by Melanie Rawn
“I can understand that.”
“But now you Malerrisi want to join the party.”
Stroking his bearded chin, he nodded. “It’s a magnificent setting.”
“With plenty of opportunities.”
“Precisely.”
They were not referring to the festivities in the Malachite Hall.
Collan said, “Today is your first opportunity to meet the Captal, as I recall? She’s right over there, if you need to have her pointed out.”
“You’re right, I didn’t have the pleasure of seeing her face-to-face that night at the Octagon Court—when Lady Sarra killed my father.”
“After your father killed Taig Ostin.”
The man nodded thoughtfully. “You haven’t tasted your wine, Lord Collan.”
“I’m picky about who I drink with.”
“At least wishing to know their names? I’ve been remiss. I am Chava, son of Saris Allard—Threadmaster was her title among us. She was in the audience on the night the new theater opened in Roseguard. I—was not able to remain with her after she—” He hesitated, and there was a flash of something real and honest in his green-brown eyes. “I should very much like to know if she received a proper burning.”
Such touching filial piety from the man whose mother had tried to kill Collan’s children. He kept a snarl from his face and replied, “Lady Sarra ordered her disposed of in a manner appropriate to the circumstances.”
Gold flared like fanned embers in his eyes.
With silken malice, Collan added, “What the fish couldn’t chew up has probably drifted to Malerris Castle by now. Why don’t you go back there and keep an eye on the tides?”
With that, he nodded and walked off.
Placing the wineglass on the nearest table, he took a moment to compose himself, then went in search of Sarra. He didn’t see her on his first circuit of the huge Hall—not surprising, as she was so short she tended to vanish in a crush like this one—but he did catch sight of Vellerin Dombur, her simpering simple-minded husband beside her, holding forth to a group including many of the Dindenshir Assembly representatives and that Shir’s senior Councillor, Ullin Dindennos.
The Minstrelsy reported that whereas Rinesteenshir, formidable mountains, and the mighty River Rine stood between Dindenshir and Vellerin Dombur’s ambitions for South Lenfell, and nobody believed that the Iron City of Isodir would capitulate to her any more than it had to her ancestor, there was worry in the stone corridors of Dinn. Ullin Dindennos’s frown confirmed that whatever Vellerin Dombur was saying, it was not soothing her very much. It had recently been discovered, and was not yet common knowledge, that persons fronting for the Dombur Web had bought up dozens of smallhold farms, at least one commercial building in every town in the Shir, and an entire block of prime waterfront businesses in Dinn itself. It was beginning to look as if the only Web capable of countering the Dombur’s moves was Lady Lilen Ostin’s—and, with a truculent First Daughter to contend with before nearly every transaction, Lilen had her own problems.
Collan made another round of the Malachite Hall, but instead of Sarra, who seemed to have disappeared entirely, he found Glenin Feiran—to whom Granon Isidir was listening intently. Isidir, a secret supporter of the Rising, had been on the Council for Rinesteenshir since 952 and was Sarra’s staunchest ally. Col didn’t mind the alliance part of it; what he objected to—and had for twenty years—was the look in Isidir’s eyes whenever he glanced at Sarra. At sixty-two he was as lean and predatory as ever, still handsome enough to catch any woman’s eye. Col would have died rather than admit to Sarra that even after all this time he was still jealous—but every time he saw her with Isidir he couldn’t help remembering the way they’d danced around the bonfire that night long ago. . . .
He doesn’t matter—Glenin does. So he inspected the First Lady of Malerris. She was nearing fifty but even Col’s prejudice had to admit she looked ten years younger. Tall, elegantly slender, she wore a honey-colored silk dress and ivory shortvest with as much effortless grace as if it had been made for her—which the inch-too-short hem indicated it had not. Dark-blonde hair only lightly touched with silver cascaded loose around her shoulders, the size and shape of her gray-green eyes were subtly emphasized with make-up, and around her throat glittered a chain of eight-sided gold links. Octagons, Collan noted sourly. So she is going after Ambrai. Elin will be thrilled. What she was saying as he edged near enough to listen, however, had nothing to do with the city of her birth.
“—enough Mageborns in this world that any of us can either hoard our gifts in isolation or neglect to educate ourselves in their uses. It’s been wrong and prideful of me in the past, I see that now, to have kept aloof. We’ve all realized that whatever our philosophical differences with the Mage Guardians, we Mageborns must all dedicate ourselves to the service of Lenfell.”
Councillor Isidir said, “In essence, you see yourself and the Mage Guardians as two shrines in the same city, each of value though dedicated to different Saints.”
“Exactly,” Glenin said. “We and they ought to be able to honor each other’s shrines and applaud each other’s good works, not be rivals for the devotion of the populace.”
“And to this desirable, cooperative end—?” Isidir prompted.
“We’re more than willing to go along with whatever would make the Captal feel secure.”
“Inspection, for instance, of Malerris Castle and its methods of educating Mageborns?”
“Certainly. We have nothing to hide.”
“And yet you’ve been in hiding there for the twenty years since Anniyas died.”
“As I’ve said, that was wrong of me. I felt threatened and alone. But you must understand that in these twenty years, we’ve come to realize that the late First Councillor was an anomaly among us. She was a wicked, grasping woman who used everyone and everything to get what she wanted. Not what the Malerrisi wanted—what she wanted for herself.” Glenin sighed. “I’ve never spoken of this, but perhaps you recall that in 968 I lost my First Daughter? It was not a miscarriage, as was put about at the time. Anniyas ordered me to abort the child.”
For the second time that day, Collan felt like throwing up.
“Shocking,” said Isidir. “I assume she wanted the girl dead because a grandson would not be able to challenge her in the way that a granddaughter could. You were deeply under her spell back then, to have agreed to such a thing.”
“And have since freed myself of her influence and her viewpoint.”
“Undemonstrated, unproved—and unbelievable, if you’ll forgive my saying so.” For the first time in his life Collan approved wholeheartedly of Granon Isidir’s existence: the dark face suddenly lost its look of amiable interest and took on an aspect such as St. Venkelos must wear when judging the dead. “You Malerrisi have not changed your outlook since The Waste War. If others are so foolish as to be convinced by you, I will make it my task to disabuse them.”
“I find it regrettable that you feel that way,” said Glenin, and Collan could almost hear the Scissors click as in her mind she excised Granon Isidir from the Great Loom.
Isidir seemed to hear it, too. It daunted him not at all. He gave her a nod so curt as to be barely civil, and walked off. She turned her head slightly to watch him go, and met Collan’s gaze. One corner of her mouth tugged upward in amusement. He realized then that she’d known he was there, and intended her words to get back to Sarra and Cailet. Unwilling to let her manipulate him so readily, he pasted a half-smile on his face and approached her.
“Interesting speech Vellerin Dombur made today,” he drawled. “How much of it did you write for her?”
“Everything but the adjectives,” Glenin responded calmly. “I find even I am unable to curb her tendency toward the lurid.”
“I agree, they were a touch overdone. Except in regard to your father.” When that didn’t even come close, he paused and looked her down
and up. “You and your assistant appear to have had some difficulty with wardrobe.”
She had her full share of vanity; this barb hit the mark, though she showed it only in an almost imperceptible stiffening of shoulders and jaw. “Our luggage was stolen.”
“I’d be pleased to give you the name of a good dressmaker,” he offered generously. “And I wouldn’t worry too much about the loss—you’ve been away from Ryka Court so long the clothes you had were undoubtedly twenty years behind the fashion.”
The notion of this practically Nameless upstart Minstrel giving her advice—and in a place where what she chose to wear and say and do had once set the style—rendered her speechless with indignation.
Collan watched her eyes flash for a gratifying moment, then added, “Of course, everything about you is twenty years out of date—including your jewelry.”
Her fingers twitched involuntarily to the chain of gold octagons around her neck. Then, mental Scissors snipping again, she turned on her heel and walked away.
“What are you grinning about?”
Cailet’s question made him turn. Taking her arm, he escorted her through the crowd to a refreshment table, saying, “A woman stays a woman, no matter what.”
She looked up at him blankly. “Huh?”
“Never mind. Have some of this, you’ll feel better.” He gave her a tall glass of golden bubbles. She sniffed at it, sipped, and made a face.
“We brewed better at Ostinhold. And what makes you think I need to feel better?”
“Masculine intuition. Drink up.” Taking a glass for himself, he swigged half of it down.
“Why are you having such a good time?” she asked irritably.
“Because I might as well. It’s another hour before I can sneak out of here.”
“Where were you thinking of sneaking to?”
“A bar where they serve real drinks.”
Cailet put down her glass. “Let’s go. Sarra didn’t even come in past the doors, you know. Why should she be the only one to escape all this?”
“Cai, we can’t just—”
“Saints and Wraiths, you’re dutiful today! I’m Mage Captal. I can do any damned thing I please, and I’m sick of this hothouse. Are you coming?”
9
THEY found Sarra outside in a corridor with the many reasons she hadn’t even entered the hall. She’d been besieged—not by Councillors, members of the Assembly, Ryka Court bureaucrats, or even common citizens. When Cailet and Collan joined her, they were similarly surrounded.
“Lord Collan, a few minutes of your time? Shen Dalakard, Island Shirs Press.”
“Excuse me, Captal, but if you could just answer a few questions—”
“The Roke Castle Weekly Review is running a story on the destruction at Mage Hall—could I get a few comments?”
“Lord Collan, what was your reaction to Vellerin Dombur’s speech today?”
“Lady Sarra, I’m Athni Golebirze of the Isodir Record—I have an artist waiting outside to sketch all of you for our broadsheet—”
“And what about this lawsuit brought by Mirya Witte? The man in question is a Prentice Mage, right, Captal?”
“Any reaction on tomorrow’s court proceedings for our readers, Lady Sarra?”
“Yes,” said Sarra. “No comment.”
Collan shoved a way for the ladies through the throng of journalists. He hurried them down a side corridor—pursued at a run—and with the help of a sympathetic footman got them outside into the Council’s private gardens.
It seemed they were not the first to take refuge there. On seeing them, Josselin Mikleine sprang up from a bench, broadsheets spilling from his knees onto the grass.
“What the hell are all those?” Collan asked, bending to snatch one from the ground.
“Punishment,” Joss muttered. “Humiliation. Annoyance. Something to line the catbox with. Take your pick, my Lord.”
Col read aloud from the headlines of the Havenport Clarion. “‘First Daughter’s Secret Passion’—‘Murderous Mirya Pleads with Mageborn Lover’—” He eyed Joss.
The young man winced. “It gets worse.”
Cailet gathered more from the pile on the bench. “‘Councillor and Husband Named in Defense Appeal.’ ‘How Mirya Did It—Complete Reconstruction of the Crime.’ This one has explanatory drawings,” she remarked.
Joss opened another broadsheet to the inside pages and displayed them silently. Sarra felt her jaw drop.
WITTE-LESS FOLLY
THE HUSBAND SHE KILLED
THE MAGEBORN SHE KILLED FOR
Below the screaming headline were woodcut portraits. Mirya, Ellus Penteon, Josselin, even Sarra and Collan and Cailet, stared out from the pages, identifiable only because their names were printed at the bottom of the pictures.
“Does that look like me?” Cailet asked. “I don’t think that looks like me.”
“You think this is funny?” Sarra demanded.
“Doesn’t look much like Josselin either.”
“Laugh at this, I dare you,” said Sarra, holding up a page for her sister’s inspection.
COUNCILLOR AND HUSBAND CHARGED IN DEFENSE APPEAL
“THEY DROVE ME TO IT” SAYS MIRYA WITTE
“Did you? Drive her to it, I mean.”
“Here’s one,” Col said. “‘Mikleine Foster Mother’s Whole True Story!’”
“I’ve never even heard of that woman!” Josselin moaned.
Cailet peered at the accompanying woodcut. “This one doesn’t look much like you, either. It could just as easily be Jored.”
“Doesn’t this bother you?” he asked in bewilderment.
“Should it? Whatever truth may be in any of it will die of loneliness amid the lies.”
Then Collan showed her the Pinderon Perspective.
“THEY STOLE MY HUSBAND, THEN STOLE MY LOVE”
MIRYA’S COMPLETE EXCLUSIVE STORY!
Josselin looked as if contemplating suicide.
Cailet gave him a half-smile. “Relax. There’s worse to come, if it hasn’t already.”
“Such as?” Collan asked, genuinely curious.
“Oh, probably something about how I lured him with pernicious magical spells away from his happy prospects with Mirya Witte for my own vile, depraved, degenerate purposes.”
Col snorted. “Yes, you’re known worldwide for your omnivorous and perverted sexual appetites.”
Sarra had had enough. “Stop this right now,” she declared. “It’s not funny. You’re showing absolutely no consideration, Cailet—think how Josselin must feel. You and Col and I are used to having our names in all the papers.”
Her sister shrugged. “Sorry. My main consideration is how very craftily all this nonsense distracts from Vellerin Dombur and Glenin Feiran.”
Josselin, who’d looked startled when Sarra gave the Mage Captal a dressing-down, now frankly stared. “You mean it’s all been planted?”
“Some of it. But certainly it’s all been planned. How many broadsheets does the Dombur Web own these days?” She stretched her arms wide, looked around the deserted garden, and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go lock myself in my bathroom. The one advantage to Ryka Court is the plumbing. A hot bath here is the closest I’ve ever come to a true religious experience. Good afternoon, all.”
She strolled away. Sarra glared after her, then glanced at Josselin. He was busy collecting the broadsheets—probably for burning in his bedchamber hearth. Sarra went to him and patted a shoulder (Holy St. Geridon, the boy has muscles!), saying, “We’ll expect to see you tomorrow at dinner, Josselin. Thirteenth, my suite, casual—just family and Mages.”
“Thank you, Lady Sarra. I—” Straightening, he visibly steeled himself to say, “I’m extremely sorry I’ve caused you and Lord Collan so much trouble. If I’d known anything like this would happen, I’d just’ve married her and—
”
“Don’t you ever say anything like that ever again,” she scolded. “You’re a Mageborn, a Mage Guardian, and to have wasted yourself on someone you didn’t love—let alone someone like Mirya Witte!—would have been murder just as surely as she killed poor Ellus Penteon.”
Collan smiled. “And now that you’ve been told what to think by the Lady who knows what everyone ought to think—”
She slapped playfully at her husband’s arm—just as nicely muscled as Josselin’s, she noted with approval. Well, perhaps not quite as nicely, but more than adequate for her own vile, depraved, degenerate purposes.
“—we’ll see you tomorrow at dinner,” Collan finished.
Josselin hesitated, then blurted, “If it had been like that with Mirya—like it is between you, I mean—” He caught himself and although a blush was invisible beneath his dark skin, Sarra was positive he was blushing. Smiling, she nudged Collan toward the garden gates.
“He’s so young,” she murmured when they were out of Josselin’s hearing. “He blushes as if he were still sixteen.”
“Did you see the look on his face when Cailet mentioned her disgusting sexual proclivities? No, I guess not. You were too busy being provoked by your sister’s sense of humor—admittedly odd—just as she intended you to be.”
“What?” Sarra tilted her head back to see his face. “She did?”
“Of course. She can play you like a lute, First Daughter dear. There’s something about that boy she doesn’t like—or doesn’t trust, I haven’t decided which. But the look he gave her just then. . . .” Collan laughed softly.
“What look?” Sarra repeated.
But however she coaxed, cajoled, and commanded, he only laughed at her all the more, and would give no details.
10
“ALL right,” said Lenna Ostin the next evening, folding her ink-stained hands atop the open galazhi-leather portfolio spread before her. “This is where we’re at.”
Dinner had been cleared away. Coffee, dessert, and brandies had been handed around, though few partook of liquor because everyone wanted a clear head. They were eleven around Sarra’s oval table that night; she had arranged the seating so she could watch two particular faces—Lenna’s as she explained what they could expect in the courtroom two days hence, and Josselin’s as he reacted.