Brandel presented himself with as much alacrity as a fifteen-year-old boy could manage when asked to change into his best on no notice. He’d attended her to the palace often enough that Barbara found nothing to blush at in his bow or his manners. He dealt confidently with Elisebet’s questions, but Barbara could imagine him thinking, A test, Cousin?
And then the Dowager Princess rose, thanked them and left with only the cryptic comment to Chautovil, “He will do.”
Brandel clearly expected to be dismissed, but Barbara motioned him to a chair. “So, Maistir Chautovil, I believe I can guess what that was about, but perhaps you could explain it to my cousin.”
Indeed, Chautovil seemed relieved to be able to speak at last. “In another two years, Mesner Atilliet will begin attending classes at the university. The Dowager Princess believes it would be advisable for him to have the experience of studying among other boys. But there have been…difficulties in identifying suitable companions.”
Yes, Barbara thought. The difficulties a boy encounters when he’s been tied to apron strings far too long. When he’s been kept apart from others his age except under the most stilted of circumstances. “Do I understand that my cousin has been approved as a suitable companion?” She could see why the suggestion had been made. Elisebet trusted her, though for the wrong reasons. The Dowager Princess didn’t deal in subtleties. One was either her ally or her enemy, and Barbara had carefully avoided becoming the latter. There was another reason for the choice: Brandel stood a step below Chustin, both in rank and in age. A companion, but never a rival.
“As you say, Mesnera,” Chautovil said with a nod. “You asked if I could recommend a suitable tutor. I offer myself, if that is acceptable to you. He would need to come to the palace for lessons, and I fear the hours must hang on Aukustin’s convenience.”
Barbara turned to Brandel. “Well? I give you the choice. Do you accept Mesnera Atilliet’s offer?”
He considered the question for a gratifyingly long time. Had he considered all the implications? Likely not. He had come to Rotenek on the promise of training to be an armin—a declining profession. But the last place it would linger would be among the nobility with which he would now rub elbows. Some day Aukustin would want a trusted man standing behind him. Had it occurred to Brandel to imagine himself in that place?
Whatever thoughts he had were left unsaid, for he answered simply, “Yes, Cousin Barbara.”
* * *
For some, the month of December might be a time for quiet domesticity. A time to gather family in, to shut out the wind and cold, only venturing out for the slow rhythm of Advent services. It had been years since Tiporsel House had seen anything resembling that idyllic vision. In recent years, Barbara associated December with unexpected attacks and arrivals. This time Margerit’s concerns took pride of place—peaceful, but no less disruptive. There were properties to examine, lectures to arrange. The printing of Frances Collfield’s plates always seemed to require Margerit’s personal attention. But December passed, as it always did, and Barbara looked forward to some breathing space in January once the flurry of the New Year’s Court was past.
This year the court itself made no demands on either of them beyond the duty to be present, to witness and to appear one’s best. Margerit wore a gown that evoked a scholar’s robes in crisp golden taffeta, her soft brown curls peeking out from beneath a small velvet biretta. Barbara thought the color was not the most becoming she could have chosen, but it matched well with her own preferred outfit, a near-military outfit in peacock blue, the hussar-style jacket braided in gilt, softened only by the sweep of her full skirts. The fashion gave her the excuse to wear her sword.
Every nobleman in attendance who had the slightest pretension to ability in the fencing salle considered it an essential accessory on this night, even if his blade were packed away in a cabinet the remainder of the year. Most had the good sense never to draw it, but the evening of the New Year’s Court was fabled for the settling of festering debts and old scores of honor out in torch-ringed duels on the Plaiz. The New Year’s celebrations brought the elite of Rotenek together more closely and more intensely than any other event. Fueled both by wine and by the expectations and disappointments that swirled around the court at this season of gifts, it was said that more duels were fought this night than during the entire remainder of the year.
This year the court itself provided no surprises except for a thinness in the company from a wet cough that had spread through the upper city. The festivities settled at last into the noisy revelry of the ballroom, the quieter currents in the corridors and courtyards and, distantly, the more raucous activities out in the Plaiz, including the faint, bright clash of swords.
Movement in the hallways and side rooms was as much of a dance as those done to music in the Assembly Hall. No one wandered unpartnered. Barbara watched the sets form up: Peskil and Mainek, their heads bent closely in speech, with Peskil’s son trailing behind, partnered by some less important hanger-on. The armins, as always, discreetly followed in train like a peacock’s tail, though not so bright. And over there, Antuniet was trying not to look bored as Mesnera Chaluk droned on. In her position as Royal Alchemist, Antuniet had perforce learned more patience, but she hadn’t yet learned to enjoy these affairs, nor had she learned the trick of shedding an unwanted conversation smoothly and easily. Jeanne would be in the ballroom, enjoying the gossip and drinking in the delight of the younger set, and most likely dancing herself.
Barbara nodded at old Chozzik in passing, wondering if she should pause for longer speech. He’d been a close friend of the old baron—to the extent that Marziel Lumbeirt had had friends—and that was worth acknowledging. But Margerit had pulled her on to greet the Pernelds. She had been cultivating their daughter Valeir for her talents as an auditor. The parents were skeptical that theological studies would be an asset to a girl about to pass from her dancing seasons to the marriage market.
Another nod in passing, this time to Baron Mazuk deep in conversation with someone whose back she couldn’t recognize. She hoped they could slip by without Margerit being importuned for an investment, but he caught her eye eagerly and exclaimed, “You’ve missed your opportunity, Saveze. Antoz will be enjoying the rewards you could have had.”
If it hadn’t been for the slight jerk of recognition at her name, Barbara would have thought that the smirk on the stranger’s face as he turned was only for his supposed good fortune. Certainly it could be nothing more personal. His face was unknown to her and the name tickled only vaguely at the back of her memory. But the smirk deepened as his eyes slid across her and to Margerit. Barbara had only just begun to bristle at the man’s impudence when he let out a bark of laughter.
“You!”
His eyes had gone past them to someone beyond. Barbara turned. There was no one in his immediate field of view but the armins and Brandel, trailing at the prescribed distance behind their charges. She would have thought the stranger merely in his cups—which he almost certainly was—except that Tavit had gone bone-white. She saw his fingertips brush the hilt of his sword in a gesture she recalled well. Not a threat to draw, just reassurance of its presence.
Again the bark of laughter. “I should have known a freak like you would turn up in this sort of company!”
Tipsy or not, that went beyond anything that could be ignored. Antoz…she cast her mind back a year and more. That was where she’d heard the name before. Tavit’s last employer. The one Perret, her swordmaster, had called a bad business all around. A bad business that had left Tavit with bruises he’d still carried when she first met him. She briefly wondered if Tavit stood ready to avenge that business now, but he seemed frozen in place.
She turned back toward the stranger. “Mesner Antoz—” She gauged the degree of provocation to give that would let him know how closely he stood to danger. “Mesner Antoz, perhaps you could explain what sort of company you believe him to have fallen into?”
He didn’t seem a man
familiar with the thrust and parry of words that served as prelude to more direct action in Rotenek. Perhaps things were done differently in his rural circles. And though Mazuk’s man stood close at hand, there was no one whose posture proclaimed him to be Antoz’s armin. That was no surprise for a country gentleman, but it meant he had no one to soften or make good his offense.
Mazuk recognized the dance they’d begun. In the past, he’d traded barbs with her that brushed the edge of challenge, but he’d always had the sense to step back. He plucked at his friend’s sleeve and leaned closely for a whispered caution.
Antoz shook him off. “Oh, I know who this is well enough,” he retorted loudly. “The Duchess of Lautencourt and her wife!”
Barbara felt Margerit’s hand grip her elbow painfully. The affair had gone past the point of return. At the edge of her vision she could see Marken closing up to loom protectively over Margerit, but there were strict rules to the game. No matter how outrageous his behavior, Antoz was of noble rank and there were limits to Marken’s license to answer a matter of honor. And Barbara knew the insult had been aimed at her.
This was Tavit’s cue to take up the challenge. She could hear the tension in the sound of his breathing behind her but still he made no move. Not fear, she was certain of that. But concern for his own grudge against the man? Never duel in anger—that was one of Perret’s hard rules. Like an old friend, she felt the presence of her own blade where it lay against her thigh and assessed the stranger. She could take him. Easily. And if it weren’t for the slight to Tavit if she were forced to dirty her own hands, she might enjoy it.
But she wasn’t the only one who had noted Tavit’s inexplicable hesitation. On her other side, Brandel stepped forward and stumbled his way through the unfamiliar words of the formula.
“You have besmir— bestir—, you have sullied the name and honor of Barbara Lumbeirt, Baroness Saveze. Do you stand ready to uphold your words with your body?”
“And who are you, boy?” the challenger demanded. “Boy? Or are you a woman like the rest of them?”
Oh, he was well beyond forgiveness, but Barbara knew she’d answer for any harm that Brandel might take. Why had she allowed the boy to wear a sword tonight of all nights? She dropped Margerit’s arm to take up the challenge for herself and found Tavit recovered at last. He stepped in front of Brandel to repeat the boy’s challenge in a precise, clipped voice.
Antoz might not know the formulas of a Rotenek duel, but his answer left no question of his willingness—nay, eagerness—to cross swords with Tavit. A crowd had begun to form around them in the wide corridor and Barbara saw the signs of wagers being placed. Most of that crowd followed them out into the sharp chill of the palace foreyard and thence into the Plaiz. Several men had picked up blazing links to light the circle that formed.
Barbara made one useless effort to send Margerit home.
“No,” she replied hotly. “This concerns me as well.”
Mazuk was thrust unwilling into the role of arbiter, making the last, useless request for reconciliation, then giving the signal to begin.
Tavit moved slowly at first. If Barbara had feared his own anger would make him careless, that was answered. His face was still pale in the torches’ flickering light, but now it seemed like carven ice. Antoz was more skilled than one might expect for a man so clearly unused to the formalities of dueling, but it was a skill with little depth. His feints were only what they seemed, his errors were not a duplicitous invitation to overreach.
Barbara recognized the moment when Tavit had finished taking the man’s measure and began to work in earnest. Two minutes later there was a sigh from the crowd as a crimson stain spread across Antoz’s bare shirtsleeve. That should have been the end: the insult answered, honor served. But Antoz stared at the wound in surprise, as if it were a fresh affront. Tavit had stepped back to give him time to recover and acknowledge his defeat. That extra step meant that Antoz’s sudden lunge fell short and he stumbled as Tavit beat the blade away. There was a scramble as he turned and they engaged once more and then that long suspended moment as they came together when the watchers knew one man would fall but did not yet know which.
It was Antoz’s blade that dropped to the cobbles with a clang as he sank slowly to his knees and then pitched forward.
Tavit stepped back, holding his empty hands out to his sides. Barbara caught his gaze and gave a small, sharp nod then turned to Baron Mazuk.
“Perhaps you would be so good as to notify the magistrate’s men.” On a night like this, someone would be standing conveniently to hand. Barbara looked around at the crowd that had begun to filter away and named two of the men who had followed them out from the palace corridor. “Stand witness, if you please.” There were formalities to endure when a duel ended in death, even in as clear a case as this.
Now Margerit agreed to be sent home. Brandel was bullied into accompanying her. And after the authorities had come and gone, only Tavit remained, waiting silently, his still-bloodied blade now retrieved and his coat draped over one arm despite the chill.
Barbara expanded on her approving nod. “Good, quick work. A pity it came to that, but the law should be satisfied.” She fished out a handkerchief and handed it to him. “Best clean that off. I thought we might walk back to Tiporsel. We could both use the fresh air.” There were questions still to be answered.
The road was dark with no moon to light the way and only faint pools of illumination from lanterns set into the gateways along the Vezenaf. A carriage rattled past and then turned in front of them onto the approach to the Pont Ruip.
Tavit finally broke the silence with, “You’ll be looking for a replacement, of course. Brandel…he’s a promising boy but he needs years yet of training. I’ll stay until you find someone.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” Barbara said. “You hesitated—anyone might at their first serious challenge—but not when it mattered. You’d worked for him, hadn’t you? Not surprising if you might balk at that.”
“Not that.” Tavit’s voice was bleak. “They all know now. You heard him. How can I protect the name of Saveze when my own is questioned?”
Know what? Barbara sifted back through the accusations Antoz had made but could recall none directed at Tavit in particular save that first one. A freak like you. It had meant nothing at the time except as insult. She knew little of Tavit’s past—that wasn’t uncommon for an armin. She knew the things that mattered: that Perret had vouched for him and that he’d given good service.
“Whatever passed between you and Antoz, I find it unlikely that it would outweigh what I’ve seen in the last year.”
“What you’ve seen—” Tavit’s laugh held no humor. “Mesner Antoz saw more than you did. I thought I was safe—that only my skills and my service would matter here. I thought the rest could be…could be left behind. I thought…I never knew how Antoz guessed—how I gave myself away—but when he knew, he would have forced me to be a woman for him.”
“To be…” Several possibilities spun out in Barbara’s imagination. The first was that Antoz had been the sort to press his attentions on serving men. But that made no sense with the rest of what had been said. A freak like you.
Then it came to her. Not what she had seen, but what she hadn’t seen. All the small clues that she had failed to make sense of: the beardless cheek, the slight, almost delicate build, the excess of modesty when they traveled together that she thought had been for her sake. He saw more than you did. There had been a time when such a failure of perception would have meant disaster for her duties. She was growing soft and lazy.
“Tavit,” she said gently, “you should have known that I, of all people, would have no objections to a woman as armin. You should have told me.”
“I’m not—” Tavit’s voice choked off. And then more roughly, “I’m not…like you. I’m not…oh Christ, I don’t know what I am. I only know what I’m not. They all tried. They tried to make me be a woman, but I’m no
t.”
The silence spun out between them. Barbara still struggled to understand what Tavit was telling her. It was important—of that she was certain. And moment by moment something was slipping away. Something they might never regain, if lost.
“Who do you want to be?” she asked at last.
Tavit’s expression couldn’t be seen but there was a long ragged sigh. “I want to be armin to Baroness Saveze.”
“And who has any say over that but me?”
“The scandal—” Tavit began.
“What scandal? Do you think Antoz went boasting to all the world of his mistake? And now he’s dead.”
Yes, Barbara thought, that was the most convenient part. If she hadn’t seen the duel herself, she might have thought it too convenient.
“I doubt there will be gossip. But if there is, I’d rather not give the world reason to believe that anything that was revealed tonight was a surprise to me. That would damage my reputation far more than my choice of armin.”
Once more the silence hung between them in the dark but this time it was easier, more thoughtful. And then, as one, they turned and continued up the Vezenaf.
Chapter Nine
Luzie
Early January, 1824
Luzie closed her eyes and leaned toward the keys, trying to imagine the notes spilling from the fortepiano out into the parlor, filling the space like drifts of mist off the river, the way Serafina had described. Only a week remained to finish the commission for Maisetra Honistin, and with every day that passed she despaired. Something magical, she’d asked. Like what you wrote for Baroness Saveze. As if magic were something one could produce on command. The Pertulif settings had been easier. His poetry could inspire anyone to flights of passion. And she hadn’t known she was supposed to be writing magic. There was so little to work with here. A sonata for my daughter’s betrothal party. She’d met the young woman briefly—too briefly to have a sense of what hopes and dreams might be woven into the strains of the music.
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 15
