Lady Henterman's Wardrobe

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “I am being obtuse and poor,” he said. “I ask forgiveness, for I should be plain. My name is Khejhaz Nafath, and I am a spice merchant with a shop in this neighborhood.”

  “Spice shop!” Raych was almost too loud in her exclamation. She had heard of a Poasian spicery in the neighborhood, but she had never dared. Nor had anyone she had ever spoken to. She wondered how the place stayed in business.

  Probably through shady dealings, like so many things in this part of the city.

  “Yes, of course, Mister Nafath. I didn’t realize there had been business with you before. Mister Mersh didn’t leave me with complete records of his accounts. Is there an outstanding payment or such?”

  “Not at all, Missus Rynax,” he said. “Though I would welcome the opportunity to gain you as a customer.”

  She managed a weak smile. “We get our spices from Remeniux’s.”

  He sighed. “Yes, indeed. I am . . . familiar with that enterprise.” He looked as if saying that gave him physical pain.

  “Was . . . was that what you came for?”

  “In no small part,” he said. “I’m just a simple merchant, selling goods that are perhaps too exotic a luxury to be lucrative. But I took the venture of preparing a small sample of my wares, to present as a gift. I offer this with no expectations or conditions.” He held out the case to her.

  He kept the case held out for a period of time that turned awkward—just holding it for her to take without any change in his expression. Perhaps this was a Poasian method of presenting a gift.

  “Thank you,” Raych said, taking it from him. She wasn’t sure what else to do. “I’m afraid I’m not too familiar with Poasian spices or how they might be used.”

  He nodded. “While they have proven popular to some circles of Druth culture, knowledge of their potential is still quite limited.” He made a strange tapping gesture on his ear. “I know someone you might ask. Your brother-in-law.”

  Raych felt her blood chill. “Asti, why—”

  “Asti Rynax has very broad knowledge of many subjects. For example, this one—” He pointed to one jar in the case. “That one is rijetzh. I believe he knows exactly how he could use that.”

  Raych wanted to run upstairs and lock herself in the safe room, but her feet wouldn’t move. “Why—” Her voice deserted her for a moment. Clearing her throat. “Why would Asti . . .”

  “Be of serenity, Missus Rynax,” Nafath said, taking a few steps away from her. “This is nothing more than a simple gift from one local business to another. We should all do such things from time to time. For the sake of the neighborhood.” He said this last part with a strange emphasis that she didn’t quite understand, but he gave her a nod as if they were in complete covenant with each other.

  “But—”

  He was opening the door. “Simply tell your husband’s brother what I brought you, and who brought it. And do that as soon as you possibly can. I am certain he will appreciate it.”

  He touched his neck while bowing his head, and went out into the street.

  Raych ran over and latched the door, and then threw the secret double-bolt. Then she went to the back alley door and did the same. Leaving the box of Poasian spices on the kneading counter, she went up to the apartment to lie in the bed with Corsi. She didn’t need to do anything else until her husband came home, and no saint or prophet could make her do otherwise.

  Chapter 24

  “HOW’S THE FOOT?” ASTI asked Verci as he adjusted the walking brace in the back of the carriage as it rumbled its way east. Asti and Helene were both in their full regalia as a pair of nobles, though there still was a certain shabbiness to their finery. Asti had insisted that it was fine—they were playing the role of low-in-the-family nobility, pretending that they weren’t out of money. Both of their disguises were excellent, though. Almer had done some treatment to their hair to give them both the same light-brown shade, and with Pilsen’s makeup, they really did look like siblings. Helene was quite cross about Almer’s chemicals in her hair, especially when he told her that it would grow out in time.

  “Tolerable,” Verci said. The brace was doing its job, so the pain was now a dull ache. Constant, but bearable. Verci had a small vial of Almer’s pain reliever with his gear, but he had already resolved not to take any of it. Pain with clarity of thought was far preferable to a cloud of bliss.

  Verci wondered if Asti felt the same about clarity of thought, or what that even meant for his brother. Two months ago, Asti had said he was on the verge of snapping completely. Verci had feared that he would have to put Asti in Haltom Asylum, spending the rest of his days in a strappercoat to stop him from tearing his eyes out.

  Asti didn’t use the word “mission” much, but it was clear to Verci that all of this—going after the Andrendon Project or whatever was behind the fire—was the anchor holding Asti’s sanity in place. Verci wanted to get these people, bring justice to them since they would never be brought to it—but he didn’t need it.

  He just needed to keep his family safe.

  That included Asti, and his wits. If this gig was what Asti needed, Verci would dive into the blazes and beat every sinner there for his brother.

  “And you?” Verci asked. “You’re ready for this?”

  “My mouth is still stinging from the chr’dach.”

  “Be serious,” Verci said.

  “I know. I’ve got a cork on my skull right now,” Asti said.

  “Does that mean you won’t try and kill this Liora woman on sight?” Helene asked.

  “I’m pretty sure I won’t,” Asti said. “But that’s because . . .” He looked out the carriage window for a moment.

  “Because what?” Verci asked.

  “Killing her won’t solve anything,” Asti said. “It’s not like it would bring me peace.”

  “Is peace an option for you?” Verci asked.

  “Can we not get too heavy here?” Helene asked. “I’ve got enough to worry about right now. Like how I’m going to walk while wearing all this around my legs.”

  “We didn’t make women’s fashion,” Asti said.

  “These noblewomen never needed to do anything serious,” Helene said. “How did this dress get worse since the Emporium gig?”

  “Vellun made some adjustments,” Verci said. Vellun, for a naive, pretty boy with a seemingly empty head, had a decent set of skills when it came to the prep for this gig. Verci had to admit that they probably wouldn’t have pulled off the disguises if it wasn’t for that kid.

  Of course, it still remained to be seen if they did pull it off.

  “You’re still armed, though,” Asti said.

  Helene pulled up a bustle of fabric to show a hip-hanger crossbow and a few bolts strapped to her bare leg. “I don’t know how I’ll get to it in a pinch, but I have it. You’ve got your knives?”

  “Four,” Asti said.

  “Next time we do some sewage like this, I’m dressing as a man,” Helene said. “I don’t care, that’s what I’m doing.”

  “I’ve got your other two crossbows hidden in the seat down here.”

  “You’ve got them already loaded and prepped?” Helene asked.

  “Yes, even though I’ve told you—”

  “I know, it’s bad for the cords—”

  “We’re out of money, so we can’t—”

  “Hey!” Asti snapped. “Come on, we’re coming up on the entryway.”

  “Fine,” Helene said. Using her noble accent—or a best approximation, which came off as over-enunciating every word, she said, “There will be food at this, yes? Because I am starving.”

  “It’s a feast,” Asti said. “Though I believe the whole hiding game thing happens before we eat, and if everything goes smoothly—”

  “We’ll be flying down the road before it actually comes to eating,” Helene said.

  �
��I should get hidden,” Verci said, opening up the panel in the seat. “This is it.”

  “Drive forward,” Asti said, looking at him and Helene. “Especially if something goes wrong with me.”

  Verci was half into the secret compartment. “What’s going to go wrong with you?”

  “Let’s not underestimate Liora,” Asti said. “There’s still one big mystery hanging over all of this.”

  Helene nodded. “Why she wants to use us at all for this.”

  “There’s fire coming, and I’m going to take it,” Asti said. “I need you two to be ready to sweep up the ashes.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to sweep up, boys,” Helene said. “No matter what else we find, what else happens, we need to walk out of here with a few more crowns in our pockets. We’ve already been through too much fire to have nothing but ashes and dust.”

  “We’ll get the Old Lady, get our money,” Asti said.

  “Before I go in,” Verci said. “Things go wrong, no safehouse, no stable . . .”

  “First meet point is the safehouse in Colton. Then we all go to the bunker of the bakery,” Asti said. He shrugged with acquiescence. “It’ll do for tonight.”

  Verci nodded. Asti had accepted his point—Josie wouldn’t come for them. Not tonight, at least. “See you in a bit.” He dropped into the secret compartment and closed it shut.

  The carriage came to a stop. “Invitations?” a grumbly voice asked.

  “Here’s at it, old top,” Asti said in his noble voice. “Cansling and Jennidine Onterren of Greckinvale.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” the grumbly voice said. He gave some instructions to Almer, up in the driver’s seat. The carriage rolled forward again.

  “Really,” Helene said. “What sort of name is Jennidine?”

  “Yours,” Asti said, maintaining character. The carriage came to a stop again. “Get it straight, because here we go.”

  The carriage doors were opened, and Asti and Helene got out. After a moment, the carriage slowly rolled away. They were in, and Verci was on the grounds as well.

  So far, all to the plan.

  * * *

  Asti had to admit, despite her protests, Helene was walking like a woman right out of a noble finishing school. Her accent was a bit spotty, but she had gotten at least that part right.

  “It’s the shoes,” Helene whispered to him as they went through the grand hallway toward the ballroom. “You either walk the right way in these things or fall on your face.”

  “Fascinating, Jennidine,” he said. Hopefully that would be enough to keep her in character. He could see her eyes had gone wide at the level of opulence on display here: silver and gold sconces, gilded portraits—thousands upon thousands of crowns.

  “Quite a bit of opportunity, brother Cansling,” Helene said.

  “Put a button on your mouth, sister,” Asti said. They reached the entrance to the ballroom, presenting their invitation card to the steward at the door—namely, Win in his role as Mister Ungar. He had a brief moment of surprise at seeing the two of them, but covered it well enough. He had been expecting them, after all.

  “The Honorable Cansling and Jennidine Onterren of Greckinvale,” he announced to the room. Asti gave Win a nod of approval, and Win returned it—all very appropriate for their roles. Win also gave Asti a subtle signal with his hands, with his thumb crossed under two fingers. Confirmed—Win got Asti’s note, and he and Julien were briefed on the plan.

  All good so far.

  The ballroom was now lit up with hundreds of candles, and the room was filled with nobility and other swells, dressed in their finest. Asti spotted a handful of faces he knew by reputation, including a few in military dress uniform. Musicians—a traditional string quintet—were in the far corner playing a lively traditional piece that some were dancing to in the center of the ballroom. The dance was a regimented bit of steps that seemed far more work than fun. Asti never quire understood the appeal of such things.

  The crowd largely took no note of their entrance, save a woman in a purple dress whose attention fixed on Helene. Helene didn’t seem to notice, and before Asti could ask her, someone else stepped up to them.

  “What ho, Greckinvale?” Lord Henterman approached, dressed in a resplendent red suit of Turjin silk with hasps made of silver and walrus ivory. He really was a face of teeth and emptiness. “You must be these splendid cousins I have heard my dear Ana go on and on about. Nathaniel Henterman.” He put out an open arm to Asti.

  The urge to pull out a knife and plunge it into Henterman’s heart surged through Asti’s skull. He beat it down. This was not the moment.

  “Cansling,” Asti said. “Truly a pleasure to finally meet the man who captured Phidie’s heart.” If Liora was going by “Anaphide” here, by Saint Senea, Asti would make a meal out of that.

  “And you must be Jennidine,” he said to Helene, kissing her on both cheeks. Helene was clearly not quite ready for that greeting.

  “A pleasure,” she said, her voice cracking a bit. “We are ever so grateful for your hospitality.”

  “But of course,” Henterman said. “When Ana said you were in Maradaine and she had to have you come, of course, I could not deny her. My doors are open, as is my spirit. It is a blessed day.”

  “A blessed day of a blessed saint,” Asti said.

  “Indeed,” Henterman said. “Ho, Canderell! Bring those here.”

  Mister Canderell was carrying a tray of drinks—deep red in glass tumblers. “My Lord, I was to be delivering these—”

  “Sorry, nonsense, these are my Lady’s dear cousins, and we must not let them remain parched a moment longer.” He took two drinks from the tray and handed them to Asti and Helene. “You’ll forgive Canderell, he’s something of a stickler for proper methods.”

  “Of course,” Asti said.

  “My Lords, I must continue on,” Canderell said.

  That was one test passed. Canderell had looked right at Asti and showed so sign that he had seen “Mister Crile”. Not even a hint of recognition.

  “This is not wine, my Lord,” Helene said. “I presume this is your own special recipe for the sainted day?”

  “Red wine for the bloody feast is far too . . . simple,” Henterman said. “I had blood oranges shipped up from the Acserian coast, and their juice is mixed with Fuergan sloeberry liquor of the Astev family, and a little something special I’ve bought from Ravi Kenorax. Taste it.”

  Asti sipped at the drink, which was absurdly sweet. Almost sickly so.

  “Isn’t it divine?” Henterman asked.

  “Saintly,” Asti said.

  Helene didn’t seem to mind the sweetness, as she finished her drink in almost a single gulp.

  “That, my Lord, is quite something,” she said. Her demeanor was far more Maradaine Westside than Patyma Finishing School.

  “Indeed,” Henterman said, putting on an even larger and more soulless smile. “Ah, and here is my Ana.”

  Liora glided over to Lord Henterman, a stunning figure in her red dress, matching his outfit perfectly. She somehow made even a ridiculous high, white-haired wig look elegant. Asti was a bit amazed at how easily he could be of two minds about her. The beautiful, charming, and talented woman whom he had worked with—and even loved, if he was being honest with himself—was on full display, and he couldn’t help but be taken in a bit by that. She was an astounding woman, and he couldn’t deny the draw, the attraction.

  But at the same time, he wanted to rip her throat out. Even if everything she claimed was true, she had been given orders to betray him . . . he didn’t care. They had worked next to each other, in complete rhythm with each other, and she still had it in her to cross him as thoroughly as that.

  “The”—mumble—“thanks you for the sacrifice.” Those last words she had said to him still danced on the edge of his memory—someth
ing he knew was in his grasp if he could just reach it.

  He shook it away. Focus on the gig. Smile and nod.

  “Why, Nathan, I see you’ve already met my dear ones. Cansy, Jenny, darlings, it’s been too long.”

  “Too long,” Helene said, this time prepared for the kiss on the cheek coming from Liora. “But I had no intention of missing you tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you didn’t, dear,” Liora said.

  “How was your journey to Maradaine?” Henterman asked. “Uneventful?”

  “Blissfully so,” Asti said. “I’ve been quite fortunate by getting nothing but boring stories.”

  “Fortunate, indeed. Surely Ana told you of our ordeal right after the wedding.”

  “It is funny, my Lord—”

  “Nathan.”

  Asti took the cue. “It’s quite funny, Nathan. In her letters she danced around the subject, mentioning that it was quite the trial, but neglected to ever get to particulars.”

  Henterman gave a sly grin to Liora. “And here I thought these cousins were your dearest confidantes.”

  “But they are,” Liora said, crooking her arm into Asti’s. “However, some stories are best told face to face.”

  “Of course, darling,” Henterman said. “You two aren’t going to keep her to yourselves all night, are you?”

  “By no means,” Asti said. “But you’ll forgive us in advance?”

  “Absolutely!” he said gregariously. “This is a night of joy and celebration. And you need a new drink, Jennidine.”

  “I would not object, my Lord.”

  A man came over to Henterman—not dressed like a butler or other servant, but he had a regard of deference that implied he was in service to Lord Henterman. “My Lord, the Baron you wanted a private word with? He is ready.”

  “Thank you, Ender,” Henterman said. “Forgive me, darling. Duty calls.” He kissed Liora on the cheek.

  “Not too long, I would hope?”

  “Of course not,” Henterman said. “We’ll be doing the Hide shortly. I can’t miss that.”