With a satisfied smile, Bartok watched them go. He hopped down from the wagon and walked to where Nance was holding two horses.
“Did the tailor deliver the new clothes? The old captain's coat … ah, this old captain's coat needs some help.” Bartok examined the arm of the coat. “How long has this button been missing?” He poked his finger in the hole where one of the two buttons had been torn out.
“You’ve never had that button while you've worn the coat, sir.”
“Burn this coat when the new wardrobe arrives.”
“It’s come, sir,” Nance said. “The new clothing was delivered this morning. I think you will be pleased. The woman who took over the tailor shop has a fine eye for design. She captured just enough captain and just enough speaker.”
“Excellent.” Bartok mounted his horse. “I want to look the part at Ronzal's reception tonight. Have you found out who will be there?”
Nance mounted his horse. “The messengers informed me they carried invitations to the artists, all the other merchant family survivors, old craft families and the like.”
“So our schemes are underway,” Bartok said with a smile. “Our fortunes will rise, and I will be one of the privileged.”
They rode past Government Square where jugglers tossed flaming brands in intricate patterns to enthusiastic applause. All of the inns and restaurants around the square were open and doing a booming business. The sidewalks were full of smiling people. At last, the City seemed to have thrown off the Dead Wind.
“What of the scout, Nance? Will she be there?”
“I know there is an invitation for her, sir. We have been having a difficult time keeping track of her. She seems to be able to disappear at will.”
They rode into the speaker's yard and left their horses with the guard. Entering Bartok’s suite, they both went straight to a wooden rolling rack of clothing that was standing in the middle of the floor. Bartok sorted through the coats and jackets, nodding approval. He pulled a fawn-colored, square-cut, waist-length coat with matching trousers off the rack and held them up to his body.
He turned to the mirror and looked at himself. “I think this will do for tonight. Where are the shirts?”
“They are on the side table, sir.”
Bartok chose a pale blue silk shirt and went to change in the bath chamber. He returned clad in the new garments, to which he had added matching soft, ankle length boots.
“Very nice, sir. Elegant! Have you seen the hats? They are in the next room.”
Bartok walked into the sitting room to view the hats. He had not worn a hat since the fright he’d had with the old captain's hat. The memory jabbed him. The Troop had gotten used to seeing him hatless. But this array of hats was too tempting to pass up. He tried them each on, striking different poses while looking in the mirror. He settled on a beige felt with a wide and slightly curved brim and a high round crown, dented evenly down the center.
“Good choice, sir,” Nance said. He was holding a blue gray cape out for Bartok to place on his shoulders.
Bartok received the cape and spun to the mirror again. “Why, I look like Anaso the Trickster, Nance!” He spun back to Nance, his cape billowing. “Ha! There is no stopping me!”
Looking over Bartok's shoulder into the mirror, Nance commented, “Now that you say that, sir, you do bear a striking resemblance to the Trickster figure on the reading card.”
“See if you can find me a reading deck, Nance. I've never seen one.”
“That might be hard to come by here in the City. The women of the Blood Magic usually keep their reading decks close; they would not part with the reading deck easily. But I'll see what I can do, sir. Now, time to go. Your escort and carriage are waiting.”
“Thank you, Nance. Take the evening off. Enjoy yourself.”
Bartok took one last look in the mirror before going out to the carriage.
He saluted the escort and climbed into the leather interior of the coach. Soon they were passing into the valley between Scout Hill and Glass Hill, where, in the twilight, Bartok could see the large estates that dotted the landscape. As they passed the buildings, he looked closely to see if there were any that stood empty, unclaimed. He spotted two by the time they pulled up to Ronzal's gate. He would have Nance check.
Ronzal's estate was teeming with life. The iron-worked gate was open, and servants in black and gold livery were lighting hundreds of candles in fanciful glass globes, which lined the driveway, stood on the stone walls, and even hung from the trees. Every sill and balcony in the main house was decked with the colorful globes of light. Several had been placed on the roof. The effect was sparkling.
Bartok stepped from the carriage and was greeted by what looked two magical creatures. Standing before him were a man and a woman clad as butterflies, with glittering wings fluttering at their backs.
“Captain Bartok, welcome!” the young man bowed. “Please allow us to announce you.”
The young woman took his arm and together the three walked up the stairs and through the open doors to a marble-tiled entry. The young man stopped and struck a loud note on a brass gong hung just inside the doors and called in a loud voice, “Captain Bartok!”
The young woman smiled. “Ronzal welcomes you, Captain. Please go right through to the ballroom. You may find him there or in the garden.” She bowed, and the two butterflies then went out the doors. One of Ronzal’s liveried staff took Bartok’s hat and cape.
As Bartok walked through the archway, he scanned the people mingling about the room, looking for Jana. He didn’t see her, but he did see his host, talking with Cara Sagra. Ronzal looked at him and said something to the artist, who turned and nodded her head to Bartok.
Bartok was headed for them when Ronzal came forward to meet him. “Welcome, Captain Bartok,” the older man said; then noticing Bartok’s distinctly unmilitary attire, he added, “Or is it just Bartok this evening?”
“Just Bartok.” Grasping Ronzal’s offered hand, Bartok said, “The captain has the night off.”
Cara joined the two men. “Greetings, Bartok,” she said. “You’re looking less ragged than usual. In fact the cut of your suit is quite good.” She was wearing off-white pants with wide legs and an off-white square-cut strapless top in a light coarse material. A sliver of worked silver hung around her neck on a fine chain.
“Thank you, Cara.” Bartok bowed. “And I am happy to see you have something other than work clothing in your wardrobe. I must say I like this much better.”
“I can see you know one another,” Ronzal said, surprised at their bantering.
“Bartok and I have had some discussion concerning the memorial to the dead at the wharf,” Cara said to Ronzal.
He replied, “Bartok and I have some ongoing discussions. I wonder if you would allow me to talk to him in private for a moment?”
“Of course, my dear friend,” Cara said placing her hand on his arm. “I was about to go into the garden.” Smiling at Bartok, she then turned and walked away. He watched her go.
“Quite a woman,” Ronzal said.
“Yes,” Bartok said with a smile, “and she certainly has a mind of her own. What is it you’d like to discuss?”
“I wanted to let you know that the barge works is producing new barges.”
“That's wonderful,” Bartok said. “But it’s still too early for me to have arranged City funding.”
“Of course.” Ronzal nodded. “I understand. I don’t expect things to fall together so quickly. I wanted to start work; I really do need the barges. I expect City Bay trade to be booming before too long.”
“I am about to declare myself for speaker,” Bartok offered. “No one else has stepped forward. If elected, I intend to have the government offices opened as soon as possible. Once the confusion subsides, I'll be able to start the funding.” Bartok paused and remarked, “The Dead Wind seems to have changed our fortune to the better, Ronzal. Shall we blame it on the Trickster?”
“Sometimes the hand of
fate is hard to see,” Ronzal commented dryly. “Since the Dead Wind I'd swear new forces are about. But enough of that! Let’s go into the garden. I believe Michael and his musicians are preparing to play.”
At the first level of the stone patio people chatted and laughed in groups, many of them sitting at small tables. Beyond, there was an expanse of lawn, where a long white tent with black and gold piping held tables of food and drink. On a raised stone terrace, several musicians were setting up their instruments.
Michael, who was among them, called to Ronzal and Bartok, waving them over. “The Festival for the Living and the Dead is off to a fine start,” he said to Bartok. “We just played The Requiem for the Dead in Market Square, and the music was well received.”
“They cried!” said one of the musicians next to Michael.
“They laughed!” said another.
“They went wild!” chimed a third.
Michael pointed to a table near the bandstand and told them, “You both can sit with Cara at that table. We are going to play it again in a little while.”
“I look forward to hearing it,” Bartok said, going to stand beside Cara.
In a less celebrative mood, Jana sat with her back to a live oak whose top was shrouded with wisps of fog. Pulling the cloak around her bare shoulders, Jana felt uncomfortable with the fine clothing Cara had insisted she wear. She didn’t want to socialize. She was perfectly happy sitting right here, listening to the musicians setting up and testing their instruments.
Jana kept going over the vision of Big Red she’d had that morning. Big Red was standing with a sword raised to the sun when suddenly the blade caught fire and engulfed the scout until they—Big Red and her blade—glowed as one vibration. Then the vision faded and re-formed showing Big Red searching the Dead Wind campsite at Wind Point Plateau. That scene faded into a brief flash of Big Red in sword combat.
Jana pondered the vision. She was sure each part was a separate incident, but only the first seemed to have been actually taking place at the time she saw the vision. The other two were less substantial, as if they had not happened yet, or were long past. Jana tried to puzzle it through.
Hearing Bartok's voice, she peeked around the tree. The captain was standing next to Cara, watching the activity on the stage.
Jana stood and stretched, took a breath and opened herself to the One Wave. She then walked toward where Bartok and Cara were standing, consciously moving through the patterns that offered the least resistance and disturbance. Arriving unnoticed, she joined them.
Startled, Bartok turned and said, “Jana! Out of nowhere! You've done it again!”
Cara was delighted. “Greetings, Jana. You are just in time for The Requiem.”
“Greetings, Clara, Captain,” Jana said. “Sorry to startle you.”
“Just call me Bartok this evening. After all, we’re here to celebrate the festival.” He turned to Cara, “Have you noticed that this woman is impossible to see?”
“She always appears for music and food,” Cara said with a mischievous smile.
“I try never to miss either,” Jana said blandly, turning her eyes to the stage.
Ronzal had joined the musicians on stone platform. He instructed his guests, “Everyone please find a place to listen to Michael's piece of music, The Requiem to the Dead.”
Applause sounded. Michael waved them to silence and, taking a deep breath, he looked at each of the other musicians and then began to mark the beat with a nod of his head.
The music started with a soft drone from the string bass. After a moment, the hand drums began tapping a slow simple pattern, and Michael strummed his guitar through a minor chord progression. The musicians produced and held notes in harmony, the sounds of their instruments combining and coalescing into beauty and sadness. A muted three-valve horn carried the note higher, stretching the tone into a slight discordance. The listeners were caught in the magic of Michael's music.
For a time the music took on a merry ring, hinting popular melodies, but suddenly the drum pounded, the horn blared and the beat dropped to become a bowed drone on the string bass. Michael fingered a flurry of notes that convulsed across the music landscape, and the horn cried plaintively.
Jana could feel the waves of sorrow and despair carried on the music, and tears flowed from her eyes. And then she could hear the music evolve. The quick chaotic bursts were becoming longer. The music grew in strength. The feeling was one of hope, and it waxed full until the notes that had begun the piece had been transformed into joy, each musician coming to the final note from a different direction, ending together, leaving Jana again in tears, this time for joy.
The people broke into loud applause, standing and shouting their thanks for this gift. The musicians stood and bowed and waved, smiling broadly. People called for more, and they responded with a lively dance tune; the area soon filled with dancers.
Jana wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled at her companions. “That was truly wonderful!”
Cara nodded, and Ronzal said, “I have never been so moved by a piece of music. Michael is a marvelous composer.”
Bartok, looking a little shaken, drained his glass in salute, “Wonderful!”
Cara put her hand on Bartok's arm. “Would you care to dance, Bartok?”
Bartok looked confused for a moment, glanced at Jana, and said, “Why, yes, I'll give it a try,”
Jana frowned as she watched them going off to dance. She wondered why she cared. Bartok still did not feel right; he gave her a vague apprehension. He would definitely be an unsuitable lover. Cara was welcome to him.
“You are without refreshment,” Ronzal said. “Would you join me in a glass of wine?”
Jana nodded and took the red wine he handed her. “Thank you,” she said, raising her crystal glass in salute. She looked over at the dancers. Bartok and Cara were not in sight. Why was she looking for them? What was it she wanted?
Ronzal guessed at her distraction, saying, “Bartok seems good for the City.”
“Yes,” Jana could only agree. “He did a good job with the dead, and he has raised the hopes of the people. But your own efforts have not gone unnoticed. The actions you took in keeping the Market District open and your efforts in clearing the City of the dead are as important as anything Bartok has done. Thank you.”
“Some of that proved to be personally beneficial,” Ronzal pointed out.
“I don't think you were motivated entirely by profit,” Jana said. “There is no reason one can't gain from good works.”
The music stopped, and Michael and his company surrendered the stage to the musicians Ronzal had retained for the evening. “Thank you for being such a wonderful audience,” he said. “Our next group tell me they have some great music for you!” With a wave, he left the stone platform amid more cheering.
Jana stood and motioned to Michael through the crowd, and he walked over to them. “What did you think of The Requiem?” he asked her.
“That was the most wonderful music I have ever heard,” she said. “I had tears in my eyes from the very beginning.”
“I wove in healing melodies in the last movement.”
“Ah, I thought that might be so,” Ronzal said. “I, too, was brought to tears. I hope we will hear more of your compositions in the future.”
“Thank you, both,” Michael said. “I would like nothing better than to fill the City with music. But first a glass of your fine red wine!” He poured himself a glass from the decanter on the table.
He took a taste of the wine. “Ah, this is lovely. Where is Cara?”
“I saw her dancing with Bartok. But I haven't seen her since the music stopped.” Jana looked over the people waiting for the next band to start.
“I'm sure they can take care of themselves, Speaker Bartok and City Councilwoman Cara Sagra,” Ronzal said with a knowing smile.
Shocked, Jana exclaimed, “Cara is running for City Council?”
“The rumor is that the citizens of Glass Hill District ha
ve written her in as their choice though there is some question as to whether she will accept.”
Michael added, “Cara is still thinking about being on the council but she is afraid the duty will take too much time away from her art and a chance at rebuilding some of the City.”
“Well, election day is not far off.” Ronzal looked at Michael and Jana. “I have ordered the meal to be served; I would be honored if you both would dine with me in my private rooms.”
Michael looked at Jana. She nodded to Ronzal. “Dining with you would be our pleasure.”
Ronzal led them to a private suite off the main dining hall. The curtains were drawn, hiding the garden and the dancers. The music was muffled but Jana could make out the melody if she focused.
A buffet was laid on a long table draped in pearl white linen. Ronzal handed her a bone china plate rimmed in gold, along with silver dinnerware wrapped in a linen napkin. Ronzal pointed out items of special interest among the many beautifully prepared dishes. Jana wanted to try them all, but there were far too many. She chose small amounts of many things until her plate was modestly full.
They sat on couches near small ornate dining tables. The three ate in silence. Jana savored every bite. Somehow, since the Dead Wind, food and drink tasted better, as if her tongue might be more sensitive to the subtleties of flavor.
Ronzal refilled their wine glasses. “Thank you for sharing this meal with me.”
Michael raised his glass. “I thank you for the best meal I have ever had!”
“The cooks have made plenty. Please, help yourself to more food.”
Jana raised her glass. “I concur with Michael, thank you!” She sipped her wine. “I am happy to have met you at last. Tell me what do you think of the state of the City?”
Ronzal sat back down. “If the present attitude and level of general tolerance is maintained, which I believe is likely, we are in for a time of prosperity.”
Jana nodded. “Yes, the people responded with spirit. What have you heard from Bottom?”
The Dead Wind Page 13