Months before she left Woldsgard, Precious Wind had reminded Justinian of what must be done prior to his leaving. Every room must be cleaned to the walls. Every curtain, every blanket, every carpet, every tapestry. In the bird lofts, every door to every cage, every fragment of dust. From the stables, every piece of harness he might have touched, every saddle. In the armory, every bow, every sword. In the wine cellars, every bottle he had racked. At Netherfields, the very place on the floor of the nave where he had lain the night after Xu-i-lok’s entombment had to be scrubbed. No trace of him could remain.
At the princess’s direction, he had shaved his head years ago and had since worn a cap or a wig made of dead men’s hair. When he trimmed his beard or cut his fingernails and toenails, he burned the clippings in a little clay furnace Precious Wind had made for him. Almost invariably, he ate his meals alone, scrupulously cleaning the dishes when he had finished. When in company, Precious Wind herself watched everything he touched and later saw to his wineglass, his dishes, the fork he used, the knife he used, the napkin he used. This had not endeared her to Dame Cullen, but then, nothing endeared anyone to Dame Cullen. It was enough that Dame Cullen hated Altamont with sullen ferocity. It was enough that Cook and Dame Cullen and the other household people knew they were protecting the duke and thereby protecting themselves.
“May all holy things assure he left nothing behind the zagit-gaot could use to find him,” Precious Wind muttered now, angrily wiping her eyes. She had not had time to mourn before, and she did not have time now. One day, in Tingawa, when the light burned over the name of Xu-i-lok, she would cut and burn a lock of her hair, put the ashes on her brow, and mourn properly.
She stripped the wrapping away from what she held and unfolded the closely written sheets around a dark red ovoid, rather shiny. The device was an ul xaolat, a “thing master.” On one side were four shallow depressions, like fingerprints, and one’s hand folded naturally around the ul xaolat with a finger settled into each depression. Precious Wind had brought the ul xaolat from Tingawa to be given to Xulai when she was no longer a child. She, Precious Wind, should have retrieved it and given it to Xulai that first morning at the abbey, when the girl looked into a mirror and saw herself as a woman. On that day, however, Xulai had been angry and upset, which was absolutely the wrong frame of mind for anyone to be introduced to this dangerous device with all its complicated warnings and instructions. Besides, Precious Wind had believed their little group was safe in the abbey. Foolishly, she had believed! She had regretted it since! Her own teachers had often said that the moment safety was presumed was the moment when one was most in danger, but that day she had pitied Xulai, that day she had wanted the child to have time to get used to herself. “My fault,” she murmured, not for the first time. “My fault. My error. Mine the blame.”
She put the device into her pocket, put the table back up against the wall, lifted the bed, smoothed its cover, put the short board back into the floor, replaced the mat, relocked the door, folded the sheets of instructions into a deeper, more secret pocket, and returned to the hop-skip and her journey south. She was days behind Abasio and Xulai. If she did not catch up to them before she reached Elsmere, she would find them in Merhaven, probably with Genieve, Justinian’s old friend, Falredi’s sister.
For a moment loneliness had overwhelmed her and she had found herself longing for Bear’s company, forgetting, just for that moment, that Bear was no longer her—anyone’s—friend.
In Ghastain, Queen Mirami had held a dinner party to welcome Alicia to the court once more. Alicia had not been at court in a very long time, and it never crossed the queen’s mind that her daughter might have been involved in Chamfray’s death. Though Mirami was sly and clever, she had never been imaginative. She had been taught the use of poisons and told what to do with them, and what Mirami had been taught made up the sum total of the way things were to be. If she had been taught to kill in a certain way, it was because that way was the only right and appropriate way. She had never killed at a distance. She might occasionally use a disposable person to put some powder in a bowl of soup, but she was always nearby, pulling the strings. Even when disposing of King Gahls’s three wives, she had come to Ghastain, secretly, disguised as an old woman, to do the thing properly, and she always thought of herself as a person who acted alone, fully capable of making and carrying out plans without help. Blinded by this view, she had never seen that Chamfray’s seemingly casual comments and advice had contributed enormously to her success. She thought of him only as a companion who had a soothing effect upon her. Since his death she had found herself overtaken by a strange feeling that she only gradually identified as loneliness. She had never been lonely before. But then, Chamfray had always been there. Even back when she had been at the Old Dark House, Chamfray had been there. When the Old Dark Man had sent her to Kamfels, the Old Dark Man had sent Chamfray with her, to be her helper.
There was no lack of company in Ghastain. There were always people about, people courting favors, people eager to earn her thanks, but she could not speak freely with any of them. Hulix did not have enough brains to take Chamfray’s place, and though a number of brainy persons frequented the court, she knew she could trust none of them to support her aims and ambitions. The only one who had the same motives was Alicia. Chamfray had pointed that out, suggesting that Mirami and her daughter might be of great help to one another if Mirami would treat her daughter as she treated Chamfray, with something approaching friendship.
Mirami had not really liked that idea. To her mind, her children were creations, things to be used, even to be used up if necessary. They were game pieces to be moved hither and thither. The Old Dark Man had taught her this, and he had helped her create those children. Mirami had not enjoyed the process, but she had understood the necessity, and Chamfray had helped her tolerate all that had to be done. He had been generally useful, he had her interests at heart, and it would do no harm to follow his suggestion. If Alicia would be her friend, it might be pleasant. For a time, at least. Until she found another Chamfray.
For this reason and no other, Alicia was welcomed with unfamiliar solicitude. She was given the same suite she had occupied before, but nothing remained of its former comfortable shabbiness. The rooms had been refurbished in what Mirami had assumed were Alicia’s favorite colors. It was only a guess on Mirami’s part, for she had never taken trouble to actually inquire about Alicia’s favorite anything. She simply remembered that, given a choice, Alicia often picked clothing or ornaments of copper, or gold, or blue. Mirami had no idea why; she never asked herself why about anything. If she had known why, perhaps she would not have made the mistake of using them. As a consequence of her ignorance, when Alicia entered the suite and saw the blue carpeting, the fabrics woven with copper and gold thread, the gold-leafed headboard and chairs, the wall panels, each beautifully painted with an ornate copper urn holding varied bouquets of fantastic blue and gold foliage and flowers, she did not even see the room. Her mind filled with thoughts of her father and how she had lost him.
When she met her mother for tea in the queen’s private suite the morning after her arrival, she was in no conciliatory mood. She went with the intention of begging off that night’s party. The queen’s new chamberlain had come to tell her about it, and since Alicia did not intend to eat anything provided by her mother, any dinner party would have presented a problem. Morning tea, however, she could manage. She came equipped with a small jar of her own tea, said it was something she had been taking for her headaches, made it herself in a separate pot with fresh water, refused cakes on the grounds of a wholly fabricated stomach upset occasioned by her recent arduous travel, and settled herself to be lectured in Mirami’s usual manner on her lack of enthusiasm, her delays, her inability to get Justinian thoroughly into her clutches.
No such lecture ensued. Instead, Mirami merely smiled and drank tea as they sat in the pleasant breeze that came through a window slightly open to the terrace. Outside, fountai
ns conversed in a constant burble and chuckle accompanied by flute songs being played somewhere nearby. It was too late in the season for flowers, but the breeze brought scents of pine and cedar. Inside, the room was warm, thickly carpeted with jewel-toned rugs and provided with furnishings chosen for bodily comfort. Mirami, dressed in a loose, red throat-to-ankle gown, seemed unusually relaxed and, to Alicia’s surprise, when she began speaking, spoke not of Alicia’s failings but of Chamfray, of his company, his comments, even his humor. She spoke of his endearing clumsiness.
“He could not enter a room without knocking something over. He could not pick up anything smaller than a water pitcher without dropping it, and if it were a water pitcher, he would spill the contents.” Mirami laughed softly. “I miss him greatly.”
“I would have thought you would be infuriated,” said Alicia, uncertain as to where this conversation might be leading.
“Oh, no. I didn’t have to pick up after him, there were servants to do that. I never expected him to be graceful. That certainly wasn’t what he was good at.”
“It was said at one time that he might be your . . . that he might be closer than . . .”
“You mean a lover?” Mirami laughed, choking on her tea, so that a little of it spurted into her lap. “No, no, my dear. I had no desire to be handled by the world’s clumsiest man! I can’t imagine Chamfray making love. Ha. It would be like being mated by a blind bull! Or one of those animals from the Before Time, the very awkward tall ones with spots. Haraffs, was it?” She giggled.
Mirami did giggle occasionally, as part of whatever seduction she had chosen to be involved in, but Alicia had only once before heard her mother giggle, and the sound made her mind blink into an abrupt abyss of darkness. Herself in a dark hallway. A closed door. Behind it, her father and Mirami, and that same giggle.
Then it was light again, and Alicia gulped for breath—unnoticed—as Mirami continued.
“No, the very idea of being loved by Chamfray is ridiculous. No. He was a friend. People like us, my dear, people who are engaged in very lengthy, dangerous, but profitable projects, can allow themselves to have few if any friends. The ones we do have are precious to us.”
Alicia would not have thought her mother had any friends. She would, in fact, have laughed at the idea of her mother needing friends. It was a concept worth exploring.
“If you benefited from his company, Mother, how did your friendship benefit him?”
Mirami gestured aimlessly, “Oh, I kept him in luxury, of course. He was fond of expensive things to eat and especially things to drink! He was quite a connoisseur of wine and brandy. He liked books, old books, and those are expensive as well. He loved music, and I was able to hire musicians to play for him almost daily—I’ve kept some of them on! Do you hear the flutes? I became used to the sound and now I miss it if it isn’t there. Also, because he was so tall and awkward, he could be really comfortable only in furniture made to his measure. I gave him such things, and he enjoyed them. I used to see him in his own quarters, spread across a chair I had had made for him, listening to his musicians and drinking wine. One could almost hear him purring.”
“Ah,” said Alicia, nodding thoughtfully, deciding to risk a dangerous comment. “Then the rumors that he was Hulix’s father are totally false.”
The queen did not explode in rage. She actually appeared thoughtful, as though considering the matter. “Needless to say, we do not allow such rumors to circulate, but I don’t suppose they are totally false, no. The Old Dark Man took genetic material from several sources, and Chamfray may have been one of them. I have no idea what particular material was used for what purpose, but we had to ensure the child would be a boy. We needed a boy, you know—to inherit.”
“Once the duke Falyrion and Falredi were gone,” said Alicia without expression.
“Exactly.” Mirami smiled at her daughter, delighted at this understanding.
Taking a sip of tea, Alicia swallowed carefully to quell the bloom of fire that had erupted beneath her breastbone. “I’ve always wondered how you so easily captivated King Gahls.”
Mirami gave this some thought. “I think it must have been the hair, my dear. He loves long, dark hair. Many of the women in Ghastain are those pallid, milky northern types, hair the color of sand, skins like sour cheese. The king’s mother was dark, I believe. Men often marry women like their mothers. Men often respond to certain scents that evoke memories of them, as well. There are still women here who remember his mother. I found out what she wore, what she perfumed herself with, and then I used the same colors, fabrics, scents. Her colors were flame colors, often in combination: reds, ambers, yellows. Her scents were lilac and lavender; can you imagine anything less subtle? Oh, yes, and cedar. Let’s see, there were two other ingredients: lemon blossom and ambergris. There are lemon trees in the conservatory, but I have very little ambergris left. It really has no scent of its own, but it holds the others sweetly together. The Old Dark Man gave me a lump of the stuff decades ago. It comes from some sea creature and is sometimes found along the shore.”
“How well did you know the Old Dark Man?”
Mirami frowned, her nose wrinkling, as at a bad smell. “I could not say I knew him at all. No one ever really knew him. He was there, in the Old Dark House, as far back as I can remember. For some reason, I think my mother had left me in his care for a time, and then something happened to her. He had promised her he would care for me and he did. I had the usual serving people around me. At first I had a nursemaid, then a governess, and a teacher and a riding master—though the riding master soon gave up on me! I do not like horses! The Old Dark House itself was dreadful, of course, he cared nothing for beauty or comfort, but I had the little carriage house, and it was quite nice. Later, he exacted a price for my upbringing. I paid it over time. It seemed worth it, and I thought I would forget the unpleasantness. I do, most of the time.” She leaned forward and touched Alicia’s knee gently. “But I miss having a friend, Alicia. Chamfray said it was my fault that you and I were not friends. I hope we can be.”
Alicia lifted her cup, letting it hide her surprise as she made the lightning decision to respond in kind. “Oh, Mother, I’m so glad!” The words were too quick, too unrehearsed to be wholly believable, but evidently their very spontaneity made them sound convincing—at least to Mirami, who began to chat. They “chatted” for some time. Alicia had on occasion listened to other people “chatting,” but she was certainly not accustomed to doing it herself, and she found it difficult—much more difficult, actually, than killing people. One had to listen to idiocy, sometimes about people one did not know or care to know, and respond to idiocy with idiocy. One repeated oneself a lot, over and over. The other person or persons repeated themselves, over and over. No information was actually exchanged. What had the beekeeper at Kamfels called it? Hive noise: the buzz that went on in the hive, meaningless as breathing, but no less significant.
By the time they parted, Alicia was tense with the strain of it, but Mirami seemed well pleased. She had taken Chamfray’s advice. Alicia would be her new friend. If she had to kill off her new friend at some point, it would still have been comfortable to have had a friend for a while. Dutifully, she reminded herself of something else Chamfray had said: if Alicia was to be a friend, Mirami must not be so critical of her. One didn’t criticize friends. Not where they could overhear.
Alicia went back to her own rooms and became lost in concentration over the emergence of a totally new idea. Mirami was a very beautiful woman, yes. She was also fifty—no, fifty-five years old. Alicia was at least equally beautiful, and she was seventeen years younger. Mirami had been a very young bride. If Alicia said she was thirty-two, no one would dispute it. Also, during those strange childhood journeys to the Old Dark House she had had the advantage of being instructed by the Old Dark Man in matters that went far beyond how to poison people and how to make sure one had a male child. Alicia—since her father had died—had often resented being female, but at
this moment she was glowingly grateful for being a woman so that neither Chamfray nor the Old Dark Man himself had contributed to her birth. She actually felt pleased and satisfied at that. These were unfamiliar though interesting emotions, not unlike the satiety she felt after a slaughter. If Mirami could be believed, Alicia might be able to make her own place in court society without having to be alert to observe anti-poison precautions at every moment. If Mirami could be believed! It would be foolish, of course, to believe her much, or for long. It would be unforgivably stupid to take what she said at face value, though one might act as though one believed her for a day, perhaps a few days, if one was careful.
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