by Grace Draven
“Which is?”
“Waiting. And taking inventory, with a view to turning a profit.”
Martis sighed, and took the smaller chair opposite the desk. “Let me see the accounts then.”
It was dusk before they had read through the accounts and ledgers, with only a short pause for lunch and again for a minor disturbance when their luggage was delivered and then taken upstairs to their rooms.
The fading shafts of the setting sun flickered and then died, leaving the study lit by only the faint light of four candles which the old man had lit in advance of the fading of the last rays.
Martis stretched. “The accounts seem fine. A nice profit on the oyster trade, the carpets were making a bigger turn, and he’d started a strange side line in curried pigeon.”
Alair raised an eyebrow.
“No idea,” Martis replied to the unspoken question. “I can’t see there were any sales, but he was buying them by the gross.”
“Bribing someone, most likely.”
They both paused, considering possible targets. Martis considered the letters he had received from Calford, all his news about the City, his plans for trade, and the surprising silence on the subject that everyone who came to the City discussed. But if you expected your letters to be opened and read by your competitors, you wouldn’t write about your biggest secret.
“I can’t imagine who you can bribe with curried pigeon,” Martis said.
“A strong taste could hide poison, I suppose,” Alair replied.
“Calford would never do anything like that. He was a good man.”
Alair gave a one shouldered shrug, not denying the truth of it, but also suggesting that it was rather a pity that he hadn’t considered that goodness to be a reason to stay away from the City.
“He should never have come here,” Martis said, accepting the silent argument. “I said so at the time, but father thought it was jealousy and so Calford was favoured over me.”
“Your father has many fine qualities, but being a good judge of character is not one of them.”
They were contemplating ordering some supper and a hot bath, when Barnardis returned carrying a note, sealed with red wax and with a matching amulet dangling from a ribbon wrapped round the scroll.
“This has come for you,” he said, proffering the note. “It’s from ‘er Ladyship Vanth. Asking you for dinner.”
“You’ve read it then,” Martis asked.
“Nah, the lad who brought it said so. He’s waiting for an answer.”
“We’d be delighted to accept such a friendly gesture,” Alair replied.
“Thought you would. You have the look of a man who would like to dine with Lady Vanth.”
“Well-dressed?” Alair suggested.
“Brave?” Martis added.
“The sort who can’t leave well enough alone.” Barnardis turned to go. “I’ll tell the lad you’ll be there in about two hours, give you time to make yourself look pretty for the lady. She likes pretty, and that might buy you a bit of her good will.”
“That would be useful,” Martis said. “You could write her a poem. Something about her eyes.”
“Does the Lady Vanth have big bubbies?” Alair asked.
There was a silence in the room, as if someone had mentioned death or money or used the wrong fork to eat the lobster.
“You do know who she is?” Barnardis said. “One of the most powerful women in the City, who can gut you as soon as look at you? Sooner?”
Alair nodded. “So it’ll be a long time since anyone has addressed a poem to her bubbies. I’ll be respectful about it, all rosy nipples and the setting sun nestling in the lace of her dress, but it will be about her bubbies. So how big is the sunset?”
Martis shook his head. “Why not write about her nose or something like that?”
“Every woman—every man come to that—has some feature they crave praise for. If they’re a beauty, praise their kindness or their intellect.”
“You mean lie?”
“Oh Martis, spare me your indignation. As if you’ve not lied to bed someone… promised them your heart, your fidelity, your undying true love, and then forgotten about it in the morning.” Alair looked amused at his cousin’s shock. “The trick is not to lie. They know when you lie and they’re flattered nonetheless. But find the truth of what they value about themselves…you own them.”
“I doubt that’s the Lady Vanth’s bubbies,” Martis said.
“I agree.” Alair looked sober for a moment. “But would it not be more dangerous to strike truth from her? In this city where lies are currency and masks are mandatory?”
“They’re big enough, I suppose, though it’s a brave man who beds her,” Barnardis offered eventually, drawn into the conversation almost against his will.
“Martis is the brave one,” Alair said gravely.
Martis spluttered. “And you’re the daft one who takes on every dare.”
“That I am,” Alair replied. “And I dare to see if I can amuse the Lady Vanth with my impudence and my sonnet. Now give me some peace. I cannot write with all this disturbance. I need to commune with the muses, and they’re even harder to please than the Lady Vanth.”
“You haven’t met her yet, boy,” said Barnardis.
The Lady Vanth’s palace faced the Grand Canal. There was only one entrance, a grand Mermaid gate opening onto a large courtyard garden lit with torches that served as contrast to the deep shadows rather than illuminating them.
A young woman in dark robes was waiting for them at the iron gates. Gesturing for them to follow her, she walked ahead of them, seeming to glide so smooth was her gait. She passed between two large cypresses, guarding a dark entrance to a maze of hedges in twisted shapes, curving round on each other to make a labyrinth of living walls. The path twisted and turned, and a route that seemed to offer some way through would end suddenly, blocked by more greenery, and a path that led to nowhere shifted to allow passage past a threatening statue.
“Is this done with magic?” Martis asked, almost in a whisper.
The guide’s footsteps faltered.
“Not unless you count perspective to be magic,” Alair replied, not bothering to lower his voice. “This is all a trick of the eye—we’re walking round in circles. Which is a nice metaphor for life, I grant you, but not magic.”
The young girl stopped and turned toward them. Her face was hidden behind an ornate mask, red and gold spirals on a black background, but there was something in the tilt of her head that conveyed disapproval. “The Lady Vanth made this garden. Over years. It is her life’s work.”
Alair shrugged. “Saying something isn’t magic isn’t a criticism. It’s merely an observation. Martis may be disappointed because he has never seen magic. He yearns for it, wants to see it and taste it—and it means he doesn’t always see the true beauty of something that might be seen as lesser but which is unique in holding the experience of time still for us all to see.”
The woman huffed. “You lie well.”
“I do,” Alair replied cheerfully. “I am a poet after all. Would you like me to write a sonnet for you?”
She turned back to the path with a swirl of robes, dismissing him as unimportant.
Martis elbowed Alair in the ribs. “Behave.”
“This is me behaving,” Alair replied.
After another hundred paces the girl stopped by a yew arch, through which could be seen a short path flanked by torches which led to an open space with seating under silk hangings. A woman dressed in black was draped along a long divan, the top half of her face hidden by a golden mask in the shape of a sun, leaving only her mouth visible.
“The Lady Vanth,” the girl said. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. She’s short tempered.”
“And sharp of hearing,” said the Lady Vanth, her voice curling round their heads as if she stood right next to them.
“Just trying to save you from their impertinence, my lady,” the girl said softly, and bobbed a curtsey
.
“You’re a good, thoughtful child, Aishen.” Lady Vanth gestured for them to join her in the green room. “Fetch our guests some wine. The Gresh red, I think.”
“Not the best,” Alair murmured under his breath. “But not the worst either—she’s undecided about us.”
“And still sharp of hearing,” Lady Vanth replied. “All the better to hear your sonnet.”
“How did you know about that?” Martis blurted before getting an elbow in his ribs.
“Do forgive my cousin,” Alair said smoothly, taking a seat across from Lady Vanth. “He’s very bright with numbers, can cast a set of accounts in a moment, but he’s never really mastered tact.”
“You’re not exactly polite yourself,” Martis said.
“Never claimed to be,” Alair replied. “It’s my artistic temperament. The ladies make all sorts of allowances for it, and their husbands have to agree or they look petty and jealous.”
“Impertinence does not amuse me.” Lady Vanth turned her head, and the torchlight fell on her fangs.
“I am not here to be amusing,” Alair replied, his voice cool and even. “I find nothing entertaining about my cousin’s death.”
The silence that fell was broken by the return of Aishen with the wine and three goblets.
“Wine?” Aishen said softly.
“Thank you, I will,” Alair replied. “Martis will not. He lost a bet and is forbidden drink…”
Martis made a noise in the back of his throat.
“… until the end of the month,” Alair finished smoothly.
“Then perhaps he will return then and take wine with me.” Lady Vanth took the proffered goblet, and sipped at the red liquid within.
“I wouldn’t say no to some curried pigeon,” Martis offered, but it was as if he had never spoken.
“Perhaps,” said Alair. “If all goes well.”
Aishen proffered the tray to Alair, allowing him to choose a goblet out of the pair remaining. He took a swallow and flinched.
“Not to your taste?” Lady Vanth asked, with a hissing laugh.
“A little more robust than I am used to.”
“You drink such insipid wines in your country. Here we drink stronger stuff.”
“So I perceive.”
The pair sipped their wine in silence, like two warring bulls sizing each other up before commencing the fight.
“Let me show you more of my garden,” Lady Vanth said. “It is a marvellous thing.”
“Then I shall duly marvel.”
They rose, Lady Vanth taking Alair’s arm to proceed in stately fashion along the long yew walkway.
Martis offered his arm to Aishen, but she shrugged away from him, clearly amused.
The garden was partitioned into green rooms, each surrounded by yew hedges, each different from the next. There were rooms filled with a profusion of roses, another with a solitary orange lily, yet another with statues that seemed on the brink of moving.
They came to a tall tree, surrounded by a wooden seat at the base.
“This is a poison tree,” Lady Vanth said. She reached up to skim a hand along a branch, stroking the leaves gently. “The centrepiece of the garden.”
“The heart of the garden, surely?” Alair replied.
“Oh, you’re sharp.” Lady Vanth turned to Alair, her mask glittering in the torchlight, her eyes lost in shadows. “So sharp you’ll cut yourself one day.”
“No, only others,” Alair murmured.
Lady Vanth settled on the rough wooden seat, arranging her skirts neatly round her feet. “You’ve come for revenge, I take it?”
“Yes,” Martis put in.
“What can we seek revenge for?” Alair replied, ignoring the interruption. “We are assured that my cousin’s death was accidental.”
Aishen snorted.
“And if, indeed, we had some proof that this was other than the truth, it would be our civic duty to report this to the Master of the City, so that justice might take its course.”
“Really?” said Martis.
Lady Vanth tilted her head, like a bird watching for prey. “Is that so?”
“It is certainly not my intention to raise a hand against Dovestone, not by as much as one finger.” Alair leaned against a convenient pillar, resting his hand on the rounded top. “For if I were, the Master of the City would have to hang us both above the dock as a warning to others, and I prefer to be an example not a warning.”
“Aye,” said Lady Vanth, her smile widening. “Nevertheless, you have a plan?”
Alair shrugged. “And what was Calford to you that you should care?”
“We were fast friends.” Lady Vanth’s tone hinted at carnal acts both high in number and perverse in practice.
Martis opened his mouth to say something, then snapped his jaw shut, biting back his words.
“Indeed,” Alair replied. “How very broad-minded of you. I had thought there was prejudice amongst your sort about my sort, but perhaps that is what moved Dovestone to act as he did? Did he perhaps feel you had lowered yourself by consorting with my cousin?”
The last time Martis had heard someone put that much contempt into a phrase as ‘your sort’ it had been his father discussing useless wastrel poets who lazed around all day in silk dressing gowns as if they owned the world instead of earning a living like sensible hardworking folk.
“Perhaps that added piquancy.” Lady Vanth’s eyes glittered from behind her mask, coldly watchful.
“Like rutting with sheep?”
Aishen hissed, then subsided under the direction of her mistress.
“You sell yourself and your kind cheap—you’re not sheep, even if you are occasionally prey. You talk, you think, you feel, you mourn, you revenge.” Lady Vanth leaned on the last word, her voice nearly a caress along the length of their spines, conjuring visions of death and pain and blood. “We live longer, but our appetites are the same.”
“There’s truth in that.” Alair stretched his mouth in a parody of a smile. “But neither are we slaves to our appetites.”
Lady Vanth leaned back in her seat and huffed.
“But if Dovestone were to make some move that would end in his own destruction, if he could be tempted into that, then what could the Master say?” Alair continued. He leaned closer. “How can anyone object to another’s stupidity leading them astray?”
Lady Vanth tipped her head up, exposing her long throat as she laughed. “If we were to start intervening when others were foolish, we would never be able to cease.”
Alair looked at his cousin, but said nothing.
Lady Vanth did not press for more information, and the discussion turned to other matters: the price of oysters, the new silk patterns coming from the east, and the profits to be made on trading carpets. Martis kept a close note of what was said and what was not, already adjusting prices on their own trade goods and sorting through the best merchants to deal with.
The moon rose in the sky, bringing out shadows in the garden that cast long dark shapes across the labyrinth and distorting the solitary trees into grasping shapes reaching out with long clawed arms. Martis shivered, struck by the difference between the domestic concerns they were discussing and the threatening alien space in which they were doing business.
“I see your cousin feels the cold,” Lady Vanth said.
Martis could feel her eyes fixed on him, and he thought of the last time he had been hunting with a friend and come across a doe. It had not moved away, just stopped and stared at him with big, brown eyes, paralysed with fear. Just so must it have felt looking at him. He shook his head. He wasn’t a doe. He may be prey, but he was prey with teeth.
Lady Vanth laughed, and said, “Take him home. We can continue this another time.”
Aishen picked up a torch from one of the holders, and gestured for them to follow her. “This way. You wouldn’t want to get lost in here.”
Martis shivered again.
“I met your brother once,” Aishen said, as s
he showed them through twists and turns, different to the route they had taken on their arrival. “He seemed nice.”
“He was,” said Martis.
Aishen sighed. “He used to sit by the Old Bridge, by the Square of Flowers, and talk to passers-by.”
Martis and Alair did not speak until they were clear of the garden and settled onto a boat to take them home.
“Calford was a strict Trinitarian,” Martis said quietly, his voice covered by the sound of splashing oars. “We kept it quiet because it’s bad for business. People think you’re odd, and that you won’t take bribes, and that your mind’s too busy with gods to trade.”
Alair raised an eyebrow.
“He’d not take up with her—they believe that the price her sort have paid for immortality is their soul, and the souls of their victims. He’d do business with her. You can buy and sell with anyone. But not… more. And I don’t think they were in business together, or if they were… “
Martis frowned, and continued, “She didn’t twitch when I mentioned curried pigeon. So, not close, not partners, and she just wanted information?”
“Or she has reasons of her own to hate Dovestone and wanted an alliance.” Alair shrugged. “Whatever she wanted, she’s not going to get it. I’ve no intention of getting into bed with her.”
Martis shook his head, and silenced the usual response he would make to such a statement. There was something so strange, so different about Lady Vanth there was no way you could jest about being royally tupped.
Martis could only be occupied by the minutiae of business for so long, especially with the hot tang of revenge warming his blood. He was patient for the first couple of days, and then became more and more unsettled as the week wore out its welcome. Messages came and went for Alair at all hours, but when he filched one from the desk, it was nothing more than an invoice for silks.
Alair had said nothing about the filching but had to have known because he started passing the post to Martis over dinner with his commentary on the state of trade. If there was something Alair was doing to plot revenge, he was doing it so subtly, so carefully, that Martis could not work out what he was up to.
“I’m bored,” he announced over an early dinner ten days after their arrival. “I’m tired of hanging around with nothing to do.”