“Sure,” Rafe said. “Sure, Micah, that’s fine.” He gave her another starry smile. “And maybe you can teach us, too.”
“How do you mean?”
“Your cards—the way you play, I mean. There’s some kind of method, isn’t there? You’ve figured something out?”
“Well, kind of. It’s all in my head. But maybe I could draw you a chart . . .”
“Could you?” He gripped her hands harder. “Would you? So I could start winning, too? I could pay all my debts—buy all my friends food—stand the fees for my oral examinations . . . Oh, Micah! If you could do that for me! And I will help you. I swear it. You can bunk in our rooms, I’ll help you find good classes, and find your way round . . . You belong here. I promise.”
He rose suddenly, and slapped some coins on the table.
“Shouldn’t I pay, too?” Micah asked.
“Your first tomato pie? It is an honor.”
That was so nice of him. When she had won all that money, even some of his. And he had shown her all around, and found her card games. You should pay people for their help, she knew that. Micah fished for her pouch. She’d give him fifteen—no, seventeen—percent of tonight’s earnings. And in the morning, she’d start writing him up her likelies tables, so he could start winning, too.
• • •
Facing her family was a lot harder than facing the Riverside swordsman.
They knew exactly who Ixkaab Balam was, and what she’d done, and there were no pretty stories to tell them.
Instead, Kaab let herself be scolded by Uncle Chuleb, and examined by Aunt Saabim, and fussed over by various older female relatives whose names she couldn’t even remember—if she’d ever known them—but who all exclaimed about how she’d grown, and how long her hair was, and how much she resembled her mother (may she never be extinguished, may she never disappear) and laughed or tutted at the state of her clothes, according to their natures. The family’s children wanted presents, the teens wanted to hear about the voyage, the older folk wanted the news from home . . .
Finally, Uncle Chuleb had the sense or the courtesy to deliver the formal welcome: “The Sun shines upon your arrival, Ixkaab Balam, first daughter of my wife’s sister.”
Aunt Saabim picked up her cue: “In a week’s time, we will feast your arrival. (Did your father remember the extra achiote I asked him for?) But now, we welcome you to the House of the Balam in Xanaamdaam. It is your home as long as you respect the laws of gods and humans. Our life for your life.”
Kaab placed her hand on her heart, and bowed deeply. “And my life for yours.”
“What you ask for shall be given, though we must walk the Road of the Sun to get it.”
Everyone bowed to her now, even the littlest kids. Kaab looked around at them all, her people, old and young, women and men, some outlandishly dressed in Local clothing, but all with faces with the right expressions, skin the right color, eyes that knew her and welcomed her because she belonged to them.
She had to say something in response. But she was all out of words. She had been nearly ninety days at sea, and every day felt suddenly like a year.
“I would like . . .” Ixkaab Balam said. They nodded encouragingly at her, all smiles and welcome. She ought to ask to drink a welcome cup to toast them, or ask for prosperity on the house, or any number of things that meant nothing at all at the moment.
“I would like the longest, hottest, soapiest, scented bath it is within your power to provide.”
The sound of their laughter welcomed her at last.
• • •
All eyes were upon the Duchess Tremontaine as she entered Lady Galing’s drawing room. She was dressed in a marvelous confection of sea foam and lace that made her look like a water nymph, treading the land on little silver shoes, shoes with the smallest of bows and the sweetest curve of the heels. Instead of the elaborate jewelry of the other ladies, she wore a string of small pearls like bubbles of water, and bracelets of fine silver. Individual pearls peeked from her hair, upswept save for the few fair curls that tumbled down her neck, caught by a silver ribbon.
The men who were in attendance this afternoon—younger sons not called to sit in Council, older men who thought that they could skip a day this once—felt that something had changed in the room, that the air they were breathing was suddenly cooler, like wind off the water; the day more like one from childhood in the country, finding a patch of wild mint . . .
The ladies gasped at her splendor and audacity. Some sighed at Diane’s ability to pull off something they could not. Even those who recognized the green dress from its previous incarnation could not but admire the effect. Some smiled at the sheer pleasure of seeing their art so well done.
And some did not.
“She looks like a window shade,” Lady Davenant muttered to her friend Aurelia Halliday.
“She looks like a classical painting,” Aurelia murmured in return.
“Something from the walls of Tremontaine House? I hear they’re strapped for cash again. Maybe it’s an advertisement,” Lady Davenant said wickedly.
“Darling, everyone’s strapped for cash. The harvest was bad or something; my husband explained it to me, but it doesn’t really make sense. Why should a lack of grain mean I can’t have a new carriage? It’s not as though we sell the stuff!”
“But your tenants do. If they don’t make money, how can you?” Lady Aurelia paled. Her friend patted her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as all that. Ask him again.”
“You explain it much better than he does,” Amelia pouted.
“Oh, not about the flour. About the carriage. Wear a low-cut bodice. They can’t resist it.”
“Can you?”
“Darling, it is all I can do not to ravish you before the chocolate is served. But I do require some sustenance. Biscuits and barley water just will not do. I wonder what Clara is waiting for? Afternoon chocolate is a serious affair.”
Clara, Lady Galing, was seated in a carved chair of some magnificence, propped up with many cushions. Her skirts were quilted for more warmth, her head was wrapped in a turban of silk, pinned with an emerald ringed with diamonds, and around her shoulders were scarves in deep tones meant to make her color look less sickly and pallid. Lady Galing was indeed not well—in the less reputable gaming houses, bets were even being placed as to whether she would last out the year—but she took her position as wife to the Crescent Chancellor, head of the Council of Lords, very seriously, and gloried in her chance to be an important hostess whose parties everyone wished to attend. If the ladies had been so vulgar as to bet on another’s health, they would have bet that Lady Galing would drop dead presiding over one of her own musicales.
“My dear!” Lady Galing attempted to rise to greet the duchess. Her two manservants hurried to assist her, but before she could rise, Diane rushed to her hostess in a ripple of silk and took her hand.
“Lady Galing! How well you look! And how kind of you to provide us with delightful entertainment at this most dull season of the year.”
The guests were standing around the room, talking, admiring the view from the tall windows onto the garden, flirting and chatting. It wasn’t much of a view; the last of winter gripped the landscape, and much of the Galings’ fine topiary was still wrapped up in burlap. But watery sunlight broke through the clouds from time to time, and here and there at the bases of statues peeped an impertinent crocus.
“It is the least I can do,” Lady Galing said, twinkling, “when my husband keeps half your husbands locked up in the Council debating whatever urgent matter afflicts his mind today!”
“Indeed!” Diane laughed a musical laugh. “Without you, I don’t know what we would do for amusement.”
“Or for refreshment.” Lord Asper Lindley was suddenly at her side.
Diane assessed him carefully. Lindley was one of those delicate blond men, a spun-sugar confection, whose appeal was obvious. But such men’s beauty did not last. She thought he had very few years
left before the delicacy began to sag.
“Ah! Asper!” Lady Galing turned to him with every appearance of delight. “I have been waiting chocolate on you. Now that you are here, we can begin.”
Lindley raised his perfect eyebrows. “You will give me too great an opinion of myself, dear Clara. For the Duchess Tremontaine”—he bowed to Diane—“one waits chocolate. For me”—and he shrugged well-tailored shoulders—“well, all I can say, dear Clara, is that I am deeply honored.”
It was a magnificent performance, thought the duchess, on both their parts. Poor Lady Galing! Asper and Lord Galing were having a spectacular affair—and the astute were aware that, throw as many parties as his lady pleased, the real way to the Crescent Chancellor’s power and good opinion was through Asper Lindley, now. Perhaps that was Lady Galing’s strategy, too?
Or perhaps she was one of those women who thought her dignity and status were best served, when faced with her husband’s infidelities, by behaving as if they did not exist?
Lady Galing clapped her hands; the footmen bowed and hurried out to bring in the chocolate.
As Lady Davenant had said, chocolate was a serious affair. It was usually the first thing to pass anyone’s lips as they lay in their great beds in the morning (or afternoon, if they were recovering from a particularly late-night ball or supper party or gambling or amorous adventure). Some people insisted on making it fresh themselves, but most were happy to be handed a pot of it by their maid or manservant, ready to pour into little china cups just the way they liked it.
But at an afternoon party, no noble would dream of drinking ready-made. Afternoon required the full regalia: The great pots of hot water, suspended over spirit flames. The chocolate itself, lifted with tongs and grated (with gloved hands) with silver graters made to look like fanciful creatures, into individual cups—or, at large parties, as in this case, smaller pots into which the hot water was poured, then whisked together with silver whisks until it foamed. Only then was the fragrant dark brew poured into the small cups and handed round to the guests, who each added sugar and cream to taste.
In the mornings, the Duchess Tremontaine took her chocolate black; but in the afternoon, she permitted herself a little sugar and a great deal of cream.
She watched to see how Asper Lindley took his, and was rewarded with the sight of him being singularly honored by his hostess herself serving him with lump after lump of brown sugar.
“Thank you, Clara,” he said. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
She saw Clara Galing’s hand shake as it returned to the silver sugar bowl again, saw her face, hidden for a moment from all but Diane, contort in rage and disgust.
The truth was plain. Lord Asper Lindley might as well have had a scroll above his head, written in Lord Galing’s hand: You will show him every courtesy.
And Clara Galing obeyed to the letter. Out of love, out of fear, who knew? Lindley was a notorious gossip. Lady Galing’s behavior concerning himself would be reported directly back to the Crescent Chancellor. Between the sheets, probably. Diane shuddered, ready to blame it on a chill from the window, if anyone asked.
“And how is dear William?” Lindley, with his sugary chocolate, had made his way to the duchess’s side, not even bothering to offer to fetch her a cup. Fortunately, Lord Humphrey Devize had already claimed the privilege. He knew just how she liked it.
“My husband is well,” the duchess said. “Although I think you see him as much as I do, being both so occupied in Council.”
“Yes, we are quite grown-up now,” said Lindley. “Grown-up and responsible.” He gave her what was meant to be a charming smile. “We were boys together, or should I say young men, when our fathers first saw fit to bring us to the city and put a little town polish on us.” He waited for her to say how much younger than that he looked. But she simply kept an expression of pleasant inquiry upon her face. “Would it be indiscreet of me to say that we discovered some of its more recondite pleasures . . . together?”
The duchess smiled. “No, as long as you don’t enumerate them.” Lindley’s jibes were inexpressibly tedious. He was not a man of wit. It galled her to know that she could demolish him with a few well-chosen words, and that she must on no account do so. And it galled her to know that she must not only continue to endure his conversation as long as it pleased him to afflict her with it, but must pretend to enjoy the experience. Usually she found it restful, talking to idiots; it required so little of her actual attention. But Asper Lindley had a certain social cunning. He knew when he was being ignored; indeed, the duchess thought he needled largely to make sure that it never happened.
She looked Lindley in the eye, so that her peripheral gaze could scan the room for Humphrey with the chocolate, and said, “But, as you say, you are all grown-up and responsible now. And a credit to your houses. In truth, I am surprised to find you here this afternoon, Lord Asper. I know your great interest in politics.”
“Ah,” he said. People always said Ah when they needed extra time to think. He was probably trying to figure out whether she’d insulted him or not. He must have decided not, since he went on. “Well, today the Council of Lords is set to discuss barley and shipping. My father’s lands are mostly in cows and sheep, so I thought I might be spared for a little socializing. And besides, poor Clara . . . who knows how much longer we may have the pleasure of her company?”
Over his shoulder, Diane saw the rather large Lord Humphrey wheezing his way through the crowd, balancing her chocolate. It wouldn’t be long now. But Lindley had time for a parting shot: “By the way, I love what you’ve made of that dress.”
“Oh?” The duchess raised her delicately shaped eyebrows to give him time to wonder if she was going to take umbrage or not. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
Lord Humphrey caught the last of this. “Too much?” he blustered. “Never! Too much of you would still be not enough, sweetest lady!”
What an old dear he was. He flirted with her shamelessly. Diane turned her attention to him. “You’ve brought me chocolate! And just the way I like it, too.” She sipped delicately, and Asper Lindley took the hint. He bowed and went off to bother someone else.
Diane did not even look after him.
“And now, gentles!” Lady Galing coughed delicately into a handkerchief, drew a deep breath and announced: “Let us withdraw into the Blue Salon. Our dear Miss Sophronia Latimer has consented to soothe our cares and refresh our spirits with a little harp music.”
Lord Humphrey had the pleasure of escorting Diane, Duchess Tremontaine, into the Blue Salon. He was tremendously wealthy, and had the Horned God’s own luck with cards. She had been considering asking him for the cash to ransom Highcombe and put her back on her feet. He might do it just to be gallant. But men had hidden depths, even amiable men like Lord Humphrey. He was just as likely to expect her to sleep with him, and that she would not do. She had spent her life making sure she owed no one anything.
Diane de Tremontaine settled her green, foamy skirts around her in the small velvet salon chair, and took her cup and saucer back from Lord Humphrey. The long harp recital would give her plenty of time to think. She took a sip of the thick rich chocolate, and considered the letter on her desk, waiting to be sent. It was either a good idea, or merely a clever one. It was certainly a gamble. But the Duchess Tremontaine was very used to winning.
Writer Team
Michael R. Underwood is the author of over a dozen books, including the Ree Reyes Geekomancy series and the Genrenauts series of novellas (a finalist for a r/Fantasy “Stabby” Award). By day, he’s the North American Sales & Marketing Manager for Angry Robot Books. Mike lives in Baltimore with his wife, their dog, and an ever-growing library. In his rapidly-vanishing free time, he enjoys gaming and makes pizzas from scratch. He is a co-host on the Hugo Award Finalist podcast The Skiffy and Fanty Show as well as Speculate! The Podcast for Writers, Readers, and Fans. You can find him at michaelrunderwood.com and @MikeRUnderwood on Twitter.
&nbs
p; Malka Older is a writer, aid worker, and PhD candidate. Her science fiction political thriller Infomocracy was named one of the best books of 2016 by Kirkus, Book Riot, and the Washington Post. She is also the author of the sequels, Null States (2017) and State Tectonics (2018), as well as of short fiction appearing in WIRED, Twelve Tomorrows, Reservoir Journal, Fireside Fiction, Tor.com and others. Named Senior Fellow for Technology and Risk at the Carnegie Council for Ethics in International Affairs for 2015, she has more than a decade of experience in humanitarian aid and development. Her doctoral work on the sociology of organizations at the Institut d’Études Politques de Paris (Sciences Po) explores the dynamics of multi-level governance and disaster response using the cases of Hurricane Katrina and the Japan tsunami of 2011.
Cassandra Khaw writes horror, video games, tweets for money, articles about video games, and tabletop RPGs. These are not necessarily unrelated items. Her work can be found in professional short story magazines such as Clarkesworld, Fireside Fiction, Uncanny, and Shimmer. Cassandra’s first paranormal rom-com Bearly a Lady releases this year. She hopes no one will be very startled by A Song for Quiet when it follows the month after.
Marie Brennan is a former anthropologist and folklorist who shamelessly pillages her academic fields for material. She most recently misapplied her professors’ hard work to the Victorian adventure series The Memoirs of Lady Trent; the first book of that series, A Natural History of Dragons, was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award and won the Prix Imaginales for Best Translated Novel. She is also the author of the Doppelganger duology of Warrior and Witch, the urban fantasies Lies and Prophecy and Chains and Memory, the Onyx Court historical fantasy series, the Varekai novellas, and more than fifty short stories. For more information, visit www.swantower.com.
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