by Giselle Ava
Names. So many names in the court. Tasha hated them, particularly as most of them were of virtually no significance and just muddied the waters. It was her job to be aware of dangerous names, or at least potentially dangerous ones. Lord Gavrial and the Samuir girl were names which she would file under absolutely not important at all.
She walked over to the newspaper, which was growing soggier by the second, and stood over it as she gently massaged her wrists, her palms and then her finger joints.
“The tragedy,” she said.
“It’s oh-so-disappointing,” Alyos sighed, picking up one of her knives and using it to carefully comb back his good, ashen hair. “I was expecting them to last. But now...Well, I wouldn’t imagine this will end well for any of the parties involved.”
“No, his current wife is not a forgiving person.”
Alyos was much taller than Tasha, and he moved like every bone in his body was made of glass, careful and calculated. He very rarely ran, and he avoided other people as though they were gigantic spiky boulders, but he did very much like the gossip. Tasha did, too, but she wouldn’t consider it a hobby like he did. It was her job to know what was happening not only within the walls of Lavus City and the castle, but beyond it too. Gossip, though more often than not stretched, tossed and turned and detached from actual fact, did not just sprout from anywhere. Even false rumors spread from distant cities offered some information.
Most of that information was still useless, like Alyos’s latest find, and she had already forgotten their names. Feeling a wave of boredom coming over her, she collected another knife from the tin and, without pausing to think, threw it straight in the middle of the archery board with a loud and distinct thwack. Ice leapt off with flakes of red paint. The messenger boy walking near it jumped three feet and looked at Tasha as though she had sprouted wings.
“I do love the winter’s ball,” Alyos remarked.
“I like some of it,” Tasha said.
“I admire the lengths some of those lords and ladies go to make a fashion statement. Some of those gowns are hideously good. Deplorable, even. Yet, somewhat entrancing.”
“I like it when I get to kill people.”
Alyos looked at her with concern, but then apathy. He should be glad. If Tasha wasn’t killing them, they were killing him. Or at the very least ruining his morys yan zhuma, the pretentious man’s way of saying “peaceful state of living and mind.”
Alyos angled himself towards the light and folded his arms. “They say there has been a union of the Satvus and Untruis families. Lady Sofia Satvus has married Lord Yuri Untruis—the oldest son of House Untruis, and also somewhat of a troublemaker.”
These names were a bit more important, considering their volatile relations. The Lavus schools taught this young: everybody hates House Satvus but House Satvus hates nobody as much as they hate the Lavus people, and for good reason. The history was dirty.
“That seems highly unlikely,” Tasha said, throwing another dagger into the archery board. It hit askew of the first one but still inside the red splotch of uneven paint.
“They’re calling it a miracle of love but I’m not so sure,” he said softly. “They married in a private ceremony, and you know what they say about private ceremonies.”
Tasha did know what they said about private ceremonies: either the ceremony didn’t happen at all and the marriage was fabricated for political gain, or the marriage itself was too sudden to invite half the world. The thing about nobility, they liked to make a big deal about things that nobody but them cared about.
Alyos went on: “It was either last week or a week and a half ago. I met with Oga and she said the two met at an arranged dinner organized by Sofia’s father himself.”
“Oga is often wrong,” Tasha said, even though she noted it nonetheless. Oga was one of Alyos’s informers who drank up gossip for breakfast, though sometimes it seemed she also fabricated a lot of it just to stir trouble. Tasha took everything she said half-heartedly.
She slipped the gossip into the back of her mind as she jogged through the snow to collect her daggers and returned them to the tin.
“What annoys me,” Alyos said, “is that nobody invited me to the damn wedding and I have heard that the High Lord Untruis and his wife put on the best weddings in Ivalon.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tasha said as she put the lid back on the tin, using the roll of tape to secure it. Then she tucked it under her arm and looked up at Alyos, who loomed directly over her. “Let’s get food.”
They didn’t get food.
Instead, they found themselves in the other part of the marketplace, which today was busier than normal, thanks to the influx of people from beyond the city. Hawkers shouted their wares, sellers spun about, haranguing potential customers and stuffing remarkably cheap and sometimes counterfeit wares in their faces. One man with a pink hat complimented Alyos on his indigo leggings (“They wonderfully demonstrate your good physique.”) to which Alyos responded a simple, “You would not believe how many squats I had to do to achieve this look.” The man then offered them three scarves for the price of one and Alyos nearly bought them.
“Have you ever seen a polynka?” said a man by a large metal cage as he made large, sweeping gesticulations with his longer-than-normal arms. Tasha dropped an apple she had picked up and slowly drifted through the throng towards this man with the cages.
The man eyed her as she drew near. “Behold! Thought extinct until only nine months ago, the mighty polynka is the ultimate household pet! Yes,” he said, directed precisely in Tasha and Alyos’s direction, “believe me when I say you’ve seen nothing like it!”
Tasha flinched as the largest polynka leapt against the cage, causing it to rattle from its post, where it hung from a very thin, very icy-looking chain. The creature seemed innocent, a ball of fur with two tiny chicken legs, tiny wings, and small beady eyes that were stretched wide open but still quite tiny as well. Everywhere it touched, the ice began to melt. Steam vapor rose from its fur.
“A polynka is your own personal fireplace,” the man said as he touched the cage and shook it, causing the fat furry ball to tumble to the other side with a chirp. “The winter may last long, but with this ball of fire at your side, you will never know it was there!”
Tasha stopped in front of him. “You realize it’s the last day of winter.”
“Sorry? Oh.” He paused. “Yes. Well. Yes, I did.”
“It’s the last day of winter. Those things are useless.”
The man paused, then smiled and clapped his hands. “Well, as it would happen, I’ve just come from the north and a cold front gathers there, headed on a southwards trajectory. As winter in Lavus City abates, making way for the breath of spring, a second winter will crash through these city walls and bathe the great city in another blanket of frost! So, you see, my lady, my polynkas won’t be becoming obsolete any time soon.” He leaned in towards her, flicked his eyes towards Alyos, who stood rigidly, staring at the fluffy red creatures. “But when it does come and everybody else is battling frostbite and hypothermia, you will be warm.”
“I see,” Tasha said dryly.
One of the smaller creatures inside a little cage, which contained four of the polynkas, looked up at Tasha with those pinched eyes, but she felt nothing for it.
“They are not illegal creatures—” the man began.
“I figured not,” Tasha cut him off.
“They were extinct—”
“You don’t need to repeat yourself.” She lingered a while back, before walking off and eventually walking right into a bakery where they bought strawberry and cream cakes for lunch and washed it down with tea (Tasha) and whiskey (Alyos).
Sitting opposite Alyos in the street bar a short distance east of the castle grounds, Tasha found herself glancing towards Alyos’s ticking clocks. It was twelve twenty-five and the guests arrived at seven.
Tasha took a bite of her strawberry cake and drank it down with some tea. Alyos drank his whiskey. “The Challans ar
e coming,” he said without much theatre.
“They have never attended a winter’s ball,” Tasha said. “Not since Vamith was king, perhaps not even his father.”
“The court is keeping it secret but I heard it from Oga, who was told by somebody working in the court, close to Lady Mithriv. She’s obviously not happy about it—the last time the Challans were in the west, it was because they were attempting to seize control of our steam cell blueprints. Worst of all, there’s been a shifting of power in Tenniva and Lady Challan now allegedly holds the most power there, even above her imp of a husband.”
Tasha thought about this. Any gossip surrounding the Challans was bound to be exciting, and almost always important. The Challans and Mithrivs tended to be reluctant allies, only because sometime in their history some foolish king signed a dumb treaty declaring it. Lord Pambi Challan was a fat man in his late fifties who had more fat than brains by a large margin but Lady Eveline Challan was his much younger wife, and she was a whole lot more worldly and politically aware. They had two children, twins, one girl and one boy, but both were quite young, nine years old apiece.
Tasha stored this information away.
“Who else?” she asked.
“The usual rabble,” Alyos said, before rattling off a bunch of unimportant names such as the Noviroths, Sharadevs and Ivalons. Tasha immediately discarded the information. “I am very much excited to continue with the baron of Toro our annual discussion of modern-day fashion and the depressing turn for the worse it has taken in recent times. That man has such an exceptional eye for it. Though, to my bitter disappointment, I have heard he became betrothed to some witch, and another excursion to Lavus City may be off the cards.”
“Shame,” Tasha said.
Alyos narrowed his eyes.
“He was a creepy old pervert,” Tasha said brusquely, ending the conversation right there.
The snowfall picked up again at around three o’clock in the afternoon, which was about the time when Alyos checked one of his watches and said they’d best be parting ways. Tasha returned to the castle with a half-full stomach and in good spirits, drawing up her hood so that it shielded her from the winds. She prayed last night’s storm did not return, but by the harsh howling of the winds, the plunging temperature, and the increasing hail from above, she decided not to let her good mood be dictated by that highly unlikely scenario.
Before stepping through the castle gateway, she stopped. She glanced over her shoulder, her hair blowing out from underneath the cowl and flapping against her red cheeks. Hazes of mist drifted across the ground like tumbleweed. Flags whipped about on straining wooden posts. A voice rumbled from the training grounds, easily distinguishable as the master of war, Nikolas. It was a toast of sorts to the new batch of soldiers who would soon experience their first winter’s ball.
One of the messenger boys was freezing his ass off near a wooden fence, his knees cuddled up against his chest, hands dug in the pockets of his overlarge coat. He glanced at her and she moved her eyes sidelong, to the people on the city streets, hurrying for cover.
Tasha enjoyed the killing, but most of all she enjoyed the serving of justice to those who threatened this great city’s safety. Those who came before her were a bunch of failures, who had failed her own parents seven years ago, failed the ones they had sworn to serve.
Tasha had never failed.
She would not fail tonight.
4: It’s Time
The guests arrived at seven precisely, right on schedule. Most flocked immediately to the ballroom, others to the indoor and outdoor balconies that they had decorated with gaudy lanterns and streamers. All around were firepits offering heat to the cold night. The storm had held off temporarily, leaving but a light drizzle of ice.
Her mother’s deep blue dress had been tapered and tightened to fit her own plump yet diminutive frame, the rather long hem brushing at her ankles. Her hair felt sticky and heavy but the end result was pleasant, a dark auburn with the red highlights being accentuated. She wore a conservative amount of gold eyeliner and some blush, but not much.
She watched them from one of the discrete ballroom balconies, a small round platform which overlooked the entire ballroom. There were several of them positioned throughout the chamber, most of them occupied by guards. There was nobody else up there with her, none but Sir Tam, straight-backed, sword in scabbard, metal armour reflecting firelight.
Snow beat against windows scattered about the ballroom. Music swelled from the band pit below: violins, a viola, a cello, a piano. Most of the time, voices of nobility rose above the music, producing a constant rumble. Wine flew. Servants drifted about with plates of finger food. Dinner was at nine. She had moved it up three years ago, from nine forty, due to some awfully insufferable guests demanding food earlier.
She spotted Tasha through the crowd, standing at the edge of the ballroom with an everchanging, concentrated stare. She wore a grey fleece coat and tight pants, allowing her to move quick and undetected. It was only a brief glance, and then Sarina had lost sight of her.
“The High Lady Mithriv,” said Lord Gregoth Trovik from the deep west, as she was halfway down the stairwell back into the ballroom proper. She stopped abruptly, nearly running into him in the crammed passage. Lord Gregoth extended his hand to her and smiled affably. He was middle-aged with a soft beard and warm eyes, a handsome man who had played suitor to many, but that was all she knew about him.
She gave him her hand and he kissed it gently.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“Likewise,” she said, catching her breath.
“It always is a pleasant sight to see the Mithriv family doing well. Please, meet my new wife. Lady Arina.” He stepped to the side and his wife pushed through, blocking the way out. Sarina smiled forcefully at his young, starry-eyed wife, who had a significant baby bump.
“My lady,” Lady Arina said, bowing.
Sarina noted how radiant she looked and felt a twang of jealousy. “I would love to stay and talk but I must be going,” she quickly said and narrowly squeezed out of the stairwell back into the ballroom crowd, where people mingled and some even had already started dancing. Drinks were poured and spilled and wine-slick tongues spouted nonsense and gossip. Sarina failed to find anybody she knew intimately, so elected to stand on her own by the music. She picked up a wine glass from the serving boy, who smiled at her.
She took a pill and swallowed it down with some wine.
“My name is Lord Desmond Da’vail of Vaul,” said a young man with dashing black hair and a strong jaw. She had to do a double take, at first not noticing who he was. He had the most intense brown eyes and wore an emerald vest with a white shirt underneath, and a golden unadorned bracelet around his left wrist. “May I ask you for a dance?”
“Lord Desmond,” Sarina said, looking him up and down. She hadn’t seen him since well before that one night seven years ago but they had become friends when they were very young, due to their fathers conducting frequent business with each other. It had been so long that she had nearly forgotten what he looked like or that he could grow so...well.
“A dance?” Desmond said, extending his hand.
She straightened. “Can you dance?”
“Mother was a ballerina. Father a choreographer. They met on the stage, dancing Kommunar, when they were only slightly younger than ourselves.” He spoke with a strong, confident tone, as though completely certain of every single word he said. When Sarina had last seen him, and Desmond was only eleven years old, he had often become tongue-tied.
“I can’t dance very well,” Sarina said.
“That can’t possibly be true,” Desmond said.
“And why is that?” She tilted her head.
“You’re too pretty.”
“Well I’m flattered, but you’re wrong.”
He tapped his fingers against the back of her hand and she sighed, downing the rest of her wine and then letting him guide her into the middle of the bal
lroom where they danced.
“Happy birthday for last week,” Desmond said.
“It was three months ago but thanks,” Sarina said, smirking. Desmond took her by the waist with one hand, and gripped her hand in his, soft but firm.
“Are you betrothed yet?” he asked.
“Odd question to ask, but no. I like to think that a lady doesn’t have to be betrothed, especially one who is already the ruler of the greatest city on Ivalon.”
Desmond smiled. “Ha. Ever thought of becoming a peasant?”
“Maybe,” Sarina said truthfully but passively.
She flicked open her pocket watch as she sat down at one of the small, wooden tables in the extended section of the ballroom, the faint rumble of music in her right ear. Eight thirty-two. Lord Desmond stared at her over his wine glass with a funny expression.
Sarina closed the clock and met his eye. “What is it?”
“Beyond the city they say you’re crazy,” he said sceptically.
“And have I disappointed you or lived up to your expectations?”
“I was sort of expecting you to scream at me when I spoke to you, or even run away immediately, turning your back to reveal wings, or that when a particular note is struck by the cellist, you would run up there and politely tell him no A-sharps, sir.” He shrugged, taking a sip of his wine and then resting it back down. “To be honest, I was half-hoping for it.”
“Those around me do often consider me a disappointment,” Sarina said offhandedly, as she took another sip of wine. Just a little bit. She could already feel it dulling her senses, faces blurring if she looked at them too long, or blinked too fast. But it also softened something else, that tension inside her bones, that feeling that she was constantly holding up a large, gargantuan rocky boulder. She allowed herself to smile softly.
“You are prettier, though,” Desmond said.
“You expected what of the High Lady of Lavus City? A girl with greasy hair, bad skin, and who smells like rotten fish? Even if I were that, the women up there would bathe me in flowers, cover my face with makeup and make me out to look somewhat presentable. Luckily, I have good genes. Otherwise, and trust me on this, I would be a horror to behold.”