by Neil McGarry
“But you must,” Cecilia replied. “They can’t have burned. The way Terence spoke of those diaries I was certain that one of Lord Kell’s children had them.” She bit at her nails. “Could one of your siblings have them? You’re the youngest, yes? Maybe Justin or Marguerite knows where they might be?”
“You’ve made quite a study of my family,” Duchess observed uneasily. Justin had disappeared the same night her father had died, and if he’d taken the diaries then they were gone as well. She didn’t remember her brother as the bookish type, though, and she thought it unlikely he’d taken their father’s diaries without some specific reason. As for Marguerite, she’d vanished behind a facet’s mask, as the events of the Fall of Ventaris had made clear. If she’d ever known anything about those diaries, then all the facets knew as well, and they were no friends of hers. “I don’t think my siblings had them either.”
Cecilia’s face crumpled. “Then they are lost forever.” She drank the rest of her wine in one long draught. “I can’t complete my research without those works, and I doubt I can complete yours. They would have helped us both, but they’re gone. I’ve wasted both your time and mine.”
Duchess felt her heart lighten. Lost fathers, lost siblings, lost civilizations, spirits and the genius loci were beyond her, but this she could handle. “Great Mayu, but you give up easily,” she chuckled, draining her glass. “I happen to have some experience accomplishing the unlikely, and I’m not about to give up on finding those diaries quite so easily.”
Hope kindled in Cecilia’s eyes even as a crash from across the room signaled another argument amongst the scholars. “Truly? Do you truly think you can?”
Even as Duchess smiled, she thought of all the things she hadn’t told Cecilia: the walking dead beneath the city, the fog, the voice from the pit. Best the girl know nothing of such things. “Give me some time. Meanwhile, keep up your research, find whatever answers you can, and leave the impossible to me.”
Chapter Five: A poisoned cup
Duchess never thought she’d be glad to hear from Gloria Tremaine, but that was before the rumors. The subtle poison that Nigel had made her aware of continued to course through the veins of the Highway. The tales of murder and ambition seemed everywhere, but never quite where she could see them. Still, she noticed that contacts who had previously been friendly enough were now distant, and conversations now consisted of not-meeting eyes and pursed lips. Like everything on the Grey the censure was subtle but considerable, hemming her in on every side. There were no more requests for favors, and fruning for information had been considerably more difficult, resulting only in street gossip that any lightboy or tavern-keeper already knew.
Compared to all that, a meeting with the head of the weavers’ guild was a welcome distraction.
Tremaine had changed little in the weeks since the Fall, as her message had made plain. Written in fine blue ink on a heavy, expensive cream-colored paper, the invitation was just short of an imperial decree. There’d even been a coat of arms of sorts, pressed into the silver wax that sealed the envelope.
It was good to know that some things didn’t change.
Tremaine’s assistant, Lynda, met her at the door to the shop, which was clearly closed at the moment. The woman, whose black hair and almond-shaped eyes marked her as Ahé, nodded in approval at Duchess’ promptness and then led her to the guildmaster’s private work room. The last time Duchess had been here, this had been a place of business, with shelves and stacks of cloth, needles and knives and chalk. Now the shelves were hidden by gauzy purple hangings, the floor masked by a thick yellow carpet, and the stark lighting replaced by the warm glow of small bronze lanterns, hung from the rafters. The smell of lavender and good food permeated the air and Duchess’ stomach rumbled.
Gloria Tremaine herself sat in a broad wicker chair with purple cushions behind a round table covered with a silver cloth. Duchess’ first impression of the guildmaster had been of a dandelion—slender and crowned with a puff of white hair—and that had not changed. Her hair was elegantly sculpted, her powder and makeup flawless, and her gown a deep green, set here and there with purple amethysts. The hangings around her chair formed an archway, making her seem almost a queen upon her throne—no doubt the very impression Tremaine hoped to inspire.
The guildmaster beckoned to her without rising. “How prompt,” she said, gazing at Duchess with hard eyes. “I loathe tardiness, particularly when lunch is in prospect. Do have a seat.” Her eyes slid over Duchess’ dress and Duchess was immediately reminded that, the first time they’d met, she’d been wearing a knock-off. A cheap, out-of-season knockoff of a dress worn by the empress’ idiot daughter, a fact Tremaine had not been shy about pointing out. Today Duchess’ outfit was simple and tasteful, dark green and selected by Lysander himself, but under the guildmaster’s merciless eyes she still felt cheap and tawdry.
Duchess took a seat on the other side of the table, in a chair that, she noticed, was smaller than the guildmaster’s. “How could I resist such an invitation? The likes of me aren’t often invited to the Purple Aster, but all the same it seems I didn’t get there.” She gestured to the workroom.
Tremaine smiled humorlessly. “A woman of my stature cannot easily get away in the middle of the afternoon, and yet still I find myself craving the Aster’s wonders. So I brought the restaurant to me.” She signaled to Lynda, who filled their glasses from an opened bottle. “Rank has its rewards.”
Duchess sipped and tried not to seem impressed, but secretly she thought the wine would have bested the finest of Minette’s cellars. It tasted of earth and fig and grape and wood, each distinct and yet pleasantly mingled. She savored the vintage while she pondered her reply. “And what have I done to deserve this reward?”
Tremaine fingered her own glass as Lynda brought forth steaming dishes of broth. “From what I gather, this is but one of many privileges you have enjoyed since the Fall. Your wondrous Domae cloth has been the talk of districts high and low.” She started daintily on her broth, which Duchess took as a sign to pick up her own spoon. The broth tasted of carrots and onions, with a hint of garlic, as tasty as the wine and as expensive, she was certain. Tremaine was going to great lengths to impress her.
Duchess took another taste, then dabbed carefully at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. Best not to appear too eager. Or too curious. “Jana and I have done well enough, it’s true, but no more so than you. After all, it was your dress the empress accepted, and not that of the Atropi.” She left unsaid that with the three old women shamed in front of the imperial court, Tremaine had no rival within the Magnificent Order of Tailors, Seamstresses, Weavers, Dyers and Haberdashers. Some days, she was not sure which of them had profited more from her trick with the deathwatch beetles. “I’m glad our...partnership...was profitable all around. I take it you’ve had no trouble with the Atropi?”
Tremaine pushed her bowl away after only a few spoonfuls. “Their embarrassment at court is all I or anyone else cares to remember.” She laid her hands gracefully on the table before her. “Still, yesterday’s triumphs matter less than tomorrow’s challenges.”
Duchess set down her own spoon. “Success wilts by spring, but failure lasts an age.” It was something her father was fond of saying. Lynda quickly removed the soup dishes and replaced them with platters of sliced pork, redolent with pepper and garnished with raspberry paste, followed by a second plate of buttered peas and brown rice. Rice was a rarity in Rodaas, and an interesting piece of exoticism; it added a touch of the outsider to the meal. Was that part of the Aster’s normal menu, or was Tremaine trying to impress her? In her own way, the guildmaster was as calculating as Minette herself.
Tremaine forked up some of her rice, chewed, swallowed. “No need for false modesty. It doesn’t suit your complexion. You’ve had a rush on your shop, everyone trying to get their share of this new cloth while it is still in style. I’m sure you’ve been flattered by all the attention, but let me assure you that you remai
n small fish in a much larger pond.”
Duchess took a bite of pork, which was juicier than pork had any right to be. “It’s true that I’m just the former bread girl,” she said, cutting off more of the delicious meat, “but you can get some good advice selling along the docks. One bit of advice I got was from a fisherman, who told me that a man could sink a hook, but he couldn’t say just which fish would bite. This attention will last as long as it lasts.”
“Far be it from me to dispute the wisdom of the Wharves,” Tremaine replied, tasting her own pork, “but there are at least a few things this sage of the sea does not know.” She held out her cup, and Lynda filled it once again from the jug. “You’ve drawn the interest of my guild brothers and sisters, certainly. The dressmakers are intimately aware of the ebb and flow of style amongst the nobility, and the Fall got everyone’s attention, as we hoped. But there is fad, and there is fashion.”
As a girl, Duchess had hated peas; no matter how careful you were with a fork, half of them rolled right back on to your plate. She managed to get a mouthful, all the time wishing for a spoon. “Go on.”
“The weavers of my guild have several options, commercially speaking. The lowest and least profitable make their cloth available to the common public, as you have done. Judging from the location of your shop, that public is common, indeed.”
Tremaine seemed remarkably well informed about what was happening at the shop, but then that was no doubt due to Rebecca. Duchess chased a particularly recalcitrant pea around her plate. “And the more profitable weavers?”
“They take advantage of their connection to the guild. They close their shops and concentrate on producing the highest quality cloth as quickly as possible, which they then sell directly to clothiers. If Domae cloth were to become available in the finer shops, it might change from a passing novelty into something more profound.”
“A finer shop such as your own, perhaps?”
The guildmaster smiled and cut off another bite of meat.
Duchess took a sip of wine to buy time to gather her thoughts. Lysander had said that the nobles would soon tire of the novelty of Jana’s work, and then where would they be? Tremaine was arrogant and unfriendly but a shrewd businesswoman; how else would a commoner rise to the position of guildmaster? If she thought it was possible to expand the business, shouldn’t Duchess believe her?
The purposefully impressive meal was making more sense by the moment. Still, it would not do to seem too eager. “I presume there would be conditions Jana and I would have to meet?”
Tremaine nodded, not quite allowing herself a smile. “Of course. You would have to agree to sell only to me, and not to make other arrangements to manufacture, sell, or ship your cloth. I would require exclusive rights to negotiate with all craftsmen necessary to turn your Domae find into fashion. In addition, you would need to produce a good deal more than you are currently.” A corner of her mouth quirked upwards. “I am well positioned to find you all the apprentices you’d ever need.”
Duchess pushed her fork through a pile of peas, considering. “It’s tempting,” she admitted at last. “Jana and I are spared the bother of dealing with individual buyers, something neither of us particularly relishes, and we can concentrate on making cloth.” She glanced up at the guildmaster. “However, for some reason—and I cannot imagine why—my mind goes back to a little errand you set me last fall, one involving your rivals’ shop and a dress that you knew was not there. I believe you called it a test.”
“A test you passed, else I would not have called you here,” Tremaine replied, unruffled. “However, let me prove my intentions not with words, but deeds.” She took another bite of meat, and Duchess had to wait while she chewed, swallowed, and washed it down with wine. “In a week’s time, House Davari will host some of the most powerful people in Rodaas at an art exhibit to be held at the family home. You do know of House Davari, I assume?” Duchess had to restrain an urge to roll her eyes; everyone knew the most powerful noble House in the city, and she herself had even seen their ancient home, Banncroft, the night she had sneaked into Garden District to ruin the Atropi’s dress. A huge, rambling structure of red stone, she recalled, with large adjacent lands.
“I’ve heard of the Davari, here and there,” she replied dryly.
“Naturally, I have been invited to this event, and if I were to secure you an invitation as well, would that convince you I mean what I say?” Duchess thought a long moment. Agreeing to attend a party was not the same as agreeing to work with the guildmaster. She nodded. “Very well. I will have the details sent to you in due course. Please do dress appropriately; perhaps your ganymede can repeat his performance from the Fall in making you presentable. House Davari is not the imperial court, of course, but all the same they are not to be trifled with.” She rose, gently folding her napkin and placing it on the table. “And neither am I.” With that, she turned and left the room in a swirl of scented green cloth.
“Charming,” Duchess muttered, setting aside her own napkin. “And not even an offer of dessert.”
“You should listen to her,” said Lynda, whom Duchess had all but forgotten, standing silently amongst the folds of hanging cloth. She came forward into the light. “The guildmaster might seem hard to you, but she’s had to endure slight after slight from people far less clever who were simply born into their power. She has fought for everything she has, and so she recognizes true quality in others, no matter who they might be.” She indicated herself. “How else would the likes of me rise to where I am?”
Duchess reflected on that while Lynda summoned servants to clear the table. Tremaine was offering her an opportunity that might never come along again, and one that Jana needed to hear. Doubly so when Duchess’ position on the Grey was so in doubt.
Still, Tremaine hadn’t gotten to lead her guild because of a charitable spirit, no matter what Lynda might say. Lysander had the right of it: Jana and the shop were as popular now as they’d ever be, and it was up to Duchess to use that popularity while it lasted.
As she considered, she reached for her glass and refilled it from the bottle before the servants could snatch it away. After all, there was no point in wasting good wine.
* * *
The battle was on, and by the sound of it Lysander was losing.
“Attack!” came Far’s war-cry, followed by the thuds of heavy bombardment. The battleground was the empty third floor, and the weapons were tightly rolled balls of fabric, scavenged from the scrap piles. The combatants had taken to the field earlier that day and, after preparing their defenses, had launched a full-scale war that seemed ready to bring down the ceiling.
Jana smiled, looking up. “It is nice to have a child around,” she said, rising from her seat near the loom and stretching her back. “At home there were always children everywhere. My brother used to play similar games, but of course with boys younger than Lysander.” She smiled a secret smile. “He played different games, later.” Duchess was about to ask what she meant when Jana’s smile suddenly faded and she sighed. “I think that Lysander did not get to play such games when he was a boy, yes?” she asked.
Duchess paused in her sweeping of a floor on which bits of cloth seemed to just materialize on their own. “Not those games, no.” At Far’s age, Lysander was enmeshed in the daily struggle that was life in the Deeps, already a member of the Tenth Bell Boys. She shrugged and said more lightly, “It sounds as if he’s making up for it now.”
“It is good they get along. I do not think Far has had many friends, from what little he has said.” She crossed to the staircase and with mock severity called up, “Who is up there making all that noise?” The commotion instantly ceased, to be replaced by a spate of muffled giggling.
Then came the reply. “No one,” Far called down. Lysander guffawed, and then the sounds of battle resumed.
Duchess laughed and clapped her hands, delighted. “My brother Justin and I used to play the game of no one with my father or—” She was about to s
ay the servants, but of course a baker’s daughter had no servants. “Or other people,” she finished lamely. Jana’s eyes flickered to her for a moment but she said nothing. “He was always getting into trouble and always lying about it.”
Jana nodded. “My own brother was like that, but we did not create the game. He learned it from an edunae who stayed with us for a time, when we were younger. My aunt probably regretted the day she let that man into the camp.”
Duchess noted the mention of Jana’s aunt Adelpha but said nothing of it. “Who was he?”
“We called him Kanenas, one way to say no one. It is what he asked us to call him.” Jana started folding the finished cloth, stacking it neatly on a shelf near her loom. “He was so handsome half the girls in our camp would follow him all day. A few of the boys, too.”
Duchess came over to help with the cloth. “How old were you, then?”
Jana blushed prettily. “Oh, I was twelve or so, too young for Kanenas. I don’t think he was interested in any of us, except for my aunt. They used to spend hours off by themselves, talking in your language, which I did not know well then. Kanenas taught me much, but at the time I could hardly understand anything they said.” She paused in her folding. “He was sad, I think, and frightened, though I never knew why. It was like there were ghosts about him.” She smiled. “But that was a long time ago.”
Something about this story nagged at Duchess, but she didn’t press. Jana was hiding something about her aunt, that was certain, but given the secrets Duchess herself carried she could scarcely begrudge Jana a few of her own. She decided to change the subject. “So, now that you’ve had some time to think, what’s your opinion on my lunch with the guildmaster? And her offer?”