by A Van Wyck
The tablemaster had appeared before them again. At the lady’s nod, he started to lead them to a prominent table in the center of the room but the lady made for an out-of-the-way table against the far wall. The tablemaster shifted direction without missing a beat. He seated them both, waiting expectantly for their order.
“A mulled wine for myself and a hot ginger ale for my niece, if you please Master Goregson.” The lady waited for the man to disappear.
“Did you see him?”
“Very interested in us,” he nodded without looking in the man’s direction. “Doesn’t quite fit, does he?” All the other patrons were wearing finery. The man’s woolens, while no doubt expensive, stuck out amongst all the silk and velvet. The lady smiled and nodded as if he’d said something funny. No one watching from a distance would be able to guess the tilt of their conversation.
“His boots are military issue,” she added. “Do you recognize him?”
“No. You?”
“I have not seen him before. Although I have no doubt now that he belongs to Lord Wramlinn.”
“One of those sycophants you mentioned?”
“Most likely.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather I just…?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she scoffed at him, for the sake of their audience waving the comment away companionably. “If his man were to disappear, Wramlinn would not only have confirmed that we have a secret but also that it is worth killing over. He would start digging in earnest.”
“I suppose,” he grumbled glumly but said nothing else as one of Goregson’s servers arrived with their drinks. The man fussed unnecessarily with their napkins until Lady Lassleider cut a frown in his direction.
He carefully maneuvered his mug under the veil.
He eyed the lady, genteelly sipping her wine. For all that he put up with, she could have at least ordered him a real ale.
Ginger ale. Blegh.
“You know,” he mused, pushing the revolting stuff away, “if our friend had just rode in on a different horse, we might never have suspected.”
She scoffed delicately. “A dragoon abandon his horse? ‘Might as well ask a masha’na to throw away his sword.”
“Very attached, are they?”
She nodded. “Destriers like that are worth their weight in silver. For the common man, a military pension is almost the only way to own a horse. Ever. Good horseflesh is extremely rare in the Empire and almost all of it is either owned by, or destined for, the Imperial stables.”
Silence stretched.
“What?” she asked when he said nothing else.
“I was just thinking,” he drawled. “You’ve got four matching horses hitched to that carriage out there...”
And they’re not bad horses either.
She regarded him levelly.
“Are you very rich?”
“Extremely,” she confessed, raising her dangerous eyebrow and her glass in salute. She eyed him over its rim. “I also own a number of very fine hunting dogs.”
He laughed, albeit a bit nervously.
“Don’t fret, lady. Your horses are safe from me.”
“Oh,” she assured him, her eyes flat, “I know.”
I really, really need a drink.
They were on the road again as early as the lady could dump him out of bed. She handed the tablemaster a bulging purse in the pre-dawn light. He briefly considered picking it right out of the man’s pocket but was still too deeply asleep to be bothered. He glanced over toward the stables. He’d tried last night to convince the lady and Neever that, if their unwanted companion truly wouldn’t abandon his horse, they should just lame the animal and have done with the whole business. To their credit, they had actually considered it but had ultimately overruled him.
It had been worth a try.
He raked his eyes across the inn’s facing windows, searching for any sign that their friend was watching. But apart from the now near constant itch he’d developed between his shoulder blades, he found nothing.
It was a measure of the lady’s disquiet that she did not immediately launch into the day’s lesson but sat quietly contemplative, fingertip absently tapping at her chin. He eased back in his seat – careful, lest the movement attract her attention – and spent the better part of the morning peering out a tiny gap in the curtains. In this way, watching a rolling panorama no wider than his little finger, he came to the imperial capital. He watched as the buildings and the sheer volume of people grew ever more impressive. He knew they must be getting close when they didn’t stop for the midday meal but pressed on.
“Not hungry?” he danced around the question.
“There will be enough time to eat,” she answered, equally vague.
Having attracted her attention, he feared the start of the inevitable lecture but the lady simply lapsed back into her pensive repose. They arrived at their destination while the sun was still high in the sky. A first for them. To his surprise, they weren’t stopping at an inn. A servant in a uniform to match Neever’s opened wide a large gate wrought with cast iron flowers. They were ushered up a white-pebbled path toward the large mansion on the hill. He sat back in surprise.
“Yours?”
The lady inclined her head distractedly. He glanced out the window again.
Well skewer me sideways if I haven’t been traveling with a damned queen...
The lady seemed to rouse herself. “Now remember,” she told him sternly, “our charade is not up yet. You are still my niece, Valda, until I tell you otherwise. We are in more danger of discovery here than we’ve been so far. Some of the servants here know Valda. Say nothing but don’t keep your head down – Valda is many things but she’s not shy.”
“You fear your servants would betray you?” He was more impressed than appalled. Betrayal was an unavoidable part of the life he’d lived. He just had trouble imagining anyone with the stones to betray this woman.
“Perhaps not,” the lady conceded, “but I’d rather not tempt fate. A careless word, accidentally overheard, could undo all our careful work.”
“I see.”
Apparently satisfied, she lapsed back into silence. Neever drew them up before a pale-pillared entranceway that would not have looked amiss on a palace. A short line of black-clad servants were lined up before the open doors in varying poses of deference. One stepped up to open the carriage door and help the lady down. As she alighted, a flurry of bows and curtsies swept through the waiting staff.
“Welcome back, mistress,” said the foremost. He was a middle-aged man with a thick waist and thicker whiskers. His manner was less deferential, in some ineffable way, than any of the others. Either that or the man’s girth hampered a proper bow.
“Thank you, Tuori.” The servants straightened. “You remember my niece, Valda?”
He stepped out on cue, peering through the veil, to see if any of the servants showed an inordinate amount of surprise.
“Of course, mistress,” this Tuori said, turning to bow at him. “Welcome, miss.”
He remembered in time that he shouldn’t return the bow. He inclined his head in what he hoped looked a gracious manner.
“Tuori,” the lady reclaimed the man’s attention, “I see my message reached you.”
The head servant nodded, falling in beside her to offer his arm. They made their way up the stairs,
He followed behind them, lightly resting his fingertips on the arm proffered by another servant. If the support offered was any indication, he could break the aged man in half with a well placed shove.
“Indeed, mistress,” Tuori was saying, waving a pudgy hand to disperse the other servants to their various tasks. “We received your missive two days ago and all has been prepared. Your rooms have been aired and I’ve taken the liberty of preparing rooms for Lady Valda down the hall from your own. Dinner will be served at the usual bell, unless her ladyship would care for some refreshment now?”
“Thank you, Tuori, that will not be necessary.”
>
He kept his eyes straight ahead as they entered the mansion, trying not to gawk as though he were a stranger to wealth. He did not usually notice riches, except as something to steal or to hide behind... while stealing. Even so, he had to admit he was impressed. He could live like a prince for a full year on just what he saw while being led to the upper levels. Even discounting those things too difficult to carry or artworks he didn’t know the providence of. And, presumably, there were many more rooms to boot.
Tuori indicated the chambers prepared for ‘Lady Valda’ as they passed and held the door to his mistress’s room.
Following them inside, he almost gave away the entire charade in a fit of hilarity. It was obvious the lady had not decorated her rooms herself. Not unless he’d read her entirely wrong and she enjoyed lace frills in soothing pastels. Just as obviously she didn’t care enough, either way, to have it changed. Perhaps that said more about her personality than the room did.
He watched as the lady sank down on a frilly couch with a sigh. More servants entered behind them with a steaming basin and folded towels. Another deposited a tray bearing a teapot and cups on a low table near the lady. At her nod, the woman poured for two, the smell of honey and clover filling the room. With a flurry of bows, the servants departed.
The lady sat up to collect her cup. “What news, Tuori?” she prompted.
“Little that is good, lady,” the man began. “Then again, little that is new. House Falia and House Winneria continue their quiet feud, both in and out of the Mercers’ Council. It seems only their legal advisors profit from it at all.” Tuori blinked, continuing the report. “The Temple has proposed a new tax that has the entire Council up in arms. They wait with bated breath upon the decision of the Emperor. If rumor tells it true, mercers and certain nobles clog the passages of the Imperial palace with their petitions and pleas most every day.” The man took a quick breath. “Worrying accounts from the north rumor that the Imperial mines are running dry of gold. Certainly, the recent influx of unemployed miners to the city seems to support this. Relations with the Tamorians have worsened of late. Just a week ago, the son of the ambassador was set upon during a tavern brawl. Knives were drawn. University menders reached the young man in time but, by all accounts, it will be a while before he is well enough to leave his bed again. His honorable father has put in a request for Temple healers.” The report went on and on.
When it was done, the lady sat swirling the tea in her cup, frowning introspectively. “And have there been any reports of unprovoked attacks upon members of the clergy, or unusually high fatalities among their number?”
The man, Tuori, blinked myopically. “None that have reached my ears, lady. Shall I investigate the matter for you?”
“Do,” she mused. “Quietly, if you please, Tuori.”
“Of course, mistress,” the man bowed.
“And one more thing,” she forestalled the servant’s leaving. “Kindly have the carriage readied after supper. I shall be accompanying Lady Valda to Temple for her evening prayers.”
“As you command, mistress,” the man straightened, letting himself out.
“Prayers?” he questioned when Tuori had left. “Are you finally going to try your hand at converting me, then?”
“You are on a pilgrimage, you know,” she winked. “You should be glad. Soon you will be rid of me – and ‘Valda’.”
This was it then. The culmination. The final destination. They’d made it to the capital. Soon he’d know why he’d been brought here. How his skills were to be used to advance the modernist movement. Soon, he’d be forced to make the decision he’d been putting off…
“A game of side step?” she offered.
“Possibly,” he muttered.
Going to Temple required yet another dress. Quite more elaborate than anything he’d yet worn for simple travel. Even with just the two of them in the carriage, the range of skirts, lace and petticoats nearly overflowed from the windows.
“So,” he asked, to distract himself from the traitorous thought that he must look quite fetching, “am I going to get a look at temple headquarters at last?”
“Oh, dear, no,” she laughed, “the Mother Temple is the equivalent of the Emperor’s palace. We are simply going to a small Temple in the Noble Quarter, housing a shrine to Samenia.” She leaned forward on her seat as if to impart a secret, causing a tidal wave among the skirts. “Since none but he most devout among the nobility attend on any except holy days, it should be quite deserted.”
As Neever helped him from the carriage, he had to suppress the urge to crane his neck. The pearlescent edifice above them defied full view. This was a small Temple in the Noble Quarter? The building itself was not extensive but you’d have to be a fit man – with some time on your hands – if you were of a mind to climb the narrow steeple. As if bristling under his attention, a sonorous boom echoed from the top of the spire. Some unseen, monstrous bell chimed another deep note. It was answered from all over the city by the tolling of what must be hundreds of bells, both great and small. Their discordant song rode the wind for close to a dozen heartbeats.
“The city speaks,” the lady whispered in his ear, gathering him to her as she made her way toward the vaulted entrance. He followed, holding his skirts off the ground with both hands. She’d warned him that any patrons of the temple this evening would be nobles and would spot any sour notes in his performance immediately. He was trying very hard not to think about that. An old man, a priest in a richly embroidered cassock, greeted them at the door and bowed them inside.
They passed through the marble entranceway and into the main Temple.
Impressive.
By day, the place must light up like a bonfire. But right now the setting sun through the stained glass painted the interior in a gentle swathe of creeping colors.
To his discomfort, there were a handful of people already sitting in the cushioned pews. From what her ladyship had said, he’d halfway hoped they would be the only attendees.
A small family, decked in dull silks, sat in the very front row. Sedately bejeweled, they looked like a branch of birds, ranging large to small: father, mother and two pubescent boys. Judging from the painful stillness of the children, one of the parents must be an absolute tyrant.
The only other patrons were two extremely elderly ladies who sat chatting gamely just off the aisle. They were being studiously ignored by the family in the front pew. Feathered plumes bobbed as the two old biddies turned right around to regard the newcomers with open curiosity. Apparently recognizing the lady, they waved animatedly. It looked, for a moment, like they would rise and approach. But the lady raised a forestalling hand, gesturing in the direction of the pulpit, where a priest in resplendent white robes had just stepped into view. The two sank back into their seats, grins unextinguished.
Breathing deeply, he followed the lady to a seat relatively near the back, ducking his head as he sank gratefully down onto the cushioned bench.
“Posture,” she whispered.
He jerked his shoulders erect, folding his hands in his lap. His eyes wandered toward the pulpit. For all the splendor of the gold embroidered vestments, the priest was literally outshone by the stage. The pulpit, standing a good ten paces above the floor, had been rendered in the shape of a rising sun. He railed inwardly at the thought of all the gold leaf it must have taken to gild the priest’s celestial halo.
I hope they lock this place at night.
The preacher raised spindly arms high, briefly doubling in size as pristine robes flapped open.
He stood along with the rest as the priest clasped pious hands together, bowing a balding head in their direction to begin prayer… and that was the end of what he understood. Whatever language the preacher was speaking certainly wasn’t Heli. It was a sharp tongue, punctuated by hard consonants and sudden stops. Those were difficult to distinguish from the deliberate pauses, where everyone joined in to intone the next few words. He stood with his head quietly bowed, motion
less lips hidden by his veil, and let them get on with it.
When they’d apparently finished and he’d hastily copied everyone else in drawing a circle on his chest, they all sat down.
The priest began the sermon. Thankfully in a real language this time.
After the first dozen heartbeats, he realized it really didn’t matter. The preacher droned on about peoples and places so obscure as to be nonexistent and struggles and triumphs bereft of relevance for a thousand years. The man could just as well have kept up the unintelligible babble of a moment before. If there were a message to the flock somewhere in there, these sheep must be sharper than he.
He spent the better part of two turns watching the two grim boys in the front pew. He tracked the fitful progression of twitches and fidgeting as they became steadily more pronounced. He didn’t miss the moment when, after a brief war of casually traded elbows, the older one pinched his brother. He was impressed when the little one made no move beyond a stiffening of the shoulders.
Now there’s control for you. He revised his opinion. Possibly both parents were tyrants. The war ended silently, with no casualties, though Mother’s stiff neck said it had not gone unnoticed. At long last they were pulled to their feet again by the priest’s wide-flung arms. It was a different prayer this time but that was about all he could tell.
“Brace yourself,” her ladyship muttered as the lightening atmosphere announced the end of the service. Frowning behind his veil, he peered around her shoulder to glimpse the two old ladies fast closing on them. “Just follow my lead,” she instructed under her breath. The approaching pair were delayed by the stately passage of the Family Grim.
He fussed nervously with his skirts.
“Hemlin, dear!” the foremost crowed, closing at a speedy shuffle. A plumed head whipped toward the shuffling companion. “See? I told you it was her.”
“Your eyes are better than mine, dear,” the hunched friend echoed, keeping pace.
“Farisa,” her ladyship greeted in pleasant tones. “Lomia. You look well.” She halted so her wide skirts effectively trapped and hid him in the aisle behind her.