Rafe stopped under a sign for used books. It wasn’t like Micah to go on this way. “Micah,” he said, “I know you’re happy about the room. But are you sad I’m leaving?”
Micah’s eyes filled with tears, and when he nodded, they ran right down his cheeks followed by new ones. “I know you have to go take care of your sick boyfriend and make money and keep your enemies close and everything, and that we’ll still be friends like you said”—he ran his black sleeve over his nose—“but it won’t be the same, and I hate that part!”
Rafe didn’t know what to say. Micah was right, after all; it wouldn’t be. “Things change,” he said helplessly. “They just do.”
Micah looked up, wiped his face with his hands. “I’m going to hug you, Rafe,” he said, “and then I’m going to give you a present. And then I’m going to say good-bye. Is that all right?”
Rafe nodded, unable to speak. Micah nestled like a puppy against his chest, pressing so hard he nearly had the life squeezed out of him. He hugged Micah carefully back. Then Micah broke away and reached deep in his sleeve and pulled out a packet of painstakingly tied papers.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t open them!” Micah said urgently. “They’re a present I’ve been working on for you. But don’t open them until you’re in your new room. Promise?”
“All right.” Rafe put them in his satchel, the one Will had bought him at the fancy leather shop on Larrimer Street. “I promise, Micah.”
Micah’s face relaxed a little. “Good. Good-bye, then, Rafe.”
And that was that.
The Tremontaine carriage was drawn up to the door. The courtyard was lit with torches, but Will could see the light of dawn just starting to break in the sky over the eastern Hill.
Wickfield’s comforting presence was on one side of him, with brittle False Diane on the other. Why did she try so hard to seem whole, when she was clearly broken?
Because she must, said the crow on his shoulder.
A cloaked woman emerged from the house, carrying a bundle in her arms.
“Good,” said False Diane. She put one hand on the woman’s shoulder. “William, this is Thea. She will take care of you at Highcombe.”
“Good day, Thea.”
“You need not speak to her; she cannot answer. She is a deaf-mute.”
William smiled at her foolishness. “No she’s not. She is singing! Can you not hear the music?”
“No, my love, I cannot.” The duchess went up on tiptoe to kiss him good-bye gently on the lips. “But I’m glad you will have music on your journey.”
Kaab returned to her aunt’s house in wrinkled clothing, with an unwashed face and kiss-stung lips. It was full daylight now. She and Tess had had a leisurely breakfast on the ship: sour atole and fruit tamales, and little tortillas with purple beans mashed on top, as fresh as a sea voyage could leave them, since the ship was newly arrived from Binkiinha. Tess had eaten everything with gusto, and pronounced it good, and the Caana chocolate to be heavenly.
Kaab washed as much of herself as was decent in the courtyard fountain and went upstairs to do the rest and change. Her bed looked tempting, lying there in the sunlight with its red woven coverlet . . . but with the newcome ship, there would be news, and she wanted to hear it.
She found Chuleb and Saabim in their office, sitting on the reed mat together reading dispatches, his arm around her now very large waist.
Chuleb looked up and gave her a genuine smile. Since Kaab had so neatly resolved the Tremontaine episode, her uncle was becoming downright friendly. “You have a letter, Niece!”
She took the long, folded sheet of fig-tree paper and undid the seals. The ghost scent of her father’s study wafted up like incense, and her heart filled as she saw his familiar handwriting.
My dearest daughter, sun of my days and star of my nights, may Ekchuah guide you:
The Tullan Empire is suddenly our dearest friend again (for now), due to . . .
She skimmed the political details to get to the end:
If, then, you have been comporting yourself so as to bring honor to the Balam, as I am sure you have been, I believe, and my mother agrees with me, that it will be safe for you to return home to resume your duties here.
I hope your exile has not been too arduous, and that you have accustomed yourself to the climate some, or that the weather has improved. Your letter about the cold made your great-mother wish to send you her jaguar-skin cloak, which I was only able to dissuade her from by telling her you would most likely be returning on the very ship it arrived on . . .
Ah, the famous cloak! Won by her great-mother in a celebrated game of chance. Even the Balam weren’t allowed to wear jaguar in public, but it was lined with double-spun wool, and so her father’s mother wore it within the family compound whenever it got cold enough. Which seemed to be more and more often, Kaab recalled. How many more winters before the jaguar-skin cloak would need to find a new owner? Would she even see her great-mother before then?
Come soon, my darling girl. It has been very dull here without you.
“Your face shows you have received good news,” Uncle Chuleb said. “We, too, were gladdened by the Tullan agreement.”
Aunt Saabim flicked his toes with a dispatch. “Don’t tease the girl. So you’re leaving us, are you, Ixkaab?”
“The Wasp is in port, you know,” Chuleb said, “after a good trip north, and heading home in two or three days, laden with trade goods. That will make a nice, circular voyage for you, Niece.”
“We’ll have another feast,” Aunt Saabim said happily, “to see you off. Good luck all around! Invite your friends, if you like; they will be welcome.”
Kaab opened her mouth to say one thing and found herself saying another. “Actually,” she said, “I was thinking of spending a little more time here. These Locals are an interesting lot. And, as you say, now that the tax situation is a bit more equitable, there are new markets waiting to be expanded.”
“Why, Niece!” Chuleb said delightedly. “You are beginning to speak like a merchant!”
But Aunt Saabim knew her better. “Really, Ixkaab? What sort of markets were you thinking of?”
“Would you believe, Aunt”—Kaab opened her eyes wide—“that when I went down to Riverside and offered a young guide some chocolate—and very inferior stuff it was, too—he refused it, thinking it was dog excrement?”
“Shocking,” said Aunt Saabim. “Certainly you must spend more time there.”
Uncle Chuleb leaned forward. “And how many people would you say inhabit this Riverside?”
“Oh, many,” said Kaab vaguely, and pulled a long, long, flame-red hair off the front of her shirt.
The guards were respectful when they opened the gates to Rafe Fenton. He squared his shoulders as he crossed the courtyard and looked up at the window he thought was Will’s, wondering if his lover were watching for him.
A footman who looked familiar took Rafe’s cloak—he’d have to learn their names now, wouldn’t he?—and another led him straight to the duke’s library, where the duchess already sat, setting piles of paper in order, her gown and sleeves completely covered in a muslin pinafore. She smiled when she saw him.
“Ah, Master Fenton! Prompt to the hour. Please, sit down. I will send for chocolate. Have you broken your fast?”
In the hours that passed in the dusty, sunny room, he forgot that he disliked her. The duchess was pleasant and efficient. She had a quick understanding and did not waste time in flurries of indecision or bothersome stories, like most women. She treated Rafe with respect, even asking his opinion on several matters, nodding seriously as he explained them or offered suggestions.
When the mantel clock chimed noon, a footman appeared with a massive plate of sandwiches.
“You don’t mind, do you?” the duchess asked. “I thought we were making such progress. . . .”
“Not at all,” Rafe said. He stood up and stretched out his back. “If you don’t object, though, I’ll go a
nd see William first. Maybe I can take him something . . . ?”
The duchess looked up at him, confused. William? Rafe wanted to say, cross with hunger. Your husband, remember? But of course he did not.
“Oh.” A look of distress clouded her features. “Oh, I am so sorry!” She stood and took his hands, looking up into his face. “Oh, Master Fenton, I forgot to tell you. Oh, it is entirely unforgivable of me!”
Rafe sat down suddenly, feeling faint. “He’s”—he managed to breathe out—“is he—”
“He’s fine.” She sat by him in a rustle of skirts. “Oh dear, now I’ve frightened you as well.” She smiled ruefully and patted his knee. “I am so sorry. It’s just that William isn’t here, that’s all.”
“Not here? Where is he?”
“In the country,” she said silkily. “The Duke Tremontaine has gone to the country for his health.”
The large footman was standing there. No, there were two of them. They were all that kept him from crushing the life out of her, from shaking her till she told him where Will was.
“Where?” Rafe managed to croak out.
“Oh, Master Fenton. I’m afraid I cannot tell you that. It is very important that he not be disturbed.”
Rafe stumbled to his feet, all pretense of poise and civility gone. He seized her by her delicate shoulders. “Tell me,” he growled, but then the footmen were on him, one on each side while he trembled with rage between them, barely able to see as her cool voice said:
“Was I not clear? I did not hire you for a sick nurse. My husband has one of those already. And your company was very, very bad for him. I thought you recognized that on your last visit and that you would understand.”
He heard his own voice shouting at her, which was odd, because he never used words like that, even when he was drunk. One of the footmen punched him in the kidney, and he gasped in pain.
“I realize now,” Diane went on, “that that is not the case. It really is too bad, when we were getting on so well.” She ignored Rafe’s wheeze of breath. “Under the circumstances, I don’t suppose I can persuade you to stay. And so I will have to ask these gentlemen to show you out.”
She played me, he thought, on his knees in the street outside the gates of Tremontaine House. She played me, and she won. He scrabbled for his satchel. For now.
Only for now. At least he had her measure, now. Worse even than he had imagined. Poor Will! He could crawl, Rafe supposed, on his dust-covered knees, come back to her door, grovel, apologize, and say he would still like the position: help her with her papers, bear her abuse, let her toy with him endlessly while he struggled to find out where Will was and how to set him free.
Or he could do it another way.
He would need money, of course. Money for bribes, money for travel. Money, and allies. And an unassailable position.
Master Thelonious Fenton looked up from his desk with surprise when his son was announced. It was not often that Rafe voluntarily chose to pay him a call in his merchant offices; in fact, he could not really remember the last time it had happened.
But there was his oldest, his Rafe, standing before him, decently dressed for once, his chin barbered, coat brushed, neckcloth tied—
though still with that ridiculous long hair, and looking somewhat pale. He looked older, too. Had it really been so long?
“Father,” Rafe said, “I have come to tell you that I have been thinking. And I have reconsidered. I would like very much—that is, if you still want me to, I would be willing—no, eager—to join you in working here.”
Diane, Duchess Tremontaine, stood in the highest room of her great house on the Hill and surveyed her city. Tomorrow, she would pay off the very last of the money for the Everfair loan and look into how the chocolate trade was doing. She would make sure she had someone inside the Balam compound to keep an eye on the clever Kaab, someone far more suited to it than the hapless Reynald: There was no guarantee that the pretty girl and her kinsfolk would honor their bargain to protect Diane’s secret, after all, the moment it suited them not to. And so she would begin investigation of the University, to learn who Rafe Fenton’s confederates had been—clearly, Fenton had not figured out the navigational formulae on his own. It was a pity the boy had lost his temper; she’d been looking forward to having him under her thumb for a while. But she could probably get him back.
The duchess drummed her fingers on the windowsill. She would also have to find someone new to represent her in the Council of Lords. Someone young this time, she thought, and handsome and ambitious, who would value what she had to teach. She would petition the Inner Council for control of all of Tremontaine’s income, and then she would have some new dresses made.
There was much to do.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Tremontaine is a project that grew out of many brains—in particular, the cofounder of Serial Box Publishing, Julian Yap, who decided to see what would happen if people had the chance to read weekly episodes of an ongoing story the way they watch episodes of their favorite TV series. He asked me if I would be willing to spearhead something based on my Riverside series of novels and short stories. I agreed, as long as the new narrative took place significantly before the first Riverside novel, Swordspoint, so nobody messed up my timeline! Then we rounded up a team of writers to expand the boundaries of the City beyond what had been written so far, while staying true to my sense of the world.
Season One of Tremontaine is set fifteen years before Swordspoint. Sure, there are Easter eggs for those who have read the books already, but we were careful to make Tremontaine stand alone so that this story you’re reading now could be the true beginning of anyone’s journey to Riverside, the Hill, and lands only hinted at in the original books.
On SerialBox.com—or in their Serial Box app—you can not only find the e-versions of the stories, season by season, but also audio narration; and on the SerialBox.com blog, we have all the authors’ notes on what it was like to write their stories every week . . . plus my own explanation of how and why my big, crazy series is being written completely out of order. Welcome!
—Ellen Kushner
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The writers would like to thank:
Delia Sherman, for editing us into submission with patience, grace, and style;
Michael Manning, for knowing as much about math as Micah, and a lot more about science than Rafe;
Alan Bostick, for sage instruction on betting and the connection between poker and seventeenth-century natural philosophers;
Carlos Hernandez, for composing Rafe’s naughty poem on page 126, as well as his enthusiastic assistance with playing cards both real and imaginary;
Jaida Jones and Danielle Bennett, for filling in so charmingly over the holidays with their Riverside story “Willie Be Nimble.”
Kathleen Jennings, for art painstakingly cut from black paper to show our stories’ true hearts.
Our Serial Box copy editor, Noa Wheeler, for noble service in the face of far too many characters, and Tremontaine’s “show runner” and cat wrangler Racheline Maltese, for noble service in the face of sudden deadlines, anxious authors, and a start-up project that probably shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did.
In addition:
Alaya Dawn Johnson thanks Juan Paulo Pérez Tejada Ladrón de Guevara for his linguistic help in formulating the Kinwiinik language (and for having the awesomely longest name of anyone she knows).
Joel Derfner thanks Sue Fitzpatrick for keeping Micah honest.
Malinda Lo thanks all the writers for putting up with her excessive science research and plot nitpicking, and especially Alaya, for all her Kinwiinik world building.
Paul Witcover thanks Ellen Kushner for letting us play in her world.
Tremontaine
Season 2 Preview:
Episode 1: Convocation
Ellen Kushner
Diane, Duchess Tremontaine, went to the Crescent Chancellor’s annual Convocation for the Opening of the Council of Lor
ds to do three things: to select a new lover, to seek out a new swordsman, and to show the ambassador from Chartil her shawl.
The nobles of the city had already begun to gather in the formal reception chamber of the Council Hall. The high-ceilinged room swirled with the colors of their flamboyant dress and jackdaw chatter as they exchanged greetings and gossip after a summer away from the city at their country estates.
Nicholas, Lord Galing, the elected Crescent Chancellor of the Council of Lords, stood on a dais at one end of the hall to greet the arrivals. Galing’s lady wife, Clara, had finally died of her lingering illness over the summer, and many took the opportunity to press his hand and murmur their condolences.
The Crescent Chancellor was flanked by his colleagues of the Inner Council: Lord Ranulph Lassiter, the Raven Chancellor, secretary to the Council; Gregory, Lord Davenant, who held the post of Dragon and oversaw finance, and the Dukes of Karleigh and Hartsholt, members by tradition of the Inner Council that presided over the whole. The chancellors were resplendent in their robes of office: sumptuous blue velvet, with the insignia of each one embroidered on the chest in gold thread: the Crescent, the Raven, the Dragon.
Only the Serpent Chancellor was not present; but everyone knew that Arlen always came late.
Behind Lord Galing, his latest lover, Lord Asper Lindley, stood smiling and nodding, looking for all the world, as Lord Nevilleson put it to his friends, like a debutante receiving guests at her first ball—“Which I suppose, in a way, is just what he is,” Nevilleson said acidly. “Heaven only knows what this Council season will be, without Lady Galing’s moderating influence.”
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 58
