by Melanie Rawn
At the end of the evening, Vellerin departed Glenin’s seedy lodgings, floorboards keening beneath her weight, for the cliffside house owned by a wealthy supporter. Vellerin had condescended to invite Glenin to join the retinue of fawning functionaries luxuriating at the mansion. Glenin had declined. Humble as her above-the-tavern room was, she preferred it to being one of dozens dancing attendance on Vellerin Dombur and her disgusting husband with his ostentatious white clothes and frightful poetry. It would take some doing at Ryka Court to establish her independence from Vellerin while subtly emphasizing their partnerships as equals in power—but she’d already contacted a steward of chambers there who remembered her. He had assured her that her suite would be at least the size and grandeur of Vellerin’s.
A tap at her door distracted her from the beginnings of a spell for sleep—excitement had perturbed her nights recently. She rose from the narrow bed (Warded the instant she arrived to chase away bugs) and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Chava would never disturb her unless it was absolutely necessary, and only Chava would dare disturb her at all.
“Lady, I am sorry,” he said as he slipped into the darkened room. Once the door was shut, he called up a tiny Mage Globe, and by its light she saw that he was fully dressed. “There’s trouble downstairs. Someone’s heard about Mage Hall, and someone else heard Lady Mirya say your name the other night, and put the two together. It began with muttering, but it’s about to escalate into nastiness. It’s my opinion, Lady, that we ought to leave at once.”
Run away, as Cailet had? Not damned likely. “Ridiculous,” she scoffed. “In the first place, my Wards will keep us safe. In the second, there’s no proof that any Malerrisi were involved with—”
“With respect, Lady, it’s your very Wards that will drive them to a frenzy. Bleynbradden is staunchly for the Mage Guardians and hates the Domburs—they remember Veller Ganfallin’s siege of Wyte Lynn Castle, though it happened centuries ago. And I must point out, again with respect, that ‘proof’ is incidental over that many bottles of Bleyn’s Brown Ale.”
She let the breath hiss out between her teeth. “If we run away, we confirm their every suspicion.”
“Can that matter? All that is vital is to reach Ryka Court. Our ship docked less than an hour ago. You can be on it in twenty minutes.”
Contending with the rabble would be to no profit at all. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with events at Ryka Court. “Very well,” she said curtly.
Chava allowed himself a relieved sigh. “Please dress warmly. The baggage is already downstairs, and can be picked up tomorrow morning as scheduled. There’s a back stair into the yard, and from there a short walk to the dock. I’ll make sure the way is clear.” With a scant bow, he left her room.
Glenin had just finished buttoning a woolen shortvest and was throwing her cloak over her shoulders when he knocked at the door again. She grabbed her coin-purse (the bulk of her money was sewn into the lining of her skirt) and followed him down the squeak-floored hall toward the back stairs.
And none too soon, for the mutterings in the tavern below had reached a boiling point. Glenin hadn’t heard it from her room, but now the anger seethed up the stairs and she discovered she was frightened. Only for a brief, shameful instant; she was the First Lady of Malerris, she had no cause to fear anyone. Shaken more by her own reaction than the heavy tread of hobnailed boots on the stairs, she realized that she had ruled with absolute authority a community that gave her absolute deference for so long that the merest hint of disrespect would quite naturally upset her. Well, they would pay for it, and learn better—but not tonight.
The main staircase rose just beside the tavern’s front door. The taproom ceiling soared to worm-eaten rafters, with the upper story bracketing it in an L-shape. The hall at the top of the stairs extended the length of the building and then turned a right angle at the back, with a second staircase at the intersection. Glenin and Chava were almost to this juncture when the tromping of many drunken feet announced the imminent arrival of aggrieved townsfolk. Chava swore under his breath, shoved his shoulder against the nearest door, dragged Glenin into a bedroom, and slammed the door behind him.
In a pair of beds shoved together for convenience frolicked two women and one man, all young and none wearing a single stitch. The man was profoundly occupied in pleasuring both women at the same time, and intense concentration on his task precluded his noticing the intruders. But one of the women, dark head lolling in transports of bliss, opened her eyes above splendid cheekbones Glenin wasted a moment envying, and saw them.
Chava gave her his most charming smile, white teeth flashing in his heavy brown beard. “Good evening. So sorry to have bothered you. Don’t pay us any heed, just go on doing what you’re doing. We’ll be gone in a moment, vanished as if we’d never been here.”
At the sound of his voice, the second woman jerked upright in bed, her short tawny hair every whichway. The dimples born of an ecstatic smile vanished from her cheeks as she opened her mouth to scream.
Glenin, who’d been preparing to make herself and Chava invisible within a Ward, cast a hasty spell instead. Not a sound issued from the blonde, who realized it, choked, disconnected herself from the man, and scrambled naked out of bed to huddle in a corner. The darker woman simply stared, too astounded even to attempt a scream. Their lover, whose conscientious attention to his duty Glenin rather admired, finally grasped that something was amiss. He rolled over, modestly clutching a scrap of sheet about his groin. Across his long face, capped by tousled dark hair, successive emotions played with comical predictability: surprise, indignation, irritation, wariness, and at last fear.
Footsteps went by outside in the hall. Glenin counted at least eight sets, all heading for her room. She made her voice gentle and reassuring as she said, “My apologies, ladies, for the interruption. We’ll be going now.”
Her turn to be surprised then—for the young man, deciding there was nothing to be scared about, was looking her over with new and flattering interest. “Honored if you’d join us, Lady,” he purred.
Chava half-strangled on an outraged gasp. Glenin was so amused that she disregarded the man’s impertinence. “I’m obliged to you, Domni. Perhaps another time.”
“I’ll count the hours, Lady,” he responded with a rakish grin, and she couldn’t help but grin back—especially when his remaining bedmate dealt him a resounding slap on the shoulder.
Chava opened the door, backed out, and Glenin spared a last wink for the young man before following. A glance back down the hall told her that her room had been invaded. The overflow crammed into the doorway, straining to see inside—and paying no attention to the rest of the hallway. She and Chava hurried down the back stairs and out into the yard. Trampling the vegetable garden on the shortest route to the gate, they wrapped their cloaks closer against the late-night chill and slipped through the quiet streets to the docks.
The captain of any ship was the only person who could authorize an unscheduled boarding. The captain of the Gray-Eyed Lady did not appreciate being woken up to check their credentials. While Glenin pointedly ignored her, Chava gave her to understand the Lady preferred to spend the night before a voyage in her cabin, to accustom herself to the roll of the ship so that seasickness did not plague her quite so much once they were underway.
The captain glanced meaningfully at the dead calm harbor. “We’re at anchor.”
“Yet the difference between a deck and a dock is more than that of a single vowel,” Chava suggested with another winning smile.
It did not impress; the captain scowled, grunted, grudgingly welcomed Glenin on board, and stomped back to her cabin.
The next morning saw the early arrival of Mirya Witte and her maidservant, and the late arrival of Vellerin Dombur with her retainers. Glenin spent the entire time in her cramped little cabin, furious with Vellerin for her tardiness and therefore unable to go abovedecks lest she snarl at the stupid w
oman. Galling, that she was compelled by necessity to behave as if she actually liked and admired that corpulent, condescending cow. She consoled herself with daydreams of Vellerin’s death by slow starvation. It would make up for having to kill Sarra and Cailet so quickly.
Finally the anchor was weighed, the sails were unfurled, and the Gray-Eyed Lady moved into the open sea. Vellerin sent a flunky to invite her to lunch in her suite—the best on board, including a tiny bathroom with a tub and toilet (Glenin’s cabin had an ewer-and-basin and a chamberpot). Glenin felt no compunctions about using Vellerin’s servant to summon Chava—who arrived livid with fury.
“The trunks were never delivered. They never left the tavern storeroom—except to be unloaded into the innkeeper’s closets! I waited and waited, then paid a runner to go find out what happened—and when he finally came back he said she greeted him wearing green velvet with seed pearls! Your green velvet with seed pearls! Forfeit, she said, for the unpaid bill—as if we hadn’t paid her before we set foot in the place! Lady, if they hadn’t been hauling up the anchor and if Lady Vellerin hadn’t already made us so late we were in danger of missing the tide, I would’ve returned there and ripped your clothes right off her back!”
“What makes you think I’d let them touch me after she’d sweated her stink into them?” Glenin had already discovered that pacing this minuscule scrap of floorboards was an unrewarding occupation. So she settled for kicking the empty ceramic chamberpot to the other side of the cabin, where it shattered against the door.
“Lady, I—”
“Shut up. There’s nothing to be done now about it. But I must have something decent to wear.” Vellerin Dombur would have at least ten trunks filled with clothes, but not only were she and Glenin nowhere near of a size, her taste was hideous and Glenin refused to demean herself by begging for her help. Likewise she would not be seen in a dress belonging to one of Vellerin’s servants. “Tell Mirya Witte that I require one of her gowns. Make sure it’s her best—not that that will be very impressive, considering her poverty, but at least it’ll be clean and it might fit without looking too dreadful. And the instant we get to Ryka Portside, find the nearest shop and buy me something to wear.”
“At least there was no money in any of the trunks. When we get to Ryka Court, I’ll discover the name of the finest dressmaker and get an immediate appointment. I’m positive it won’t take long to get us both outfitted again.”
And meanwhile Glenin would have to hide in her suite. Damn that woman, she’d have her eyes torn out.
It wasn’t until after he’d gone that she remembered what else had been in her luggage. Her white velvet Ladder, her escape in case all her plans and all her preparations went awry. Loss of the original—damn Siral Warris!—had been painful enough. And nothing to the Work needed to replace it. Five solid years it had taken her, one just to memorize complex sequences of spells. Every silk thread, even before it was woven into velvet; every stitch of silver embroidery before the metal had even been spun to sewing thinness—and then while the weaving and spinning and sewing was done—all of it Worked and Worked again.
And the Ladder she’d struggled for five years to make had been packed in one of her trunks. By now its pristine white velvet would be spread beside that thieving innkeeper’s bed to warm her filthy bare feet on cold mornings.
She’d tear that woman’s heart out with her own fingers.
7
RYKA Court kept a quiet St. Deiket’s (celebrations for the scholarly Saint were spirited only at colleges and academies) and in fact seemed to be holding its collective breath. Cailet stayed out of sight, available only to Lenna Ostin, Elomar Adennos, and Telomir Renne. She ignored her sister, her sister’s husband and children, and anyone else who wanted to see her.
No one, not even Cailet, could permanently evict Tarise.
She began the morning of Ascension’s third day with breakfast in her Ryka Court suite—the same luxurious rooms always kept for her use whenever she was forced to come. Tarise came in at Half-Fifth with a laden tray and the comment, “You’ll love this, Cailet—it’s simply too cute for words.”
Cailet sat up against the oak headboard with its inlaid ebonwood feathers, kicked back the aviary embroidered on the quilt, and surveyed her meal. Some impish spirit in the kitchens had decided to match the menu to the surroundings. Six tiny hard-boiled eggs cuddled in a nest of asparagus tips, and a trio of flaky pastry swans sailed on waves of sliced grilled duck. The plate, cup, and coffeepot were of Rine porcelain with birds, the handles of the flatware were shaped like a rooster’s tail plumage, and instead of flowers in a vase the tray was decorated with three white plums the size of goose eggs, out of which rose tall, iridescent feathers whose eyes seemed to wink at her.
“Sweet St. Alilen with Silver Wings and Golden Feathers! What Daftie is responsible for all this?”
“The Supreme Votary of Velirion’s Vittles in Charge of Spectacular Presentation of Meals to Important Guests—he has some other equally ridiculous tide, but that’s his function.” Tarise set the tray across Cailet’s knees before seating herself at the foot of the gigantic bed.
“This place always did feel like a birdcage—does he have to rub it in?” She poured coffee, adding, “Besides, cute food is always awful. They spend so much time worrying about making it look good that they forget it should taste good.”
Tarise smiled slightly. One forkful of duck later, Cailet changed her mind about cute food. It showed on her face, and Tarise said, “We’re thinking of stealing him for Roseguard. Try a swan.”
“Seems a shame to lop off its poor little head.” But she did, and the pastry melted in her mouth. After a swallow of coffee and a long sigh, she eyed Tarise thoughtfully. “What is it you want to tell me that you intend to wait until I’ve finished because if you tell me now it’d spoil my appetite? Not that there’s any danger of it—I’m starved and this is miraculous.”
“Oh, it’s only a little something I just happened to overhear.”
“Ah. The same way you just happened to see the earrings in Telo’s bedroom.” She paused. “What were you doing in his bedroom, anyway? And don’t say you were trying to seduce him, you haven’t looked at another man since you first set eyes on Rillan twenty-five years ago.”
“Twenty-seven,” she corrected. “Though I could make an exception for Josselin Mikleine. And he’s the one I overheard.”
“Talking to—?” Cailet prompted.
“Mirya Witte! Her ship got in half a day early to Ryka Portside. She arrived late last night—and at the absolute crack of dawn went to find her former intended husband.” Tarise selected a plum, removed the decorative feather, and began peeling it with her fingernails as she settled down for a good gossip. “I just happened to be in the hallway where your two gorgeous Prentices are sharing a room—no, truly told!” she protested as Cailet grinned. “I was going to get your breakfast. I stayed to listen from around the corner and that’s why I’m late. Anyway, there they were, standing in the doorway, Josselin in nothing but a sheet—draped to cover everything, damn it—and Mirya the Mare trembling like a filly come into her first season. It seems he never replied to a letter she sent him back at Shepherds Moon. He said he didn’t flunk there was anything to say. She said she’d drop the lawsuit if only he’d forget about being a Mage Guardian and come back to her as her husband, just as they planned. He said, ‘Just as you planned,’ and she said, ‘You’d have everything I promised, and more,’ and he said, ‘All I’d have would be a mountain of debts and marriage to a woman jailed for murder.’ Then she said, ‘I’ll win my appeal,’ to which he said, ‘If you drop the lawsuit against Lady Sarra and Lord Collan, what defense will you have for what you’ve done?”
“What defense, indeed,” Cailet murmured. “To which Mirya said. . . .”
“‘You wanted me once, I can make you want me again,’ and he said, ‘Want you? Not in a million years. And nothing could make m
e want to end up like Ellus Penteon.’ Smart boy.” She took a bite of the plum, licked juice from her lips, and resumed, “Then Mirya threatened him. He’d better make his best deal now with her, because in a week his patron Lady Sarra will be ruined and he’s got no money and no prospects other than what his pretty face can win him. He said he’d live on grubs for the rest of his life in the meanest hovel in The Waste rather than spend another two minutes with her. And then he slammed the door in her face.”
“That wasn’t very smart,” Cailet commented.
“No, but what he did next was. After a moment or two he opened the door—the sheet had dropped from his shoulders to his waist, Mirya practically whinnied!—anyway, he said if she truly meant to drop the lawsuit against Sarra and Col, he’d think about coming back to her. She hardly heard him—he actually had to say it twice—and then she tried to paw him. He pulled the sheet up like a virgin bridegroom, wished her a good morning, and closed the door!” Tarise sucked the last juices from the plum pit, tossed it onto the tray, licked her fingers, and grinned. “Now what do you think of that?”
“Remarkable.”
“And then some! But tell me what you think it all means, Cailet. You know the boy, I don’t.” She broke the tail off a swan and bit in.
“I think he doesn’t want to go back to Mirya Witte.” If he was Glenin’s son, the chances of his marrying that woman were about the same as those of the Ladymoon’s falling out of the sky one night. Unless he was only what he appeared to be, and the real traitor was Jored. In which case Mirya Witte’s lawsuit had absolutely nothing to do with anything at all—except that it discredited Sarra and Collan.
“Well, obviously he doesn’t want to marry the Mare. Who would?”
“But I think he wants Mirya to think he might.” Which made no sense, unless he truly intended to sacrifice himself for Sarra and Collan. They’d discovered he was Mageborn, and spared him a distasteful marriage. He was young, and the young were prone to grand gestures.