Broken Shadow

by Jaine Fenn

  She considered sitting down under a tree, just for a while.

  As she wandered over to a tree with soft-looking silver-grey moss spilling down its trunk, something twitched deep inside her, a tiny spasm. She stopped dead. The child. It just moved. It was really there, inside her.

  She blinked. What was I about to do?

  Lie down and give in. Probably never get up.

  She turned away from the mossy trap and carried on, swinging her arms and humming to block out the hand-tree’s song.

  She half expected something to drop down from above, or spring out from behind a trunk, but the predatory forest didn’t actively pursue her. It had given her the option of soft oblivion and she’d turned it down.

  Light ahead. The end of the forest. She upped her pace. When she emerged she paused and looked down at her gently rounded belly.

  This unexpected thing inside her was real. And it hadn’t had a chance at life yet. It was her responsibility. Just hers. Etyan had no idea it even existed. This child, this person, growing in her was, save the coincidence of its conception, nothing to do with the boy she’d once loved. Still loved, perhaps, given the way thoughts of him kept intruding at odd moments.

  She realised something else. She no longer felt empty.

  While she was busy just surviving, something – someone – had filled the void in her.

  CHAPTER 32

  On the morning of the Grand Council, Kerne collapsed.

  Work on the celestial model was not going well: the world rotated when the handle was turned, at the same time travelling in its grooved hoop around the lamp representing the Sun. But the Maiden kept sticking, and had to be moved by hand. Rhia doubted it would be in a usable state in time for the trial. Kerne had come back after three days of illness still looking terrible, and while bent over the model this morning, he had groaned, tipped forward, and passed out.

  She had fetched Markave, whose usual calm was challenged by a crisis involving his own flesh and blood, and they put the boy in the guest bedroom. She sent Brynan for a doctor, but he was still out when she had to leave for the palace.

  She had served as House Harlyn’s sole representative at the Grand Council between Father’s death and Etyan reaching nominal adulthood. At least Etyan was with her today. And sober. The only other time he had attended Council, the year after he reached his majority, he had still been drunk from a party the night before, and had fallen asleep. He had not been happy at coming today, but had acknowledged the necessity. And he had not touched alcohol since his return; when she had voiced her approval for this he shook his head and said, “If I start drinking now I might never stop.”

  The heads of the noble Houses filed into the Council hall and up to the steeply raked seats around the registrar’s desk. They entered in current order of precedence, something which changed from year to year. House Harlyn came near the back of the fifteen Houses major. She and Etyan took their seats on the padded bench with the Harlyn crest carved into the backrest: a stylised design of a feather, a passionflower and two heads of wheat.

  They had their grandfather to thank for the status and wealth they enjoyed. A stern, quiet man who died while Rhia was still a child, he had built up the Harlyn holdings, invested the financial gains well and married Francin’s great aunt. The role of Observer of Shen had been taken by his more cerebral younger brother.

  Everyone stood until the hall was full, with the permitted observers – mainly younger House scions watching the process they would one day participate in – arriving last to fill the upper galleries. The pause gave Rhia a chance to look around; she made herself nod at the other counts and earls and smile above their heads at nearby viscounts and baronets of minor Houses. Few acknowledged her courtesy, but it did no harm to try. As usual, she was the only woman present.

  Finally the registrar held out his arms in a gesture of welcome. “It is the time of Between, when the business that changes our world is done.” He delivered the Grand Council’s ritual opening with the self-importance of a cardinal imparting the will of the First. She had no idea of the young man’s name: he was a carefully chosen nobody with no Church or guild affiliation, selected and trained as an impartial arbiter. Her fellow nobles sometimes called him the Duke’s Bastard, referring to the fact that his loyalty, like that of the archivist who recorded their deliberations, was not to the noble Houses but to the State itself; given Francin’s lifestyle, and this particular registrar’s youth, it might even be literally true. At least the third pillar of Shen society, the Church, had no presence here.

  “Be seated, my lords.”

  Everyone sat, with the rustle of robes and the odd harrumph or creak of old joints.

  The registrar consulted with the archivist. “Item one: the import rights on Xuini spices, previously held by House Lariend, are now to be the business of House Vestine…”

  The first section of the agenda was the formalisation of deals and agreements negotiated during dinners, soirees and private meetings over the past year and finalised during Between. They started with matters affecting other shadowlands; Father had said this gave the Houses a feeling of their own importance. With nothing at this stage to concern her House, Rhia and Etyan simply raised their hands to show agreement, or abstained, as appropriate. Most of House Harlyn’s wealth was in its physical holdings – it was one of the top five landowners in Shen – so they had little interest in external trade.

  As discussions moved on to more local concerns she wondered if Brynan had found a doctor for Kerne yet. Hopefully it was just exhaustion, although if so the fault was hers. But her apprentice could rest when the model was done. In fact, she may as well just give him indefinite leave once the trial started. The phrase “once the trial started” clouded her mind but she made herself see past it to a future when, vindicated and free of other worries, she could take time to tutor her apprentice at her leisure.

  “…sale of House Callorn’s umbral holdings by a sealed auction…”

  Her attention snapped back to the room. The agenda listed each of the many items for discussion as a single, sometimes cryptic, sentence and this one had piqued her interest. Only major Houses could own umbral plantations, given the riches ironwood brought – though perhaps the red valley would change that – so if House Callorn gave up all their forests in the umbral they were opening themselves up to a reduction in status.

  But the registrar stressed that they would retain the nominal amount of forest “all Houses major know as their right and badge”. Given her previous dealings with them Rhia found herself guiltily relieved that House Callorn was not about to fall.

  Two more items were ratified: a new weaving co-operative being set up by four minor Houses, and the annual distribution of shares from the coinback farms; the State owned the means to produce the coinage, but the nobles still benefitted.

  Then the registrar handed his pen to the archivist, and was given a new quill; more ritual. He spoke the words that, when she attended as an observer, had heralded the more interesting part of the day but which Rhia now dreaded. “So we conclude the business that passes into history. Let the new matters to be raised now be spoken of.”

  House Harlyn was the first item. “We begin with the petition by, ah,” he consulted his notes, “Houses Ghistan, Minvar and Krathlain, that House Harlyn no longer meets the requirements of a House major. All involved may speak freely.”

  Rhia stood, along with the two viscounts and one baronet who had brought the motion. The three minor Houses had no doubt been persuaded to put forward this preposterous idea by a major House. Rhia looked across at the three minor nobles, cleared her throat and said, as loudly as she could manage, “I would be interested to hear your reasoning, my lords.”

  Viscount Minvar, a pale man with a prominent nose, spoke up. “House Harlyn takes little or no interest in the affairs of Shen at large. The bloodline is reduced to two persons, and the management of House assets is left entirely to servants. We contend that this House doe
s not merit the status it currently enjoys as a House major.”

  Rhia made herself nod to acknowledge his points, then responded. “It is true we have not been as active as we might be, for some years. But those assets of ours you refer to remain extensive, and well-managed, albeit not by members of the nobility.” Surely they all knew this ploy for the farce it was: the opening move in a longer game, an initial attempt to plant doubts about House Harlyn’s future, no doubt timed to coincide with her upcoming trial. “Also, despite any unrelated crises I would like to assure my fellow nobles that we will continue to discharge all of our duties and participate in courtly life as required.”

  “May I speak?”

  Rhia’s head whipped round, to where a noble at her level was standing.

  “We recognise Count Escar,” said the registrar.

  No surprise there. He was probably behind this.

  “The countess talks of ‘we’ and ‘ours’, but I hear only one voice. Has the Count lost his power of speech, as well as his looks and manners?”

  “How dare–”

  Fortunately Etyan’s outburst was lost in the wave of titters that went round the room at Escar’s observation. Rhia put a hand on her brother’s shoulder, then turned to him and whispered, “Remember where we are!”

  He nodded, and stood. The registrar said, “We recognise Count Harlyn.”

  “My sister speaks for the House, and for me.” His voice shook, and probably barely reached across the room.

  Count Escar raised an eyebrow. “So long as we have sorted that out.” More smiles greeted his observation.

  Still standing, and with her hand on Etyan’s arm, Rhia said, “If no one has any substantial and logical objections to my House’s continued existence, may I suggest we move onto matters of actual relevance and import.”

  The registrar nodded. “Agreed. The discussion is noted.” Meaning, nothing would come of it. Yet.

  Rhia sat down and exhaled. Beside her, she felt Etyan trembling as he sat. She swallowed against a dry throat. She should have brought a drink.

  More contentious items followed: an accusation of tax fraud from one minor House, brought by another, and the announcement that a business partnership between Houses Blaven and Relnarorn would be dissolved, with negotiation of terms to follow.

  And then, “Next item: House Harlyn wishes to discuss possible marriage proposals.”

  Which was all it said in the agenda. The majors would know about this; Francin had, sometimes through intermediaries, sounded out every one of them, but even House Callorn had not shown any interest. Hence putting forward this motion, even though such business was usually conducted in private and only announced once concluded.

  She stood, knees locked, awaiting leave to speak, then when the registrar nodded to her, said, “As some of you know, I am willing to renounce my unmarried status for the right match. My House has made overtures to the major Houses, but I now open up negotiations to any noble House, major or minor, provided that–”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Rhia looked round as her brother stood. Without waiting for permission he said again, “I’ll do it.” Rhia stared at him. Every time she had raised the subject of marriage he had deflected it. “I’ll get married to save my House. I’ll consider any offer.”

  The hall erupted. People jumped to their feet. The registrar called for order then, when he was ignored, resorted to picking up the short wooden staff of his office and rapping it sharply on the desk in front of him. “Silence, please, my lords!”

  The noise quietened, but did not cease; mutters, gasps and the odd incredulous oath still came from round the hall. A handful of nobles remained standing. A little breathlessly the registrar said, “We recognise Counts Lariend, Phisten, Athlyn and Escar. Gentlemen, please keep your heads.”

  Umren Escar spoke up. “What in the name of the First and Last makes you think anyone will have you, boy?”

  The laughter swelled.

  “We don’t even know what you are. No wait–” He held up a hand as Rhia opened her mouth, though she was not sure what she was going to say, other than telling him to shut up. “Actually we do know what he is.” The count stared right at Etyan. “We know exactly what you are, even if no one will say it to your face.”

  She heard the muttered slur then, whispers and murmurs with no one source. A cowardly consensus coming from all around: Rapist.

  Beside her Etyan gave a single sob, then turned and fled. She watched him go, the vile mutters filling her ears. She wanted to call him back but her voice had frozen in her throat.

  He reached the door. For a moment she nearly broke and ran after him. But to leave the Grand Council now, like this… She may as well hand the case for the dissolution of her House to Count Escar.

  When she turned back Earl Lariend was poised to speak. He waited for the mutters to die down then raised his eyes briefly but theatrically heavenwards as though beseeching the First to give him patience, before fixing his gaze back on his fellow lords and declaring, “My noble friends, we have endured the laughable eccentricities and thoughtless arrogance of House Harlyn for too long. We have put up with one of Shen’s respected Houses being run by a half-deranged and, it turns out, godless woman in the name of a worse-than-useless boy. No one will have her, this disgrace to her gender who is unable to accept the rightful rule of a man. And no one will have him, diseased by his contact with the skyland and with common whores, and a ravisher of innocent girls.”

  By the time the wretched man reached the end of his tirade Rhia had got enough control to speak. “Have you quite finished?”

  “I think the consensus response to this ridiculous request has been made clear.”

  “Perfectly. However, we have broken no statute, and if my House’s continued presence offends any of you then I am afraid that is not my problem. Whatever the future holds for us is… not yet known.” She should perhaps say “is in the hands of the First”, but the hypocrisy would have burned. She concluded, “One thing I do know, and you should know: while I still have breath in my body, House Harlyn will endure.” She half sat, half collapsed onto the bench.

  The registrar, looking shaken, said, “The record will show that no House chose to take up the offer of marriage made by House Harlyn. We may now move on.”

  Rhia stared at the empty doorway and concentrated on breathing. Damn corset. Damn nobles. Damn Etyan.

  The rest of the session passed in a daze. But not fast enough. As soon as the ritual closing had been spoken she began to push past the nearest nobles; technically they should leave in precedence order, but now duty had been discharged she had to get out. Beyond offended mutters at her rudeness, no one tried to stop her. Which was good, as if they had she might have hit them.

  She took the fastest route out of the palace, half hoping she would run into Francin, half dreading it. But he was not around; she had hardly seen him since her visit to Alharet last month. A cluster of carriages and sedan chairs waited outside but she was interested in speed, not status. She picked up her skirts and ran down the hill, bursting into the townhouse. Brynan waited in the hall, wearing the whipped-dog expression that meant bad news. “I’m sorry m’lady. He’s gone.”

  Her fears were realised. She leant forward, trying to catch her breath against the constraints of her formal dress.

  Brynan continued, “He had me order a carriage, and as soon as he carriage arrived he left.”

  “Where… Did he say where he’s going?”

  “He said to tell you, ‘I’ll be at the villa. I’m so sorry. I just can’t stay here.’”

  He had a head start, and was in a carriage. But she could still go after him. The Church had said she wasn’t to leave the city, but they could not have foreseen this. But nor would they care about it. She straightened. Yet again, her brother had run. And this time, she had to let him go.

  “Thank you Brynan.” She needed to get out of these stupid clothes, get into her study, carry on working… “Did you f
ind a doctor for Kerne?”

  Brynan’s face fell further. “Eventually m’lady. He was very busy.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve made the boy as comfortable as we can. His father’s with him, I hope that’s all right…”

  “What is wrong with him? Does he need medicine? Markave knows he can spend whatever he wants.”

  “The doctor says there’s nothing to be done.”

  “Why not?” But she knew the truth even before Brynan spoke.

  “Because it’s the rain-fever.”

  CHAPTER 33

  “Your dodgy friend called round.”

  Sorne looked up from his dinner to see Sharrey wearing an expression of open disapproval; she looked like that a lot these days. “Which one?” he said evenly.

  “Yes, there seems to be more every day, don’t there?” She cringed once she’d spoken, just in case he lashed out.

  Not that he would. But he hated the groove they’d worn themselves over the last couple of months. The way she dared him to lose his temper with her. The way he refused to, then got annoyed at being goaded, and almost did. But not quite. Never quite crossing the line. “You want me to contribute to the household, don’t you?”

  With both the duke’s money and Jemulf and Breta long gone, he’d taken on work that appalled the militia captain in him. Door duty at an illegal gambling den. Acting as strongarm for a protection scam. Beating up a man who’d annoyed another man. The jobs came through those he’d taught, or old friends of Jemulf’s, or word of mouth. Mirror might be a pretty law-abiding city but out here on the strangers’ isle there was still work for a man who could inflict selective damage and stay quiet. He hated it. But he had to live. And he had to live here, with this miserable, damaged woman. Even if he could’ve afforded a guesthouse he’d have nowhere secure to store his stuff.

  He’d spent the money from his second job on a lockable box. The first job, standing guard at a meeting between two minor criminals, had earnt just enough to buy a dried twist of what the trader assured him was becen-root. The medicine hadn’t helped; for the last month Tamak’d barely left his bed. The new ironwood box didn’t have the fine-carved tumbler his old locker had had, but hopefully the puzzle-lock would deter curious fingers. He’d bought it when Sharrey was out and Tamak at a rare day at school, then eased the duke’s letters out from the narrow gap behind Sharrey’s display-cabinet where he’d stashed them, careful not to dislodge the plates. Most of them could be safely disposed of now, having informed him of what he needed to know. But they reminded him why he was here. When he’d told Sharrey that he needed to keep the box in their room but she wasn’t to touch it she’d stared at him. He’d wondered if this was it, the unreasonable demand too far. Then she’d shrugged and turned away.