Masks

by E.M. Prazeman

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Every window in Hevether had been braced wide open, but even the strong sea winds barely penetrated the dense garden of humanity filling every open room in the house. Outside, half of Perida’s commoners, and a good number of folk that had traveled from other parts of the island, as well as from some of the nearest islands, reveled in the courtyard and on the road leading to the manor. Torches and lamps and bonfires blazed, lighting fantastic costumes.

  They expected one more grand entrance on this, the holiest of days, the first of Sooner.

  Rohn Evan’s and Lark’s.

  Mark ran his fingers over the mask that Gutter had given him. Every mask he thought to paint he’d halted midway through the process. He didn’t want the blue and black diamonds again. He’d had no luck in town with any of the mask makers—there were only three and none of them suited him, even if they could create and fit a design in the short time he’d given them.

  Rohn came into the bedroom again and stood beside the vanity. “They’re getting impatient.”

  “No they’re not. They’re bursting with anticipation. They’ll wait.” It didn’t help that he had to dress himself in Rohn’s bedroom with the door closed while Rohn dressed in his sitting room, as if they hadn’t shared ....

  “It’s not a very attractive mask,” Rohn said, “but I think it will suit you. More importantly, I like it better than that other mask, the one you painted.”

  “Honestly?”

  Rohn looked offended at the suggestion that he’d be anything but honest. “If I hate it I’ll just remove it.”

  “Don’t. Don’t ever take off a jester’s mask, especially a living mask.”

  Rohn’s eyes tightened and narrowed. “Is it dangerous?”

  “It can cause shock, like being plunged into ice water or seeing a dead child.” Mark traced the mask’s tears with a finger, took a deep breath, and raised it to his face. He closed his eyes. The lining felt silken and conformed to his face, warm as living skin. He tied it, and then he opened his eyes. For a moment he saw only himself in the mirror, his muddy green eyes too wide, his lips parted, and then something small seized the back of his neck at the base of his skull in a firm grip. His mind slipped sideways. He was losing, dying, losing his mind, slipping—

  Easy.

  “Easy,” he said gently, and let out a sighing breath. He stood and set a hand on Rohn’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “Lark?”

  “We’re all right.” He’d never felt so calm, or so sensitive to Rohn’s fears, or to the graceful house his master had taken such pains to keep from accepting as his own home. He wanted so much to talk with Rohn but they didn’t have time. “Look at me. Please.” Rohn obeyed, braced like frightened horse cornered in a strange paddock. “I’m not a stranger. You know me. You’ve met this part of me before, and this part of me would never hurt you, not in anger, not in fear, not for fun, and not to punish. Never to punish. I’m your friend. I’m the one who kissed the top of your head, and the one who held your hand and led you through the darkness. Remember me?”

  Rohn turned his head a little.

  Lark offered his hand. Rohn bravely took it. Lark just stood there a moment, holding him, letting the calm of his own heartbeat soothe his master until he felt his friend the colonel relax. Lark let go.

  Rohn let out a little laugh and ducked his head like a shy youth. He closed his hand into a loose fist, then worked the fingers like they’d been cold and had finally warmed.

  “May I lead the way?” Lark asked.

  Rohn gestured, and Lark went out into the hall. He paused at the top of the stairs. A noble couple passing by on the way to the private party rooms upstairs stopped. The woman curtsied and the gentleman bowed before he offered his hand. “Ah, Lord Jester Lark and Baron Evan! What a wonderful evening my Barbara and I have been having.”

  “Baron Wollard,” Rohn said by way of introduction.

  Applause began to ripple through the crowd, and a few cheers raised. Lark slowly descended with Rohn close behind so that they could greet each person as they went.

  And so they went very slowly through the close crowds. Lark had never seen so many nervous, eager, excited and uncertain people in his life. Even Lord Argenwain might be jealous of this much elegance and so many fluttering fans. He danced one dance with a sweet debutante but that was all he had time for—the evening was passing too swiftly to linger. By the time they negotiated their way outside the bonfires glowed with a forge-like heat at their centers. The crowds of commoners outside let out a roaring cheer. Of course he had to sing, and encouraged them to sing along. Once he got them started they couldn’t stop. He shook as many hands as he could.

  How Rohn loved it once they were outside. Former soldiers gathered around him, delighted to see their colonel again. Beneath his smiling but formal exterior Lark could see the verge of joyful tears. Rohn had missed them all terribly.

  Lark left him to his adoring men and went back into the house.

  “Lark!” Feather walked gracefully toward him without impinging on anyone’s conversation—a marvelous feat. She’d painted her mask this night, red feathers with gold edging, and her eyes were bright and brave.

  “Feather.” He kissed her hand. “Thank you again for your gift.”

  “I see you’re wearing it.”

  “How could I not? It’s perfect.”

  She blushed. “Thank you for your kind letter. You didn’t have to go through so much trouble. You must have had dozens of thank yous to write.” Her gaze drifted for a moment—not because something caught her attention or because of deceit or thought. It looked as if she’d lost herself a moment.

  Lark couldn’t let her know he’d seen her slip. “I didn’t see you before now.”

  “We’d just arrived. The mayor’s health doesn’t allow him to linger as long as we’d like, and we’d rather stay late than leave early.”

  “I understand.” He took her hand again, worried that she might slip once more. Something about the crowd overwhelmed her control. He didn’t think it was the mask doing it. If anything, he would have guessed that the mask helped steady her. “Would you favor me with a dance later on?”

  “I’d love to.”

  He bowed and moved onward because he had to.

  He’d finally found Winsome.

  She cowered in a corner, outwardly strong but ready to bolt. She looked stunning in a deep blue gown, her hair piled in dark curls, pearls and diamonds adorning her throat. He picked up a glass of punch made from various dark fruits and a hint of wine and brought it to her. “Lady Kilderkin.” He offered his hand and she accepted it gratefully for his kiss. He gave her the punch and she sipped delicately. “Baron Evan is outside. Or do you think of him more as the colonel?”

  She lowered her lashes and blushed at him. “Either.”

  Oh no.

  It would be impossible to fix this problem tonight. He refused to hurt her even slightly. He’d let Mark talk to her some other time. He’d be better suited to gently guide her heart away from him, with his awkwardness and painful sincerity. “I’m pleased you’re here. I’ll be sure to let the baron know. He’ll want to dance with you at least once, though with so many clamoring for his attention—this is what comes from being reclusive.” He chuckled and she laughed softly. She had a sweet laugh, very kindly. “Is your father here as well?”

  “And Juggler.” She lowered her lashes again, but this time she tried to conceal her discomfort. Still hiding things. No doubt Juggler got in the way of her spying. If he found out he would put a swift end to it, and to what little freedom she enjoyed now. But she didn’t seem to be afraid of him. Lark hoped that as a soldier and a woman she’d instinctively know if she ought to be afraid of him. “Everything is so beautiful,” she added. “I had no idea. What little I’ve heard of Hevether—well, it was supposed to be—”

  “Dreary. It isn’t. It’s strong, and serious, but it has a good heart th
at welcomes and protects those who need it the most. Like its lord.”

  “Like you.”

  “Oh, I’m not serious at all, or strong.” Sadness colored his calm. “And I don’t think I could protect anyone from anything no matter how hard I tried. But I would try.”

  She slipped her hand around his arm. “Gentleness is not weakness.”

  He set his hand over hers, briefly, trying to ease any sense of rejection as he pulled away, bowed, and kissed her hand. “I have to fetch the baron. We have an announcement to make and I think most everyone has finally arrived. I’ll come back and talk to you again. Please don’t leave.”

  She looked so forlorn. Hardly anyone paid attention to her.

  He couldn’t stand it. He offered her a smile. “Unless I can convince you to join us in that announcement?” He offered his hand again.

  She accepted, of course. He felt better about leading her through the masses than leaving her, though it would expose her to public scrutiny. Everyone would watch and make assumptions and take notes that they would later embellish in one of the three gazettes printed on the island. He supposed it was better for her to be perceived as someone desirable than a cast-off. At least Winsome didn’t seem overly uncomfortable about the attention.

  She’d probably regret it later, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

  Lark took her outside and she relaxed considerably. A large group of naval officers started to pounce her and Lark thought about leaving her in their care, but he’d already invited her to the announcement. He stopped long enough to allow her to introduce him to them and let her exchange heartfelt pleasure at meeting with them again before he took her to where the baron held court with a variety of officers and common soldiers.

  “It’s time,” Lark told him gently.

  Rohn’s back tensed up straight. He excused himself formally and then bowed to Winsome. “Lady Kilderkin.”

  She curtseyed, and to Lark’s relief her throat flushed. At least she found Rohn attractive.

  He couldn’t deny that it hurt, but it was for the best. He and Rohn could not be lovers and live forever after in exile with no heirs and a bitter father mourning the son he could never openly love again. Besides, Rohn would make a wonderful father, with Winsome’s moderating influence.

  Winsome took Rohn’s arm, and not entirely to maintain a façade. She was nervous and smitten and they looked perfect together.

  It took the three of them over half an hour to make their way to the front balcony. Lark began with a song. The guests inside came out to listen. He’d written it the day before but he knew it as if he’d sung it all his life. He sang of needing a home, and running from fire, running from death, held by promises like chains around his throat until they broke. It was his journey, but it was their journey too, and when the chains that bound them to Cathret broke, that was just the beginning. They struggled through war as he’d struggled through the snow, and now they all faced the same fears and hopes for the future.

  The song held no answers, and no ending. When I come home, the chorus said. When I come home, he sang at the end.

  The only sound afterward came from the sea and the fires.

  “I have an announcement,” Rohn said. Winsome gripped his arm, her face turned away as she held a handkerchief to her face. Lark hadn’t meant to make her cry. “I long maintained that I would make a poor leader. It began during the war, but I led nonetheless out of necessity. Later I securely housed and guarded the governors and the best of our officers and citizens while they composed what is now our constitution. I signed with the others in support of that document which I will gladly risk my life to support. I still feel that I have been given too much credit in that regard, but I will not dishonor those who have faith not only in me but in all of those who labored to write our constitution. It was not the work of one, but many, and I will not appear to distance myself, as if I feared any flaws it might have would reflect on me. I stand by it, as I stand by Perida and the Meriduan Islands.”

  Lark had to force himself to look away and observe the crowd. They knew, but they could hardly believe what they were hearing.

  “My closest friends have heard me say that I would never accept a nomination for president, and if forced, I would yield—” Rohn faltered and Winsome set her hand on his shoulder to steady him. It worked. “I would yield to another man. I understand now that it was cowardice, not modesty that moved me. I feared I would disappoint, that I would lead our new nation to ruin, that I wasn’t strong enough, or brave enough, or wise enough. But I would challenge anyone who would dare to suggest that my friend Mr. Roadman would not suffice, or Captain Trellior, or Lady Kilderkin—that any one of us would fail. None of us would fail. We won the war. We are free because of the strength in each and every one of us, and it is cowardice to exclude myself from your ranks. The only ones that would lead us to ruin are those traitors who wished and still wish we were chained to Cathret.”

  Lark’s breath caught. Unwittingly, the rumors he’d begun had come home. Rohn had insisted that he would speak extemporaneously, and he’d spoken very well, but their enemies would not take his open words lightly.

  “A president is not a king. He does not stand alone, and he does not decide alone. I have nothing to fear of a nomination, because if I am nominated I will not be alone. But even if I was alone I could not shirk my duty. I would be honored, and duty-bound to accept. I will support whoever is voted into the presidency, for I trust in who we are, and what we’ve become. I trust in democracy because I trust in my fellows.” It wasn’t quite done, but Rohn faltered again, perhaps in part overcome by his decision, and by his promise, perhaps in part hunting for the best conclusion while under the weight of thousands of people whose numbers stretched long down the road. “Whatever you decide, I will abide, and I will not dishonor you again.”

  They applauded, and the applause began to roar until it drowned out the sea. As news traveled back to those too far back to hear directly, cheers began to resound.

  Lark drew Rohn and Winsome off the balcony. “Now we have to make the rounds again,” he said.

  Rohn looked exhausted but he nodded. “Now that they’ve heard me speak I have little fear that I will have to bear that station.”

  “You think they’ll be jaded and hear your words as manipulation and false modesty?” Lark had to laugh. “If it were any other, perhaps, but I’m afraid they know you too well to suspect subterfuge. You are right, though. No one else could have said those things and be believed.”

  It took a long time but they made their way down the stairs and into each room, leaving the salon-turned-dance-hall for last. There Lark maneuvered Winsome and Rohn to the floor so that he and Feather could finally share a dance.

  “Did you write those words for him?” Feather asked as they swept together and apart and circled.

  Lark didn’t know the dance well, but he’d seen it earlier and it didn’t require his concentration. “No. They came from his heart, on the spot.”

  “He certainly struck my heart.” Her expression softened and grew ethereal. “Forgive me. Too much wine.”

  It was a lie. She could see something.

  Lark’s heart quickened. It made him think of Seers of old, though no one credible had claimed to be one in over a hundred years. Most of them were said to have gone mad before age fifteen, and more of them were women than men. Most were thought to be fakes whether they were mad or not. “I wonder if we have a few spiritual observers tonight.” There might have been voices in his mind, but amid the cacophony, he couldn’t tell.

  Her expression didn’t waver. “If Gutter were here, he would be pleased.”

  The mask gave him a little cover. “You’re acquainted with that famed jester?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Would it change your opinion of me if I wasn’t?”

  “Do you know my opinion of you?”

  Lark laughed hard enough to miss a step. “I wonder how long we will go without
a question answered.”

  “But they’ve all been answered. I knew you the moment I saw you, as you know me.”

  He couldn’t let on that Gutter had never mentioned her. It might be too that she was trying to lure him into an admission on partial information. Or perhaps she meant to suggest that he knew she was a Seer? “You’re too clever for me.”

  “And you’re too bold for me. We are the ideal couple.” She drew close with the dance and her mouth tickled his ear. “I know you, confidante.”

  She had him flustered and he couldn’t let her notice. Lark led her out of the dance. There was nowhere private to speak with her, but he didn’t need privacy. He wanted only to distract her and keep himself out of reach until he could gather himself. “I hope I can beg a favor of you.” The strength of her attention on his every word unsettled him. “I would like to gather as many jesters as are so inclined to perform for at least one dance and at least one song tonight.”

  “You mentioned as much in the invitation.”

  “I think the time is drawing near, but I’m overdue in various places to check on the staff. If you wouldn’t mind, could you collect them?”

  “Not at all. Will a half hour suffice?” She smiled sweetly.

  “I should be back by then.” He took both her hands and kissed them soundly. He didn’t have to fake gratitude. He honestly needed her help. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.” She vanished among the crowded silk gowns and fanciful hats.

  Confidante. She had to mean Gutter’s confidante, though Lark was far from it. The other possibility was more disturbing. He hadn’t told anyone that he heard voices sometimes. Well, his parents, but they were ... gone.

  And so what if he did hear voices? It could be his imagination, and those voices didn’t tell him sacred secrets. Something else was at work, and he doubted it had anything to do with allolai and morbai.

  You’re lying to yourself.

  Lark fled his fears to check in the kitchen. “Norbert, how are you managing?”

  “Lord jester sir,” he said shakily, surrounded by bustling help some of which seemed to hinder more than assist, “they keep bringing things in to plate from the pits but there’s no room, and I tried to tell them to set a table in my room for that use but they can’t find any.”

  Lark took him by the arm, concerned that the old man might collapse. “I’m sorry I didn’t step in sooner. Come this way. Have some fresh air. It’s sweltering in here.”

  “I don’t mind,” Norbert protested. “It’s bound to be hot with all three ovens at full roar baking fowl.”

  Lark drew him outside. “You there, young man, go fetch me some water please.”

  “Now lord jester, please don’t fuss,” Norbert protested.

  “Won’t you sit here with me. I could use the rest myself.” The estate’s rock foundation sat on native stone. In many places near the manor, the stables and the service building, the builders had artfully cut out the natural rise and fall into benches, among other things. Norbert settled down and Lark sat beside him. The water arrived and Lark gave the boy a cupru. “Thank you. I have a more important errand, if you’re able.”

  “Yes sir, l’jeste!”

  “At the front of the house there are soldiers in fine uniforms standing watch. Tell the one with the white hat and shawl that we need a large table brought here. Tell them Lark sent you.”

  “Yes sir, l’jeste!” The boy dashed off.

  “Thank you, lord jester.” Norbert leaned heavily on his knees.

  “I have to see how Trudy and Philip are doing. Please wait outside until the table gets here. On my way I’ll stop and make certain that Gregor keeps a close watch on things.” Lark stood and brushed himself off.

  “Don’t let him leave those birds in until they’re falling apart, or the flesh will end up in the fire.” Norbert started to rise but Lark settled him again.

  “I promise, the birds will come out all right.” Lark hurried back inside and found Gregor, the most adept of Norbert’s new assistants, laboring over soup. “Set someone else to this task. Norbert is worrying about the birds.”

  “Yes, l’jeste.”

  Lark took the back stairs and caught Trudy carrying a heavy load of cut fruit. “Miss Trudy.” He took one side of the enormous plate. “Where are the girls?”

  “Thank you. They’re downstairs helping serve, l’jeste.”

  “They were supposed to help you.”

  “Well Delia said she was overrun trying to keep the sideboards stocked. There’s not as much to do upstairs, especially since they’re helping themselves to drinks in the billiards room.”

  “There are four hundred people upstairs, if not more.” They eased past the armoire and maneuvered around guests into Lark’s suite, where everything had been cleared to the walls to serve as a chat room for their more distinguished guests. Juggler was there, and Onyx and the other elders as well as a number of nobles. Lark quickly memorized who stood close to who and decided to look into the other rooms as soon as possible. “I’ll get at least one girl back up here. Delia will have to manage without her.”

  “Thank you, l’jeste.”

  Lark helped her set the plate and clear some old ones before he offered his hand to Juggler. Juggler shook with a short bow. “I have to admit I’m impressed,” Juggler said.

  “Thank you.” Juggler’s cold façade seemed thinner than usual. Behind it Lark glimpsed a hurt, wounded thing painfully hoping for a friend to lend a hand. There was something else there, too. A mistrust he hadn’t seen before.

  Juggler cocked his head as if trying to see behind the mask. “You make me curious as to how many masks you have.”

  “Just the one,” Lark said with a smile, and Juggler surprised him by smiling back.

  “You haven’t met Gerson Wilden,” Juggler said, leading the way. “Gerson, our newest friend, Lord Jester Lark.”

  The constabulary priest had the look of a well-aged craftsman, with large, calloused hands and rough skin on his face. The chain around his neck wasn’t the only adornment he wore. He had a choker featuring a large, uncut ruby. Lark bowed, uncertain. The gerson nodded in answer. “Are you a friend to the church, young man?” the gerson asked.

  “Since I’ve come here the church has been a friend to me. How the church regards me, I wouldn’t presume to say.” Juggler might have caught the slight hesitation but hopefully the gerson didn’t.

  The gerson’s eyes narrowed in contrast to his smile. “The church here is different than it is in Cathret.”

  “Much to my delight,” Lark assured him.

  “You were at odds?”

  “No, gerson. And I’m sorry but I can’t comment on their treatment of me, as it would be unfair. There is no one here to defend the Cathretan priests, and I must admit that there must have been a great many misunderstandings, all on my part, as far as what transpired in my past. I hope to leave all that behind.”

  “Your mask—it is an older one, is it not? It seems familiar to me.”

  “It’s new and unfamiliar to me. If you want to ask after it’s history, you’re much better off with your memory than any guesses I might make.” Lark had to get out of this before the gerson inevitably asked where Lark got it. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few more things to look after, and an event I must organize. I hope you’ll both attend the performance. Juggler, I hope you’ve decided to join us.”

  “I do intend to.” Something had hurt him in the conversation.

  Lark didn’t have time to try and speak to him about it. He bowed to them and hurried out. He had to stop and talk to Bell. It took Bell several minutes to decline a hand of cards in Trudy’s made-into-yet-another-card-room. After assuring Bell’s attendance Mark slid past the armoire and took the back stairs down, and fled out to the stables.

  Philip sat by with a tall cup of punch. He stood as Lark approached. “Lark, sir.”

  “How goes it?” Lark asked.

  “I have more hel
p than I need. The horses are all getting along for the most part.”

  “Good to hear it. Send word if that changes. I’ll shuffle people around.”

  “As you like, sir.”

  Lark caught a server rounding the long way outside from the kitchen toward the front. He grabbed two cups of punch—a sip revealed that this one was made with brandy—and carried them to the rear of the house.

  It was quiet here. Just a few people strolling in the dark, talking softly, the guards, and Grant. Lark could barely make out his form on the back step, one long leg stretched out. Even his shadowed outline seemed handsome in his new uniform.

  “Hey,” Lark said, approaching. “I brought you some punch.”

  Grant rose and stalked over. Lark hesitated for a critical moment. He barely dodged Grant’s shove. “Get out of here,” he growled.

  Lark couldn’t let him do this, not in sight of anyone. “Come over to the stables,” he urged. “If you want to fight, fine but—”

  “Fight? I’ll wring your neck.”

  Lark kept moving backward and Grant finally stopped. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said in a harsh whisper. “You slept in my bed. I trusted you. I’ll do my duty for the colonel’s sake but after tonight I’m done, done with you, done with all of it.”

  He couldn’t mean it. Any of it.

  “Tell me it’s not true,” Grant demanded.

  Lark had to fight to keep Mark from surfacing past the mask and falling apart. “Of what am I accused?”

  “Tell me you’re not.”

  The only reason Mark didn’t immediately realize what Grant meant was because he thought Grant already knew, like everyone seemed to know. His belly went cold. “I didn’t mean to keep anything secret from you. Grant, I didn’t intend—I didn’t take advantage—” He had to stop himself from blundering on because nothing he could say along those lines would help. He wished he knew exactly what had set him off, and hoped that Grant didn’t represent a general hatred among islanders for staghorns. “If you hate me, and you want to go, then go. I’ll consider your duty fulfilled, and I’ll tell to the colonel that you had leave for personal reasons.”

  “You’d make your gruelly excuses in my name?”

  Lark parried the sword attack before he fully comprehended that Grant had drawn. One cup of punch flew aside, the other struck Grant in the face. The giant man tried again.

  Lark’s swift defensive instincts nearly cut Grant’s throat. Mark flinched in time but it cost him the line and Grant’s sword slapped above his ear. Luckily he hit flat and didn’t cut right into the skull. Mark’s ear rang and the thud knocked him hard but he recovered and rushed inside Grant’s range. Grant fell hard. It gave the mask time to gather up Mark’s scattered senses and subdue his bearer. Lark stepped on Grant’s sword and he lost the weapon. Lark picked it up and faced both points toward him. “Go home,” he said loudly. “She’s not worth it, Grant. I swear I didn’t know she meant so much to you.”

  “She?” Grant’s initial confusion gave way to understanding. “It don’t take anything for you to come up with a quick lie, does it.” Grant spat and stormed off.

  Lark touched above his ear. The skin was broken and bleeding, but there was only a slight dent in the bone.

  He had to clean up and return to the damned party. “You,” he said, gesturing to one of Grant’s men. “You’re in charge.” The man met him halfway and accepted Grant’s sword. “Are you one of his friends?”

  “No, lord jester.”

  “Then return his sword to me tomorrow morning. I’ll have it delivered.”

  “Yes sir, er, lord jester.”

  Lark took the back way up to Rohn’s sitting room. It had a good full-length mirror thanks to one of his shopping expeditions. His hands shook but his heart stayed calm, drawing on Rohn’s steady and mellow mood from wherever the man was enjoying himself. The mask had done this before—used a jester’s master’s heart to steady its wearer. Lark could tell by the familiarity of the action despite it being the first time he’d done it.

  Blood had stained his hair, and it showed the most in the lighter hair on top, though the darker curls near his neck dripped with it. Blood had gotten on his neckerchief, and his new coat.

  He slipped the neckerchief and staunched the bleeding before he shrugged the coat off. He stripped carefully to the waist and washed out his hair as best he could. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. He needed flour. Lark rang for Trudy.

  It took her a few minutes, but she finally arrived and fetched the flour without hesitation or questions, though she blanched when she saw him. She helped him apply it. A scarf went over the bandage, and a new hat went over the scarf, a hat to match a new coat. He didn’t like it as well as the one he’d been wearing, but it would have to do. He tied on a new neckerchief, a black one with gold and blue edging, and all was well with the world though the world seemed to have ended.

  “You’ll be all right, l’jeste?” Trudy asked.

  “Yes, thank you. You may take a few minutes leisure if you like. The performance will begin soon, and there will be fewer things to attend to.”

  “May I watch it, sir?”

  Lark smiled in spite of everything. “Of course.”

  He made his way down the stairs. Part of him feared that news of the fight would spread rapidly, but he realized that his was only a minor altercation among what had to be dozens by now. Men, especially young men, and drinking, and women dressed to best advantage ... it always led to fights.

  Rational, yes, but it had been so much more than a fight to him.

  He contrived smiles and everyone made way for him. Feather had done her part, and the jesters were waiting at their instruments.

  Juggler led with a beautiful solo on a viola, defining the dance. It was an old and well-loved dance arranged in four lines, and partners hastened to their places. Winsome caught his gaze and he went to her, offering his hand. He needed a friend for this dance.

  She seemed to respond to the hurt hidden behind his carefully crafted rapture as they bathed in exquisite music. Her touch was light, her demeanor undemanding and gentle. She didn’t venture conversation. She eased his loneliness with a perfect understanding, though she knew nothing of what had happened. For that he adored her, and wished. Just wished.

  The dance ended and it was his turn to perform. Feather joined him along with half a dozen other jesters, one of which he hadn’t met. Feather quickly introduced them while the audience filled in where the dance had been. It was very crowded. Lord Argenwain’s hall had been twice as broad, half-again as long and would have felt crowded with half the people. The heat began to get to him again. Feather noticed and fanned him. “Thank you.” He had to stay calm, keep his heart calm, or he might faint.

  A lady did faint not far from them. Two men nearby caught her and removed her to fresh air. She wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be last to faint tonight.

  “Let’s do Ciarrellos,” Bell suggested.

  It had been a long time, but Lark remembered it. “There are six of us. We can turn each verse into a solo.”

  “Then you have to go last,” Feather said.

  “I volunteer to go first,” Bell said. They hashed out the order and agreed on the key of G minor.

  It almost didn’t feel like performing. Lark soon forgot that he had an audience. His voice played just as one instrument among the others. The dying knight in the song mourned his regrets and clung to his victories with more passion than Lark had ever heard before, even more beautifully than the Zhever Troupe that had moved him so deeply when they came to perform for Lord Argenwain three years ago. He forgot all his hurt until the song ended. He felt as if this night had been like the knight’s death, full of wonders and sorrows that would soon culminate in the loss of all. He dreaded the morning when he’d go and return Grant’s sword. He feared it would be the end of their friendship forever.

  The jesters skilled at instruments struck up a l
ively song and the dancers with stamina leapt to it again. Lark retreated toward the front of the house.

  Feather stopped him. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “I need to get out of the heat,” Lark told her.

  “May I come with you?” She took his arm.

  “How can I say no?”

  “You can’t.” She walked with him through the front and out to the road. There was Rohn by a bonfire listening to a soldier go on about a dog that got into a mess tent. He was laughing, so happy. It healed Lark to see him like that.

  “I was in love with him for a while,” Feather said, encouraging Lark to keep walking. “And I loved Gutter too. Madly. No wonder I’m drawn to you as well.”

  “But we cannot be.” He felt sorry for it.

  “Your honesty astounds me, considering your teacher.”

  “You’re beautiful, but you’re not that beautiful.”

  She laughed, and then her attention faded. “They’re watching us,” she breathed, and her hand gripped his arm with hard claws.

  “Who is?” he asked gently. Maybe she was mad and just hid it well.

  “I needed you to know. It’s all right. I can’t say anymore but I can say that much.” Her hand relaxed. “I should hate you, but I can’t. I will miss you.”

  Though her voice moved in ways that didn’t babble, her words certainly made no sense. “Miss me?”

  She kissed his cheek and left him on the road to join up with an admiral or some similar naval person at another bonfire. He couldn’t make out the insignia in the uneven light.

  Lark walked back to the manor, uneasy. Perhaps she’d risked her mind to let him know what the beings in the afterworld were doing. Did she mean that the morbai and allolai had gathered to watch this event, or that they’d come for him in some way ... is that why she’d miss him?

  Will they drive me mad tonight for some offense ... because of what Rohn and I shared?

  Or maybe she meant something is happening here, tonight, or in Perida—

  He thought immediately of ships burning in the bay, but that was just an echo of his own losses. He couldn’t afford to leave the party to find out if something was amiss in Perida. Just in case he sent one of the private guards they’d hired to go to town and see if anything was amiss.

  The house wasn’t as stifling as it had been. People were starting to retire, drunk and sated and beyond exhausted. Lark selected a pretty young lady for the next dance. She proved a fine partner for a brilliant stirrah. The quick pace and galloping music soon made him laugh. He couldn’t stay serious and worried and sad in the midst of so much joy. Before he knew it he was chatting about dogs—so many of the island’s notables were obsessed with dogs, either hating or adoring them—with Bell, Jog, Fine, General Glassfield, Governor Evan, and a mix of other gentlemen and ladies. Lark posed ridiculous questions about dogs and they all tried to answer with facts while inserting things that would make each of them sound as knowledgeable as possible about the animals.

  Someone brought him a fresh glass of punch. He’d barely sipped it when a new dance started up. “There—Marjorie. I promised her a dance and it will be this one. Drave, hold this will you?”

  Drave accepted the glass and Lark hunted out Marjorie. The sharp, heavy spice from the punch was too cloying. No doubt this late the cooks were getting clumsy.

  Marjorie preened and batted her eyes and Lark flirted just a bit while they turned endlessly through the vellawei. The hearty dance stole his breath and he couldn’t quite catch it. “I’m sorry, I have to stop.” He slipped out of the line, gulping for air, his heart staggering. It wasn’t getting better, and that frightened him. He went to a window.

  “Lord jester, you’re flushed. Sara! Sara? Come here, lend him your fan.” Lady Sara’s husband Roth brought him a chair and Lark sat gratefully.

  Someone screamed from across the room and Sara stopped fanning him. Lark felt so hot—and suddenly went cold with sweat. His stomach rebelled. He managed to get sick out the window. He smelled blood, tasted it in his mouth.

  “Roth!”

  “You, find Baron Evan and bring him here immediately,” Roth barked. “Is there a doctor in the room!”

  “There is,” said Jog, rushing over, “but he’s with Drave. It’s poison. It must have been in the glass.”

  Lark struggled to remember who gave him the glass, but he couldn’t remember. “Did you see? Did you see who?”

  “It was a servant.”

  Lark barely managed to hold his stomach. “Find him, Jog. Please find him.”

  Jog rushed off.

  Lark lost control and was sick again. It was almost all blood, warm blood. Roth let out an oath but Sara knelt beside him. “There’s has to be something we can do. Tell me what to do.”

  Lark didn’t know this poison. “Water.”

  “Fetch some water!” she cried.

  Lark’s heart staggered. He had to survive. He had to find the secrets, had to find his mother’s killer, had to find out why Mairi burned. He’d momentarily lost his desire for justice and now everything would remain undone. Had Feather told him she would miss him because she poisoned him?

  Juggler suddenly appeared. “I know what this is.” His voice was hushed and full of pain. “I can smell it.”

  “The spice,” Lark whispered, gasping for air. He shivered, cold to the bone.

  “Fetch me a pistol. We can’t leave him like this.”

  “Oh please no,” Sara pleaded.

  Lark arched into darkness and saw the allolai and morbai in the deep black, their clothes alive with teeth, blades drawn, flowers writhing all around them, their faces opening to reveal green and gold fire within while they waited for him. “I see them,” he gasped, and his words pulled him back into the room. He’d fallen to the floor.

  Rohn crouched beside him. “Where is that milk?”

  “You can’t leave him like this,” Juggler protested.

  “Stay with me,” Rohn pleaded softly. “Please stay with me. Please don’t leave me.”

  He had to survive. He had to get the mask off. The mask had to survive. He remembered how Obsidian had clawed for his mask, and everything made dark and terrible sense. If the mask remained on his face when he died, it might lose that which made it alive, and it had no soul. It would perish forever, a tragedy far more immense than one boy’s life.

  Rohn didn’t understand and tried to prevent him from tearing it off, to prevent shock.

  “Help him,” Juggler snarled. “For pity’s sake!”

  Rohn hesitated. Lark dragged his fingers up and finally pulled the mask, scarf, hat, everything from his head.

  The darkness swept in and the allolai and morbai reached for him. He screamed and the world blazed with light as if under a summer sun.

  Mark lurched awake in Rohn’s washroom, soaking wet, naked, wrapped in towels dripping with water and blood. His heart leapt painfully in off rhythms. His breath came in short, shuddering gasps. Rohn rubbed his back while the doctor measured something into a cup of milk.

  “I think he’s conscious,” Rohn gasped.

  “Sit him up.” The doctor came over with the cup. Rohn pulled Mark up against his chest and the doctor tried to pour milk into Mark’s mouth. Mark’s throat burned and his stomach felt like it was full of razors. “If he can’t keep this down, the pistol might be kinder.”

  Mark remembered the scent of Rohn’s skin, and the kisses that had torn though him with ecstasy, and Gutter’s letter, and diamonds sparkling, and Rohn’s voice as he read that awful, wonderful romance. He forced himself to drink. The milk tasted beyond sour, and it burned into him. His belly tightened until it felt like his flesh had torn inside him.

  Walking on the beach stroking Bindart, talking with Winsome.

  Sitting with Grant—

  No, that hurt too much, but he needed it.

  Sitting with Grant, working on his letters, the pride so bright but so shy in Grant’s eyes.

  Rohn cupped Mark’s hea
d in his hands and held his face close to his cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” A hand worked through Mark’s hair, passionate, his touch hard with longing and desperation.

  Trudy drew in close and wove her hand with Rohn’s, gentling his touch. A man nearby wept.

  Mark’s heart steadied. His breath slowed.

  “Stand him up,” the doctor ordered.

  Rohn and Trudy pulled him up.

  “Walk him.”

  Mark tried to move his feet. At first he couldn’t, but then a leg twitched in answer to his will, and again, and he limped along. Sleepiness tried to drag him down past the pain.

  “Stop for a moment.” The doctor set his head against Mark’s chest. For several breaths he listened, and then eased away. “He’s out of danger for the moment. Keep him moving.”

  Mark noticed everything in sharp patches connected by blurs of lost time. Philip stood by, eyes red. Norbert came in with hot water and Philip helped him fill the bath. Norbert came in again with more water. They bathed him. They dressed him in a nightshirt. They walked him up and down the hall. They forced water and milk into him, though he kept little of it down for long. The blurs between grew shorter.

  The doctor listened to his chest again. “You can put him to bed.”

  “My bed,” Rohn told them, and they walked Mark to the master bed. Trudy and Philip helped settle him in. Mark’s eyes closed and everything went a frightening black.

  “I’m sorry but I doubt he’ll last a week,” the doctor said somewhere in the distance. “Most patients die of dehydration or during a convulsion. Still, he might fool us. He’s surprised me before.” The silence behind those words filled with wind and the sound of the sea through the open windows. “By the way, I couldn’t help but notice—he should have had terrible scars—”

  “It’s a sacred matter. That’s all I can say,” Rohn told him.

  “I should document—”

  “I wouldn’t advise it.”

  The doctor sighed. “A shame, really, to be forced into ignorance when we could all be enlightened with so little.”