Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  And Tyvian wasn’t even done with him yet.

  “Why’d it have to be pink?” Artus asked, twisting in the tight clothes before the mirror. One of the golden ladies of the mirror gave him a wink.

  Tyvian was behind a dressing screen. He came back, stripped to the waist and carrying a small, clam-shaped object full of white powder. “What’s wrong with pink?”

  Artus shrugged. “I dunno. Isn’t it a bit . . . well . . . girly?”

  Tyvian snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous—pink is a masculine color. Virile. Powerful. The color of the dawn. Here, hold still.” He positioned Artus by the shoulders to face him and, taking a little brush in his hand, began to apply makeup.

  Artus knew better than to move, but he did permit himself a sigh. “Why do I need makeup?”

  “Artus, you have what some might call a ‘peasant’s complexion.’ You’ve taken on entirely too much sun—there are freckles on your damned nose, for Hann’s sake! It gives the impression that you labor with your hands.”

  Artus frowned. “I do labor with my hands! All the time! Hool worked me like a dog getting this whole thing ready!”

  Tyvian kept dabbing the brush on Artus’s cheeks and nose and then worked his way up to the forehead. “Yes, well, the Countess of Davram and her family would rather not be reminded that such a thing as manual labor exists.”

  “You’d think they’d do their fair share of work in the army—no escaping the sun on the march. Aren’t they soldiers?”

  “Only in the Eretherian sense—which is to say ‘no.’” Tyvian passed a hand over the cosmetics case and the powder changed shade to a light pink. “Pucker your lips, please.”

  Artus recoiled. “What? No way!”

  Tyvian advanced on him, makeup brush extended. “Artus, if I don’t rouge your lips, you’ll look like a drowning victim.”

  “I don’t care!” Artus said, grabbing a pillow from a chaise and holding it like a shield. “You won’t be making my lips pink!”

  “Of course not! Do you think I’m making you up like a harlot? Pink? Gods no—I’ll be making your lips rose.” Tyvian waved Artus over. “Come now—be a man about it.”

  Artus tried to think of some kind of alternative, but came up with nothing. Scowling, he dropped the pillow and puckered his lips. Two quick brushes from Tyvian and a spot on each cheek, and the smuggler put away his makeup box. “There! You look almost presentable.”

  “What’s a salon, anyway?” Artus said, extending his arms as Tyvian attached a sword belt and short rapier around his waist.

  “Ostensibly it’s a social gathering where ideas and concepts of import are discussed among equals. In point of fact, it is mostly a place where some vaguely academic pretense is arranged so people of quality have an excuse to gossip and plot among allies.” Tyvian stepped back and looked Artus up and down as though he were a sculpture nearing completion. Two of the golden ladies of the mirror blew Artus a kiss.

  Artus scowled. “Do I have to stay the whole time?”

  Tyvian snorted. “Yes, you have to stay the whole time. It’s being thrown in your own damned house.”

  “That ain’t fair!”

  Tyvian snapped his fingers at him. “Watch it! You let your ‘ain’ts’ slip out here and we’re through—we may as well volunteer to be assassinated in our sleep.”

  Artus fell silent, looking himself over in the mirror again. The rapier clattered uncomfortably against his leg. “Don’t . . . errr . . . doesn’t this mean somebody can challenge me to a duel?”

  Tyvian shrugged. “Remember rule number two: No duels. If you are challenged to a duel, you get to pick weapons. Just pick something grotesque and unusual and watch the other fellow implode in a puff of well-laundered fabric.”

  Artus blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

  Tyvian retreated behind the dressing screen. “Now part of your job today is to keep Hool and Brana out of trouble, understand?”

  “Aren’t you going to be there?” Artus frowned, tugging gently at his lace collar.

  Tyvian poked his head around the screen and snapped his fingers at Artus. “Don’t touch that collar, understand? You are supposed to look like you’ve been wearing things like that your whole damned life. It’s part of you.”

  Artus stuck his tongue out.

  “Say it!”

  Artus sighed and looked up at the cathedral ceiling. “These clothes are part of me. They make me who I am. I and my clothing are one.”

  Tyvian nodded before vanishing back behind the screen. “To answer your question, no, I am not going to be there at the start of things. I am going to be delayed because I am ill—which is only partly untrue, as my back is still stiff as a headstone. The real reason I cannot go, though, is because I’ve received word from Myreon. She’s evaded the Defenders and is in one of our safe houses—I’m going to collect her.”

  Artus frowned. “And you’re going . . . now?”

  A pair of breeches appeared over the edge of the screen. “It’s only a short ways away. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time to make a fashionable entrance. Besides, given the line of questioning you endured the other night, it seems likely that House Davram sent Voth to kill me. They don’t understand how their assassin failed and it worries them. I want them to be worried.”

  “And how is this supposed to help us?”

  Tyvian kept talking as he got dressed. “Let’s just stick with ‘it’s complicated’ for now and I’ll explain later when you have the advantage of a piece of paper and a quill. The main thing is for you to make sure—make certain—that Hool doesn’t assault anybody. I’ve tasked Sir Damon to help with this as well, but it’s you I trust more.”

  Artus twisted in his clothing, still getting a feel for how much range of motion he had. The answer was “not much.” “So, what, I’m just gonna just hang around and talk and stuff?”

  Artus heard Tyvian snort as a shirt appeared over the edge of the screen. “You say that as though it isn’t monumentally important, but it is. I need you to keep your eyes open and your wits sharp. Do not get challenged to a duel, understand? Be polite and deferential and make sure your conversation is sparkling and witty enough to be interesting, but not so witty that people take offense.”

  Artus felt his stomach tighten. “Saints, is that all?”

  The bell for the front door rang, echoing faintly up the stairs and down the hall to Tyvian’s chambers. An icy spike of panic suddenly assailed Artus. Drinking and playing t’suul with a bunch of stuffed shirts was one thing, but a formal event? Artus felt as though he were about to ride into battle. Not that he’d ever ridden into battle, exactly.

  Tyvian waved a hand at him from behind the screen, shooing him toward the door. “You can do this, Artus—you’ve been practicing for a year. Remember: pay attention, keep Hool and Brana out of trouble, and no duels. Our guests are waiting—off you go!”

  Artus wandered toward the door, trying to think of a reason not to go downstairs, but failing. “Hey!” he asked, brightening, “What is the thing they’re gonna—going—to be talking about? The . . . the ‘vaguely academic premise’?”

  Tyvian poked his head around the screen again, his devilish grin in place. “Us, Artus—the topic of discussion is us. You are entering enemy territory. Be ready. Stay focused. No duels. I’ll be down in an hour or so.”

  An hour! Artus felt terror settle into his stomach like a hot coal. “Oh. Right. Yeah. No duels.” He turned and left, marching down broad, carpet-lined hallways to the sound of polite laughter and gentle conversation that had begun to waft up from the garden.

  Enemy territory.

  Hool, with the assistance of Sir Damon, had truly outdone herself preparing the House of Eddon for the salon. Artus didn’t know what, exactly, Tyvian had said to her, but Hool seemed to be taking the responsibility much more seriously that he would have thought possible. She had become a terror to be near—every dusty end table, every antique chair, every crystal trinket had been buffed and placed i
n a location specified by her. Artus and Brana had personally been made to beat every single carpet in the house within an inch of its woven life. After he’d returned home from being with Elora, Artus had been forced to huddle with Sir Damon in the kitchen over an eye-watering jug of some alchemical mixture, polishing spoons into the wee hours until they seemed to produce their own light.

  And then there had been what happened to the gardener. Artus didn’t quite know what had occurred—he was too busy beating rugs and moving furniture—but whatever it was had sent the old alchemist home looking as though she were haunted by ghosts.

  Hool had declared that the salon would be held outside in the garden—tradition be damned—and so Artus descended the stairs and made a left turn toward the back of the house, trying very hard not to fall on his face in his elevated shoes. Brana was waiting at the bottom, having been “dressed” by Tyvian an hour before.

  Brana’s face split into his openmouthed grin as he saw Artus come down. He punched Artus in the arm. “Pink. Like a flower.”

  Artus scowled, raising an eyebrow at the alterations in Brana’s shroud that made his clothing brown, yellow, and green. “Laugh it up. You look like a dandelion.”

  Brana looked down at his own illusory doublet and did, in fact, laugh. “This is fun.”

  Eretherians, as it happened, were not a punctual people, and Artus had a few minutes to himself before the guests really started arriving in earnest. With that time, he was able to truly take in what Hool, by way of one harried elderly alchemist, had done to the garden: she had changed it into something not really seen in Eretheria. The topiary bushes and beds of elegant Eretherian lilies and petunias and roses had been replaced with great bushy clumps of waist-high grass and carpets of exotic-looking wildflowers. Around the alabaster fountain at the center of it all, Hool had laid many of her hunting trophies—pelts of bears, rock panthers, wild bulls, and the like made a kind of carpet to keep the mud from the guest’s shoes. Mounted on wooden poles thrust into the earth, Hool had arranged a series of torches that were burning actual manticore fat, each sending a greasy black plume of smoke into the sunny spring sky.

  Artus understood at once what was going on—if the topic of the salon was to be about themselves, Hool was showing them a window into her inner self. It was all a grand display of her hunting prowess and the wild places she once called home. Understanding was one thing, but he gaped at it all nevertheless, not sure whether he ought to be impressed or worried. He spied Hool having stiff conversation with a few of the early arrivals—fops and dandies and lesser personages Tyvian had described as “useful sycophants.” Hool had no drink and her hands were bunched into fists at her side. Her eyes darted around, surveilling each of the guests carefully.

  She’s scared.

  Artus frowned, feeling some of his own unease dropping away. Of course she was afraid—this was even more alien to her than it was to him. Still, he could think of no way to help. They were, he decided, equally doomed without Tyvian there to guide them. He tried to figure out whether or not it had been an hour yet.

  He looked, but there seemed to be no sign of Elora, and past that his ability to interact socially was limited. Aside from a polite nod of the head from the elderly Countess Velia when she was announced, Artus appeared to make no impression whatsoever on the guests, pink doublet and hat or not. They spoke among themselves and seemed to have little interest in involving him in the conversation. He wondered if they had some kind of sixth sense for somebody who was lowborn and could instinctually ignore them without thinking. He knew the type—he ran into them often enough in the streets of Ayventry during his pickpocketing days. They were actually quite easy to rob, so long as their purses weren’t sorcerously sealed. A significant part of Artus suggested that he start picking pockets right there, just to make things interesting. The other part of him spoke with Tyvian’s voice: No duels.

  In the end, Artus hovered near the edge of the party, wineglass in hand, and looked at the strange wildflowers that had come to bloom in the garden. He felt like a complete and total ponce.

  “Artus?”

  And then there was Elora, smiling at him from over a fan painted with pink roses. She was wearing the exact same shade of pink as he was, only in the form of a hoop-skirted gown with blue accents.

  He quickly executed what he hoped was a serviceable bow. “I’ve been looking for you!”

  Elora motioned to her dress. “We seem to match. How embarrassing.”

  Artus felt color rush to his cheeks. “Well, it were . . . wasn’t my idea. Sorry.”

  Elora shrugged. “I don’t mind, really. I think you look rather dashing, actually.”

  Artus blinked. “Really? I feel like a petunia.”

  “Pink is a very masculine color. Bold, you know?”

  Artus had no idea how to respond to that, so he closed his mouth and scanned the party. Hool was getting a lot of attention and she still looked displeased about it, but now more annoyed than worried. She didn’t look likely to kill anybody yet, so that was something. There was, again, a gaggle of ladies surrounding Brana, chuckling at whatever he was saying. “At least he isn’t breaking walnuts,” Artus muttered.

  “What? Your brother?” Elora giggled. “He’s so funny. He tells the best jokes. He stays completely straight-faced the whole time—he never gives it away.”

  Artus shrugged. “I’m not sure he knows they’re jokes.”

  Elora laughed. It was light, airy laughter—perfectly suited to the setting, he guessed. He wondered if she had to practice that kind of thing when she was growing up, or whether she was just naturally elegant. “Should we rejoin the party?” he asked.

  Elora slipped a hand under his arm. “I’m bored. Let’s go inside—there are some of the regular crowd in there.”

  Artus let her tug him toward the house. “Who?”

  Elora smiled at him. “From last night? Valen? Michelle?” She sucked in her cheeks to imitate Michelle’s thin, bony face.

  Artus chuckled, which was something he realized he desperately needed to do. “Lead the way!”

  Elora hugged his arm close. “No, no—gentlemen lead, Artus.”

  Artus found himself puffing out his chest. Elora, so close, was warm and smelled like sunshine somehow. “Oh. Right, sure.” He grinned. “Here we go!”

  Chapter 17

  The Wrong Kind of Company

  The woman talking to Hool had breath that reeked of onions, though nobody but Hool seemed to notice. Hool hated onions. “My Lady Hool,” the woman said, her mouth partially open, allowing the noxious fume to escape, “I must say this is the most unique garden I have ever explored. Where in the world did you acquire such interesting flora?”

  Hool frowned at this woman whose name she had been told but did not remember—there were too many people here to bother remembering their names, anyway. “They are called flowers, not floras. I made a wizard summon them from the ground. She didn’t want to, but I made her anyway.”

  The people around her tittered with false laughter, as though what she had said were actually funny. They all reeked of magic and wine and that stupid white powder they put on their faces. She wanted to be rid of them; she wanted to roar and chase them away, like so many squeaking birds. But I can’t, she told herself, these people are important. They have money and power. Tyvian says we need them to like us if he’s going to not be king. Or be king. Or something.

  The woman with the onion breath fanned herself, spreading the horrible stench further. “Oh my, but you are a delight! Such wit! I see that your reputation for candor is—”

  “You don’t like the flowers, do you?” Hool broke in.

  “I . . . I beg your pardon?” Onion Breath said, pressing her fan to her chest. “I was just—”

  Hool pointed at the closest flower bank. “These flowers are like the ones on the Taqar. They are pretty and strong and tall and cover the land. They are wonderful flowers, because they grow back all by themselves every year, even
after a cold winter. I don’t care if you don’t like them.”

  The woman tried to smile—tried turning this into a joke, Hool guessed, but she failed. “I . . . ah . . . I see, Lady Hool, but . . .”

  Scowling, Hool walked away from her, even while knowing she was supposed to stay. Supposed to pretend—everything is always pretending now.

  But there was really no escape, as Onion Breath was simply replaced by four other fools. These ones, Hool knew, were somehow more important—they had arrived in the same procession of coaches as the withered old Countess of Davram, who at that moment was sitting in a chair at the edge of the garden, watching Hool’s every move through a crystal monocle. Her wrinkled neck and bony fingers reminded Hool of a vulture. She thought the old Countess ought to have been wearing black and not green.

  One of the people in front of her—a tall man with silver hair and a long silver goatee—was asking her a question. “It is my understanding that women often study the physical arts in Eddon. Pardon me, milady, but are you of that ilk?”

  Hool frowned at him. “I could pick you up over my head, if that’s your question.”

  They all laughed again. Hool had no idea why. She’d stopped trying to figure out human jokes years ago. She sniffed the air to see if she could locate Tyvian, realizing belatedly that she’d just stuck her nose in the air and sniffed audibly while surrounded by human nobility—one of Tyvian’s rules. They were looking at her strangely. She stopped, inwardly cursing the twisted path that led her to this stupid place with these stupid people.

  She had hoped that transforming her garden into something akin to her home would have given her confidence, but the opposite was true. The grass wasn’t the same. Even the flowers weren’t quite right. Perhaps it was because they were all shut in—corralled on three sides by hedges and on one side by a big stupid house full of empty, worthless things.