A Brother's Price

by Wen Spencer

  Barnes looked surprised. “The bellpull. You pull on this, and it rings one of the bells down in the kitchens to let us know you want something.”

  “Really?” Summer exclaimed. “How does it do that?”

  “There are cables on small pulleys run through the walls, going down to a rack of numbered bells. You pull here, and your bell in the kitchen rings. If you want anything, just ring.”

  Jerin nodded, wondering what “anything” constituted. With a tub, towels, and chamber pot at hand, he could not guess what more they could want.

  “The Queens keep country hours, so dressing gong is at six and dinner gong is at seven,” Barnes continued.

  “Dressing gong?” Jerin asked.

  Again the startled look from Barnes. “It's like a bell sound, deep and not so sweet. Brassy, one could say, kind of like hitting a slipper against a big kettle lid.”

  “What's it for?” Jerin pressed on.

  “So you know it's time to dress for dinner,” Barnes said.

  “You expect us to take that long to bathe?” Summer half laughed, nervous that things were vastly different with the nobility.

  Barnes worked her mouth, considering words carefully before saying, “Dress in one's dinner clothes as opposed to one's daily wear.”

  That stunned all the Whistlers speechless.

  “Will that be all?” Barnes asked after a moment.

  “Yes,” Eldest murmured finally. “Thank you.”

  Barnes backed out of the room, apparently a habit from serving royalty, and closed the door. The Whistlers stared at the shut door in silence.

  “Dinner clothes.” Eldest crossed to bar the door. “They have clothes just for eating?”

  “Apparently,” Corelle said.

  “Daily clothes. Dinner clothes. Party clothes.” Eldest counted on her fingers, squinting. “I think we should have asked for the reward in money and stayed home. We could have bought the store and a husband for the cost of these clothes.”

  “A good husband is worth it,” Summer murmured. “Besides, we can resell the clothes in our new store later for at least half their cost.”

  Jerin glanced at his wedding chest, thinking of the clothes within. What would he wear for dinner?

  “We've got an hour before the tailors come,” Eldest said. “Let's hurry with the baths.”

  The tailors were a family of at least seven women, with a goodly chance of many more not in attendance.

  The eldest was a small, bird-boned woman with sharp features and a bright chirpy voice. Her salt-and-pepper hair was twirled up into a bun by way of a charcoal pencil, joined by a hemming guide and a pattern roller. A flock of younger sisters followed in her wake, carrying colorful ribbons and swatches of fabric. It was obvious by the way they migrated about the room, emitting pleased twitters over the rich appointments, that it was the first time the younger sisters visited the palace.

  “My, my, my, what a pretty little brother you have here.” The eldest tailor circled Jerin. “Certainly makes my job more pleasant. Nothing is worse than trying to make an ugly toad of a boy into something someone would want in their bed.”

  “Someone bedded their mothers,” Eldest said.

  “Fathers are bought, not mothers.” The tailor grinned at her own wit. “I'll enjoy making this one radiant. I could even use him to set the next rage.”

  “Rage?” Eldest asked.

  “The most popular fashion at the moment,” the tailor explained. “They're started by the powerful or the beautiful. The rage this season is to dress the family in a theme, say a dark blue silk.” She snapped her fingers. One of the younger sisters thumbed through her stack of fabric swatches to select out several shimmering blues. “A shirt for the boy, a vest for the Eldest, trousers for the Mother Elder—that sort of thing. In a glance, you can see who belongs to who.”

  “If this season is just starting,” Summer asked, “how do you know what is the rage?”

  A chorus of twittering laughter broke out from the flock of younger tailors, silenced by a look from their eldest. “Oh, orders for clothes start as early as the end of last season.” She took the blue silks, and examined each carefully in turn. “Normally a rage starts the last week or so of a season and hits full force at the beginning weeks of the next season. The ladies of Avonar started the family-theme rage the last season while courting for a husband, and one could not have asked for a better starter of a rage. Powerful and beautiful in one package.”

  “You recommend a blue?” Eldest asked.

  “This one would be perfect.” The tailor held a swatch of cobalt-blue silk stamped with a shimmering design to Jerin's chest. The intimate touch of a complete stranger made him blush, especially with so many people watching. “To bring out his eyes, not that they don't jump out and grab you already. Landed gentry you might be, but I think you'll find no end to offers.”

  Eldest also seemed bothered by the tailor's encroachment. She rested a hand on Jerin's back. Jerin more felt than saw the gaze his older sister directed over his shoulder at the tailor.

  Summer drifted closer. “Are there ever brothers stolen?”

  “Oh, yes.” The tailor backed off unhurriedly, perhaps well used to possessive sisters. “Not out from under the Queens' eyes, I would think, but a number of boys are snatched each season. Oh, it's not the peers you have to watch; they aren't the desperate ones. It's those poor of resources: street vendors, house guards, maids—”

  “Tailors,” Summer added to the list.

  The tailor laughed, unembarrassed. “Yes, there was at least one case of such.” She sobered then, and looked levelly at Eldest. “Some boys end up in a crib, whored out to father children for the desperate. Disease runs rampant in those houses; there's a reason the gods forbid us from sharing our husband with the less fortunate. Even if you find the boy and free him, most families won't run the risk of a disease taking out wives and children in the future. Guard this little sweetie well.”

  “We always have.” Eldest glowered at the tailor.

  “Well—” the tailor turned away—“there is much to do, so let us start. It will take several days to prepare a wardrobe for your family: until then, you will need something suitable. Princess Odelia advised us on your build, and we've brought some clothes that should fit with some alterations. The peers of the realm—” She shook her head. “They order clothes and then change their mind, usually after they see the bill. Funny thing is, money is never the reason for them. No, no, the color is wrong, or the cut, or the fit; they're always too proud to say they cannot afford our clothes.”

  Raven waited for Ren at the palace stable.

  Ren swung down off her horse, and threw her reins to her groom as a grin bloomed on her face. He's here! Jerin's finally here!

  “I wish I could believe that smile was for me.” Raven nodded in greeting to Ren.

  “I'm glad to see you too.” Ren swatted at Raven. “How is he?”

  “He's fine. The trip went well. No attempted kidnappings and only one offer to stud him out—which was politely but firmly refused. You might be interested to know that they're planning to hold out for four thousand crowns.”

  Ren paused. “They know we're going to offer?”

  “Actually, I don't think they have a clue. Sometimes they're refreshingly naïve about the whole thing. They reason if they can get two thousand out of landed gentry, they should be able to get four thousand out of nobility.”

  Ren shrugged, said, “Not unreasonable,” and headed for the palace in long strides. The city clocks had rung five o'clock during her ride up—she had missed the dressing gong, and dinner would be soon. “I'm willing to pay four thousand. He's worth it.”

  “More the point of their plan,” Raven said, falling in step with her, “is that it lets them afford a husband of good breeding, and the mercantile at Heron Landing.”

  “The one run by those tiny old ladies? What was the name? Picker?”

  “The same.”

  Ren started to
strip off her sweat-stained clothes as soon as she entered her bedroom. Raven leaned against the mantel, looking entirely pleased with herself.

  “So what do you think of him,” Ren asked, “now that you've had a chance to spend time with him?”

  It was Raven's turn to shrug. “Keep in mind that I have known only three men in my life. Your father, Keifer, and your cousin Cullen.”

  Interesting, she doesn't consider Keifer as my husband, Ren thought, washing off dirt and sweat.

  “Of the three,” Raven continued, “I would say Jerin is most like your father, but only in the way apples are like oranges.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Raven looked annoyed at her own analogy. “Forget I said that.”

  “Tell me.” Ren toweled dry. A middle Barnes sister had laid out her dinner clothes, knowing Ren liked privacy for discussing matters with Raven before dinner.

  “Jerin is stronger of character than your father. I don't think Jerin would have let Keifer rule the roost like your father did. He certainly wouldn't have let what happened to Trini occur in the next bedroom.”

  Ren froze in the act of reaching for her shirt. “Don't say that.”

  “Keifer was poison for your family. Worse yet, Eldest and the others took it willingly. No one would put their foot down, so he got away with everything.”

  Ren forced herself to continue dressing, her fingers suddenly seeming too thick to deal with the buttons. “True, but that's over; Keifer is dead, and Jerin's nothing like him.”

  Raven considered, her eyes distant. “The more time I spend with Mr. Whistler, the more I like him,” she finally admitted. “I think he's a good man, but I could be wrong. I've only known three men in my life, Ren, and only one of them was a responsible, reasonable human being. If I am wrong, Jerin could be far more dangerous than Keifer.”

  “Meaning?” Ren tried not to let panic in. It was her captain's job to be paranoid, to seek danger where it might not be found.

  Raven reached into her coat and took out a small pistol that she sat on the mantel beside her. A long slim knife joined the pistol. “Keifer was never this well armed, and certainly never trained by thieves, spies, and assassins.”

  Ren sighed, thinking not of how dangerous Jerin might be, but of how her mothers would react to such news. “Does anyone else know he was armed?”

  “Barnes.”

  Which meant her mothers knew. She cursed softly. “Have any of my mothers met the Whistlers yet, or will dinner be their first exposure to them?”

  “Queen Mother Elder gave them a private audience. She wanted to appraise their social skills—to see if tutors would need to be hired prior to them meeting polite society. I'm told it went well. Your sisters-in-law dine with the family tonight, as will the Whistlers.”

  Out with the old and in with the new.

  Ren pulled on fresh boots as she considered how to put a positive face on the situation. Nothing came to mind until she went to comb her hair in the mirror. “Raven, drop a tale into Barnes's ear. Tell her about finding Egan Wainwright raped and killed. Stress the fact that the Whistlers witnessed it all, knowing that Jerin had been alone less than a mile from these rapist killers.”

  “And you'll tell the same to your mothers?”

  “Not at dinner, but as soon as I can.”

  The dinner gong sounded, muffled by the floors between it and them. Ren shrugged into her dinner coat, realizing belatedly she had spent the entire briefing on Jerin without a word said about the cannons.

  “Did you learn anything about the thieves?” Ren asked as Raven followed her out into the hall.

  “Not yet, but Jerin gave me an interesting idea. So far the thieves have killed everyone that might be witness to them, including that cruelty to Egan Wainwright. I have my staff checking to see if any ship on our list recently had part or all of its crew killed off. I should have a report by tomorrow.”

  “Jerin?”

  “He's a man of surprising intelligence.”

  A Barnes sister directed Ren to the blue salon, where she found her in-laws, the ladies of Avonar, and her mothers gathered. Her youngest sisters still hadn't graduated to formal dining parties. Odelia was late, as usual. Trini was absent and sent a sketchy apology, complaining of a migraine; truth was, she refused to deal with their in-laws. Lylia, Ren was informed, had gone to escort their cousins, the Moorlands, upriver. The Whistlers were the only ones unaccounted for.

  Ren poured herself a brandy and then sought Barnes out.

  “The tailors only finished altering the premade clothes a short while ago,” Barnes said in reply to her questioning. “A youngest sister will be guiding them down as soon as they are dressed.”

  As Barnes bowed off, Kij Porter drifted to Ren's side. “Did I hear Barnes mention newly arrived palace houseguests? Who rates that special honor? Your cousins?”

  Ren covered her wince by taking a sip of her brandy; the Porters were not the ones she would have chosen as first contact for Jerin's family. As close a friend as Kij was, “pompous ass” still defined the Porter family as a whole. Families of old blood tended to be that way, due, perhaps, to inbreeding. She suspected that the Porters were among the worst because, along with their name, thev retained the taint of common blood. “The Whistlers. They're the ones that saved Odelia from drowning upland. My mothers are sponsoring their brother this season.”

  Kij made the polite noise of understanding. “A charity case?”

  I'm going to marry him. Ren restrained the impulse to say it aloud: she didn't want Jerin hurt if she couldn't clear all the hurdles between them. She nodded slightly, giving a tight smile over the rim of her glass.

  “How very kind of your—” Kij paused, her eyes focusing over Ren's shoulder. “Well, I see that the task will not be an odious one.”

  Jerin! Ren turned, locking down on a smile that wanted to blaze across her face. At the sight of him, only that control kept her jaw from clicking open. They had swathed him in layers of silk: a short-sleeved under-tunic of deep blue that showed off his tanned, muscular forearms; fashionably snug britches of the same shade; and a richly embroidered waistcoat that came to mid-thigh to make the britches more modest, and yet accentuated his wide shoulders. His silken raven hair was gathered into graceful falls and small loose braids woven through with ribbons.

  His sisters wore deep blue, high-collared silk shirts, and black silk dining jackets and slacks. Clean, carefully groomed, and formally dressed, the women were nearly as striking as Jerin. Eldest Whistler led, Jerin on her arm, the younger sisters trailing behind in flanking positions. The Whistler family entered the room with the feral grace of hunting wolves.

  “They don't look like farmers to me,” Kij murmured as Eldest correctly approached Queen Mother Elder first to pay respects.

  “Their grandmothers were knights,” Ren told her simply. The less said about what else the Whistlers' grandmothers had been, the better. “The title reverted after their deaths, of course, but the family remains gentry.”

  “Just barely,” Kij murmured. “Too bad—he's quite pretty. I'm sure someone who doesn't mind adding a little common stock into the line will be quick to snap him up.”

  Pompous ass.

  Ren knew that the Whistlers had never been before royalty, and doubted that they had ever been to a formal dinner, yet she watched with awe as they greeted each of her mothers with regal calm. After bowing to Ren's youngest mother, Milain, the Whistler party turned, and Jerin saw her for the first time. His smile was warm, shy—and stunning as a blow from a giant mallet.

  Kij drifted off, no doubt to warn her sisters that the pretty stranger wasn't up to the Porter level of breeding. Ren crossed to the Whistlers. Her mothers, bless them all, hung back so she had their visitors to herself.

  “Whistler.” She nodded to Eldest. There was a dark look that wasn't there before. Drat, they know what I did with their little brother!

  With that in mind, she cooled her greeting to Jerin to all that
was proper. It was almost maddening, though, to be so close as to feel the heat of his body, be able to catch his light scent, and yet be unable to touch him.

  She scrambled to find a neutral subject to talk about, finally settling on, “I hope you had a good trip.”

  “Uneventful, which is always good,” Eldest said.

  Queen Mother Elder called for attention. “Our esteemed daughters-in-law, ladies of Avonar, welcome again to our dinner table. May we introduce you to our guests in our home this summer, the family Whistler.”

  As her Mother Elder named members of each family, Ren wondered if this was in some way a subtle cut on her mothers' part. The Porters had been almost shameless in their pursuit of a royal marriage, making sure Keifer was always in Princess Eldest's eye, and allowing Eldest to take discreet liberties with their brother. The Porters succeeded in their campaign, and reaped the rewards of being in-laws to the crown, but Keifer had been a bitter disappointment. If Ren had her way, the Porters would soon lose their coveted position.

  Queen Mother Elder had finished explaining the Whistlers' tie to Prince Alannon and his royal bloodline when Odelia appeared in the doorway. She smiled brilliantly at Jerin and hurried to his side.

  “Whistler.” Odelia gave a quick nod to Eldest, and then she caught Jerin's free hand in hers. “Jerin! It's good to see you here!”

  “You look well.” Jerin reached out to brush back Odelia's bangs, away from where she had been struck. “Hardly a scar. No one could ever tell.”

  “Thanks to you.” Odelia beamed, looking more radiant than Ren had ever seen her. “Come, they're sitting for dinner.” She swept him away without a glance at his sisters. “I'm sure no one will mind if you sit beside me.”

  As Ren gazed after Odelia in stunned amazement, Corelle whispered overloud to her sister, “I don't know, Eldest—I think we better find some mighty big sticks, and soon.”

  “Yup,” Eldest Whistler murmured low enough so only Ren and her sisters could hear, and made a motion with her hand. The younger Whistlers nodded to their Eldest and hurried after Odelia and Jerin. Corelle cut off a middle Porter sister to claim the chair beside Jerin, and Summer flanked Odelia.