by Karen Miller
Venette looked at Shari. “I told you Manemli was trouble.”
“Hostility, my lord?” Morgan frowned. “Do you mean bloodletting?”
“Between Manemli and Ranoush, yes,” said Varen. “Our traders have been jeered at, nothing more.”
Chilled with apprehension, he shifted in his chair. “Nothing more yet. But—”
“But?” Sallis laughed, scornful. “What’s wrong with you, Morgan? You can’t be suggesting any mage of Dorana is in peril from a Manemlin!”
“From anyone,” said Shari, just as scornful. “We are mages, Morgan. Inviolate.”
There was no use pursuing the matter. Even if he tried to explain his growing unease, a sense that some danger crept closer to Dorana, his fellow councillors would never believe him.
But I trust that feeling. I know I am right.
“True, Shari,” said Varen, “but I’ll inform the General Council we will permit Dorana’s trader-mages stronger wardings, should tensions rise. Now, to the question of age limits with regards to tertiary-level incantations…”
The meeting continued. Not the smallest question of complaint or clarification regarding magework in Dorana failed to be considered by the Council of Mages. Let the General Council truck with commonplace laws and tax collection and civil infringements and foreign ructions and the like. The Council of Mages dealt with far loftier matters.
They confirmed the tertiary-level incant age at twelve; amended the statute dealing with legal recourse for non-Doranen individuals suffering hardship as a result of magework; approved in principle the new syllabus for parochial mage education—pending commentary from the College of Mages, which was jealous of its private educational purviews; extended the temporary prohibition placed upon the sale of mage-enhanced fireworks until the investigation into the destruction of the artisanry at Nyecroft was completed; and drafted a formal letter of censure to one Marale Chasin, an unranked mage who was overheard by four witnesses criticising the Council’s recent decision to deny marriage rights to those unfortunate Doranen afflicted with a lack of mage talent.
“And so to our last item of business,” said Varen. “The College’s proctor has received a letter regarding student admission. Given the sensitive nature of this request, he referred the matter to Lord Hahren and Hahren is now referring it to us.”
“Sensitive how?” said Sallis, stifling a yawn. He was only a year or three behind Varen, and lacking in stamina.
Varen consulted his notes. “The mage in question, one Barl Lindin, is unranked. She’s a clock mage in the Eleventh district hamlet of Batava.”
Venette snorted. “She’s an optimist, you mean.”
“So it would seem. She applied to the College several years ago and was refused. According to Hahren she now says—” Again, Varen consulted his notes. “ ‘I am sure that once the College is made familiar with my mageworking abilities it will reconsider my application and offer me a place.’ ”
“I take it back,” said Venette, laughing. “She’s not an optimist, she’s an upstart. Tell Hahren to tell her to seek a parochial remedy for her woes. There are mage schools aplenty for the unranked of Dorana. They can’t possibly begrudge us a single school of our own.”
“And if they do complain, that’s no cause for us to listen,” Shari added. “Jealousy’s not to be rewarded.”
Muttered agreement from Sallis Arkley. With a slight, appreciative smile, Varen shifted his gaze. “Your thoughts, Morgan?”
He shrugged. “I think this young woman must be touched in the head. Lindin. Have we even heard of the family?”
“No,” Sallis said briskly. “And after today never shall again.” He pushed to his feet. “I have my own business with Hahren. Shall I tender him our opinion?”
Varen’s pale eyebrows lifted. “You think to withdraw?”
“We’re done here, aren’t we?”
“I have not formally said so.”
“Then formally say so, Brice. Or continue without me. I cannot tarry.”
“We are concluded,” said Varen, after the briefest hesitation. “And by all means, Lord Arkley, inform Hahren of our decision.”
“You should excuse him,” said Shari Frieden, once Sallis was safely out of hearing. “There’s trouble with his youngest.”
Nodding, Varen collected his various papers. “I have heard something of it. He’d do well to curb the boy. First Family or not, Peynten will be brought before a justice if he cannot control his wayward impulse to wreak havoc.”
“I’ve heard none of this,” said Morgan to Venette, his voice lowered, while Varen and Shari widened their censure of Dorana’s youth. “Enlighten me.”
Venette’s rings flashed in the sunlight as she playfully tapped his forearm. “A regrettable prank run out of hand. A boy from an unranked family is left disfigured, and the father is making a great deal of fuss.”
“Is he not entitled to?”
“Of course,” said Venette. “But whether it’s wise is another matter. After all, the boy’s not dead. Tell me, Morgan dear, if you’ve unburied yourself from the Danfey estate does that mean I can entice you to an informal dinner party this evening? Excellent food and wine, pleasing company.” Her flashing fingers stroked his sleeve. “Say you’ll come.”
He thought of his ailing father and opened his mouth to refuse. Then he recalled, again, his promise.
No grandson to give him, without first I find a wife.
“Informal, you say?”
Venette smiled, revealing wicked dimples. Unlike most Doranen women she wore her hair cropped daringly short. She’d even been known to streak strands of copper colour through it, though today it was uniformly gold.
“Just a few friends. We serve drinks at seven, and after dinner there’ll be dancing. Do come. You deserve a little respite from care.”
Having abandoned their disapproving duet, Lord Varen and Shari Frieden were looking ready to depart the chamber. Morgan slid from his chair and offered Venette a flourishing bow.
“My lady, I shall attend with pleasure.”
“Morgan,” said Varen, his papers and parchments tucked under one arm. “You’d do well to convey my best wishes to Lord Danfey.”
This time his bow was much more restrained. Brice Varen was largely the reason for his father being denied a place on the Council of Mages. Sentiments like that flirted with hypocrisy.
“My lord, he’ll be heartened to know you’re thinking of him.”
A glitter in Varen’s eyes suggested disbelief. “His illness must be a source of sorrow to all, but you have wider duties, Morgan. It’s past time you resumed them.”
“I assure you, my lord, I am ready to play my part in Council matters.”
“Indeed,” said Varen, with the thinnest of smiles. “Then I shall give close thought to how best we can use you.”
He offered another bow. “My lord, I serve at your pleasure.”
“And you do, you know, Morgan,” said Venette, once they were alone. “You should also know that two days ago, Shari and Sallis argued for your suspension.”
The news made him stare. “On what grounds?”
“Dereliction, of course,” she said, sighing. “But Brice saved you.”
Varen did? He found that surprising.
“My dear,” Venette added, shaking her head. “For a brilliant man you can be tiresomely obtuse. They hide it well because they have to, but there’s no love lost between Sallis and Shari and Brice. Did you think our esteemed Council leader feuded only with your father?”
“I had my suspicions. But as you say, there are many hidden truths in Doranen society.”
She tapped his arm again. “Well, here’s one truth that should be apparent. Brice has decided to shield you, a little, doubtless out of guilt for the damage done to Greve when they were both much younger men. But if you think he’ll go on shielding you while you blatantly ignore your duties then you are so obtuse you’re long past saving.”
Venette knew the story?
How unfortunate. “I didn’t realise that sorry tale was bandied about as common knowledge.”
Venette’s lips pursed. “Climb down, Morgan. It’s not. All I know is that many years ago, Brice behaved badly, Greve was unwise in his response, and so found himself in no position to quibble when he was slighted. But Brice’s lingering guilt won’t prick him much deeper. So take heed, my dear. How far you rise now is up to you. And when the day comes that you’re the next Lord Danfey there’ll be no excuses made for you by anyone.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not even you?”
“Not even me. I have my own family to consider.”
“I see,” he said, feeling his temper stir. “My thanks, Venette, for your solicitous care.”
“Now, now, Morgan.” She patted his cheek, her fingers cool, her smile not quite touching her violet eyes. “Are there so many brilliant, handsome young mages in Elvado that I would wish to see one retire to the country in disgrace? Hardly. For if you are disgraced, who will I turn to when I’m pining for company at dinner?”
Taking her hand lightly in his, he kissed the soft, scented skin over her knuckles. “Your husband?”
“Ah.” Now her smile was pouting. “It seems I’ve irked you.”
“Not at all, Lady Martain,” he said, releasing her. “Forgive me if I made you think otherwise.”
“That means I shall still see you tonight?”
Of course, if there was any way he could use her to his advantage. “Yes.”
This time she kissed his cheek. Her breath fanned his skin, warmly. “Until seven, then.”
“Venette,” he said, as she reached the chamber door. “One last thing. Your advice on a matter of magework.”
She turned in a swirl of crimson velvet skirt. “Certainly.”
“What would you say is the most effective counter-catalyst in sigil working?”
“Tilatantin,” she said, without hesitation.
“And the second?”
A small line appeared between her brows as she thought. “Risill. Or possibly urvil.”
“Not susquinel?”
Venette frowned a little deeper. “Only were I working with azafris. Morgan, you’re not thinking to work with azafris, are you? Legal or not, the stuff is frowned upon, you know, and quite ruinously expensive. Not to mention easily offended. As for susquinel, it’s nearly as tricky. I’d not see you hurt, my dear, nor your Council standing diminished. Not for the purpose of impressing Sallis and Shari.”
He laughed. “Venette, the notion of impressing them could not be further from my mind.”
“Well, good,” she said, uncertain. “But do think twice before you dance with dangerous catalysts. I enjoy your company and would not be deprived of it betimes.”
And on that gently scolding note, she slipped from the room.
As a member of the Council he was entitled to remain in its privy chamber for as long as he liked, in or out of company. So he moved to the nearest intricate stained-glass window and stared down into the plaza, then out across the city. Feeling an odd sense of ownership, as though Elvado had been built for him… and him alone. A shiver whispered over his skin, hinting at shadows and peril, at dark days yet to come. He felt his heart thud, felt his body brace as though expecting a blow.
Never fear, my beloved city. So long as I am breathing, no harm shall come to you.
Chapter Six
She’s rather pretty, isn’t she?”
Caught staring at the young mage on the far side of the dance floor, Morgan shrugged to hide his irritation. Took a restrained sip of icewine. “She’s acceptable.”
Venette plucked a glass of icewine for herself from a passing servant’s tray. Though she claimed the evening was informal, she’d taken great pains with her appearance. But then she always did, being gloriously vain and unashamed of her wealth. The rubies bound to her brow were the finest Trindek would part with, their hue the rich red of heart’s blood. Her flowing tunic was fashioned from Feenish gossamer silk, its myriad shades of green vibrant as new spring.
“Acceptable?” she said. “That’s a trifle ungenerous, Morgan.”
What game was Venette playing now? “You asked my opinion, and I gave it.”
Standing by his side, fingers lightly touching his elbow, Venette leaned closer. “My dear…” Her voice was lowered, even though the ballroom musicians in their gallery were playing loudly enough to mask her words. “You are too particular. Maris Garrick is entirely presentable.”
He spared Venette a tight smile. “I must bow to your superior judgement, since ogling women is not a regular pastime with me.”
“Now you’re being deliberately unpleasant,” she said, pouting, and pinched him. “Stop it.”
Dinner concluded, Venette and her stolid husband Orwin had invited their guests to the ballroom, where they might continue the evening’s entertainment and make amends for the sumptuous five-course meal they’d so eagerly consumed.
Having eaten sparingly, in no mood to dance, Morgan had flirted with the notion of excusing himself for home. There was just enough azafris left for him to make one last attempt at creating his new sigil, this time using susquinel as the primary catalyst. With such a momentous achievement in the balance, the thought of wasting the rest of the night in empty frivolity grated.
But then Venette had looked at him, eyebrows raised. Leaving, Morgan? I don’t think so. Which, of course, meant he’d stayed. It would have been impolitic to do anything else.
On the dance floor, four glimlit couples swirled through the lilting music. Their constant motion meant he played hide-and-seek with demure Maris Garrick, neatly wrapped in cream and gold brocade and slender as a lily. He thought her shy smile hinted at secrets. Intriguing.
“She’s scarcely more than a child, Venette,” he said, angry with himself for being stirred. “She’s escorted here by her parents, for pity’s sake. Do you think I’m a cradle-snatcher?”
“No, my dear,” said Venette, serene. “I think you’re a man in search of a wife.”
Like the Garricks, her husband stood on the far side of the dance floor. Since he was in close conversation with Stim and Harele Boqur, it was safe to show a snarling face to Orwin’s bride.
“Venette, I’ll thank you to mind your business while I mind mine. Indeed, if Maris Garrick is to be so highly recommended, allow me to recommend that you snare her for your eldest nephew.”
Instead of scolding, or taking offence, Venette laughed then swallowed a generous mouthful of wine. “My dear, you snap at flies. Tobe was matched before he learned to walk. Now do stop being tiresome. I know how much you resent anyone dabbling in your privy affairs but I don’t do it to hurt you. I’m your friend, and you should listen to my excellent advice.”
“Your excellent nagging,” he muttered, and emptied his own glass. He wanted to glare at her, but found his gaze tugged back to Maris Garrick. Even as he stared at the girl, his fingers found the shape of his locket, buttoned safe beneath his dark purple brocade tunic. “Why should I think this Garrick daughter will suit me?”
“Aside from the fact that I tell you she will?” Venette sighed. “Morgan, if I weren’t so fond of you I believe I’d be quite cross. Maris has exemplary magework, she is sweet and biddable, and her family is more highly ranked than yours. Indeed, my dear, for those very reasons were she not a pretty girl I would still push you toward her.”
But Maris Garrick was pretty, he couldn’t deny it. There’d be no hardship in bedding her. Add that to her social standing and surely his father would approve.
“You think my place on the Council overcomes the delicate matter of unequal family ranking?”
“That, and the fact you’ll soon enough be Lord Danfey,” said Venette, her painted lips curved in a small cat smile. Then she raised a finger. “No biting, Morgan. Palatable or not, it’s the truth. Turn down your suit and she’ll be some years waiting for another chance to become Lady Maris. The marriage market is at present scanty.”
; It was also humiliating.
I can’t do this. Am I stallion for parading? Is that girl a mare in heat? There is no dignity here, no honour. We barter titles and fertility like hawkers from Ranoush.
Sickened, he turned away from the dance floor where six couples now jigged like giggling children set free from the nursery. No dignity there, either.
“Morgan.” Venette’s scolding tone was softened. “This distresses you. I am sorry. I know you long for Luzena by your side and your father hale and hearty, no thought of crypting him for years. Alas, like poor Luzena, that dream is dead. My dear, let it go.”
He looked at the hand she’d let rest on his arm. “Why do you embroil yourself in my troubles?”
“Because your mother was like a sister to me,” she said simply, and let her hand drop. “Besides. If I don’t, who will?”
“I can find my own wife.”
“I never said you couldn’t. But isn’t my way more convenient? Why quibble over fribbles, Morgan?”
“Because I’ve learned that little in our magic-charmed lives is free,” he said, prepared for once to let her see behind his careful mask. “Everything I’ve achieved I have worked for, very hard. I’ve had to. The Danfeys are only ranked middling high. In the past year I’ve submitted six incants for Council ratification. The one I’ve had sanctioned I was forced to resubmit twice, three were dismissed out of hand and two are yet pending, even now.”
The musicians in the gallery finished their jig with a lively flourish, then shifted smoothly into the warning ta-ta-ta that heralded a rantina, the stately, patterned measure taught to every child old enough to walk without a nurse. On the dance floor the smiling, breathless guests broke out of their close couplings and took their places. Abandoning Venette’s husband, Stim and Harele Boqur joined them.
“I hope,” said Venette, as the musicians launched into the rantina proper, “you don’t blame me for that. I am no paragon of virtue, nor have ever claimed to be, but not for any reason, petty or grand, do I play parlour games with another mage’s lifework.”
She sounded genuinely hurt, and it wasn’t what he’d intended. “Of course I don’t. You’ve always been my steadfast supporter. It’s Sallis Arkley and Shari Frieden behind it, I know.”