by Jim Butcher
Serai's mouth firmed into a line. "You aren't going to let me talk you out of this, are you."
Nedus smiled guilelessly.
Serai let out an exasperated breath and touched his arm. "At least promise me you'll be careful."
"There are old swordsmen and bold swordsmen," Nedus said, idly employing the old Legion maxim. "But very few old, bold swordsmen." He opened the carriage door, and said, "Ladies, please."
Serai and Isana settled into the richly appointed carriage. Nedus shut the door and a moment later the carriage got under way. Isana watched Serai's face, sensing the Cursor's anxiety despite the habitual detachment she maintained.
"You fear for him," Isana murmured.
Serai gave her a pained smile. "In his day, he was one of the most dangerous men alive. But that was long ago."
"He adores you," Isana murmured. "Like a daughter."
Serai's smile became a little sad. "I know." The tiny courtesan folded her hands in her lap and stared pointedly out the carriage's window, and the remainder of the short trip to the garden party passed in silence.
The town house of Lord Kalare was larger than the whole of Isanaholt, and rose seven stories into the air. Balconies and stairs wound all over the outside of the building, thickly planted with broad-leafed plants, flowers, and small trees, all laid out in beautiful, miniature gardens, complete with several beautifully lit fountains. The coachman could have driven through the house's front doors without ducking his head or being particularly careful about the position of the carriage's wheels. Wintersend streamers and bunting in the green and grey of the city of Kalare festooned every balcony railing, window, and pillar, and had been wound round twin rows of statuary that led up to the front doors.
Forged invitation held in a confident hand, Serai led Isana up the lit walk toward the house's doors. "His house says something about our host, I think," Serai said. "Rich. Large. Gaudy. Indulgent. I'd say more, but I suppose it would sound unkind."
"I take it you do not care for Lord Kalare?" Isana asked.
"Nor ever have," Serai replied cheerfully. "Quite aside from his recent activities, I have always found the man to be a spineless, venomous boor. I have often hoped that he would contract some wasting disease that would expose him to lethal levels of humiliation."
Isana found herself laughing. "Goodness. But you're coming to his party anyway?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Serai said. "He adores me."
"He does?"
"Of course, darling. Everyone does. I'll be welcome here."
"If he adores you so much, why weren't you invited in the first place?"
"Because Lady Kalare made the lists," Serai said. "She does not adore any attractive woman whom her husband does, as a general rule." The courtesan sniffed. "She's quite petty about it, really."
"Why do I get the impression that you love to cast that dislike back into her face?"
Serai waved a hand airily. "Nonsense, darling. Gloating is hardly ladylike." She approached the doorman waiting at the threshold and presented her invitation. The man gave it only a brief glance and returned Serai's smile with a bow and a polite murmur of welcome. Serai led Isana into an immense entry hallway lined with statuary. They passed down it, slippers whispering quietly on the stone floor. They passed through pools of light from colored furylamps hung here and there among the statues, and it was very quiet within the hall.
Doubtless, the dimness and quiet had been intentionally established, for when Isana reached the end of the hallway, it opened up onto the sprawling garden that made up the heart of the manor house. The garden was a fabulous one, including topiary cut into the shape of horses and gargants, a section of the thick, green-purple foliage of the exotic trees of the Fever-thorn Jungle, and dozens of fountains. Furylamps in every color blazed with light, and spark imps leapt rhythmically from lamp to lamp in long jets of color and light, each imp precisely following the steps of an impossibly complex dance-one echoed by jets of water leaping gracefully from one fountain to the next in rhythmic counterpoint.
The color of light falling upon any part of the garden changed between one breath and the next, and it left Isana feeling dazzled. Music floated throughout the garden, pipes, strings, a slow drum, and a wooden flute full of merry dignity.
And the people. Isana had rarely seen so many people in one place, and every one of them wore clothing that could have paid the taxes on her steadholt for a month, at the very least. There were folk with the golden coloring of the sunny southern coast, folk with the thin, somewhat severe features of the mountains west of the capital, and folk with the darker skin of the sailing folk of the western coast. Jewels flashed from their nests within rich clothing, rings, and amulets, their colors clashing and striking chords with the light as it continually changed.
The delicious odor of baking pastries and roasting meat filled the air, as did the fresh scents of flowers and new-cut grass, and Isana's nose touched upon half a dozen exotic perfumes as the attendees passed back and forth before them. In one nook of the garden, a juggler entertained half a dozen children of various ages, and in another drums beat more swiftly and intently, while three slave women sinuously weaved through the complex and demanding motions of traditional Kalaran dance.
Isana could only stare at it all, her mouth falling open. "Furies," she breathed.
Serai patted her hand. "Remember. As rich and powerful as they are, they're only people. And this house and garden-they're bought with mere money," she murmured. "Kalare is making an effort to display his wealth, his prosperity. Doubtless he is attempting to outdo whatever gatherings Aquitaine or Rhodes is planning."
"I've never seen anything like this," Isana said.
Serai smiled and looked around. Isana saw something wistful in her eyes. "Yes. I suppose it is quite lovely." She kept smiling, but Isana felt the faintest taint of bitterness as she spoke. "But I've seen what goes on in places like this, Steadholder. I can't appreciate the facade anymore."
"Is it truly so horrible?" Isana asked quietly.
"It can be," Serai said. "But after all, this is where I do my work. Perhaps I'm jaded. Here, darling, let's stand to one side for a moment so that those coming in behind us don't walk on your gown."
Serai pulled Isana aside and spent a moment peering around the garden. A small line appeared between her brows.
"What is it?" Isana asked quietly.
"Attendance tonight is quite a bit more partisan than I expected," Serai murmured.
"How so?"
"A great many of the High Lords are conspicuous by their absence," Serai replied. "Antillus and Phrygia aren't here, naturally, nor have they sent representatives. Parcia and Attica have not come-but they've sent their senior Senators as proxies. That's going to anger Kalare. It's a calculated insult." The little courtesan's eyes swept around the garden. "Lord and Lady Riva are here, as is Lady-but not Lord-Placida. Lord and Lady Rhodes are over there by the hedges. And my, it would seem that the Aquitaines are here as well."
"Aquitaine?" Isana said, her voice flat.
Serai gave her a sharp glance. Except for her eyes, the courtesan's smile was a firm and impenetrable mask. "Darling, you must contain your emotions. Very nearly everyone here has at least as much skill at watercraft as you. And while some feelings are better when shared with others, rage really isn't one of them-particularly when very nearly everyone here is hideously skilled at firecraft as well."
Isana felt her lips press tightly together. "His ambitions killed some of my friends, my holders, my neighbors. But for good fortune, they would have killed my family as well."
Serai's eyes widened with apprehension. "Darling," she said, voice emphatic. "You must not. There are doubtless a dozen windcrafters listening to everything that they can. You must not say such things in public, where they might be overheard. The consequences could be dangerous."
"It's only the truth," Isana said.
"No one can prove that," Serai replied. Her hand tightened on Isana's arm. "
And you are here in your capacity as a Steadholder. That means that you are a Citizen. And it means that if you slander Aquitaine in public, he will be forced to challenge you in the juris macto."
Isana turned to blink at Serai, startled. "Duel? Me?"
"If you fought him, he'd kill you. And the only way out of the duel would be to retract your statement in public-which would be an excellent way to help make sure that he can never be effectively accused." The courtesan's eyes became cold and hard as stones. "You will control yourself, Steadholder, or for you own good I will knock you senseless and drag you back to Nedus's manor."
Isana could only stare at the tiny woman, her mouth open.
"There will be a time of reckoning for those who have sought to undermine the authority of the Crown," Serai continued, iron in her eyes. "But it must be done properly if it is ever to be done at all."
In the face of Serai's reasoned determination, Isana forced her bitter anger aside. She'd had a lifetime of practice, resisting the influence of the emotions she could sense from others, and it afforded her some small advantage in containing her own. "You're right. I don't know what got into me."
The courtesan nodded, and her eyes softened to match her smile. "Furies, look what you've done. You've made me threaten you with physical violence, darling, which no proper lady would ever do. I feel so brutish."
"I apologize," Isana said.
Serai patted her arm, and said, "Fortunately, I am the most gracious and tolerant woman in the Realm. I will forgive you." She sniffed. "Eventually."
"Who should we talk to in the meanwhile?" Isana asked.
Serai pursed her lips thoughtfully, and said, "Let us begin with Lady Placida. She is the annalist of the Dianic League, and her husband has made it a point to remain rather distant from Kalare or Aquitaine."
"He supports the Crown, then?" Isana asked.
Serai arched a brow. "Not precisely. But he pays his taxes without complaining, and he and his sons have served terms in the Shieldwall Legions of Antillus. He'll fight for his Realm, but he's mostly concerned with managing his lands with as little interference as possible. So long as he has that, he is unconcerned with the identity of the next First Lord."
"I shall never understand politics. Why would he help us?"
"He likely wouldn't, on his own," Serai said. "But there's a chance his wife will. I suspect the Dianic League will be most interested in establishing relationships with you."
"You mean, they want me to owe them favors as rapidly as possible," Isana said in a dry voice.
"Your understanding of politics seems sound enough to me," Serai replied, her eyes sparkling, and she led Isana over to meet Lady Placida.
Lord Placida's wife was an exceptionally tall woman with a thin, severe face and heavy-lidded brown eyes that bespoke the exceptional intellect behind them. She wore the single, deep color of the ruling house of Placida, a rich, deep emerald green whose dye was derived from a plant found only in the high reaches of the mountains near Placida. She wore golden jewelry set with emeralds and amethyst, each piece beautiful in its elegant simplicity. She looked no older than a girl in her midtwenties, though her medium brown hair, like Isana's, was touched lightly with silver and grey. She wore it bound up in a simple net that fell to the base of her neck, and she smelled of rose oil.
"Serai," she murmured, and smiled at the courtesan as she approached. Her voice was surprisingly light and sweet. She came forward, hands held out, and Serai took them, smiling. "It's been too long since you've visited us."
Serai inclined her head in a bow of deference to Lady Placida's station. "Thank you, Your Grace. And how is your lord husband, if I may ask?"
Lady Placida rolled her eyes the tiniest bit, and drily murmured, "He was not feeling well enough to attend tonight's festivities. Something in the air, no doubt."
"No doubt," Serai replied, her voice grave. "If I may be so bold, would you convey my best wishes to him for a speedy recovery?"
"Gladly," the High Lady said. She turned her face to Isana and smiled politely. "And you, lady. Would you happen to be Isana of Calderon?"
Isana bowed her head in reply. "If you please, Your Grace, just Isana."
Lady Placida arched a brow and studied Isana with intent, alert eyes. "No, Steadholder. I'm afraid I must disagree. Indeed, of all the women in the Realm, it would seem that you might be the one who most deserves the honorific. You've done something no other woman in all the history of Alera has ever done. You've earned rank and title without resorting to marriage or murder."
Isana shook her head. "The First Lord deserves the credit, if anyone. I had little say in the matter."
Lady Placida smiled. "History seldom takes note of serendipity when it records events. And from what I have heard, I suspect an argument could be made that you very much did earn the title."
"Many women have earned titles, Your Grace. It doesn't seem to have been a factor in whether or not they actually received them."
Lady Placida laughed. "True enough. But perhaps that is beginning to change." She offered her hands. "It is a distinct pleasure to meet you, Steadholder."
Isana clasped the other woman's hands for a moment, smiling. "Likewise."
"Please tell me that Serai is not your guide here in the capital," the High Lady murmured.
Serai sighed. "Everyone thinks the worst of me."
"Tut, dear," Lady Placida said calmly, her eyes shining. "I don't think the worst of you. I happen to know it. And I shudder to think to what kinds of shocking experiences the good Steadholder is about to be exposed."
Serai thrust out her lower lip. "Few enough. I'm staying at Sir Nedus's manor. I've got to be on my best behavior."
Lady Placida nodded in understanding. "Isana, have any of the Dianic League's council spoken to you yet?"
"Not yet, Your Grace," Isana replied.
"Ah," said Lady Placida. "Well, I'll not bore you with a recruiting speech here at the party, but I should enjoy the chance to discuss matters with you before the conclusion of Wintersend. I think there are many things that you and the League might have to offer one another."
"I don't know what I could offer, Your Grace," Isana said.
"An example, for one," Lady Placida replied. "Word of your appointment has spread like wildfire, you know. There are thousands of women in the Realm who have been shown that there are doors that might now be open to them that were not before."
"Your Grace," Serai lied smoothly, "I am afraid that the Steadholder's time is by and large accounted for, as a guest of the First Lord's-but I happen to know the outrageously beautiful slave in charge of her calendar, and I should be glad to speak to her on your behalf to see if we can open up a time."
Lady Placida laughed. "My own time is somewhat limited, you know."
"I do not doubt it," Serai said. "But perhaps something might be arranged. What are your mornings like?"
"Filled with endless receptions for the most part, but for my lord husband's audience with the First Lord."
Serai arched a thoughtful brow. "There is usually quite a bit of walking involved during the audience. Perhaps you might permit the Steadholder to accompany you for conversation?"
"An excellent notion," Lady Placida said. "But two days too late, I am afraid. My lord husband was first on the list this year." Her words were light and pleasant, but Isana saw something shrewd and calculating in her eyes for a moment. "I'll have one of my staff contact you to find a time to take tea with the Steadholder-if that is all right with you, of course, Isana."
"Oh. Yes, of course," Isana said.
"Excellent," Lady Placida said, smiling. "Until we meet again, then." She turned away to take up a conversation with a pair of grey-bearded men, each wearing the deep purple sash of a Senator.
Isana's stomach clenched in frustration and worry. She glanced at Serai, and said, "There must be someone else."
Serai frowned at the High Lady's back for a moment, and murmured to Isana, "Of course, darling. If at
first you don't succeed, pick the next most likely course of action." The courtesan looked around the garden. "Mmm. Lord and Lady Riva probably aren't going to be very interested in helping you, I'm afraid. They very much resent how the First Lord appointed your brother as the new Count Calderon without consulting them on the matter."
"Who does that leave?" Isana asked.
Serai shook her head. "We'll keep trying until we've heard no from everyone. But let me go speak to Lord Rhodes."
"Shouldn't I come with you?"
"No," Serai said, firmly. "Remember, I think he's going to rather enjoy the look of you. I'd like to spring that on him as a surprise. It may warm him to the idea of taking you with him. Just watch me and come over when I wave, darling."
"All right," Isana said.
Serai glided through the attendees, smiling and exchanging courtesies as she went. Isana watched her, and felt suddenly vulnerable without the Cursor's presence and guidance. Isana glanced around, looking for a place she could wait without jumping like a frightened cat every time someone walked behind her. There was a long stone bench beside a nearby fountain, and Isana settled lightly down on it, making sure that she could see Serai.
A moment later, a woman in a red gown settled on the other end of the bench and nodded pleasantly at Isana. She was tall, her hair dark though shot with silver. She had clear grey eyes and lovely, if remote features.
Isana nodded back with a smile, then frowned thoughtfully. The woman seemed familiar, and a moment later she recognized her from the attack at the windport. She was the woman Isana had stumbled into.
"My lady," Isana said, "I'm afraid I didn't get the chance to beg your pardon at the windport this morning."
The woman arched a brow, expression quizzical, then she suddenly smiled. "Oh, on the landing platform. There were no broken bones-hardly a need to apologize."
"All the same. I left without doing so."
The woman smiled. "Your first time at the capital's windport?"
"Yes," Isana said.
"It can be overwhelming," the woman said, nodding. "So many windcrafters and porters and litters. All that dust blowing around-and, of course, no one can see anything. It's madness during Wintersend. Don't feel bad, Steadholder."