by Neil McGarry
She was distracted from such thoughts by the blare of trumpets, signaling the arrival of the imperial contingent, and the attendees rose from their seats. Violana, Empress of Rodaas and Mother of the Realm, entered the hall, surrounded by a squad of Whites in pearl-encrusted armor. She stood barely five feet tall, sharp-nosed and sharp-eyed, with a tightly curled mass of gray hair under a golden tiara studded with emeralds. Her gown was cloth-of-silver slashed with purple velvet, which seemed to weigh more than the monarch herself. She was unsteady on her feet and leaned on the arm of a much younger woman with curly red hair, who shared the same elfin look. “Her daughter Esmerelda,” Tremaine whispered as the procession went by. “You’ll recall her dress, I imagine.” Duchess hid a sour look.
Following closely behind the pair came a young man, barely older than Duchess, with inky black hair and features sharp enough to cut stone. Good-looking, she decided, but there was something distinctly arrogant about the way his eyes swept the room. She didn’t need Tremaine to tell her this was Attys, the empress’ bastard grandson, sole offspring of the sons Violana had lost in the War of the Quills. That an illegitimate branch of the imperial tree should be openly included in the festivities was surely significant. She’d ask Minette about it later.
After Attys came other dignitaries of the imperial household, as well as high-ranking members of the three imperial cults, Jadis amongst them. Although there were numerous keepers and radiants in the procession, there was but one facet, as always seeming identical to her sisters. The group ascended the dais and took their places. Violana did not sit, but stood before her chair and faced the gathering. One by one, from the highest aristocrat to the lowest guildsman, each dropped to one knee. Unused to such movement in a dress, Duchess managed to avoid toppling over. Tremaine rolled her eyes.
The High Lambent raised his hands with a rustle of embroidered sleeves. Light flashed on his great golden headpiece as he called upon Ventaris to look with favor upon Violana, her House, her reign and her people, and to return when the darkness was once again driven back. Then Violana assumed her seat, and the feast began.
If the baron’s party had been splendor, the Feast of the Fall was avarice unimaginable. Before Duchess could wonder if she would have to fetch food, a flood of servants entered the hall, each bearing pitchers and flagons. Into cups innumerable flowed wine, mead, ale, herbal tea and fresh milk sweetened with honey. Duchess would have liked to sample them all, but she reminded herself to keep a clear head and settled for a cup of the milk. Tremaine chose a lemon-scented wine, well watered. It seemed she, too, was leery of overindulging.
The dishes came along nearly as quickly, with attendants served after their masters had taken their portions. The first course was a garlic broth, served in gilded bowls with the pattern of a wheel embossed on the bottom. After the broth came sausages, seasoned with thyme and peppers, so hot and spicy they left Duchess’ mouth tingling. Fruit was served as well, pears and apples and blueberries, and strange yellow slices of a deliciously sweet fruit she did not recognize. There were salads of spinach, carrots, grapes and walnuts, covered in a rich cheese dressing. She sampled dishes of buttered corn and herbed potatoes fried in bacon grease, nibbled on ribs of boar stewed in ale, and tore off chunks of hot bread running with butter and honey. There was a great mushroom pie as well, nearly as large around as a wagon wheel, spiced with anise, and Duchess remembered the bataya she’d eaten with Jana in the Foreign Quarter. In truth, the bataya had been better. However, the desserts more than made up for it: cherry cake, cream-filled shells of golden pastry, hard maple-sugar candies and fruit-flavored ice gotten from gods-knew-where.
The other attendants fell to with equal relish. It was probably the best meal any of them had ever eaten. When the food was finally cleared away, Duchess sat back in her chair, feeling as though she might burst. It was a good thing she would be doing no climbing that night. After that meal she’d be lucky if she could climb out of her seat.
The talk around the table was of trade, taxes and tariffs, and it seemed to go on forever. “The new adjunct harbormaster would vex Anassa herself!” declared the master of Furriers. “Try to bring anything in by ship and it’s held up for days waiting for the imperial seal!”
The head of the bankers’ guild nodded somberly. “And by the time the cargo is cleared it’s half the weight it was when it came ashore,” he said sourly, sipping wine from a silver cup. “Half of those people are no better than Shallows thieves, anyway.” There was general laughter, but Duchess did not join in. Most Shallows folk were honest and hardworking, she herself being one of a few exceptions. She didn’t like hearing tens of thousands of people, people she’d grown up with, called thieves.
Tremaine never cracked a smile, but before Duchess could so much as open her mouth, she said, “Fetch me some more of that lemon wine.” She handed a flagon to Duchess along with a look that warned, then turned back to the conversation. “As if the price of uncarded wool isn’t high enough,” she lamented, drawing a few nods of agreement. Duchess rose, clutching the flagon, and moved off in search of a servant.
As with the city itself, the banquet hall was divided according to social status. At the front of the room stood the imperial table, where the empress and the other members of her household sat, along with the highest-ranked priests. She made out the First Keeper, eating with relish and laughing loudly. Closest to the dais were the highest nobility, and farther back were the lesser nobles. Had things been different, House Kell would have been among them. Towards the back of the hall were the guildsmen and masters and a few journeymen of note, as well as the delegations of lesser keepers and radiants. Other than the representative at the imperial table, she saw no facets.
She spied a wine-bearing servant two tables over, and wove her way towards him, holding up her flagon to catch his eye. She was so intent on her quarry that she did not notice the young nobleman until she nearly bowled him over. “Pardons, my lord,” she murmured, looking up into the face of Dorian Eubius.
He smiled, clearly recognizing her. “Duchess.” He sketched a slight bow. “How wonderful to see you again. Wonderful...and unexpected.” He was dressed in a padded, sky-blue doublet embroidered with gold, and dark blue satin breeches.
She smiled despite herself. “Wherever we meet, it seems I’m destined to bump into you.”
“Either destiny or good fortune.” His smile became conspiratorial. “No man can fight the gods, and no wise man questions good luck, so I won’t argue.”
She blushed. “It’s neither luck nor the gods that brings me here, my lord, but Gloria Tremaine.”
He glanced at the guildmasters and their table. “Of the weavers guild?” She nodded. “Oh, and you must call me Dorian. As I said at our last meeting, I’m not quite a lord yet. In fact, I am the only member of my House to be included in this august company. The council invited me, and not the Baron or my lady mother. Intentionally, I’m sure.”
Her curiosity got the better of her. “Does that make you feel...uncomfortable?”
He blinked, but his smile widened. “You ask bold questions. If truth be told, I feel rather foolish. This isn’t my place, and everyone knows it. The entire affair was rather sudden — it seems Old Man Davari fell from his horse not three days ago and even as we speak his brood is standing vigil at his bedside. I was invited to fill an empty seat, though in honesty I think the invitation was made to embarrass the baron and not to honor me. At least they let me have this,” he said, gesturing to his empty scabbard.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“As a noble I must wear a weapon to such engagements in case a duel is called for, but of course weapons must never be worn or wielded in the presence of Her Imperial Highness. This is the compromise.” He shrugged. “But you are here with Guildmaster Tremaine? So you are an apprentice, then?”
They were leaning very close now, almost whispering, and she could not help but notice once more Dorian’s sea-blue eyes, so diff
erent from Lysander’s “Not precisely, no. I’m part-owner of a business with a member of the guild. We work out of Wharves for now, but I think we’ll soon be moving up the hill. You’ve never seen wool like ours, I guarantee.” She knew it was wiser to cut the conversation short, but there was something about him that inspired trust. Besides, looking into Dorian’s lovely blue eyes was far better than fetching wine for Gloria Tremaine.
“Out of Wharves...wait, do you work with the Domae weaver?”
It was her turn to blink. “How did you...?”
He laughed. “I heard the news from the baron himself. He approved of the stir she caused and made it clear he’s quite in favor of anyone’s right to earn her way up the hill.”
She laughed. “I am glad to see you again,” she said, surprised that she meant it. She found herself thinking of Terence’s offer the night before. Of finding her a guardian, and a husband. It would not be so bad to be married to the likes of Dorian Eusbius, she supposed, and she imagined that Marina Kell would be an acceptable match. Still, lovely as he might be, marriage would make him her lord and master. “I’d best go,” she said. “I’m supposed to be getting wine for the guildmaster.” She lifted her flagon.
“And I’m due back at my own table. Perhaps we shall see each other again? This is the second time we’ve met, and they say good things come in threes.”
“Until the third time?” she said.
“Until then,” he replied, stepping gracefully aside and moving off. She watched him go, feeling both relief and a shadowy disappointment. When he reached his table, he turned and, seeing her, smiled brilliantly. Then he pulled out his chair and sat.
She turned and set out looking for lemon wine, wondering whether Jana had not gotten the right of it. Perhaps she had a secret admirer after all.
* * *
After the last of the sweets had been consumed and the last flagon drained, the empress rose, signaling the end of the feast. The other diners got to their feet as she led the way back into the courtyard beneath the magnificent dome. Duchess took her place behind Tremaine and followed the flow of silk and satin.
“Is this the time for...?” Duchess ventured, leaning close.
Tremaine shook her head slightly. “Now we’ll have more wine, listen to more music, and engage in more stultifyingly boring small talk. The presentation of gifts will not occur until ninth bell.” Duchess was relieved to hear that the time had not changed. The seeds Jadis had given her should have worked their magic by then, assuming the First Keeper had not played her false. She’d hate for the Atropi to have a good night, and she the bad one.
The courtyard filled rapidly, and more servants moved about with trays, bearing flutes of wine and tankards of mead, and – Duchess groaned to see it – even more food. She felt as though she would not need to eat until next summer at the earliest, but some of the invitees were eagerly helping themselves to small cakes and other dainties from the imperial kitchens. Assisted by her daughter, Violana ascended one of the stairways and took a seat upon a great gilded chair, garnished with red velvet cushions, and seemed to take no interest in what lay below her.
Her guests, however, were more enthusiastic. They milled about, eating, drinking, eyeing one another’s clothing and engaging in the eternal Rodaasi pastime of gossip. The topic of greatest interest seemed to be the absence of any member of House Davari. Apparently Dorian’s news was already old, for the old lord had passed in the night and his progeny were already enmeshed in the long, drawn-out process of deciding his heir. Following a step behind the guildmaster, Duchess quickly learned that gossip was not the only game the guests played.
“Gloria Tremaine!” said a voice that cut through the babble of conversation. Duchess turned to see a tall, thin woman with piercing blue eyes, wearing a gown of brown and orange. A brooch shaped like a bird’s wing was pinned to the fabric over her right shoulder.
“Lady Artema,” Tremaine replied with a smile cooler than the iced wine in her glass. “Always a pleasure.”
“What a lovely gown! You know,” she said with an innocent shrug, “I’ve always said that those who come from down the hill don’t need to dress like it.” Duchess’ eyes widened, and those in the immediate area hushed, eyes bright with anticipation.
Tremaine, however, never even blinked. “How kind of you to say. Of course it cannot compare to what you’re wearing this evening. How exceedingly clever.”
“Clever?” Artema’s brow furrowed.
“Indeed. Normally I can tell the cheap knock-offs from the originals at first glance, but yours stumped me. At first.” The guildmaster flashed another smile as the onlookers snorted laughter and Lady Artema reddened. Tremaine placed a hand on Duchess’ wrist. “Come help me find something decent to drink,” she said, leaving Artema to fume in her wake.
“That was...interesting,” Duchess whispered as they moved towards a table of refreshments.
Tremaine never glanced at her. “That,” she said with obvious distaste, “was the opening volley. Watch.” She nodded minutely to the guests clustered around the table. Among them a gray-haired man with a paunch that strained a yellow jacket trimmed in orange was holding forth. Clearly aware of their approach, he did not turn from his audience.
“...and I said that was a vote that just didn’t work out. Everyone in the guild knows that. I mean, really...no one knew where she came from or who her family was. She just didn’t fit in.” He turned and made a show of surprise. “Guildmaster Tremaine! What a pleasure.” He took a large bite of the sugar-pastry he held in one hand. “Do try one of these. They’re appalling.”
“No thank you, Lord Eltorel.” She cocked her head appraisingly. “I have my figure to think of, after all. Oh, but I envy you! It must be wonderful to never need worry about how one looks.” Duchess covered a smile by pouring a cup of apple wine. As she handed the goblet to Tremaine she had to admit that Lysander could scarcely have done better.
The onlookers tittered, and one elderly woman in a crimson gown let out a belly laugh larger than she was. Eltorel paused in his chewing, probably to prevent a fit of choking. He swallowed and said, “I’d forgotten just how charming you can be, my dear. We simply must have lunch. Somewhere you’d be comfortable. The Narrows, perhaps? Or would the Shallows suffice?”
And on it went, with Tremaine circulating amongst the guests, launching verbal attacks and parrying others. Duchess’ personal favorite was an exchange with a dark-eyed beauty by the name of Valera. “I think it positively progressive, being unmarried at your age,” she told the guildmaster. “I myself feel half-scandalized being unescorted tonight.” She smiled richly.
“Unescorted?” Tremaine shrugged. “Well, no doubt your gentlemen prefer to spend the Fall with their wives.” The lady’s dark eyes flashed anger but she was too flustered to riposte.
As the evening wore on, Duchess saw that the byplay was taking a toll on Tremaine. Although at first she seemed entirely composed, the fingers on her cup were tight as claws, and Duchess kept expecting that the next jibe would end with Tremaine crushing the crystal into powder. She was as clever with words as Lysander, but where the ganymede thrived on the give-and-take of social repartee, the guildmaster seemed to suffer with every verbal cut. Lysander knew who and what he was, making any jibe, no matter how cutting, powerless. Tremaine, however, seemed acutely aware how out of place she was, and so each reminder was yet another dash of salt in a wound that refused to close. Perhaps, Duchess thought, you were only susceptible to insults if part of you believed them.
Tremaine turned to her, and for a moment Duchess wondered guiltily if the elegant woman had read her mind. “There’s Lady Vorloi at last,” she said. Duchess craned her neck, but through the press of bodies she could make out only a violet gown, the wearer’s face obscured by a lacy black headdress. “I need a word with her before the night is out.” When Duchess moved to follow, Tremaine stopped her with an upraised hand. “No. Find something else to occupy yourself while the lady and I c
onverse. She’s a bit too clever, that one, and I’d sooner she not start asking shrewd questions about my new attendant.” She moved off and Duchess felt a flash of disappointment. She’d have liked to take the measure of the much-talked-of Vorloi. She was just wondering if she might creep closer to sneak a glance when she spied the lone facet, moving languidly towards a stand of tall plants.
Moved by a sudden impulse, Duchess started after her. After many excuse mes and pardon my lords, she found herself in a small cranny of privacy created by the clever placement of plants and flowering urns. The facet stood silently, as if waiting for her, and Duchess reflected, not for the first time, that such complete stillness was uncanny. Sometimes the facets seemed less than human.
A long moment passed, and Duchess finally broke the silence. “Are you the same one I spoke with at the Sanctum?”
There was no reply, and the facet remained as still as any statue.
Duchess frowned. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? What one of you hears, all of you know. Isn’t that how it works? I might as well be speaking to anyone who wears a facet’s mask.”
The facet turned, but the gaze from that one uncovered eye revealed nothing.
“What do you see, then, with your one eye? When you look at me? When you stand in the shadows — here, or that day on the Godswalk, or in Baron Eusbius’ art gallery?” There was no reply. Duchess stepped closer. “The day you gave me my prophecy, you asked for my name. I didn’t understand, then, why you asked. The facets know everything, so to find the name of a bread girl from the Shallows should be child’s play.” She bit her lip. “I told you only my first name, but you guessed the second.”
Nothing. The eye beneath the mask watched her, unblinking.
“But you shouldn’t have to guess. You should have known.” She thought of Jadis’ questions, his faith in uncertainty, and the part of her that was beyond justice. She thought of Dorian Eusbius’ face caught in a flash of light from the Delaying Glass, of crowds of people moving to a dance she did not know and that they had never learned. “You told me once that to name a thing is to have power over it. So what power did you have, not knowing mine? And what of yours? None of you have names. I am called many things. But I know you, and I can name you. Marguerite.”