by Melanie Rawn
Unless the discovery had not been accidental at all.
Cailet, Gorsha warned.
“If Josselin plays Mirya right,” Tarise was saying, “she might drop those parts of her defense that blame it all on Sarra. It’s disgusting, truly told. Though I must say Mirya’s lust is enduring, if antiquated. Understandable, of course—the boy is seriously gorgeous.”
“A woman of nearly fifty ought to have more respect for her own dignity.”
“What’s dignity compared to a face like Josselin Mikleine’s? Not his fault, poor thing.”
“No. But I’ll bet Glenin’s really behind the appeal. Sarra’s the loser whichever way the High Justiciary decides. It’s a lovely way to blacken a Councillor’s character without Glenin’s having to say a single word herself.”
Tarise put down the remains of the pastry swan. “Now you’ve spoiled my appetite! Finish your breakfast, Cailet, do—or I’ll be subjected to Elomar’s gruesomest glare!”
“All right, all right—but only if you go find Lenna Ostin for me. We’ve already had one talk about this lawsuit, but I think she should hear this new wrinkle.”
“I’ll get Sarra and Col, too. And Josselin?”
“Mmm. . . .” Munching on an egg, she decapitated the third pastry swan and nodded. “About an hour after we begin our meeting, bring him in. And make sure he’s wearing something besides a sheet, won’t you? Lenna’s never seen him before—and she’s not married.”
8
THE twins looked in dismay at each other, then at Sarra, and then said in unison, “Do we have to?”
“Yes. And stop whining.” Sarra looked them both up and down, finding fault with the too-casual drape of Taigan’s turquoise silk shawl and the imperfect stuffing of Mikel’s curls into his coif. “You need a haircut,” she muttered, and he yelped as she forced a recalcitrant lock under the gray velvet.
Collan glanced at Cailet, who lounged against a table in the salon, trying not to laugh as her proud young Prentices were put in their proper place by their mother. “Get that smirk off your face,” he told her. “You’re next.”
Sure enough, Sarra turned her critical gaze on the Captal, whose eyes widened at Sarra’s frown. “What’s wrong with the way I look?”
“You and all that damned black. It’s much too harsh for your coloring—”
“She wants people to see her clothes, not her,” Col said patiently.
Cailet suffered her sister to retie the silver sash around her waist. “I don’t know what you’re griping about. These are the regimentals you had made for me—”
“Twenty years, and you’re still wearing the same ones!”
“At least she can still fit into ’em,” Collan drawled. “Unlike some girls I could mention.”
Sarra glared. “You try to keep a twenty-one-inch waistline after two children!”
“That’s all right, First Daughter—I like my women nicely padded.”
Her affronted scowl turned to a cloyingly sweet smile. “Then you’ll enjoy every minute you’re going to spend with Vellerin Dombur.”
Collan rolled his eyes. “I said ‘padded,’ not ‘upholstered.’ Cover her with brocade, she’d be a sofa.”
Mikel snickered. Sarra gave him a quelling look before loftily ignoring all of them in favor of checking her own appearance one last time in a full-length mirror. Collan watched fondly as she subjected herself to the same scrutiny. Round Sarra might have become over the years, but between the firm swell of her breasts and the lush curves of her hips was a waist not that much bigger than the twenty-one inches of her youth. She wore an elegant ivory tunic subtly embroidered with brown and dark green arabesques, belted with a thin gold chain over brown silk trousers. Her jewelry was nothing more elaborate than a pair of small gold hoop earrings and Tarise had dressed her hair simply in a long tail down her back. She looked thirty of her forty-three years—except for the worry that shadowed her eyes.
“Come on, we’re going to be late,” she said at last.
“Aren’t you going to put him to the test?” Cailet asked plaintively, pointing at Collan.
“Why bother?” he said before Sarra could reply. “I’m perfect.”
This time Taigan giggled, and Col turned a reproachful eye on her. Hastily, she said, “Of course you’re perfect, Fa, you always are.”
Sarra snorted and shooed them all toward the door. And despite his claims to perfection, Col snagged a look in the mirror at himself. Just to make sure. His clothes were a skillful complement to Sarra’s, combining almost the same shades of green, brown, and ivory. He was a little put-out that his latest innovation had not yet been commented upon: his longvest was a vest no more. It had sleeves to the wrists. Timarrin Allard had sent it from Ambrai only yesterday, with two others for more formal occasions. He fully expected to cause a sensation that would draw at least some of the attention from Vellerin Dombur—a small annoyance to the would-be Grand Duchess, but one Collan would relish.
“Do we have to go hear her speech?” Mikel said one last time on their way through the halls. It earned him another stern look from his mother.
“Yes. And to the reception afterward. I want to know how people react in the gallery where you’ll be sitting. I need all the eyes and ears I can get—and so does your Captal,” Sarra added irrefutably, and the twins subsided—though Taigan kept touching nervous fingers to her hair, where Tarise’s dexterity had almost disguised the singed bits. Collan felt an ill-timed rush of fury that anyone could put his little girl into such danger. Never mind that she was a little girl no longer. She was still and always his to keep safe. And he’d done a rotten job of it.
All thirty Councillors and three hundred twenty-five Members of the Assembly—plus anyone who could wrangle a seat—met in the Great Chamber on the fifth of Ascension to hear Vellerin Dombur speak. But until she made her appearance, easily the most remarked-upon attendee was Mage Captal Cailet Rille. (Collan came second on the to-be-stared-at list; the sleeved longvest had every man in the place making frantic mental appointments with his own tailor.) Rumors about Mage Hall had wildfired around Ryka Court all during Maiden Moon—and the grim facts had been known since the Captal’s formal written report to the Council was read yesterday. Few were the families that had not lost a Mageborn relation in the murders all over Lenfell or in the destruction of Mage Hall.
But as to who was responsible . . . well, some had strong opinions and others had stronger fears, but everyone was waiting to hear what Vellerin Dombur had to say.
She surged into the Great Chamber—all three hundred and fifty-four pounds of her—wearing the Dombur white-on-white that matched the marble of the Speaker’s Circle and the huge triangular Council table behind her. Once there had been fifteen red-cushioned chairs at that table; now there were thirty, and sometimes when the senior and junior Councillors for each Shir were not on speaking terms they gritted their teeth at being crammed together. When Dannin Rengirt had been Sarra’s junior for Sheve, the close quarters embarrassed him so much he spent half his nine-year term apologizing to her for brushing against her shoulder.
This morning the vast table was bare of the usual pens, paper, crystal water pitchers and goblets, and other appointments of an official meeting; there would be no business done today and all the Councillors sat in the audience. Vellerin Dombur had the whole stage to herself, and as she entered by the side door, Collan realized that this was exactly the way she liked it. She positioned her bulk at the plinth as if it were a stepping stone to that usually crowded table—which Col figured she intended to sit at all by herself one day, not as First Councillor or even only Councillor, but as Grand Duchess of the whole damned world.
She was greeted by a polite silence, and immediately began her remarks. “Councillors, Members of the Assembly, citizens of Lenfell. I thank you for according me this opportunity to share with you my thoughts on the condition of our society and our mutual hopes for
the future. I also bring greetings and best wishes from the people of Domburronshir, who have graciously named me to represent them here.”
“Right,” Col muttered. “They name her nightly in prayers to St. Venkelos for her quick death.”
“Shh,” hissed Sarra.
As Vellerin Dombur prated on, Collan glanced around the Chamber. There’d been changes made since the first time he’d sat here, the day Sarra had taken her oath as the newly elected Councillor for Sheve. The banners hanging from balcony rails and around the walls were still bright with the colors of every extant Name on Lenfell, but in the last nineteen years three Names had died out with the last of the female line.
“Nothing can bring back the old days—nor should they return. There was much to cause us chagrin about the manner in which our foremothers ruled Lenfell. Under the leadership of the new Council, many of these deplorable customs have been abandoned, and all to the good of our world. Yet there was much about the old days we can still admire, days in which strong and powerful and brilliant women worked hard for the greater good and glory of their Shirs.”
She was referring to Veller Ganfallin, of course. But Col thought of Agatine Slegin. The Rose Crown banner was gone, there being no woman of that Name now living, and Collan regretted it—even though Agatine’s lack of daughters meant Sarra’s and therefore his own wealth. He’d liked Agatine and her husband Orlin Renne, for all that they’d dragged his unwilling self across half Lenfell during the Rising. If they hadn’t, he never would have been tortured in that obscene white room; but if they hadn’t, he never would have become Sarra’s husband and father of her children. She introduced legislation at every Council session to allow third or fourth daughters to inherit a father’s Name if it was in danger of extinction—both Riddon and Jeymi Slegin had fathered several daughters each—but she’d never even come close to the two-thirds majority necessary to take the measure to the Assembly.
“And let us not forget the humbler but no less important work of the majority of Lenfell’s women, those who grew our crops and fished our waters, watched our flocks and herds, taught our children, guided commerce, crafted our necessities and our luxuries, supervised our mines and factories and estates, tended our flowers, and wove our garments and tapestries.”
On Collan’s other side, Cailet whispered, “Wonder how Glenin Feiran will like being lumped in with all the other good little drones.”
“Shh!” hissed Sarra.
One of Dombur’s images had caught Collan’s mind: flowers. He’d given orders long ago that the gardens at Roseguard be restored to glory, but he hadn’t the same feel for horticulture possessed by their former Master. Verald Jescarin had been his friend—chance-met, known for only a few brief weeks, but his friend nonetheless. His family’s banner still hung from the wall, but the Trayos he’d married had been the last grown daughter of her Name. Collan’s jaw hardened as he thought of Sela, and Verald, and their little girl Tamsa—all dead in the Rising. He’d seen Verald killed one cold night not fifty miles from where he now sat. Sela had died in childbirth; Tamsa succumbed to a fever after fleeing the attack on Ostinhold; the baby had vanished and was presumed dead. Col still had the jewelry Sela had given her husband—an amethyst earring, a wristlet of gold and dark green jade—and Verald’s identification disk. He’d meant to give the tokens to Sela, but everything had happened so fast. . . .
Vellerin Dombur placed plump hands atop the plinth, and from one thumb winked a silver ring set with carved white onyx like a clot of snow. The sigils of every Saint in the Calendar marched in orderly rows up and down the upright block of marble; their presence was supposed to guarantee the truth and sincerity of the speaker’s words. Collan had no doubt that this woman meant everything she said—and much more that she did not say.
“Nothing would please me and benefit Lenfell more than to restore the best of the old ways, the respect for tradition and craft and the finest of our customs. I know that opinions differ as to what we should retrieve and what we should not, but after the welcome I have received here and after meeting with several of you, I heartily believe that any differences among us will melt away like mist in the warm sunlight of understanding and cooperation.”
“I may throw up,” Collan whispered.
“Not here.” Cailet nudged him with an elbow. “Sarra would never forgive you.”
Sarra gave them both a look to paralyze a rabid rampaging grizzel in its tracks.
“But casting a shadow over this day is a terrible deed that has shocked and horrified us all. Treachery has obliterated Mage Hall. We all grieve at this calamity, which frighteningly recalls the slaughter perpetrated on the innocent citizens of Ambrai by the late unlamented Anniyas’s votary, Auvry Feiran.”
Col felt Sarra turn cold beside him. He sneaked a hand toward hers on the arm of her seat, covering the small, icy fist with his own.
“We all remember the Commander of Lenfell’s armies—how he destroyed that great and gracious city in the course of three hideous days, murdering over thirty thousand, earning his odious title: Butcher of Ambrai. His crimes continued during that period known as the Purge, which all but wiped out the Mage Guardians—he who once had been one of them! But he could not completely extinguish their light. Cailet Rille, the new young Captal, built the Mage Guardians into a reality again—only to see her work destroyed.”
All eyes had turned to Cailet. Col ground his teeth. He knew how she hated attention of this type. But it was part of her function to be a visible symbol, just as Sarra had deliberately played on her background as a daughter of two victims at Ambrai. But Vellerin Dombur was speaking as if Cailet were a relic and as if the destruction of Mage Hall meant the Mages were nearing inevitable extinction.
“We must resolve to right this terrible wrong,” rang out Dombur’s voice, drawing all attention back to her. “We must remember the evil of Auvry Feiran, who tried to exterminate the Mage Guardians in his lust for power. We must cast out such self-serving rapaciousness from among us, in whatever form it may appear, and nurture our Mageborns back to what they once were. For Lenfell needs magic. Those years we spent without it showed us this. The years since the Rising, when Mageborns have come among us again in our towns and cities and farmlands, have shown us this. Magic is one of the best things about the old days, and we must bring it fully back into our lives. With patience and hard work and a strong belief in a better future for our daughters, we can ensure that never again will Auvry Feiran’s pattern of power-mad wickedness distort the fabric of our civilization.”
Col listened to the applause and wondered what the hell the woman was up to. Pattern and fabric could only refer to Chevasto the Weaver, patron of the Malerrisi—but she’d just spent five minutes vilifying the father of the current First Lady of Malerris. Glenin Feiran (and where was she, anyway?) was supposed to be her ally; what was she playing at?
Then he recalled the insulting offer Pier Alvassy reported receiving from Glenin—they were cousins through the Ambrai line, and she had appealed to his family loyalty for support in her ventures. Pier hadn’t replied—had been restrained only on his Captal’s direct order from going to meet her ship and exploding a Mage Globe in her face—and the mere mention of her made his lip curl. But maybe Glenin was going to renounce the Feiran Name, take back Ambrai, and in that fashion claim the city of her birth. For the third missing banner was the Ambrai Octagon—Glenin, the last of that Name, had long since adopted her father’s, so the Leaf Crown of the Feirans was present. Col wondered if Ambrai would soon replace it.
Everyone repaired to the Malachite Hall for drinks and nibble-food. Collan was immediately accosted by a group of young Ryka blades demanding to know the name of his clothes designer. After satisfying their curiosity (and grinning to himself again at their chagrin; not many could afford Timarrin Allard’s prices), he moved smoothly through the crowd, picking up bits of chat here and there with expert ease.
He heard wh
at he’d expected to hear. Speculation, admiration, suspicion, and a goodly dose of unrelated gossip about who was sleeping with whom, which Web would bid on which contracts/land/shipping routes, who was pregnant, who was getting married, and suchlike. On such rumors did the Minstrelsy build its reports and predictions—several of its members were in the crowd, and Collan expected to spend an interesting evening listening to all of it.
But the only thing of consequence he heard came from a tall, lean, good-looking young man whose ensemble, though fine enough for the occasion, looked assembled from five other men’s wardrobes. Referring to one’s Name in clothes and jewelry had gone out of fashion last year, so Collan had no convenient means of identifying him. A neatly trimmed beard concealed the lines of cheeks and jaw and lips, but there was something familiar in the arch of his nose, the deep set of his hazel eyes, and the poise of his head, even from twenty feet away.
The young man noticed Collan’s regard, smiled slightly, and excused himself from the company of several fascinated, predatory ladies. On his way to where Col stood, he collected two full wineglasses off a passing servant’s tray, presenting one with a dignified little bow.
“I don’t doubt I seem familiar,” he said in a low, unaccented voice. Up close, he wasn’t as young as Col had thought—at least thirty, probably thirty-five. “I believe you met my father.”
“Did I?” He cursed himself for revealing his puzzlement on his face, and now replaced it with a pleasant smile.
“At the time of the Rising.” He sipped at the wine, then said casually, “His name was Vassa Doriaz.”
Fifth Lord of Malerris, murderer of Taig Ostin. “Only once,” Col said easily, his mind seething with remembered scenes in that white box Anniyas had called an albadon. “We didn’t exactly warm up to each other.”
“I was told you tried to drag him into . . . your own situation at the time.”
“He wasn’t inclined to join me.”