Shadow and Storm

by Juliet Kemp

  It would have been better manners to message Marcia first, but after that meeting with Gavin he couldn’t settle, and the idea of doing something was just too appealing. It was fine. Marcia could decline if she didn’t feel like seeing him.

  The reception room was pleasant, decorated in House Fereno’s pale blue and grey. Daril considered sitting down on one of the couches towards the far end of the room, but he’d be at a disadvantage if Marcia came straight in, and if she wasn’t available, he’d look foolish when he had to stand up and leave. So he stood, instead, by the window, looking out over the corner of Marekhill and down over the edge of the cliff to the river and trying not to be annoyed that Fereno had a better view than Leandra.

  “Leandra-Heir.”

  He swung round to face Marcia.

  “Fereno-Heir.”

  She came towards him, holding out a hand for him to shake. That felt odd too, but he did it anyway and hoped he was carrying it off.

  “Perhaps we could stick to Marcia and Daril?” she suggested. “What with one thing and another…”

  Formality between them, at this point, did seem a trifle foolish.

  “By all means,” he said. “Marcia.”

  “Please, do sit down,” she said, leading the way to the pale blue couches.

  He pushed away any thoughts of what had happened earlier in the year, and whether that might be contributing to his discomfort. Instead, he sat down on the couch at right angles to hers, and realised that he hadn’t actually prepared what he was to say.

  “So,” she said, after a moment where neither of them spoke. “I assume you’re here for a reason?” She sounded cautious, beneath her calm exterior, which was reassuring.

  For pity’s sake, though. He was acting like a tongue-tied child.

  “Your political proposals,” he said, abruptly. If he couldn’t think of a graceful way to introduce this, he could at least be blunt. (Like his father.)

  Marcia’s face stilled, then reset in more intent, visibly suspicious, lines. “Yes?”

  “I’m in.”

  Marcia’s eyes widened. “Really?” They narrowed again. “Why? You weren’t interested, last time we spoke.”

  “Would you believe that I’d changed my mind?”

  “Well, I might,” she said, and sat back. “But not when you put it like that. What happened?”

  Daril hadn’t meant to tell her about it. He hadn’t meant to tell her anything much. He wasn’t even certain yet what he meant by saying that he was in, and whether he truly intended to stick to it. And yet… “Gavin may have named me Heir, but he isn’t acting accordingly,” he said, bitterly.

  “I know the feeling,” Marcia said. “But – Daril.” She paused, then made a tiny gesture of irritation. “Look. I’ll be blunt. Nothing I’ve been talking about will make a blind bit of difference to you, do you understand? I’m not talking about hurrying along our own ascendancy. I mean, if that’s what you’re interested in, sit tight, wait for him to die.”

  Daril blinked. That was indeed unusually forthright.

  He shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t really care. I’m fed up with the whole sorry business.” The words surprised him as they came out of his mouth; but they felt, now he’d said them, alarmingly true.

  Marcia leant back against the arm of the sofa, regarding him with narrowed eyes, and rubbed at her chin with her knuckle. A tiny metal glint was pressed into the middle of one of her neatly-kept nails.

  “You’re fed up,” she repeated. “Daril, I’m not sure why you expect me to take this seriously.”

  “Since we last spoke, the Guilds have issued their own ultimatum,” Daril said. “And that speech from that wretched woman… I’m not interested in ‘renewing our links with Teren’. We are not Teren.”

  “Well, technically we are.”

  Daril waved an impatient hand. “For now. I don’t care, if they stay out of our business. But it seems she doesn’t want to, and the Guilds are playing straight into her hands.”

  “So, what’s your suggestion?” Marcia asked, looking at him sharply.

  Daril shrugged. “You were proposing very much what the Guilds want, before.”

  “Not quite,” Marcia said, wrinkling her nose. “They’re going rather further than I had thought of.”

  “Indeed. Which on the one hand makes things more difficult – the angel knows that Gavin is kicking up like mad about betrayal and all that – and on the other hand, perhaps there is scope for, well. Some kind of compromise, that works for both parties.”

  Marcia didn’t say anything. Daril tried not to fidget.

  “Can I trust you?” she asked, finally. “Two months ago you were trying to put yourself at the top of the pile. And now, what, you’re going to help me limit the power of the Houses?”

  “Since I don’t have any of the power of the Houses,” he said, more bitterly than he intended, “it hardly matters to me.”

  “It will eventually. And in any case. Wanting to stick it to Gavin isn’t the most reliable of motives.”

  “I spent the best part of a decade consistently motivated by wanting to stick it to my father,” Daril pointed out. “As motivations go, it’s been fairly reliable.”

  Marcia stifled a laugh. He felt absurdly cheered.

  Time to go on the offensive. “My question is, can you afford to turn away an ally? Most the Houses blame you, and by extension Fereno, for the Guilds’ decision. It may be neither fair nor accurate, but that doesn’t matter. Your reputation has taken a hit, and I don’t see anyone stepping up to defend you. Bluntly, Marcia, do you have anyone else who’s prepared to help?”

  Marcia looked away. “Is no help worse than unreliable help?”

  Daril rolled his eyes. “Well, frankly, yes. Like I say. Can you afford to turn away an ally?”

  “I can if I think the alliance will be worse for me, and for the House, than standing alone,” Marcia said. “Our Houses hardly have a history of mutual support to fall back on.”

  “You’re prepared to discard enough history. Why not that too?”

  Marcia looked like she was thinking more of their own personal history than their House history, and Daril hurried to move on. “This would entirely be in my own interest. I have no interest in Teren, and a divide between the Houses and the Guilds risks pushing the Houses into Teren’s arms. But more than that – Marcia, if we pull this off, we’ll be powermakers in our own rights.” He found his lips pulling back into a grin. “Heir, Head, whatever; we’ll be making something happen.”

  Marcia nodded slowly. “Well. That motivation I can buy. And I can’t deny that I need the backing, and Leandra is a strong House.” Politely, Daril didn’t mention that Leandra was likely stronger than Fereno right now. “Although if you’re at odds with your father again…”

  “Let me handle that,” Daril said, with a confidence that he didn’t quite believe.

  Marcia, from the tilt of her eyebrow, didn’t quite believe it either, but she let it pass.

  “Are we willing to do this with no other support?” she asked.

  Daril shrugged. “Two votes is enough.”

  “Numerically, yes,” Marcia agreed. “But in practice… what happens if the rest of the Houses push back? Legally, there’s nothing they can do, but if they refuse to cooperate… I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that.”

  “I’m prepared to go ahead regardless,” Daril said. “Like I said. Powermakers. You and I will be making a statement about the strength of our Houses; and at that point we’ll be able to work with the Guilds even if the others won’t, which would be lucrative to the point that it would be worth it just for that. Fereno is implicated already. Choose to move into that rather than away from it. Show you can turn Marek around even against the will of the other Houses, rather than knuckling under to their preferences.”

  Marcia’s lips compressed, but all she said was, “I’m concerned for the stability of Marek, if the Council is divided.”

  “The Counci
l is divided,” Daril pointed out, letting his impatience colour his tone. “You mean, if the Houses are divided. But at least this way, someone is leading. Providing an option that works. The rest of the Houses can be stubborn and hidebound, but they’ll have lost the vote. They’ll come around, if we and the Guilds keep our nerve.” He grinned. “Especially once they see Leandra and Fereno raking it in while they stagnate.”

  The corners of Marcia’s lips twitched upwards. She could play the altruistic card all she wanted, but when it came down to it, she was in this for her own benefit and that of her House just as much as he was. And she liked to take risks a lot more than she was willing to admit out loud. It was just that for once, they happened to be on the same side.

  “Well,” she said. “Nisha’s working on it, too, so we might get another vote. But if not – I think you’re right. This is better than failing to act.” She took a breath. “I have… a contact, in the Guilds. Who had what we might call a free and frank discussion with me. The Guilds will not back down. The Houses, as a whole, will not back down. But… I am due to speak to the Guilds, tomorrow, in the hope of finding some kind of solution.”

  Daril sat forwards. “Then we had better think about what you will say.” And then afterwards, he would have to work out how he could secure his own House vote, as he had so rashly promised.

  He would do it. He’d committed himself, now. And he even believed, as Marcia did, that it was the best course of action.

  He just hoped like hell that they were both right.

  EIGHTEEN

  Cato, when Jonas went to ask him about clothes, was unusually short.

  “Of course I don’t keep Marek formal around the place. Why the hell would you think I did? And why do you want to borrow Marek formalwear.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for Asa,” Jonas hesitated, then said, reluctantly, “My mother invited us to dinner at the embassy.”

  “Your mother… ?” Cato waved an impatient hand. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this. Why don’t you try a hire shop instead of hassling me, hmm?”

  On his way out, Jonas noticed that one of the other doors on Cato’s corridor stood ajar. Had someone risked moving in next to the sorcerer? Jonas doubted they would last long, whoever they were.

  He hadn’t known that there was such a thing as a shop which hired out fancy clothes – he’d never had occasion to bring a message to one – but once he found one, on the far side of Marek Square, in the district full of home garment-makers and lacemakers and all those who didn’t quite have Guild skills but who catered for the locals, the shopkeeper produced an aubergine tunic with adjustable side-fastenings, that would come to mid-thigh on Asa, and fitted trousers. It came with an over-vest, longer than the tunic, with a Marek lacework edging. Jonas, brought up on a trading ship, could see that it wasn’t up to the standards that the Lacemakers Guild shipped off to Exuria and the Crescent, but it was nice enough, and perfectly suitable.

  It looked good when Asa had it on, too. Jonas dressed in Salinas formal, the heavily-embroidered tunic and loose Salinas trousers that he’d brought with him when he came to Marek, and tried not to feel tremendously conspicuous as they left the squats together. The last time he’d dressed this way, he’d changed up on a roof, but he could hardly expect Asa to do that.

  “None of that facepaint stuff?” he asked Asa.

  “That’s for Marekhill,” Asa said, with only a tiny eyeroll. “House stuff. Not for the likes of me, thanks all the same.”

  He should probably have known that already.

  The streets of the squats were dark, as usual; folk here didn’t have spare money for torches. Old Bridge was lit, and Marek Square itself had a pair of torches over every door, including the embassy. Jonas squared his shoulders and marched up to the front door.

  Xera was polite enough when she opened the door, although she still glared suspiciously at Jonas when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  “She doesn’t like you much,” Asa observed, quietly, as Xera led them along the corridor to the dining room.

  She also had excellent hearing, Jonas was aware, as her back tensed.

  “Mid-Year,” he said, with a shrug, and Asa pulled a face.

  Shit, he hadn’t told Asa not to mention that in front of his mother. Surely they wouldn’t anyway. It was hardly suitable for polite conversation, was it? Oh, by the way, Kia let a bunch of idiots use the embassy to try to destabilise Marek, and Jonas helped them, or maybe the other thing, and I hit one of them with a chair. No. It was fine. It would all be fine.

  In the dining room, Kia and his mother were already seated, sipping deep blue berith from tumblers.

  “Ah, welcome,” Kia said. “Please do be seated.”

  “Mother, Kia,” Jonas said, bowing slightly to both of them, before pulling out a chair for Asa. “This is Asa. Asa, this is Kia t’Riseri, ambassador to Marek, and this is my mother, Captain t’Riseri.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Asa said, sitting down a little awkwardly. “I hope we’re not late?”

  “Not at all,” Kia said.

  “Glass of berith? Xera will bring the food in shortly.”

  “It’s quite strong,” Captain t’Riseri warned, with a smile that wasn’t reaching her eyes.

  Asa smiled back, but their smile was forced too. “I’d be delighted to try it. Thank you.”

  “Berith isn’t drunk here?” Jonas’ mother asked, watching Asa sip at the tumbler Kia poured. Jonas turned it down; he didn’t want to drink more alcohol than he had to.

  “Only in the dock bars,” Jonas said. And not that often there, either; it was expensive. But he couldn’t draw attention to the expense of Kia’s own hospitality by saying as much.

  “Marekers are missing out,” his mother said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Asa?”

  “It’s nice to get the opportunity to try it,” Asa said, with admirable diplomacy. Jonas suspected they didn’t particularly want to finish their glass, and wished that he could take it from them without being impolite.

  Xera appeared with a tray of a dozen or so dishes, set them on the table, and vanished to fetch more. Salinas meals consisted of a small amount each of a variety of things, most of them cold, although on dry land you could lay them out more tidily than at sea, where large deep dishes served everyone and you didn’t bother with a plate.

  Asa, paying attention, followed Kia, Jonas, and Jonas’ mother in serving themself with the tongs left in every dish, then eating most things with their fingers.

  “You’re Mareker-born, then, Asa?” Captain t’Riseri asked.

  “From the swamp villages,” Asa said, their chin going up slightly. “Came into town a few years ago to be a messenger.”

  “That’s the job you’re doing, too, Jonas?”

  Jonas nodded. He wanted to believe that his mother was just making conversation, but there was an edge to her tone that he didn’t like.

  “How does it compare, Jonas, to sailing your own ship?”

  “Well, I never sailed my own ship,” Jonas said.

  His mother made an impatient noise. “You were crew, Jonas, it was your ship. It’s hardly your own city, here, either.”

  “Marek’s interesting,” Jonas said. “I get to wander round it and be paid for it.”

  “He’s good, too,” Asa said. “One of the fastest messengers. Pretty good for not being Marek-born.”

  “That’s an important distinction, then? Marek-born or not?”

  Asa floundered slightly. “I mean, only that he’s had less time to know the city than the rest of us.”

  “Are there any other messengers who aren’t Marek-born?” Captain t’Riseri asked.

  Jonas really wished he could say yes. “No,” he admitted.

  “The Teren folks who come in tend to be craftsfolk,” Kia put in.

  “And the Salinas?”

  “Not so many of them in Marek at all,” Kia said cheerfully. Which his mother knew well enough.

  “Around the docks there are
,” Jonas objected, then realised he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Sailors,” Kia said. “Not so many folk who stay.”

  He glared at her. This might not be talking about magic, but it was still not helping. Kia bared her teeth at him; she obviously didn’t see this as a betrayal of their agreement. His mother, thankfully, missed the interchange; or at least, she didn’t give any sign of having seen it, which wasn’t quite the same thing.

  “Mm,” she said instead, tearing a pastry apart and popping half of it into her mouth. Once she’d swallowed it, she said, apparently lightly. “It’s interesting, that Salinas don’t choose to stay here. Other than you, of course, Kia.”

  Choice wasn’t quite the right word there. Kia smiled tightly.

  “Your people don’t tend to stay anywhere, much, do they?” Asa said. Which was true; Salinas rarely settled off the islands. Asa sounded slightly defensive, as though they thought Jonas’ mother was getting at Marek rather than, as Jonas glumly suspected, Jonas himself.

  “I suppose the sea is a strong pull,” Captain t’Riseri agreed. “Don’t you think, Jonas?”

  “The sea’s right there just outside the river mouth,” Jonas said stubbornly.

  “Mm,” Captain t’Riseri said again.

  Jonas took a bite of one of the wraps. He couldn’t taste it.

  “So,” his mother turned to Asa. “You grew up in the swamp villages. Did you sail, then?”

  “Helped my dad with the fishing,” Asa said. “He wanted me to take the boat after him, but I wanted to go to Marek proper. It’s a hard life, fishing.”

  “Hard everywhere,” Captain t’Riseri agreed. “You don’t feel the lure of the sea, then?”

  Asa shrugged. “I suppose I didn’t feel the lure of the fish, let’s put it that way.”

  “Mm, yes. It’s true, one can always tell when one is near a fishing village.”

  Jonas winced. The Salinas didn’t think much of fishers, or any sailors other than themselves. By the tight smile on their face, Asa too had recognised the insult.

  “Yes, it is very noticeable,” his mother said, as if to herself.

  Jonas just stared miserably at his plate. This was worse than he’d expected. And they still had at least an hour before they could leave. He huddled into himself, and prepared to wait it out.