Whisper the word “ball,” and a noblewoman’s mind fills with thoughts of silk dresses and violin music, rich sauces poured over roast meats, and sweets of airy meringue and heavy cream. But to Duchamp, steward of the Tremontaine household, a ball meant one thing: work.
Duchamp was no longer a young man. But the Tremontaine ball was his responsibility, and always had been. Duchamp had been overseeing the Swan Ball since before the current duchess had even married into the family. He knew exactly what it took to host a successful ball. The duchess relied on him to meticulously oversee the household staff as they fetched and unpacked the family’s traditional swan-shaped decorations from the attics, laundered the drapes and hangings, waxed the floors, polished the silver, and replaced a vast array of candles so that the guests could actually see the result of the Tremontaine family retainers’ labors. But even that was an incomplete list.
Before cleaning the silver, one had to find the silver. There were always a few pieces missing. Spoons in particular had a habit of disappearing into bodices to be sold down in Riverside by ladies’ maids. Just last month, a serving bowl painted with a scene of unnatural congress between a large waterfowl and some maiden of myth had vanished entirely. All for the best, really; the vivid colors of webbed feet on virgin flesh had improved no one’s appetite.
Duchamp remembered when Tremontaine had promptly bought new silver. In Duke William’s father’s day, when Duchamp was an under-footman, the old duke had spent lavishly and never counted the cost. So his son had inherited his father’s considerable debts along with the obligation to keep up tradition. It was a blessing that the son’s pretty young wife had turned out to have a streak of practicality, even if Duchamp sometimes mourned the days of heedless glamour. Instead, the old steward made do, mixing and matching the family’s various sets of tableware, replacing what was missing with pieces that looked close enough. Surely not so dissimilar that any of the guests would notice.
Maybe he’d put fewer candles in the dining room this year.
And silver wasn’t the only place corners were being cut. No one had been brought in to fix the wobbly leg on the clavier. Just last week, two parlor maids and an under-cook had been dismissed—supposedly for minor infractions, but more likely to have fewer servants to keep. At least there’d be no more dismissals until after the ball. They’d have enough trouble preparing for it with the staff as reduced as it was now; any less and there would be no hope of pulling off such a grand event in the style that the City expected.
* * *
“Again,” Applethorpe said, beating the side of Kaab’s blade with his own.
Ixkaab Balam retreated to a garde. At least she no longer dropped her weapon when he did that. The secret was a loose grip; if she held on tightly, her own strength worked against her, concentrating the force of the sword master’s attempts to disarm her rather than letting it dissipate. Her nature argued against such a tactic. When attacked, she wanted to fight back, to launch forward, not to meekly allow his attack to flow through her.
She extended her arm, pointing the tip of her sword toward Applethorpe, and walked around the circle of their training grounds. It was within the shell of an abandoned building, nothing more than weeds and a few piles of red bricks, completely open to the sky. A pair of matching mutts nosed at a trash heap in one corner. Applethorpe had tried to run them off when they’d first arrived, but animals in Riverside weren’t dissuaded by a loud voice and stomped foot. He had not deigned to threaten them with his sword.
Kaab abruptly feinted north, then south, and then made an earnest strike low and back to the north, below Applethorpe’s ribs and into his soft organs. Or rather, such was her intention; instead Applethorpe parried easily, and Kaab tripped on the uneven ground. The muddier of the two dogs barked, a sound that reminded her of mocking laughter.
The blade seemed to have grown heavy as a boulder since this morning; Kaab sighed and dropped her arm. She longed for her obsidian dagger, whose weight was barely noticeable no matter how long she practiced, but Applethorpe had refused to let her use it. “You rely on it too much,” he had said when she’d protested. “What’s the point in practicing with a sword if you’re not going to use it?”
Kaab turned away from him, intending to walk off her frustration. The dog barked again, and she made a sharp, threatening noise in the back of her throat. She didn’t want any witnesses to her humiliation, not even a dog. It ignored her, so she bent over, looking for a stone to throw.
The flat of Applethorpe’s blade hit the back of her thighs.
“Ow!” She leaped away. She’d had worse, and often, during her training back home in Binkiinha. It was the indignity that she resented; it was a long time since Ixkaab Balam had been a novice at anything.
“You can’t leave just because I blocked you.”
“I wasn’t leaving. I am taking a break,” she said. “Besides, this isn’t an actual fight.” She wished it was. She might not have the skills to beat him—yet—but at least then he wouldn’t correct her like a child. She gestured with her sword at the shell of the building in a manner that didn’t directly threaten Applethorpe but still showed less respect than was appropriate. “No one with any sense would fight here.”
“I’ve fought here.”
“Why?” Kaab looked skeptically at their surroundings.
“Things happen.” Applethorpe shrugged, a carefully controlled motion; the rest of his body remained as still as a reed, the way it always did when his sword was drawn. Kaab couldn’t help but be annoyed by that also. Everything about him made her feel inadequate.
She’d had enough of failing at swords for the day. “The man you replaced as Tess’s protector,” she said, deliberately keeping her voice casual. “Ben. Did you know he’d been stabbed?”
Applethorpe paused long enough to make it clear that he’d noticed her redirection of the conversation, then obliged her by answering, “Many people end up stabbed in Riverside.”
“This wasn’t any bar fight. Whoever did it was an expert.”
He sheathed his sword. Even that small movement had the grace of a jaguar. But dressed in the bright colors and hodgepodge styles that Riversiders were partial to, Applethorpe looked like an acrobat. From what Kaab understood of how this city used swordsmen, she supposed he was a sort of performer. But his would be a deadly show, far from all surface and no substance.
“How do you know?”
“It was done from behind, with a thin blade. It went between the ribs and up.” Kaab mimed a stabbing motion with her free hand. “Fast, and not too much blood.”
“And you suspect it was done by the fellow you had me follow? The one who stole Tess’s drawings in the tavern?”
Kaab hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much to tell this man. She was used to working alone. But what was the point in having him protect Tess if he wasn’t trustworthy? If she wanted to make any progress in the matter of Ben’s death and what it meant, she must share what she knew with someone here in Riverside, someone close to Tess. Tess was a forger. But the trouble her friend was in seemed to be more than anyone would take for mere forgery.
Kaab nodded. “The man you followed to the house of Tremontaine, yes. Did you learn his name?”
“I did not. He disappeared indoors before I could find out.”
“Well.” Kaab liked the way this was going. She had his interest, now. And he was quick to understand. “Someone broke into Tess’s rooms last week, probably looking for those drawings . . . and they left behind Ben’s fancy jacket, the one he died in.”
Applethorpe’s eyebrows went up. “Why would someone at Tremontaine House want to kill a Riverside pretty-boy? And what do the drawings have to do with it?”
“I wish I knew.”
“If you’re right, then it may be serious.” He drew again, indicating that the time for conversation was over. “And therefore it’s all the more important that you learn how to use a sword.”
Kaab groaned and let her own bla
de remain at her side. “You’re a very difficult teacher.” She was beginning to like Applethorpe. Not the way she liked Tess, of course. But his smug assurance of his own superiority, his dry humor, his cool assessment of danger . . . he was someone she might come to think of as a friend, here in this cold, strange city so far from home.
“That’s because I’m not a teacher,” he said. “Just a swordsman.” He reached out and tapped her blade with his own. “Come on; a little longer and then we’ll switch. I want you to teach me that twisting thing you do with a dagger.”
That sent enough energy to her arms to bring her sword back up into a defensive position. “And then we duel?” she asked, without any real hope he’d agree.
Unsurprisingly, he shook his head. “You’re not ready for a real duel.”
“I won many duels here, when I chose a protector for Tess last week!”
“Because you were fighting drunk bravos who only wanted a few minutes’ amusement in the marketplace. I’m trying to teach you more than how to show off to an audience. So you can fight not just with a few tricks you’ve memorized, but with your whole self, for your whole life.” He gave that graceful shrug again. “At least, you could if you’d concentrate.”
Kaab ignored that last comment, struck by the suggestion that a swordsman was never not engaged. “So I am already fighting, even without a challenge?”
Applethorpe gave her a long look. “Aren’t you? As far as I can tell, Mistress Balam, you’ve always been fighting.”
Rafe knew how to look as though he didn’t completely despise the situation in which he found himself. He’d perfected the art as a child, although sometime in his adolescence he’d lost the self-discipline required to employ it regularly. All he had to do was set his back teeth at the right angle, and the tension in his jaw would give the impression that he was faintly smiling rather than grimacing in disgust.
Just now he was fighting a losing battle to keep his teeth from sliding out of that wonderfully deceptive angle. He sat at a gilded secretary in the Tremontaine library as the Duchess Tremontaine lounged on a nearby settee, her languid ease a pointed contrast to Rafe’s tense posture. Supposedly she was talking him through writing invitations to the Tremontaine annual ball in her low, melodious voice, but since he obviously could handle such a simple task on his own, he assumed she was actually there to irritate him.
When Rafe had agreed to become her husband’s secretary, he had imagined himself writing speeches, researching political issues, attending important meetings—not doing a task that any scribbling lackey could do. But the duchess had insisted that she needed help, and Will—sweet, kind, guilty Will, the Duke Tremontaine—had asked Rafe to be kind to her, and now here he was, wondering what had become of his life. In addition, he suspected that the duchess knew he was sleeping with her husband, enthusiastically and often, but she’d shown not a single flicker of jealousy. This uncertainty made the skin on the back of his neck itch, and being alone with her wasn’t helping.
The duchess discreetly cleared her throat, and he looked up, hoping for a change in topic—but she only said, “The Lindleys next. Although keep theirs aside after you’ve written it.”
“May I ask why?”
“Do you remember your birthday parties as a child? Surely you must, being still so young.” She smiled as she said it, and her voice carried a friendly hint of laughter, but Rafe still recognized the insult.
His fingers tightened on the quill, but he managed to keep his own voice bland. “Yes. Of course.”
“Tell me, did you invite only the children you liked?”
“It’s not a good party if you don’t enjoy the company,” Rafe said.
“Oh, you dear child. You still have so very much to learn. Parties are politics, you see, like everything else. Would you think poorly of me if I admitted that I rather enjoy that aspect of them?”
“No, madam,” Rafe said automatically, hating himself for it.
“You’re a sweet boy. You see, the Lindleys are bores and think themselves better than they are. Particularly old Lord Horn. And yet, much like the odious Duke of Karleigh—we’ll discuss him later—we must still invite them.” She lifted one shoulder in an urbane shrug. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make them worry. They can get their invitation next week. Don’t you agree?”
Rafe nodded, wishing that he had never asked. What a pointless game. Dresses and invitations and gifts, endlessly discussed and exchanged and analyzed, all to score points off someone else in the same small circle of noble society, and just so that person could throw themselves into returning the insult next season.
The duchess rapped at the arm of his chair with her closed fan. “Woolgathering?” she asked. “I suppose that is natural at University; what would anyone expect when you gather a crowd of lively young boys into a stuffy room and ask them to debate philosophical principles? But you must focus now. This is an important household, and you are assigned important tasks.”
Rafe had a vision of himself showing the relative importance of party invitations and natural philosophy by throwing the invitations into the hearth, dashing the black inkpot over the duchess’s pale blue silk, and storming out of the house, never to return. He could do it. He moved his hands to the arms of his chair, his muscles tensing to shove himself to his feet, ready to smash this opportunity and all it required of him to pieces. But . . . there was his exam to think of, with his chances of starting his school. And, irritating as it was to admit, there was Will. He drew another clean sheet of paper toward himself.
Hours later, Rafe stood at the window of the library and watched the invitations being carried out. Footmen proceeded in multiple directions, some on horseback and some on foot, all dressed in the green-and-gold livery of Tremontaine. It was a dramatic show of wealth and influence, and Rafe felt oddly uplifted, knowing that he was a part of this vivid swirl of power, that it was his actions that had sent this cavalry on its way, his words they carried.
Except they weren’t his words. They were the duchess’s words, even if they were written in his hand. Rafe was no more an important part of the whole than the stable boy who fed the horses or the maid who mended the embroidery on the footmen’s coats. He turned from the window without waiting to see the last of the parade and caught sight of the duchess in the doorway. She had been watching him, her face still and without emotion, but as soon as their gazes met, she produced a smile. “You don’t look well,” she said sympathetically. “A headache?”
“Yes,” Rafe muttered. “I think I’ll go and lie down upstairs for a bit.”
The duchess made a perfect moue of concern. “Do. I’ll have a cold compress sent up. I’m sure William wouldn’t want you overworked.”
Startled, Rafe stared at her. Her eyes were gray and flawless as a locked safe. Was it possible that she didn’t know? That she had only been upset before because Will had missed a Council meeting? Surely not even an empty-headed social butterfly like Diane could be that oblivious. Besides, how likely was it that she cared about import tariffs, of all things? Even Rafe’s father found tariffs boring, and he was a man who got the greatest pleasure in life out of double-entry bookkeeping. No, the duchess must know. She simply chose to pretend otherwise.
Still, Rafe felt better once he’d turned a corner of the hallway and was out of her view.
I hope I will be able to come home in a day or two—
No, she’d said that in an earlier letter, and then it hadn’t been a day or two or even three. Micah crossed out the line and tried again.
I promise I’ll come back next week, as soon as—
No, she’d said that before too. Micah didn’t like to lie. Or not do her tasks. The problem was that now she had too many tasks: those she was starting to feel bad about neglecting at home on the farm now that the season was changing, and those at the University. She was so close to figuring out the answer to the great question of how distances worked over the round earth! Not to finish would be like having
a bug bite and not scratching it. Aunt Judith had always said that scratching bites only made them worse, but Micah never had been able to stop herself.
Micah wondered what Aunt Judith would say about her life at University, with its tomato pies and playing cards for money, and if she would have a tip to keep away the rats Micah sometimes saw in the alley behind Rafe’s building. She missed Aunt Judith, even though she probably wouldn’t approve of Micah’s new friends or all the time she spent on calculations. And what’s the use of that? her aunt had said when Micah had tried to explain ratios to her back on the farm. It doesn’t put seeds in the ground nor food on your plate, does it? At the time, Micah had been tremendously annoyed, but now the memory just made her feel lonely.
Was it selfish of her to stay here when her family needed her for planting season? Rafe needed her too, though. He said that finding the right numbers was very important, much more important than planting rhubarb or peas, and that no one else could do it. But was it more important than her family? Micah felt unwell even asking such a question.
Micah had never realized that there were so many things to learn or that the world contained so many fascinating puzzles. Rafe had taken her to the University library yesterday, and Micah had had to hold on to his sleeve to stop herself from running down the aisles, pulling books and scrolls and loose pages off every shelf. There was so much to read in that one room that it would take her years to go through all of it. And that was just mathematics; there were other subjects she could study, if she wanted: history and rhetoric and medicine, logic and law and other languages, vast horizons of new ideas, expanding every day she stayed here. Sometimes she was sure she could feel her brain growing to contain it all. How could she give this up to go back to the farm, where there was nothing new to learn?
Micah pushed the letter aside and dropped her face into her hands, sighing loudly. If only she could do both things! It wasn’t fair that she had to choose. Back home she’d always known what she should do, even if she didn’t always want to do it. Now both sides seemed like the right thing, and she could only pick one. She scrubbed at her face one last time, put her shoulders back, and looked at the letter.
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 24
