by Juliet Kemp
“Asa? A – friend? A good friend?”
“Um,” Jonas said, not wanting to confirm or deny, and his mother’s eyebrows went up.
“Well. Perhaps you could bring Asa tonight?”
“It’s fine,” Jonas said. “They’ll understand if I cancel. I mean, it’s not every day my mother comes into port, is it? Perhaps another time? How long are you staying?”
“At least a week,” his mother said, and his heart sank just a little. “Longer if need be.” She was still looking speculative. “Never mind tonight, then. I need to meet with Kia, once I send a message; time enough to catch up then.” Her eyes fell on his messenger’s armband, and he saw her remembering its significance, remembering how Marek organised these things. “You’re working as a messenger?”
“Yes,” he said, raising his chin slightly.
“Oh, I don’t disapprove at all, Jonas,” his mother said. “It’s a good enough job to be taking while you’re here. I’m sure you know the city well now, then.”
“That is an advantage,” Jonas said. “And I’m my own employer, which I like too.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“Well then. If you’ll wait a moment for me to write it, I’ll send a message to Kia with you. And I’ll tell her that I want you along to dinner. Old shipmates, hey? And you can bring this Asa.” She counted on her knuckles. “Three days from now. That will work nicely.”
Dinner with his mother and Kia. Kia who knew all about the whole mess with Daril and Urso and Cato a couple of months back, and at least something of Jonas’s role in it. How delightful. And Asa too. Sea and spit. He had no desire to see Kia right now. Not before he had time to think.
“I’d love to, Mother,” Jonas said, “but I’m on a message already,” an outright lie, “and I really should be straight along. I’ve delayed already to meet you. But of course I’ll be happy to have dinner with you and Kia. I’m sure Asa will be, too.”
He could hardly say otherwise. But to say he wasn’t looking forward to it was wildly to understate the case.
SEVEN
Marcia was thinking of Reb as she walked down the Hill the next morning, towards Petrior’s. It was on Third Street, only two turns below her own House. She could shorten the route if she cut through the alleys between the Houses, but she’d regret it if she took a misstep into the rubbish that sometimes clogged them. It wasn’t much further to go around the long way, and the streets were more frequently swept.
She was trying to talk herself out of feeling hurt by how dismissive Reb had been about the Council. Surely it wasn’t that outrageous an idea? Though she had a sneaking suspicion that Cato would have been even more dismissive, and more likely to laugh in her face. She sighed. Reb didn’t want the Council; best just to accept that, and not take it personally. Marcia had other things to think about. Such as what Nisha and Aden might have come up with.
Third Street was bustling with people wandering along it, peering into windows, and clustered into loudly chatting knots; but as soon as she stepped through the door of Petrior’s sumptuous infusion-salon, nestled between a bookshop and a dressmaker’s, the noise died away into a hushed quiet, aided by the richly dyed and embroidered fabric draped everywhere. Petrior had a fondness for purples and pinks which Marcia found a little overwhelming, but the infusions and the food were beyond criticism. A waiter appeared before the door had shut behind her, and showed her, with a bow and a murmured greeting, past the private curtained booths which lined the main room and up a half-flight of stairs to the private rooms. One of the doors stood a little open, and when the waiter showed her in, Nisha was already there, half-reclining on a grey velvet sofa.
“Marcia, darling,” she said, gesturing at the waiter, who retreated and shut the door behind them. “They’ll bring us an infusion in a moment. Do you have any preference? I find rosehip and lemon revitalising in the mornings.” She sat up a little. “Do have a seat.”
Marcia chose the equally comfy armchair opposite the sofa. The room was just about big enough for the two small sofas and armchair, with a table between them, its ornate inlay portraying the founding of Marek. There was no obvious reference to the cityangel, just Rufus Marek and Eli Beckett gazing off into the distance looking noble.
The door opened again revealing Aden – tall, thin, and red-haired, in his customary green – and another waiter with a tray of tea.
“Peppermint for me,” Aden told the waiter. “Can’t bear rosehip at any time of day.”
“Your taste always was dubious, Aden darling,” Nisha said, making room for him on her sofa as he pulled a face at her.
“So,” Marcia said, pouring rosehip and lemon for herself and Nisha. “What has Nisha told you?”
“Convincing the Houses to let the Guilds actually do something in Council,” Aden said promptly. “And as it happens, I do have an idea as to a deal that might work for at least a vote or two.”
“Yes?” Marcia said. She tried not to raise her eyebrows. She had doubted that Aden would be interested in this; evidently she’d been wrong and Nisha right.
The door opened for the delivery of Aden’s peppermint infusion, and they paused their conversation.
“The Guilds were supposed to raise their bar on House apprentices or journeyman, right? And they didn’t,” Aden said, once the waiter had gone again. “Well, they did, in theory, but not in practice.” His cheek twitched. Aden himself had been one of those quietly rejected. “There’s at least two Houses with close relatives affected by that. If the Guilds take those people on – it’ll need to be real, though, not just a promise, not this time – then there’s a chance of getting the House votes in exchange.”
“Your House is one of them?” Marcia asked.
“I can talk to Tigero-Head,” Aden said, referring to the Head of his own House. “We’re friends, and – he owes me one, basically.” Andreas, Tigero-Head, was rather younger than Marcia, Aden, and Nisha. His father had died a year previously, a bare month or so after Andreas had been confirmed as Heir at twenty-one. As far as Marcia could see, Andreas was terrified of dealing with the other Heads, all a good twenty or thirty years older than him and far more experienced. Marcia had tried to reach out to him a couple of times but hadn’t got anywhere. Maybe she should try again, via Aden. She hadn’t been aware that they were friends.
“Enough of an owing to risk the enmity of the other Houses?” Marcia asked. She doubted it, unless Andreas had developed a backbone while she wasn’t looking.
“Well, there’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s going to depend very much on how it’s handled. But,” Aden tapped his teeth thoughtfully with the spoon from his infusion. “I do think Andreas knows the gulf between the Guilds and the Houses is growing, and that there might yet be consequences from that. A closer link for our House in particular, well, that might pay off, mightn’t it?”
“You mean that if you’re a journeyman you’ll get a good deal on Broderers’ Guild goods for your House,” Marcia said. “You realise that that’s exactly why there was a ban on House members joining Guilds in the first place?”
Aden shrugged. “But the ban’s lifted. There’s something to be had for both parties, is the point. And if I can remind Andreas that he’s going to be dealing with all of this for a damn sight longer than the other Heads…” He sighed. “Marcia, if you think you’re going to get this without a certain amount of, let’s say, pragmatic dealing, then you’re deluded.”
“So that’s one, maybe two votes,” Nisha said. “If you, Marcia, can convince the Guilds to take on a couple of House members, as a show of goodwill.”
“Risks strife between the Guilds,” Marcia said. “They’ll realise the trading advantage.”
“Maybe they’ll all go looking for House members,” Nisha suggested. “Once the block is broken…”
“It’s the breaking of the block in the first place, though,” Marcia said. “You’re not wrong, but… Fine. I’ll give it some thought. I’ve got a contact at the Broderer’
s Guild.” She was gloomily aware that installing Aden there would likely damage her own House advantage, but there it was. “That’s still only two votes, at most.”
“Three, with you.”
With her, if she could talk Madeleine round; but she couldn’t say that. If Nisha and Aden thought her own House vote was in doubt, this whole thing would crumble under her.
“We need four, at least,” Marcia said. Thirteen Houses, ten Guilds. Two for the majority, four for a solid result that wouldn’t cause a dramatic rift between the Houses.
Nisha was wearing a slightly odd smile. Marcia frowned at her.
There was a gentle knock at the door, before the waiter put their head around it.
“We’re fine with what we have…” Marcia began, and then the waiter opened the door a little further, and someone stepped in.
Daril. Daril Leandra-Heir.
After a frozen moment, Marcia opened her mouth – to say something like, I think you must be mistaken – but Nisha was standing up, greeting Daril warmly, offering him a choice of infusion. Marcia shut her mouth again.
“I don’t think Marcia was expecting me,” Daril said, once he had sat down on the spare sofa. “I certainly wasn’t expecting her.” He looked over at her, meeting her eyes for the first time. She couldn’t read his expression. They hadn’t seen one another other than across a formal function room since Mid-Year.
Suddenly, the armchair felt like it was sucking her in, suffocating her. She wanted to sit up straight, but she didn’t want to reveal her discomfort. She forced her shoulders to relax, forced herself to sit back again.
“I thought it would be better as a surprise, given the strange antipathy the two of you have to one another,” Nisha said, sitting back down as relaxed as ever.
Marcia met Daril’s eyes again, and this time she could see him make exactly the same calculation that she did about whether or not to say anything about the ‘strange antipathy’; and could see him realising that she too didn’t want to give Nisha anything further to gossip about. For the first time, she swallowed a half-smile.
“Well,” Daril said. “Perhaps you could explain why we’re here.”
“We’re hoping for Leandra’s vote,” Nisha said, bluntly.
“Are you indeed. And on what? You are aware that I am Leandra-Heir, not Leandra-Head? At least – I haven’t seen the old man yet this morning. You never know.”
“Given you are Heir now,” Aden said, “Nisha and I thought that you might have more influence than you… once… did.”
Daril’s eyes hardened slightly. “I see. Well, perhaps so, or perhaps not. Would you care to elaborate?”
Every bone in Marcia’s body told her not to give herself away to Daril; but it was too late now. If she didn’t tell him, he’d go looking, now he knew there was something to look for. And if he was watching, she wouldn’t be able to hide it. The Guilds would happily hold private meetings, their content kept between those attending; they wouldn’t tolerate out-and-out secrecy. And if Nisha and Aden thought that Daril could usefully be involved, they wouldn’t be above recruiting him directly if Marcia refused.
“There is a gulf growing between the Houses and the Guilds,” Marcia said, starting from the angle that might make most sense to Daril. “A gulf created by the fact that their apparent political power is in practice only theoretical. Created by the way in which the Houses have chosen to quite openly keep that power to themselves. And at the same time, the change in the way the Houses work has created – as you yourself are all too aware – a dissatisfied class of our peers. I would like to solve both of those problems; but to begin with the Guilds.”
“You want to give the Guilds more power.”
“I want to dissolve the Small Council, and elect a further two Guild seats.”
“Goodness me,” Daril said. He was silent for a while. “The rot goes a lot deeper than that, you know,” he said, finally. He sounded almost chatty.
“I remember you arguing along similar lines earlier this year,” Nisha said smoothly. “Which is why I thought of you.”
Daril was looking at Marcia again, and ignoring Nisha.
“One thing at a time,” Marcia said through her teeth.
Daril flicked an eyebrow upwards, then shrugged. “In any case. I fear I cannot be of assistance. My father… would most certainly not approve of your ideas.”
“Your father?” Aden said incredulously. “Since when do you care about what your father wants?”
“Since he made me Heir,” Daril said. “As the representatives of our House, we endeavour to remain on positive terms. And so – no. I wish you the best of luck, of course.”
He stood up, and nodded affably to all of them.
Marcia wanted, desperately, to ask if he intended to mention it to anyone. From the tilt of his eyebrows, she thought Daril was waiting for the request. But she couldn’t hand him that weapon; couldn’t demonstrate that she cared whether this was secret or not. Couldn’t, come to that, insult him by asking.
“See you at the card-tables,” Nisha said cheerfully.
Daril shut the door behind him.
“Oh well,” Nisha said. “Back to the drawing board, then, for the fourth vote.”
Marcia fought not to shout at Nisha, to ask what the hell she had been thinking. It wasn’t, on the face of it, a bad idea to speak to Daril, given what he’d been saying earlier in the year. It made sense. It wasn’t Nisha’s fault that Marcia didn’t want anything to do with Daril, and it wasn’t Nisha’s fault that Daril had said no.
Even if she did, ever so slightly, suspect Nisha of stirring.
“I’ll think over our allies,” Marcia said, instead, striving for calmness of tone. “And perhaps you could consider whether there’s anything Kilzan-Head might be in need of.”
She was going to make this happen. Daril or no.
k k
Selene, wrapped in a wool cloak against the breeze, stood next to Marcia at the top of Marekhill. Marcia, looking out over the city spread below them, felt her customary surge of affection and belonging. It occurred to her to wonder what Selene – as representative of the Teren crown, and thus notional overlord of the city – felt. A covert glance sideways at Selene’s profile gave her no information.
“It is kind of you to agree to meet me,” Selene said, without turning to look at Marcia. “And, indeed, to show me this view.”
Marcia’s main criteria for the choice of venue was that it offered little likelihood of being overheard and that it looked moderately unexceptionable, taking the Lord Lieutenant on a pleasant walk through Marekhill Park. The bathhouse worked well for discreet discussions, but Marcia hardly felt that she was at that level of casual friendly intimacy with Selene, and nor did she want to be. Taking a room at Petrior’s or some other infusion-salon would make it all too obvious that they were seeking privacy. Marcia could get away with that with Nisha and Aden, even Daril; the Houses and their offshoot youth were constantly engaging in gossip and political chat. Not so the Lord Lieutenant. Marekhill was far safer. More obvious, and thus less obvious.
Of course, if all Selene wanted was information on magic, then only a small amount of decorum was warranted. One didn’t speak of magic on Marekhill, but it wouldn’t matter overmuch if Marcia was overheard doing so, beyond a few days of gossip among anyone looking to have a dig at her. It wasn’t like everyone didn’t remember Cato, however much they might pretend they didn’t. Witness the fact that Selene had asked about him; she must have obtained that information somewhere.
Maybe it was only an excess of caution that meant Marcia wanted a little extra deniability.
“The Thirteen Houses are all at the top of the hill, just beneath us?” Selene asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Marcia said. Selene had visited them all by now, of course, but probably in a litter, rather than walking on her own feet. “Along the first two tiers of the road that winds down the hill. The Council building, of course, you will remember – we passed it at
the entrance to the park.”
“And there are the docks,” Selene gestured across the river.
“You can see the ferry there, leaving from the Old Market to come to the bottom of the cliff on this side of the river,” Marcia said, pointing down at the boat in question.
“What does one buy at the Old Market?” Selene asked.
“Nearly anything,” Marcia said. “The wholesale market is further to the west, you understand.” She pointed. It was just visible to her eye, though Selene might not be able to spot it. “The Old Market sells on a smaller scale – food, cooked and uncooked, drink, some household goods and clothes. Most people on this side of the river buy from shops on Marekhill or over there in the merchants’ quarter,” she gestured southwest, towards an area at the foot of Marekhill, “but I know our cook sends over to the Old Market for extras sometimes.”
“And magic?” Selene asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can one buy magic, in the Old Market?”
Reb’s house was a couple of streets north of the Old Market, as it happened; but Marcia didn’t want to use Reb’s name to Selene.
“I believe there is a sorcerer on that side of the river, yes,” she said.
“Your mother seemed unhappy at my talk of magic,” Selene said.
“The Houses do not engage in magic,” Marcia said. “May not, by law, engage in magic, either directly, or through a sorcerer, paid or gifted.”
Of course, both she and Daril had broken that rule. She, at least, had only been helping Reb in an emergency; and, arguably, grounding Reb wasn’t, technically, engaging directly in magic.
Cato had broken that rule very thoroughly, over a decade ago, and their mother had disowned him for it. In truth she couldn’t have done otherwise, if he wouldn’t stop. But she didn’t have to do it as thoroughly as she did; not just expelling him from the House, but stopping all contact. She’d never even asked after him during the plague, though Marcia knew for a fact that Madeleine had known Marcia was nursing Cato through it.
“So that is why your mother said she did not have a sorcerer child,” Selene said. “The sorcerer is no longer of the House.”
