She felt light-headed, as if she were being supported by nothing more solid than the sound of the music. “The manner in which I have heard my Kinwiinik colleagues remark upon your hospitality,” he said, “suggests to me that, when I broach the matter to them again, I will find them eager to accept your proposal.”
“I leave the matter, sir,” she said, helpless, “entirely in your hands. A letter from you would be a delight no matter what news it bore.”
The foreigner’s brow furrowed. “You look,” he responded, “if you will forgive my saying such a thing, more than a little pale. May I bring you a cooling drink?”
“You are kind,” she said, fighting to stay steady, “but I assure you it is of no matter.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Karleigh coming out of the card salon, much too soon. So much for Devize and Perry. “If you will excuse me,” she said, and began to waft toward Karleigh, grateful to have something on which to focus her attention.
Grateful? To Karleigh?
Wonders, apparently, would never cease.
Sapperton was a nervous person by temperament, and the situation into which he had been thrust this evening had multiplied that nervousness tenfold.
He was an under-cook, after all, not a footman. He belonged in the kitchen.
“Just think of it!” his wife had said, a vexing touch of awe in her voice. “You’ll be able to see all the fancy things people are wearing, listen to the fancy things they talk about!”
Sapperton would have been happy not to know what anybody was wearing or what anybody talked about if it had meant he didn’t have to worry that he was going to cause some sort of disaster. Because if he did, Duchamp would have his head. And he was terrified of the steward, who had somehow managed to make “Sapperton” into a word that struck terror into his kidneys. The fit into which Duchamp had flown when the previous cook had sent up a cake with three tiers rather than four was a thing of legend; many of the kitchen staff claimed that the woman’s whimpering ghost still haunted the pantry, though Sapperton himself had never seen her. And so tonight he was going to do as he was bidden. “Every single other kitchen servant is playing above his usual role tonight,” the steward had said, “so I don’t see why I should issue you a special dispensation.” Then he had turned and started shouting at Daisy for telling him they’d run out of duck to mix with the goose in the swan pastry.
Sapperton had acquitted himself admirably, however, all evening—had stumbled once or twice, yes, but had dropped nothing, insulted no one, placed nothing on the wrong table.
Unfortunately, none of that was what he was worried about, or, rather, his worries about those things were all eclipsed by his worry about the task that lay before him now.
He was to carry in the Tremontaine Swan.
The Swan was the highlight of every year’s ball. In fact, said Duchamp, fully half the conversation of the evening was usually the guests’ speculation about what the duchess would bring out as the Swan this year.
One year it had been marzipan. One year spun sugar. One year chocolate. Last season, in a particular coup, it had been a giant swan sculpted out of ground swan’s liver, which everybody had said was delicious, though Sapperton had his doubts. Nevertheless, every year, apparently, when it was revealed at the height of the ball, the Swan was the cynosure of every eye in the room.
And tonight he was one of four lackeys carrying it in.
He stood before it along with the others: a great molded pudding made of red wine and blackberries. It rose to an astonishing four feet, adorned with brilliants, sheltering tiny cygnets made of sugar, with a bright necklace around its sinuous neck that ended in a ruby half the size of his fist.
The four of them gathered, one at each corner, and Alfred counted aloud. “Three, two, one, up!”
His heart in his throat, Sapperton lifted.
* * *
It is true, reader, that this year’s Swan Ball, as Diane had hoped, would be talked about for weeks afterward, if not longer. Alas for the duchess, however, the reason for this was not at all the one she had had in mind.
Our heroes—for who by now can say that any of our characters is not a hero?—began a strange convergence. Rafe, chased by the redhead and fleeing William, bound finally for the former’s bed, William pursuing Rafe and ignoring his wife, Micah pursuing Chuleb and ignoring Kaab, Kaab pursuing Micah and fleeing Lord Horn, old Lord Horn pursuing Kaab: They had all been moving through the crowd as quickly as they could, each intent on a goal. Andrew, the clavier player on the make, continued to play, and Sapperton and the other servants had just entered with the Swan.
And then Vincent Applethorpe—you do remember him, I’m certain: the swordsman friend of Tess the forger?—took a step forward. He had finally seen the man in search of whom he had come to the ball, a swordsman in the Tremontaine green and gold, lurking along the far wall. A man he had last seen in Riverside, without the livery, stealing the dummy sketch that Kaab and Tess had dropped in his path; a man he had then followed, at their bidding, to the gates of Tremontaine House.
So yes, Vincent Applethorpe took a step forward. And that step put him, as it happened, in Micah’s path, forcing her to turn her course. This gave the enterprising Kaab the opportunity, which she seized, to keep Micah from revealing to Chuleb what Kaab wished to remain hidden. She did this by putting her foot out six inches.
This caused a great many things to happen.
Micah very considerately tripped over Kaab’s foot and fell headlong into Rafe, who himself fell to the floor, his limbs entangled with those of the redheaded noble. Kaab’s pursuer, since she had stopped to trip Micah, ran headlong into her, with the result that she toppled over on top of Micah, Rafe, and the redhead. The obstacle created thereby was too much for both Lord Horn and for Duke William, both of whom collapsed on top of the others in a heap.
Matters might have ended there. But Kaab’s fine obsidian dagger, not firmly enough replaced in her belt after her encounter with the lecherous Lord Horn, had flown out as she fell and now sailed in a beautiful arc toward the musicians. Andrew’s eyes were not on his instrument, not on the dancers, but on Jack, and when his friend’s face filled with alarm, he had not the time to interpret it before the hilt of the weapon hit him on the back of the head, causing him to lose his balance and kick out so as to keep from falling down.
Unfortunately, his foot collided with the clavier, the legs of which the duchess had been told many times needed to be replaced. The instrument collapsed in a spectacular fashion, with a deafening crash of wood and discordant strings, causing the excitable Sapperton to emit a quiet shriek of terror and, more important for our purposes, to release his hold on the Swan, throwing the other men off-balance. Had the magnificent Swan even been capable of lifting its own fourth corner, it would have found doing so beneath its dignity, and so, unable to stay afloat on a sea of nothing, it fell, all red wine and blackberries, on top of Lord Karleigh and his white coat.
Well, it had begun the evening as white.
For a moment, complete silence reigned in the ballroom. And in that silence, Lord Karleigh growled a growl such as had never been heard before in Tremontaine House. The growl turned into a roar, and the roar finally clarified itself into speech.
“Well, Duchess,” he said, “this is what comes of polluting a ball by filling it with people without family or breeding.”
Lord Basil Halliday, paling next to him, seized his arm and alternated between patting it and smacking his shoulder in a vain attempt to quiet him. Karleigh brushed Halliday off and looked down at Ixkaab Balam. “I’d wager you don’t know your father’s name, girl. If you even know your mother’s.”
Kaab scrambled to her feet, her hand flying to where her dagger should have been; when it found nothing, she looked to her aunt for her cue. This time the silence lasted, it seemed, for an eternity. It was finally broken by Ixsaabim Balam, her voice ice.
“The girl you insult, sir, is Ixkaab Balam, first daughter of Ixmoe Balam, fi
rst daughter of Ixtopob Balam, first daughter of Ixchukwapl Balam, first daughter from a line of first daughters descended from queens who ruled empires more vast than your imagination can compass. You are fortunate indeed that I will not permit her to begrime herself by cutting the verminous tongue out of your mouth.” She turned to Diane. “I see my people and I are not welcome here. We will discommode you no longer.”
She called a word in her language, incomprehensible to most in the room. But the Kinwiinik all put down their glasses or plates, most of them gratefully, as they found the food unspeakably bland, and came to stand with Ixsaabim. Another word, and they all left as one.
Diane, Duchess Tremontaine, who had over the course of her life rescued herself from more dangers than one could easily count, who was mistress of herself in all circumstances, who knew what people wanted and what they feared as clearly as if it had been written on their brows, saw at once that there was one way, and one way only, out of the quandary in which she now found herself.
She fainted.
Ixsaabim, Kaab realized as she walked home next to her in the quiet, was smiling.
They had been grievously insulted in front of every person of rank in the City, and Saabim was happy.
“What,” she said, “can my wise aunt possibly have to be happy about?”
“Little bee, if you have to ask that question, then perhaps you don’t belong in the service after all.” Kaab was glad it was too dark for Saabim to see her blush. “I am happy for two reasons. First, the duchess has been mortified in front of us at her own party. The embarrassment of one’s opponent is an extraordinarily useful tool.”
“Yes,” she said. “And second?”
“I am also happy because I now know what business she is about.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She is, as you yourself have pointed out, a very dangerous woman, with a subtle mind. She could have been up to anything in proposing the partnership she brought to us, and you can be sure that she does not give a cacao bean in a hurricane for the Kinwiinik in any way other than our ability to further her own aims. Before tonight, I had no idea what those aims were.”
“And now you do?”
“Come, little bee. You are more observant than this. There were signs of it all over that ball. Tell me, why were all the candles either in front of mirrors or next to silver?”
“So that . . .” Her mother, Kaab thought, ashamed, had raised her better! And then she had it and smiled in the dark. “So that the reflected light would hide the fact that there were not more of them.”
A pause. “Yes.” Saabim’s voice was pleased. “And why was there so much needless silver on the tables?”
Now that she understood, it was easy. “To make us believe the house is drowning in silver, when in fact every piece she owned was on display.”
“And the pastries?”
She thought a moment. “A great deal of pastry combined with a great many vegetables and very little meat.”
“And the fowl in that hideous orange sauce?”
“Similarly: gallons of sauce hiding meat of dubious origins.”
“The ivy filling the room?”
“Plants are very inexpensive when one has country estates.”
“And the arrangements of those silly little cakes?”
“Towering shelved structures, empty on the inside, to create the illusion that there were four times as many as there were.”
“And why were the servants so awkward?”
Kaab had to think a moment. Oh, that was clever. “Because most of them were pressed into service from other duties. Otherwise there would have been too few for the crowd.”
“Yes. The duchess is desperately in need of funds. And so it becomes clear that her proposal is most likely an honest one: She sees us as a way of making money, and understands that she must offer us something in return. And we will accept her proposal, if she has the audacity to renew it.”
They walked in silence for a time.
“You are a good girl, Kaab. Ixmoe would be proud of you.”
Kaab had to work quite hard not to cry.
* * *
“That really was a masterful faint, earlier this evening,” said the Dragon Chancellor, running a hand along her delicate jawline.
“I was quite pleased with it,” answered the Duchess Tremontaine. “I perfected it long ago, and was beginning to think I would never need it.” She twirled an idle finger in his hair and left it there. They were in Davenant’s bedchamber, naked, beneath a silk-and-feather counterpane. Desperate at the ruination of her plans for the chocolate empire, she had decided to make the first move, by granting him a favor he had long desired and she had until now denied him and, in fact, every man who had similarly importuned her. It was not guaranteed to pay off. But timidity had never availed her anything. She was unsure how she felt about what she had just done for the first time.
For a while, they exchanged pleasantries of the sort traditionally spoken after the congress in which they had been engaged.
And then, when she had worked her way around to it, she said: “I find myself at an utter loss as to an appropriate response when next I see the Duke of Karleigh.”
“I imagine that for some time it will be quite difficult for you to see him at all, even if he is standing in front of you.”
She sighed. Careful, now. “I suppose so. But what would give me the greatest satisfaction is unlikely to remedy the insult to the Kinwiinik. Who knows what the rules of honor in their world demand in the face of such an insult? You saw the way they all wheeled and left the ball together, like a flock of—of starlings.” A silence she could not read. “I am invited for chocolate at the always delightful Lady Perry’s next week.”
“My sympathies.”
“Mmmm.” She licked the tip of his ear. “Indeed. Fortunately, she keeps an excellent grade of the stuff. But should they take it into their heads to interfere with our supply of chocolate—well, it gives me horrors.”
“Ah.”
“I imagine that a suitable gesture could be made. An indication that Karleigh’s boorishness is unacceptable to the rest of us.”
“Such as?”
“There must be . . . a tax of some kind on the importers of chocolate, no?”
“Yes,” he said. “A particularly high one, for which we have to thank our fathers, who were leery of allowing in anything the Land itself does not produce.”
“Or perhaps they wanted to ensure that such a stimulating treat remained out of reach of all but themselves.”
The Dragon Chancellor chuckled. “In which case, it was a dismal failure.”
“Just so.” Diane edged herself up on one elbow, letting her curls fall across his mouth. “So why not reduce it, as a token of goodwill?”
“An interesting idea.” He was silent for a while. “But ultimately unworkable.” He tickled her nose with the end of her own hair. “I fear there is, alas, nothing to be done about that.” If he had been a more observant man, he would have noticed her slight stiffening and then, after a pause, the fraction of an inch she moved away from him.
“Oh?” Nor was he well enough acquainted with her to know how dangerous this tone of voice was.
“It has to do with infernal Council politics. Ask William to explain it, if he manages to remember he’s on the Council in the first place.” Diane gave a small laugh. “Your beauty empties my head; I am unable to think clearly enough to do it myself.” She smiled at him, as if to show that she appreciated the compliment. “Besides, there are so many things we can discuss that are so much more pleasant.”
“You’re right, of course. For instance: Did you see Lord Perry and young Sophronia Latimer tonight? All those longing glances. Sarah looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon.”
“Yes,” he said solemnly, “but Sarah always looks as if she’s bitten into a lemon.” The conversation continued in this vein, light and friendly. She would find another way to achieve her aim. She always d
id.
And in the meantime, on the tally she kept always in mind, she added a black mark by Davenant’s name.
The Duchess Tremontaine and the Dragon Chancellor, however, do not draw our tale to its close; there is one more scene to play, reader, in another location, before you and I retire for the night. Would that our heroes were fortunate enough to be able to do the same!
But they, alas, must continue their stories until they reach the end, whether for good or ill not even I have been given to know.
His breath is hot against Rafe’s neck, his whimpers satisfying a hunger Rafe has forgotten he had. This has been their desire all evening, this the goal to which the path has taken such a very long time to tread, pale skin against paler, calf against thigh, teeth on earlobe, fingers on chest, moaning, as the one fills the other and is filled in turn, the sweet pain of a hand pulling long hair in ecstasy, Hells, he’s missed this, and why on earth has Rafe spent so much time so angry when the force to quench the fire of his need has stood before him all night, and Rafe quickens, greedy, faster and faster still, and then freezes, a small sound barely escaping his mouth, the agony of his release prompting the other to join him, and when the fog of desire has dissipated, Rafe turns to behold his companion, a thumb tracing the outline of his face.
“Was that worth the trouble you took this evening?” he asks with a smile, his voice low.
“I’m not quite sure,” says Will. “Let’s try again, and then I’ll know for certain.”
Episode Eight:
A City Without Chocolate
Malinda Lo
All across the City, from the seamiest shadows of the river-wet docks to the elegant terraces of the Hill’s grandest mansions, apple blossoms in great white cascades are blooming. Snowy petals blushed with palest pink drift across the cobblestones of the Middle City, shedding their sweet fragrance in a promise of imminent summer. In a blink, it seems, the chill of early spring has turned into soft golden warmth, but the residents of the City have not appeared to notice. Instead of throwing off the last dregs of winter and turning their faces up to the sky and the sun, they huddle indoors, grouchy and dispirited, complaining about the lack of that most invigorating drink, chocolate.
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