by Jordan Rivet
“This is where the true influencers gather,” Siv said. “Lady Atria collects them.”
“Nonsense.” The big woman smiled beatifically. “They are simply my good friends. Enjoy yourselves, dear hearts.” Atria swept off to talk to a diminutive man in a bright-red coat sitting alone in a corner. Pool chose a spot to stand guard beside the door and didn’t join them as he had at the tavern.
Siv offered Dara his arm. She took it after a second’s hesitation. She had never spent time with the prince outside the dueling hall, and she wasn’t sure how they were supposed to act toward each other in mixed company. She was still a craftsman’s daughter, and he was still the heir-prince. But when she rested her fingers on the green sleeve of his coat, he smiled down at her, and a surge of warmth went right through her.
Siv led her to a low table against the far wall where two men and a woman lounged on low couches covered in bright cushions. Smoke from a pipe drifted above them.
“Evening,” Siv said. “Have you started the game without me?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, my prince,” answered a young man with smooth dark skin. He was dressed in sturdy traveling clothes, and a cloak was draped on the couch beside him. “Who is your lady friend?”
Siv straightened, and Dara could have sworn his chest swelled. “May I present Dara Ruminor, one of the finest young duelists on our fair mountain.”
“Ruminor? As in the lanterns?”
“Yes.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The man stood, his movements crisp, and offered her his hand. “Chala Choven. I’m with the Below Lands Trade Alliance. I come from Soole.”
Dara released her grip on Siv’s arm to take Chala’s hand and felt instantly colder. Chala bowed low.
“Never mind your schmoozing,” said the other young man, who had remained seated. “I’ve seen you duel, Dara. You’re quite good.”
“This is Lord Bolden Rollendar,” Siv said.
“You’re Kel’s patron!” Dara burst out, remembering too late that she wasn’t supposed to mention the word patron.
“That I am.” Bolden had sandy hair and a neat mustache beneath a long, sharp nose. “Kelad talks about you all the time. I’ve won a bet or two on that fellow. Good duelist.”
“You’ve probably lost a bet to him too,” Dara said.
Bolden laughed. “That I have. Are you joining us for tiles, Siv?”
“Of course. Oh, and this is Lady Tull, the Widow Denmore.” Siv bowed to the final member of the trio, a woman who couldn’t be more than four years older than Dara. Lady Tull was beautiful. Stunning, actually. The traditional mourning veil she’d worn since her young husband, Lord Denmore, was killed in a tragic fall from Orchard Bridge didn’t hide that fact. The accident had been the talk of Village Peak for much of last year, and it had left Tull the head of one of the most powerful noble families in Vertigon.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Tull said. She held out a tiny, soft hand. Dara took it, feeling ungainly in her presence. She wished she could hide the way her muscles, ordinarily a source of pride, rippled in her hand and arm when she greeted the delicate lady.
Siv flopped down onto the cushions beside Lady Tull and indicated that Dara should sit between him and Chala Choven. An elegantly dressed serving man appeared and poured goblets of wine for each of them. Dara took a single sip of hers then set it on the low table. She twisted her hands in her skirt, unsure what to say in the presence of so many young nobles.
Chala began distributing the tiles for a game of mijen while Bolden filled Siv in on the latest gossip. Apparently earlier in the evening someone had tried to sneak into the back room uninvited.
“He’ll be on Atria’s blacklist for eternity,” Bolden said. He laughed, a loud, braying sound.
“She’s not especially forgiving,” Siv said.
“She forgave you for that incident with the Fireroot,” Bolden remarked, “but then you are the prince.”
“You do love to bring that up, don’t you?” Siv grinned at Bolden, who grinned back, all teeth. Neither one looked happy somehow.
“You can go first, Dara,” Chala said, handing her the starting mijen tile. “You’re our guest.”
“Which rules do you play by?” she asked.
“Bern’s, of course,” Bolden said.
“I prefer Riiv’s myself,” Siv said.
Mijen could be played with two different methods. Riiv’s method was favored in the Village. Dara suspected Siv was trying to make her more comfortable by suggesting the more common version of the rules.
“We needn’t always do what you prefer,” Bolden said, “my prince.”
Siv laughed, but it sounded forced, not at all like his usual jovial tone. He wasn’t happy to have Bolden speaking to him like that. Dara wondered, briefly, when she had learned to tell Siv’s laughs apart.
“Bern’s method it is, then,” Siv said.
Dara laid her first tile. Siv met her eyes and gave her a reassuring nod. But there was a tightness in his eyes that wasn’t usually there.
The five players laid tiles as the servants poured more wine. Chala relit his pipe and puffed smoke over their heads. Members of other groups came over to speak to the prince, mostly just to wish him well. A few had actual requests: for audiences with the king, for special dispensations, even for opportunities to buy the prince a drink at a later date. He handled the interruptions graciously. Although these were apparently his friends, he was also performing his royal role as the heir-prince. Dara had never seen him do that before. He looked older and more regal somehow, and far more serious than when it was just the two of them in the dueling hall.
Dara listened to the conversation around the mijen table, but she didn’t have a lot to add. She was more comfortable with her dueling friends and their straightforward exchanges than in this smoky back parlor, where she wasn’t sure exactly where everyone stood. Chala laughed a little too loud at the noblemen’s jokes, acting solicitous and accommodating. Bolden kept trying to provoke a reaction from Siv. Dara wondered what they were each getting out of this supposed friendship. Lady Tull didn’t speak much either, but whenever she did the three men leaned close to hang on her every word, even Siv.
At least Dara was winning the game. She may prefer Riiv’s method, but even using Bern’s rules she was an excellent mijen player. Lady Tull was the worst of the bunch, and Dara didn’t feel bad at all about taking control of nearly a third of her tiles with one move.
Chala raised an approving eyebrow at that and leaned in to study the game more intently, his pipe forgotten. While he contemplated his next move, Dara studied the other people in the parlor. They were an eclectic mix, some dressed in their best finery and others looking as if they’d just climbed the Fissure. The nobles were easy to spot because they each had a hovering ring of attendants waiting to serve them. A handful of Fireworkers gathered at a center table, clinking glasses of spiced wine and warming their contents with pocket Firesticks. Showing off their wares, no doubt. At least one of those men, Jara the Gilder, was a close associate of Dara’s father. What was he doing here?
As she scanned the dark edges of the room, she spotted a glint of silver in the far corner. There was something familiar about it, but it disappeared into the shadows before she could get a good look.
“So, Dara, what does you father think about the Fire Warden’s latest regulatory actions?” Chala asked, drawing her attention back to the group. He had made a move that was clearly intended to take away her lead. He must think he could distract her from the game. He was in for a surprise.
“Yes, I’m curious about that as well,” Lady Tull said. “My advisors tell me Lantern Maker Ruminor opposes regulation.”
“Oh, we don’t discuss business at home,” Dara said. That wasn’t strictly true, but she doubted her father’s opinion would be welcome amongst Zage Lorrid’s friends.
“Don’t be coy, Dara,” Bolden said. “We all know Rafe Ruminor wants fewer restrictions.”
“It’s not about that,” Dara said. “He doesn’t want the Fire to be diluted by people who haven’t studied the art enough.” She moved a tile casually, hoping Chala wouldn’t catch on to what she was doing.
“If you ask me, he’s right,” Chala said. “There are many who want policy changes . . . and not necessarily in the direction they’re going. The more rare the Fireworks are, the better it is for our profit margins. It’s hard to transport and trade high quantities of less valuable Works. The Below Lands Trade Alliance is willing to support those who see things our way.”
“Come now, we’re not discussing politics, are we?” said a dry, papery voice behind them. “This is a quiet gathering among friends.”
A hand landed heavily on Dara’s shoulder. It was cold as ice. She shuddered involuntarily, looking up to find that the hand and the voice belonged to none other than Zage Lorrid.
“Just making conversation, Fire Warden,” Chala drew back, adjusting his tall collar. He hadn’t reacted to Dara’s move yet.
“I don’t think we need to bore our young friend here. And some things needn’t be discussed in mixed company.” Zage’s whispery voice made it sound as if he were speaking through smoke. He wore all black, like the last time Dara had seen him, and the silver leaf pin glinted at his throat.
“Of course not,” Chala said slowly. He adjusted his collar again, his hands moving nervously.
“Join us for a drink, Warden?” Siv asked. He scooted closer to Lady Tull to make room on the couch.
“I have business to attend to with my associates,” Zage said. “My prince, where is your bodyguard?”
Siv shrugged, reaching for his wine goblet. “Pool’s around here somewhere. Probably making eyes at Lady Atria.”
“I see,” Zage said softly. “You would do well to be careful.”
“I always am!”
Zage studied the prince for a moment before saying good-bye to the others. His dark eyes flitted to Dara before he joined the Fireworkers at the center table. She shivered. The Fire Warden seemed awfully interested in whether or not Siv had a guard. She wished the prince hadn’t told him about Pool’s preoccupation with Lady Atria.
“He’s a good man, Zage,” the prince said when the Fire Warden was out of earshot. He moved a mijen tile, opening himself up for Dara to take a few of his tiles. “But he has a hard time relaxing.”
“Another round?” Chala said. He frowned at the table and gave Dara an appraising look. There was no way he could catch up to her score now. “I spend enough time worrying about the Fireworkers. Not another word of business.” He waved his arm for another bottle of wine, and soon everyone had a full goblet. Dara didn’t even need hers topped up. She didn’t like wine much more than ale. At least she had won the game.
Bolden called for a toast, and Dara held her goblet up with everyone else.
“To wine, friends, and the two ladies who have graced us with their presence,” Bolden said. He nodded at Dara and Lady Tull, keeping his eyes on the latter as he sipped from his goblet.
“And to me!” said another voice behind them. “Can’t start the toasts without me.”
“Kelad!” Bolden said.
Dara spun to see that her friend had arrived. He wore finer clothes than usual. If she was not mistaken, the red and black embroidered into his silk coat were the colors of House Rollendar. Bolden stood and clapped Kel on the back.
“It’s the man of the hour,” Bolden said. “Kelad won me a pile of firestones in the Eventide Open. Finished in the top four. It almost made up for his dismal performance in the Square Tourney.”
Kel shrugged. “I’ll never live that one down.”
Bolden kept his hand on Kel’s shoulder in a proprietary manner and turned to the others.
“I don’t think you’ve met Prince Sivarrion before. Kelad Korran, may I present the heir-prince and future Fourth King, Sivarrion Amintelle. And you know us, his faithful lackeys.” There was something mocking in Bolden’s tone. Dara hadn’t imagined it.
Kel bowed to Siv and the others. Then his eyes fell on Dara.
“That is not Dara Ruminor in a dress, with a drink in her hand. I must have died and waltzed into the realm of the Firelord.”
“Hey Kel,” Dara mumbled, blushing. “Not a word of this to the guys.”
“Have you seen this girl duel?” Kel said. He raised his voice a bit, and people at the other tables looked over. “This is the second coming of Surri herself. Did you know she runs all the way across Furlingbird Bridge from Village to Square every single day? Sometimes twice! She trains harder than any other duelist on the mountain.”
“Including you?” someone shouted from another table.
“Half the mountain trains harder than me!” Kel called. “No, Dara Ruminor is the duelist you’ll be telling your kids about in twenty years. She’s the real thing. A round on me in honor of Dara Ruminor!”
“Hear, hear!” Siv called immediately, and the others followed his lead. Siv winked at Dara and whispered, “He knows how it’s done.”
During Kel’s speech she had being sinking deeper and deeper into the couch. If the patrons in the parlor hadn’t paid attention to her before, they would now. She wished she could act as nonchalant about the attention as Kel did. She’d still rather have a sword than a goblet of wine in her hand.
Kel plopped down on the couch between Dara and the prince.
“Want to spot me the gold for the round, Dara?”
“I—”
“Just kidding,” Kel said. “I won at cards earlier. I’m good for it.”
“Was that necessary?” she asked.
Kel picked up Dara’s goblet and took a long sip. “It’s high time you got noticed by the right people, Dar. That’s what it takes if you really want a patron.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her!” Siv said. “That’s why I brought her here tonight. You did my job a lot more efficiently, though.”
If Kel was surprised to have the prince of Vertigon congratulating him, he covered it well.
“She needs to be a more dynamic duelist too,” Kel said. “Patrons love that.”
“Exactly,” Siv said. He leaned around Kel, eyes bright. “See, Dara. This’ll work. We’ve been going over some new moves.”
“New moves, eh?” Kel raised an eyebrow at Dara.
Lady Tull touched Siv’s arm, pulling his attention away from the two duelists. Kel waited until Siv was fully engaged in conversation with the comely widow before turning back to Dara and hissing in her ear.
“What in the name of the deepest gorge are you doing here with Prince Sivarrion of all people? And what does he mean you’ve been working on moves?”
“I’ve been dueling with him,” Dara said.
“Dueling,” Kel said flatly. “With Sivarrion. The future Fourth King. And now you’re drinking wine and schmoozing with lords and ladies? What’s gotten into you?”
“Berg asked me to,” Dara said, fiddling with the folds of her skirt. “The prince needed a training partner.”
“You’re partners now? When were you going to tell me?”
“It was supposed to be sort of a secret,” Dara whispered. “Coach Berg offered me free lessons in exchange. He thinks the prince needs to take dueling more seriously for his own safety.”
“Berg’s a head case, but that’s not the point.” Kel looked over at the prince, who was still deep in conversation with Lady Tull. “The cur-dragon is obviously out of the bag. You could have told me in the spirit of our long friendship. I almost had a heart attack when I saw you here.”
“I’m kind of embarrassed,” Dara said. “Parlors aren’t usually for me, but he thinks I should try to become friends with potential sponsors.”
“He’s right about that,” Kel said. “Though I’ll warn you that a friend who pays for your living is never quite the same.” He finished off Dara’s wine and waved for another goblet. “I can’t believe this. Oat and I thought you might have a secret lover because you’re lat
e to practice so often now.” Kel’s eyes widened. “Wait. He’s not your secret—”
“No! Of course not.”
“You sure? He’s going to a lot of effort to—”
“I’m sure.”
Dara looked past Kel to make sure Siv hadn’t heard them. The prince was still engrossed in whatever Lady Tull was saying. Tull laughed and laid a hand on Siv’s arm. Dara felt a painful twinge in her stomach, but she ignored it.
“Well, this has made my night,” Kel said as a servant appeared with a goblet for him and refilled Dara’s wine as well.
“Please don’t tell Oat,” Dara said. “He’s looking for a patron too, and I don’t want him to think I’m holding out on him.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Kel said. “I tried to get him in with Bolden, but he’s not a fun enough drinking buddy for the tastes of our young lord.”
Bolden was talking to Chala on the opposite side of the table, the game of tiles forgotten. He kept looking at Siv and Tull out of the corner of his eye. Chala was making some sort of business pitch, but Bolden barely listened. He interrupted Chala to call for something stronger than wine, his attention still focused on the widow and the prince. Lady Tull was playing with the fabric of Siv’s coat now. The sight made Dara feel slightly sick. She took another sip of her newly refilled wine, but the taste wasn’t getting any better.
“Hopefully I’ll do well enough in the Cup to get a patron even if all this stuff doesn’t work out,” Dara said.
“You’ll be fine, Dar.” Kel drained his goblet in one gulp. Dara raised an eyebrow, but he just shrugged and said, “I’ve got some catching up to do with my liege.”
Dara wondered whether Kel really enjoyed Lord Bolden’s company. On the one hand, Kel got to visit exclusive back-room parlors, but he had little choice in the matter. He was essentially singing for his supper. Every patron expected something different for their support. It was Kel’s responsibility to be good entertainment and good company for the young lord.