by Neil McGarry
He grinned. “Boiled fish scales. Now pucker up.”
* * *
The door opened perhaps a half-bell later to admit the guildmaster, dressed in a shimmering purple and gold gown embroidered with tiny suns along the collar, sleeves and hem. In other circumstances Duchess would have felt tawdry in comparison, but not today. Lysander had worked magic. In the floor-length mirror her skin glowed, smooth and flawless, with just a hint of red along her cheekbones. He’d trimmed her freshly washed hair with a small pair of shears, then rubbed in oil until it shone. He had arranged her hair, too, piling it elaborately atop her head in loops and coils, leaving a strand to dangle seductively here and there. No jewelry – that was unheard of for a mere attendant, Lysander had insisted – but he had daubed her with a scent that smelled of apples and cinnamon, with just a hint of smoke.
And, of course, the dress Tremaine had created finished the look: a beauty of rich burgundy satin that was somehow form-fitting and relaxed all at once, showing off Duchess’s slender figure without appearing vulgar. The neckline was modest, but swirls of black lace cascaded down the bodice to the snug waist, emphasizing the swell of her breasts and the flat of her belly. The skirt was ankle-length, but a small slit in the back revealed her calves against an inner lining of rich black felt. The dress was shamelessly sleeveless, but accoutered by a waist-length capelet of the same color. Gazing at her reflection, she felt reborn.
Lysander had already left, taking his makeup and brushes with him, leaving her to face Tremaine alone. The guildmaster walked a circle around Duchess, eyeing her critically. “The heels are a bit lower than ideal,” she remarked, looking at Duchess’ shoes, “and I would have chosen a lighter shade of red for the blush. Otherwise, your...friend...has done an exceptional job. One would never know you were from the wrong side of the hill.” Duchess felt absurdly grateful for the praise. She had never thought it was possible for her to look beautiful. In her father’s house Marguerite had been the pretty one; in Noam’s bakery that title had been held by Jossalyn; on the street, Lysander. She’d been smart and clever and bold, but never pretty. She blinked back sudden tears, lest she spoil all of Lysander’s efforts.
Tremaine continued studying her for a long moment, and Duchess had the feeling the older woman sensed something of her thoughts. Then she nodded. “Come along, then.” Duchess followed Tremaine back to her private workroom, where Lynda waited. She stood in the doorway while they whispered together for a long moment. Last-minute preparations, she supposed. Then Lynda stepped past Duchess, flashing her an approving look as she passed.
The guildmaster inspected herself in a three-part mirror that reflected her image from several angles. Duchess was forced to admit that she looked stunning — clothing, hair, jewelry and makeup all coordinated to perfection. As Tremaine let one hand skip absently across her throat, touching in turn each of the necklaces that adorned her, Duchess took a chance. “You look very...elegant. In that gown, I mean.”
Tremaine raised an eyebrow, catching Duchess’ eye in the mirror. She turned, and her reflections turned with her, such that Duchess felt a trio of guildmasters had swiveled to catch sight of her. The older woman watched her for a long moment, then her mouth lowered into a frown. “Elegant?” She sniffed. “What does that even mean to you?”
Duchess suddenly wished she’d never even tried something as blandly kind as complimenting Tremaine. “I....that is...” She flashed suddenly on the casual cruelty Tremaine had shown Rebecca. The guildmaster demanded deference when she could and chafed when she could not. What would it cost Duchess to give it?
She lowered her head, keeping her eyes on Tremaine, her blush due only to makeup. “My apologies, guildmaster.”
Tremaine held her eyes, not moving. “I asked you a question.”
Clearly her punishment was not over. “I have no answer, guildmaster. It is simply the word that came to mind.” Duchess forced herself not to bite her lip.
Tremaine sniffed again, then turned back to the mirror, seemingly satisfied. “I suppose,” she said, returning to her preparations, “there is a certain utility in you understanding. You are playing the part of my assistant, and as such your behavior, good or ill, shall reflect upon me.” She paused, and Duchess said nothing, knowing better. Tremaine went on, as if speaking to herself. “Today I demand nothing less than perfection in both of us, but not without reason. We are dressing for war.” Tremaine held her eye in the mirror, daring her to laugh.
Duchess wanted to, but she stifled it before it began. “War?”
Tremaine nodded, most serious. “Men’s battles are fought plainly, with sword and shield, but you and I have no such luxury. Make no mistake: the Fall is one of the most vicious conflicts I am tasked to fight. Every word and every gesture will be remembered. Each one matters.”
Duchess nodded her understanding. She’d seen such warfare up-close at Baron Eusbius’ party. “And what do you expect of me?”
Tremaine’s frown returned. “Unsurprisingly, little. Silence and inaction will be your watchwords. Initiative might have led you here, but it will not serve you tonight.”
Duchess found herself returning the frown. “And what has this to do with elegance?”
Tremaine looked down at each of her wrists, then unclasped a bracelet from her right arm and placed it gently on a silk pillow which lay nearby. “Your mistake was linking your thought — elegance — to something as mundane as mere clothing.” She turned to Duchess once more. “Elegance has nothing to do with being well dressed. One can be elegant robed in sackcloth and string in the Shallows.” She walked towards the door, her shoes clicking against the wood of the floor. “You thought of elegance because I held it within me. You will see it tonight, as we walk among the savages this city calls nobility.” Duchess was forced to step out of the way as the guildmaster passed, graceful as a facet. “To be open is weakness, to stand apart is strength.” She paused at the door.
“And elegance?” Tremaine said at last, slipping past and into the hall. “Elegance is refusal.”
Following in her wake, Duchess could only shake her head. For all her talk of Anassa and prophecy and faith, it seemed that Ferroc had the right of it: Tremaine worshiped only one goddess, and she was not to be found anywhere upon the Godswalk.
* * *
If Duchess had not sneaked into Garden District the previous night, the sights would have left her stunned. As it was, she was merely very impressed. The many-colored stones of the street were much brighter in the light of day, as were the autumn flowers that bordered the lanes and nodded in urns and window boxes. The trees that by night were simply dark blots against the sky were now brilliant spreads of red and gold leaves, with some green here and there like the memory of spring. The estates of the most powerful noble houses were grand, some encompassing acres of land. According to rumor House Davari was so rich it had its own private hunting grounds. As they passed the estate Duchess craned her neck to see if the rumors were true, but even from her perch in the guildmaster’s carriage the walls were too high.
“Try not to look entirely like a low-district waif,” Gloria Tremaine said from beside her. The carriage, though richly appointed and comfortable, was not large, and they had to share a bench upholstered in soft red velvet.
Duchess turned away from the window. “I am a low-district waif,” she reminded, keeping her voice down so the driver would not overhear. Given that the streets of the district were filled with other, larger carriages, that seemed unlikely, but one could never be too careful.
Tremaine sniffed, reaching up to ensure her hair was in place. Duchess could not see a single unruly strand. “So I am continually reminded.” She glanced out the window, unimpressed by the beauty of Garden District. “For the life of me I can’t imagine why I got involved in this.”
“Ambition?”
“A fit of madness, more like. It can be hard to tell one from the other.”
The carriage turned on to a wide lane, flanked by great
circular columns, each at least five feet wide. Leaning out the window, Duchess saw that they were carved in the shape of mighty trees that rose up and up, far into the sky. Each tree sent out great stone branches that met over the road, creating a series of great arches, stained with time and weather. Their own carriage was but one in a long line, but the entire cavalcade seemed like children’s toys against this wonder of architecture.
“The Avenue of Trees,” Tremaine murmured, not bothering to look. Duchess remembered reading about this place in her father’s library, like the Ossuary one of the many structures the Domae had built and left behind. Duchess had never expected to see it up close, and she was awed at what those long-ago people had been able to create.
Yet their work had not survived unscathed. Several of the arches stopped short of meeting at the center, and some had no branches at all. She supposed that the secrets of building such things were lost with their makers. The Rodaasi had never reached the heights attained by their predecessors, and something about that made her sad. She looked back at the line of carriages behind them and saw she was not the only gawker. Servants and nobles alike craned their necks to take in the marvel of the Avenue.
The line slowed, and looking ahead Duchess saw a detachment of Whites searching each carriage before it was permitted through the great gate to the palace. Weapons, she knew, were not permitted in the presence of the empress unless worn by the Whites themselves, nor were uninvited guests. The men in pale armor were there to make certain that neither was in attendance. She felt a tightness in her chest even though Tremaine had assured her that she would be allowed to pass. “Each guildmaster is permitted an attendant,” she’d declared. “No matter who that attendant may be.” Tremaine had managed to make a simple word like who sound like an insult.
When their turn came, the Whites opened the carriage door and scanned the interior. Their faces were expressionless and their words polite enough, but Duchess knew that each would strike without hesitation if he felt the imperial person were in any way in danger. She tried to appear as if she were merely looking forward to the festivities, but a glance at Tremaine showed that the guildmaster appeared equally ill at ease. Again, she wished she had Castor by her side.
Finally they were waved through, and their carriage moved into the wide outer bailey of the palace, coming to a halt amidst a tangle of other carriages. Duchess opened the door and stepped down on the marble pavement, awkward in the snug dress. She saw that others were doing the same, more gracefully. Servants in House livery assisted ladies in gowns of gold, red, green, brown and every other color one could imagine. Duchess saw one woman, perhaps twice her age, wearing a gown of blood-red, patterned in flowers, the shoulders so padded she seemed almost like a giant from the stories. Gentlemen in jackets of silk brocade and cloth-of-gold followed shortly, wearing gloves so white they seemed to shine in the afternoon light. Lacy collars and cuffs frothed around their jackets, and satin breeches as smooth as water finished the outfits. Hats seemed everywhere one looked, from modest, narrow-brimmed caps to great wide, circular constructions of silk and samite.
No less splendid were the radiants, who seemed everywhere one looked. Their vestments of gold and yellow were like flames set amidst the extravagance, and they moved about as if they were themselves nobility. As their faith was in ascendance, their presumption went unremarked. She saw what she presumed was the High Lambent, surrounded with aristocratic admirers. A contingent of keepers was like a slash of black in the sea of color, and they seemed to keep mostly to themselves...except for their leader. First Keeper Jadis was like a cat in cream, chatting with this noble or flirting with that one, and he had no lack of listeners. Preceptor Amabilis was conspicuously absent, nor did she see any facets.
A hiss from behind reminded her of her station, and she turned to assist the guildmaster from the carriage, her exit accomplished with more grace than she herself had managed. While Tremaine adjusted her gown, Duchess stole the moment to scan the yard for familiar faces. If the Atropi were here Duchess did not see them, which was unsurprising given the size of the throng, growing ever larger as more noteworthies disembarked from their carriages.
“Let us get inside before it gets more crowded out here,” Tremaine said, barely moving her lips. “Bad enough that we must spend the evening talking to these people. I don’t fancy standing out in the yard with them.” She moved towards an enormous domed building, one of only two or three that made up the palace, at least as far as Duchess could see. She’d thought the castle would be more extensive, with keeps and outbuildings and other structures. She fell in behind the guildmaster and saw that they were not the only two in motion. A current had formed in the crowd, moving towards the dome and its great golden doors, standing open and flanked by a squad of Whites.
When they passed inside, Duchess saw why the dome was nearly alone in the palace. The dome contained the palace, rising up and up and up, impossibly high, and wide enough to shelter several buildings and a few towers. One could fit the entire market square inside the dome with room for the Gardens of Mayu and even the Merry Widow. She couldn’t imagine how such a thing had been built, nor what kept it from collapsing.
Shafts had been cut into the roof, admitting enough light that it was almost like being outside. The inside of the dome was covered with frescoes in gold and silver and onyx, depicting battles and weddings and scenes from tales she did not know. And each and every face was the dark of Domae, and not the pale of Rodaasi.
But pale were those that decorated the silken standards that they passed between, forming a path the crowd followed. Reading the names, she recognized them as the men and women of the imperial line. As they reached the end, she looked for Violana’s image until Tremaine leaned close and murmured, “You shall not find her. Only the dead are immortalized in art.”
Duchess found that disquieting, and said nothing in reply.
The courtyard enclosed by the dome was spacious, with steps leading to sections raised or lowered, urns full of tall green plants or autumn blossoms, and trickling water that ran through wide channels carved into the floor. Duchess was reminded fleetingly of the Sanctum, but of course this space was much larger and much more inviting. She would have liked to explore more extensively, but Tremaine was moving towards another set of doors, these also trimmed in gold. The entrance to the imperial chapel, where the mysteries of Ventaris would be held. Duchess had no choice but to follow.
Before the courtyard vanished behind them, Duchess suddenly realized why Tremaine’s comment had so disquieted her. The Domae had left their frescos on the ceiling, the imperial line its silken banners. What tribute, what image, had her father left behind?
And what would be her own?
Chapter Twenty-Six: An unexpected guest
“I thought that would be different,” Duchess murmured as she and Tremaine made their way back out to the domed courtyard.
“In what way?” The guildmaster moved through the crowd as if it were water, never seeming to jostle or elbow her way along. She acknowledged those she knew with a nod here and a word there. Duchess wished she were half so poised.
“It looked nothing like the mysteries I saw in Temple. The room wasn’t even round!”
Tremaine smiled thinly. “Temple devotions are about faith. What we do here is something quite apart.” Duchess blinked and Tremaine’s smile widened slightly. A joke from Gloria Tremaine — it was a day for miracles. “In any case,” Tremaine continued, “the chapel changes hands each time a cult rises to ascendance. Eight years ago it belonged to Anassa, and in another eight it might belong to Mayu.”
Following the crowd they descended a shallow stair, and soon entered another wide hall. The floor was patterned in red, yellow and gold, much like the vaulted ceiling. Tables, both round and rectangular, had been set out, each covered with a white tablecloth embroidered with the wheel of Ventaris and flanked by carved wooden chairs. Music drifted down from the gallery above: gentle strings, the piping of reco
rders, and the slow beat of a single drum. The air was filled with the smells of fresh-baked bread and roasting meats, and Duchess’ stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten that day, at first too hung over and then too nervous, but now her appetite awakened. She’d never thought to break bread in the imperial palace but she did not intend to pass up the chance.
Servants in imperial colors escorted the guests to their seats, and Tremaine, with Duchess in tow, was shown to a round table assigned to various guildmasters. Tremaine had told her what to expect, so she was not surprised to see a smaller chair set to the side and a bit behind Tremaine’s own. Like the nobles, each guildmaster was permitted one attendant, to fetch extra food or wine, or to run sundry errands. Duchess settled Tremaine in her seat, then took her own.
The table was nearly full by the time they arrived, and Duchess looked about at the other guildmasters who had been invited to the Fall. A great fat man in black and orange robes sat opposite, from the Council of Carters and Coachmen, she recalled from Tremaine’s description. The master of the Trusted Cartel of Bankers, Jewelers and Moneychangers was as narrow as his neighbor was wide. The Farmers’ Fellowship was represented by a blunt-faced, loud-voiced man with a common look, and the head of the League of Most Skilled Armorers, Smiths and Metalworkers was as quiet and soft-spoken as he was muscled. The guildmaster of the Innkeepers’ Alliance was the only other woman at the table, older than Tremaine, shorter but twice as wide, wearing a sumptuous gown of ivory samite trimmed in ermine.
From her seat behind the guildmasters, Duchess could more easily see her fellow attendants. From the work-worn appearance of their hands she judged them lowborn, either favored apprentices or the get of wealthy merchants whose parents’ influence merited their attendance at the Fall. She was relieved to note she recognized none of them, which meant none would recognize her. But then who would see the bread girl of the Shallows in the well-groomed and elaborately coiffed attendant to Guildmaster Tremaine? She could scarcely believe it herself.