by T L Greylock
Eska laughed and went to him. “Uncle.” She kissed his cheek.
“Eska.” He returned her greeting.
“When did you arrive?” Eska pulled up a stool and watched across the wooden work bench as Valentin took a slender knife and divided the remainder of the dessert in two. He pushed her portion down the bench.
“Just before you, it would seem. But unlike you, I was clever enough to travel in a closed carriage.”
Eska raised a hand to her head and patted her damp, disorderly hair. Shrugging, she nibbled on the corner of the cake. “A little rain is worth winning the Bourdillon-Leveque contract.”
“Am I to congratulate you?”
“Would it be so difficult to do so?” Eska asked, keeping her voice light and knowing the answer that will come next.
“It’s a waste of time, Eska.”
“Seeing as my time is my own, that is no great loss, then.”
“Not just time, money and resources,” Valentin said, his gaze hardening. “There is nothing to be gained from that site but broken pottery.”
“Broken pottery can tell us a great deal, Uncle.”
“And after it tells you its useless story? What then? Will the Archduke buy it and add it to his collection? Will the wealthy bid on it at auction? Will the Contessa de Elvain wear a broken shard of old clay around her neck?”
Eska took a deep breath, wondering if her hands were as unsteady as her heart. “Old broken clay taught us that the ancient city of Unor was evacuated before it flooded. That the Lanoaans knew how to build kilns long before we first believed. That red corithorn once grew here, in our own soil, before the first walls of Arconia were ever raised, when this land had a name we no longer know.”
“Tales of red corithorn do not keep the Firenzia ships in sailing shape. They do not pay the wages of guides or excavators. They do not buy horses and equipment and all the countless other things we must have to maintain this company, to keep our competition at bay.” Valentin paused. “To bring honor to the name of de Caraval.”
Eska stood, the stool tottering behind her. Her uncle mirrored her movement, slowly, his forehead knit with uncertainty. It was only in that moment that Eska noticed the silver box tied with a gauzy white ribbon where her uncle’s elbow had been resting a moment before. Her latest gift. There was always a gift. He no longer seemed aware of its existence and Eska quickly looked away and met her uncle’s gaze.
“Is it so dishonorable to seek knowledge? Is it so shameful to my family that a broken pot is as much a treasure to me as a golden crown worn by some ancient king?”
Valentin took a step toward Eska. “I do not mean—”
“But you do mean it, Uncle. Perhaps you have not admitted those words out loud or even in the silence of your own heart, but they are there, within you, and I see them well enough.” Eska knew he could hear the shiver in her voice, knew he could see the hurt on her face. What she did not know, as she left the kitchen, was whether there could be some truth to what he said. The de Caraval family stood at the right hand of the Archduke of Arconia, amid a glittering, ambitious horde who would seize any opportunity to supplant them. Old pottery did not win trade arguments. Scraps of burnt cloth did not skewer opponents and rivals. Broken things long forgotten did not inspire loyalty or grant power. And power, Eska knew, was the pendulum on which Arconia, and the world, swung.
***
Eska sank into the copper tub and inhaled deeply, willing herself to relax but unable to shake the memory of the disappointment that had clouded her uncle’s face. It was a conversation they had conducted on more than one occasion, each instance a variation on the theme, and each lasting only moments. Eska did not dare think of what might befall should their tempers truly take control and they speak words they could not undo. And yet each time they clashed over the future of the Firenzia Company, each time she reminded her uncle she preferred scholarly work to treasure hunting, Eska felt the sting of uncertainty and the pain of losing her beloved uncle’s trust and affection all over again.
That sting had all but burned away the excitement of the result of the morning, leaving only the faint impression of fear that had tailed Eska, literally, from the Court Beneath the Sun. As she breathed in the steam scented with mint, she attempted to summon it back again, the promise of the unknown, the mystery of the excavation that awaited her—all hers, at last. She could feel the dirt beneath her hands, feel the sun on the back of her neck as she bent to her tasks, feel the tools in her fingers. Eska smiled a little to herself, content with that spark of joy, dunked her head under the water, and then summoned her maid to the tub.
“Alize, did you add the harrow root powder as I asked?” Eska brushed water from her face and leaned back, eyes closed.
The young woman’s hands paused on Eska’s scalp. “Yes, my lady.” A reluctant answer for a task reluctantly performed.
Eska sighed. “I am not unsympathetic to your concerns. When I am old and grey before my time and my eyesight fails me and when all the things you dread have come to pass, then you may say you told me so and I will not argue.”
Silence. Then: “You should smell it in a moment, my lady.”
Alize spoke true. The bath water came alive, fizzing gently, and then the scent, rich and spicy, wafted up to tickle Eska’s nostrils. She kept her eyes closed as the vapor grew, swirling so thick she could feel it on her skin, each inhale expanding Eska’s lungs until she felt as though she could breathe in the entire sky.
She couldn’t, of course. But the harrow root made enticing promises and Eska would step out of the bath feeling more revitalized than she would after a night of deep sleep. The sense of strength, of endurance, would linger for days.
As the vapor diminished, Alize spoke again. “I’ve packed the kelp extract, my lady. You should try to remember to use it. You know how the sun dries out your hair. And the new cream for your hands.”
“I shall try my best, Alize,” Eska murmured.
“The midsummer masquerade is not far off. Will you return in time to attend?”
Eska smiled. “I sincerely hope I am far too deep in a pit on the outskirts of Toridium to contemplate returning to Arconia for a masquerade.”
“Surely the crew can do without you for a few days.” Alize hesitated. “And surely you would enjoy a respite from the dust and toil.”
“What is it you’re not saying, Alize?”
The maid was rinsing a conditioning oil from Eska’s hair. “I have heard rumors, my lady.”
“What sort of rumors?”
“That Alexandre de Minos intends to return to the city in time to attend the masquerade.”
“Oh?”
As it happened, Eska was uncertain if she wanted to know more. Alexandre de Minos was a complication she could do without, but there was no denying curiosity had welled within her. In the end, she was momentarily spared from framing any thoughts on Alexandre de Minos by the sudden invasion of the bath chamber by a young man winded from taking the stairs three at a time.
“My lady,” he gasped at the same moment Alize began to berate him for his lack of decorum.
“It’s all right, Alize. Bastien wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.” Eska began to rise from the tub, the water level dropping to her collarbone, then thought better of it as the young man’s face grew crimson with sudden embarrassment. Eska stayed put and gestured for the heavy robe draped over a stool.
The maid stepped between the young man and the tub with the rigidity of an officer at attention and spread the robe wide. Eska stood, letting the water cascade off her skin, and stepped out of the tub. As Bastien tried to find anywhere to rest his gaze that wasn’t Eska, Alize wrapped the robe tight, cinching the belt at the waist as though her knot were the only thing standing between Eska and utter ruin.
“That’s quite enough, Alize.”
“But your hair, my lady.”
“Is wet,” Eska said, growing impatient. “And will have no impact on what Bastien has to t
ell me.” She stepped around the crestfallen maid. “What is it, Bastien?”
“Barca Company, my lady,” Bastien blurted. “They know. They’re on the move.”
Despite the warmth of the robe and the room, Eska’s skin prickled as though chilled.
“How?” she murmured. “And what do the Barcas want with Onandyan pottery?” But these were not the questions to ask when time was of the essence. There would be time later to discover how Firenzia’s fiercest rivals had learned of the secret contract and the judgment handed down at the Court Beneath the Sun that morning—and what Manon Barca thought was buried on the banks of the Alencio. “How long do we have?” she amended.
“They were casting off, my lady, when I left the docks. We’re lost.”
“Never say that, Bastien,” Eska said. She reached back and twisted her wet hair into a knot at the crown of her head. “Alize,” she commanded without turning to look at the maid. With a mournful noise, Alize went to work pinning the hair in place. “We are not lost so long as we have the fastest ship in the harbor. I will not have my legally won contract stolen out from under me.” Eska was pleased to see her defiance and spirit bring a gleam of pride to Bastien’s eyes and there was no room in his face for embarrassment as Eska began to undo the knot holding the robe closed. “Go. See that everything is ready. I will only be a moment.” As Bastien turned to leave, Eska placed a hand on his sleeve. “We will catch the bastards.”
As Bastien pounded down the stairs, the door to the bath chamber left wide open in his wake, Eska let the robe drop. “My traveling clothes, Alize.” The maid was already there, knowing better than to give further voice to whatever anxiety she felt at the state of Eska’s hair. Eska, her skin still damp from the bath, pulled on the loose white shirt, its billowy sleeves sticking to her arms, but this, it seems, was too much for Alize to bear.
“But your undergarments! The corset!”
“This is hardly the time to have whale bones sticking into my ribs, Alize.” Eska pulled on her trousers and was so intent on buttoning the grey and silver embroidered waistcoat Alize had maneuvered her into that she did not notice the figure in crisp blue and white looming at the bath chamber door.
“My lady,” Alize said, dropping into a curtsey.
Eska looked up. “Mama.” Her fingers fumbled at the buttons. “I’m afraid I have no time,” she said, but Arconia’s Ambassador-Superior cut her off.
“I’m afraid you do have time for this.” Eska’s mother used her thumb to brush away a bead of water forming on Eska’s hairline, then took a seat on the stool Alize had vacated. “You are headed to Toridium?”
Eska gave the briefest of nods as she fastened the final button.
“As is a ducal delegation.”
It was a collision of the sort Eska had mostly managed to avoid: her archaeological pursuits for Firenzia Company and her duties as her mother’s primary aide kept her busy but seldom interfered with each other. And yet this particular collision brought a wide smile to Eska’s face.
Sorina de Caraval raised a dark eyebrow. “Am I to understand this pleases you? I had thought you might beg to be excused. I know how long you’ve been waiting for this contract.”
“You would be correct, Mama, if not for the fact that a ducal delegation is exactly what I need right now.”
The Ambassador-Superior’s forehead wrinkled ever so slightly. “You know I can’t allow you to use my position to further company dealings.”
“And I’m not asking you to. In fact, I’m not asking you to do anything. All that matters is that Toridium will know of your impending arrival. And your august station demands that all other traffic in and out of the city must be halted. That in itself is enough.” The image of the Barca ship held at bay, impotent, within sight of the city but unable to reach it, brought a grin to Eska’s face.
Sorina smiled again as she rose from the stool. “I think it’s better I don’t ask what this is all about. Come, I’d hate to have to reprimand my own daughter for keeping a ducal delegation waiting.”
***
Eska did end up keeping the ducal delegation waiting, but not by choice.
She was halfway to Arconia’s harbor when her carriage came to an abrupt halt, the horse’s hooves skittering on the cobblestones amid the shouts of concern from her driver.
Eska put her head out the window but could see little other than a few mounted figures blocking the narrow street. The clattering of more hooves had Eska twisting and looking in the direction the carriage had come—sure enough, three more horses were approaching from behind, hemming the de Caraval carriage in.
“Alfonse, what is it?” Eska called. It was broad daylight, which made the strange quiet in the street all the more disconcerting.
“Lady de Caraval, won’t you join me in the fresh air.”
The deep voice had all the trappings of politeness, but Eska knew the face it belonged to. And that face had been pale with anger the last time it looked at her.
Her frustration outweighing her fear, Eska leaned farther out the window and put a smile on her face just as the speaker walked his horse into view.
“Lord de Venescu. How charming that we should cross paths.”
Thibault de Venescu, the Iron Baron, sat astride a tall chestnut stallion. He took up more than a third of the narrow street and was flanked by a pair of mounted men who looked less vicious and yet somehow more competent than the thugs de Venescu had used to chase her the night before. They were dressed in black and each had a ring of golden daggers, the Iron Baron’s symbol, sewn around the right bicep. Eska didn’t need to look at the other three riders a second time to know she was surrounded by professional mercenaries.
“Most charming, indeed, my lady.”
“I thought our business concluded last night.” Eska glanced quickly at Alfonse atop the carriage’s driving seat—and was not reassured. The older man had shrunk back against the wall of the carriage, making himself as small and unthreatening as possible.
“Perhaps in the eyes of the inspectors, but I am not in the habit of allowing thieves to go unpunished, even thieves with names such as yours.” The stallion fidgeted under de Venescu’s firm grip on the reins.
“But you have your property,” Eska said lightly. He didn’t, of course. Or not all of it, at least. But Eska was still banking on the Iron Baron’s ignorance regarding his very pretty box.
“Even so. You breached my home. I do not take such a violation lightly.”
Eska sighed. She could have absolved herself of some of the blame by telling the Iron Baron that she hadn’t actually set foot inside the ugly monstrosity he called a home—that he ought to question his household staff if he wished to know how the reliquary came into her possession. But Eska had no wish to be responsible for the retribution such an admission would no doubt inflict on the unsuspecting staff.
“It seems, then, we are at an impasse. What is it that you want, my lord? Do you think to kill me in the street? Or do you simply delight in threatening people and seeing them tremble at your feet and beg for mercy?” Eska faked a gasp and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lord, I think I begin to understand. You require cruelty and terror to perform.”
As expected, Thibault de Venescu shoved his knees into his stallion, which surged forward until it was nearly snorting into the window of the carriage. Eska forced herself not to flinch back. The sound of carriage wheels and voices from up ahead helped her breathe again.
The Iron Baron heard it, too. “I’ll have my way with you, bitch,” he growled as he backed his horse away. “Consider this your warning. When you return to Arconia, you’ll be answering to me.”
Eska smiled. “As you say, my lord.” She raised her voice. “Alfonse. Drive on.”
To her relief, the driver stirred and did as she said, and the Iron Baron and his mercenaries did not follow. Even so, Eska’s heart did not return to its normal pace until they reached the company wharf and the familiar masts of the Argonex came into view. And
it was only once Eska felt the fresh sea air in her hair and the first salt spray against her skin as the ship sailed out of Arconia’s harbor that she put all thoughts of Thibault de Venescu and his threats behind her.
Chapter Four
“Pears, I think.”
“They won’t catch us.”
Manon Barca didn’t take her eyes off the curving coastline and the stretch of blue water behind her ship, but the call of a gull made her wonder how high a bird would have to fly to see the Firenzia ship that was, whatever her brother might say, no doubt bearing down on them. Perrin had given up watching the horizon not long after the Carribe had slipped out of the crowded confines of Arconia’s harbor. With his face tilted to the sun, his eyes closed, and his legs resting on the rail, her brother looked as though he did not much care if the Firenzia ship caught them. But then, Perrin was very good at looking as though he did not care.
“They will.” The words seemed to loosen something within Manon and she dropped the hand shielding her gaze from the bright sun. For two days she had watched the horizon from sunrise to sunset; at last she turned away from the wake and settled her gaze on her brother instead. “Whether here on the waves or by the time we reach the walls of Toridium, they will catch us. Firenzia Company spares no expense.”
Perrin made a noise of agreement. “How pleasant it must be to know the ship beneath your feet is one of the fastest in all the Seven Cities of Bellara.” Though his eyes remained closed and his face betrayed nothing, Manon could tell her brother was thinking of their own expenses, paid for by loans they couldn’t afford at crippling interest rates. And that wasn’t even including the third mortgage Manon had taken out on the summer house at Isle de Gaustin, the only piece of collateral that still belonged to her family. Perrin remained innocent of that particular business transaction and Manon would rather cut out her own tongue than tell him of it.
“You could have that one day, you know,” Manon said, her voice so soft she wasn’t sure Perrin would hear. “You pretend otherwise, but I know Julietta de Raveux is fond of you. You could,” Manon paused, “escape all of this.”