is our gallant captain of the constabulary?”
“She and Izack are making military assault on the buffet. I pity the bystanders.”
“And the children?”
“Constans is banished to his chambers. I didn’t ask why. Sidara’s around somewhere. Dressed prim and plain as you can imagine. Lady Reveque’s hoping no one will notice her.”
“It’s the nature of mothers to worry after their daughters.” A grey-haired woman appeared at Hawkin’s shoulder, swelling the conversation circle to three. “And the nature of the Republic to make those daughters old before their time.”
Hawkin smiled. “Lady Mezar, the cynic.”
“A realist, if you please.” She delivered the rebuke softly, sea grey eyes betraying no offence. “Malachi’s the closest thing we’ve had to a monarch in a great many years. Those looking to share in his power will set their hopes on arranged marriage to his heir.”
Josiri scowled. “Sidara’s fourteen. She’s still a child.”
Lady Mezar laughed. “And when has that stopped anyone? It’s not the marriage that’s important, but the promise of it. The rest will wait. The Republic was built upon such traditions.”
Those traditions were responsible for Lilyana Reveque being guarded with her daughter – but unflattering dress was only part of it. Where her ten-year-old younger brother often left the estate – albeit in the company of parents or servants like Hawkin, Sidara seldom did. A pious recluse, whose studies held sway over youthful enthusiasms, so the official word went. The unofficial truth, to which Josiri was privy and Lady Mezar was not, was that Sidara was confined to Abbeyfields. For all that Josiri had readily sworn himself to secrecy regarding Sidara and her… unusual talents, he’d nothing but pity for a girl he’d seen perhaps a handful of times in the past year.
“The Republic was built on a great many traditions,” he said. “Some do far more harm than good.”
“But are we a Republic any longer?” said Lady Mezar.
Hawkin’s eyes lingered on expensive gowns and tailored coats. “Most people in this room would say so.”
“Most people in this room are fools,” Lady Mezar replied.
Josiri sipped from his glass to conceal a smile. “But not you?”
She shrugged. “I leave that for others to judge.”
“You prefer to judge Malachi?” said Josiri.
“Someone should, don’t you think? I promise you this, Lord Trelan. When I’m on the Council, I’ll do everything I can to annul the position of First Councillor.”
“Because you think Lord Reveque’s in danger of becoming a tyrant?” The gleam in Hawkin’s eye might have indicated amusement, or could equally have hinted at offence.
Lady Mezar shook her head. “From what I’ve seen, he’s an honourable man. But life does strange things to honourable men. Especially when they learn that all the power in the world has its limits. Think on that, Lord Trelan, I beg you.”
With that, she withdrew into the crowd.
“Very sure of herself, isn’t she?” said Hawkin.
Josiri drained his glass. “She has reason. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew the tyrannous Lord Reveque supports her claim to the Privy Council seat?”
Hawkin arched an eyebrow. “Truly?”
He nodded. “He’s not alone. She speaks her mind, and for the most part, it’s good sense. Malachi as First Councillor? That’s one thing. His successor might be something else entirely.”
“You just don’t want to be the only troublemaker in the room.”
“Harsh words, from a woman who tempted me to indiscretion only minutes ago.” Josiri cast a surprised glance at his glass, which had been refilled without his noticing. “But there may be some small truth to that.”
The veranda was empty, the night breeze having driven guests to seek the gaiety of the house or the shelter of the trees. Kurkas was well content that it was so, protected as he was by the thick cloth of his uniform. But he worried about the heaviness of the air and the promise of rain. He’d been too long a soldier not to know when a storm was in the offing. He stared across the treetops, to the clouds looming above the skeletal ruins that gave Abbeyfields its name, and decided that the storm would hold off for a time yet.
That storm, anyway.
He crossed to the veranda where Anastacia stood, hands braced on the balustrade and expressionless eyes staring at the ruins of Strazyn Abbey. As e
ver, she gave Kurkas the impression that what she saw was not what he beheld, and he wondered if her ageless eyes had fallen on those stones before their humbling.
“We could take a turn around the gardens?”
[[Are there people in the gardens?]]
“One or two.”
[[Then no, we couldn’t.]]
A sharp clink drew Kurkas’ gaze to the balustrade, and the spidery crack where Anastacia gripped the stone. Yes, a storm was coming. A sensible man would have sought shelter, battened down the windows and offered a prayer for those caught without.
“Right you are, Lady Psanneque.”
[[Don’t call me that.]]
“Right you are, plant pot.”
She turned from contemplation of the distant ruins. [[You’re insufferable, you know that?]]
Kurkas kept his eye fixed straight ahead. “Yes, ma’am. Not fit to stand in your shadow or breathe the same air. If you want your shoes licking clean, you’ve only to say. Haven’t eaten since midday, and it’d be something of a treat.”
The baleful stare dissipated into musical laughter. [[One of these days, I might say yes.]]
“And won’t that be a day?” He chanced a smile. “You have worse, growing up in Dregmeet. And as for army rations—”
[[Have you really not eaten since midday?]]
First laughter, now concern. Weren’t many folk who rated one, let alone the other. “Been busy. Be a while before your hearthguard will be anything like real soldiers.”
[[There’s food inside. Don’t let me stop you.]]
“Orders is orders,” Kurkas replied. “Besides, you’ve the look of one fixing to cause mischief. I wouldn’t want you to happen to anyone.”
More laughter. [[You really think I might?]]
“Why don’t you tell me?”
With no reply forthcoming, he stared back at the half-glassed doors and the simarka standing sentry to either side. The bright lights and soft pastel cloth of quality folk whiling away the night in comfort and gluttony. For a moment, he was a child again, face pressed up against the glass, wondering at what it must be like to live in such a world. As hearthguard captain to a family of the first rank, he teetered on the threshold, but he’d never truly belong. Dregmeet was more a part of him than it was not.
[[Ephemerals. So certain of their place. So busy chasing after things that don’t matter and ignoring things that do. If I still had my wings, my flesh – if I was still as my mother made me – I’d break every heart in that room, shatter every marriage and bring death so horrific and indiscriminate their grief would darken the sun… Yet still they’d crawl to me, begging for a word, a blessing.]] Anastacia stared down at her hand and flexed her fingers. [[A touch. Instead, I’m an outcast. A freak tolerated because of the bed I share, and pitied when they think my attention’s elsewhere.]]
The words resonated more than they should. Or perhaps not. Fifteen years and more had flown past since Kurkas had lost eye and arm on the battlefield, and yet each time a gaze lingered on leather patch or folded sleeve he felt the loss anew.
“I didn’t think it bothered you,” said Kurkas. “It’s not like you go chasing approval.”
[[It didn’t, and now it does. I can’t explain.]]
“For what it’s worth, I reckon you could still kill ’em all, if you put your mind to it.”
The idea seemed to cheer her, for she stood straighter. [[That’s right, I could.]] She sighed theatrically. [[But Josiri would never let me hear the end of it.]]
Kurkas chuckled. For all that Anastacia’s humour teetered on the homicidal, he found it refreshing. And he clung to the uncertain hope that such words were spoken in jest.
“You know what I think?”
[[Honestly, there are days when I’m surprised you even can.]]
“Glad to have your sympathy, milady.” He hesitated. “I think you’re more human – more ephemeral – than you let on.”
She glared. [[That’s a horrible thing to say.]]
He grinned. “How long is it you’ve been stuck among us now?”
[[It feels like for ever. And this conversation longer than all the rest.]]
“We’re rubbing off on you. Or Lord Trelan is, at any rate. A piece of you wants to be accepted, otherwise none of this would bother you.”
[[Vladama? Your lips are flapping and making a distressing noise. You should put a stop to it before I take the decision out of your hands… hand.]] She growled. [[You really think I seek acceptance from those creatures? All that squirming delusion driven by selfish appetite?]]
More than ever, given that Anastacia languished in self-delusion and appetites that differed only in scale and subject. However, Kurkas elected for discretion. Reduced in stature though Anastacia considered herself, a grip that cracked stone was not one to lightly offend.
“Not all. Just one or two. The ones that matter. You’re not seeking worship, but friends.”
Her posture shifted, the tilt of the head and the crook of her arms suggesting thoughtfulness. Kurkas found her easier to read than many of his flesh-and-blood betters. She’d honesty others lacked – while the language of her being made for challenging translation, it offered little deception.
[[And are we friends, Vladama?]]
He stiffened to attention. “Appalled you should even ask, milady. Dregmeet scum, me, and unbecoming of such hallowed company.”
She turned away, returning to contemplation of the distant abbey. [[See you remember that.]]
But all the hauteur of her words couldn’t disguise their warmth.
Kurkas stiffened further as the door opened a crack. A tall, waifish girl with loose-bound golden hair slipped onto the veranda. She set the door softly to, turned about, and jumped in startlement.
“I’m sorry.” She averted her eyes. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted some air. It’s so stuffy in there.”
The lie was smoothly enough told, but she’d much to learn about controlling her expression. The twitch of the cheek betrayed the deception as surely as golden hair and sharp features made plain her identity. Sidara Reveque was very much her mother’s daughter – in appearance if not character. A dowdy grey dress could no more hide that than it could conceal the sun, and would likely struggle all the more as she left the last years of childhood behind.
“Not enjoying the party, miss?” asked Kurkas.
“Not really. It’s like I’ve been glazed in honey and left out on a butcher’s stall. I’m offered plenty of sweet words, but I don’t think they’re really for my benefit.”
Kurkas grunted. Clever, too. Still, given her parentage, that wasn’t really a surprise. Lord Reveque was canny, and Sidara’s mother was said to be shrewder still. Not that Lilyana Reveque had ever bothered to speak with him. A keen proponent of charity she may have been, but her largesse seldom extended to speaking with the lower orders.
[[Then you should make them so, child.]] Anastacia turned in a swirl of gold and cream skirts. [[Even insincere flattery betrays desire for something. You don’t have to appreciate the attention to make it serve you.]]
“You’re Lady Psanneque?” The words were more statement than question. “Mother says I’m not to talk to you.”
But she made no move to leave, and her expression remained more curious than worried.
[[Really, child? Why’s that?]]
“She says you’re a demon. A creature of the Dark that pretends to be a daughter of light.”
[[And she invited me anyway?]]
“Father invited you. He trusts Uncle Josiri, and Uncle Josiri says you’re a serathi.”
[[He told you that?]]
“Not… Not exactly.”
Kurkas stifled a smile. So Sidara had a knack for eavesdropping too? She’d take to politics like a natural.
[[Your mother hates me. Your father trusts me by proxy.]] To Kurkas’ surprise, Anastacia’s tone held no hostility, only a curiosity that mirrored the girl’s. [[What do you think?]]
Sidara swallowed,
but didn’t look away. “I… I think I should go back inside.”
[[Because that’s what your mother would want? And you never disobey your mother, I’m sure.]]
The first trickle of unease crept in. Kurkas cleared his throat. “Perhaps—”
[[Hush. Didn’t you just berate me for unfriendliness?]] Anastacia stepped closer to Sidara. A fisherman linked to the fish by the line, except the more Kurkas lingered on the scene, the less certain he was of which was which. [[You have a brother, don’t you? I imagine he never misbehaves.]]
“He never does anything but.” The words came out in a breathless spill, tinged with pent-up defiance. “Escaping the grounds to go exploring the city, avoiding his lessons. And he’s seldom punished. The only reason he’s not allowed to attend the party is because he was missing for the better part of a day, crawling about in the catacombs, and never once a word of apology. Yet I’m stuck in this house, and they talk of letting him attend one of the church colleges next year, and perhaps join a chapterhouse after that! I never see anyone, and when I do it’s for being my father’s daughter and not for myself, and—”
She broke off, suddenly cognisant of speaking such in front of strangers – one of whom might well have been a demon and the other of which was a commoner, and therefore worse. She glanced at Kurkas, at Anastacia, and back again. “I have to go.”
But again, she made no move.
[[Family is always difficult,]] said Anastacia. [[You should see mine. I’ve two uncles in particular who need only the slightest excuse to cause trouble. Tell me, do you think I’m a demon?]]
Sidara hesitated, eyes on Kurkas.
[[Oh, don’t mind him, child. Even a soldier knows how to keep a secret, don’t you, Vladama?]]
More and more, Kurkas was of the unhappy mind that he stood only partial witness to whatever was playing out before him. “Yes, milady.”
He didn’t try to sound convincing, but apparently Sidara had heard all she needed.
“I think you’re beautiful. Your wings. Your hair. I saw you once before, I think. When Uncle Josiri first came to stay. You were watching over him.”
[[You can see my wings?]]
Sidara nodded, transfixed. “It’s like there are two of you, standing in the same place. One like the statue on grandfather’s tomb, and the other the part that everyone else sees.”
