Shadows of Ivory

by T L Greylock

  Alexandre leaned forward, properly intrigued. “Now that is quite the unexpected turn of events. You’ll press charges?”

  “Naturally. The woman put lives at risk, not to mention my property. She deserves to join her father.”

  Alexandre thought for a moment. “The Vismarch may want to hold and try her here, and would be within his rights to do so. Will you press to have her returned to Arconia? There’s no telling what the Toridium courts will do. In Arconia, her family name makes her something of a known quantity.”

  Eska hesitated, then took a drink. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far yet. It was only yesterday and I’ve been out here since dawn.” She rose from her chair and went to the curtain of willow branches, looking out at the site Cedric was mapping.

  Alexandre followed her there, his face turning serious. “I’m relieved you are unhurt, Eska.”

  The hand on her back was light, barely brushing her skin through the fabric of her shirt, and yet deliberate. Eska froze, startled by the unexpected touch, but did not look away.

  She watched a shaft of light spread across his face as the willow shifted in a sudden breeze, and for a moment she was drawn into the past, into a time when everything between them had been easy and true and unbroken. There were so many things she once would have told him—of her ever-more-frequent arguments with her uncle, of her own doubts about her career, of her hopes for the excavation—but the past had never been easy or true or unbroken. She had learned that. Eska kept silent, unable to trust her tongue, hoping he didn’t suspect what words might lie in wait there.

  Alexandre held her gaze for a long moment and then sighed, his hand dropping away from Eska’s back. “I’m expected in the city. I’ll be here some days. I’m sure our paths will cross again.” He made the smallest of bows. “Give your mother my best wishes.”

  Eska nodded, then watched as he pushed through the willow and strode back toward the river, the sun, having vanquished the fog, gleaming on his golden head.

  ***

  Eska rubbed the erbore oil into her palms and then ran her hands through her hair, smiling at the subtle scent, then twisted it back and up into a simple style. Alize knew her work well, though no doubt the maid would be horrified at the sight of Eska. She had spent the day at the site, longer than she ought to have, seeing to the set up of the tents and equipment and keeping an eye on Cedric Antilles as the dig master mapped and sectioned the site, and had only rushed back behind Toridium’s walls when the sun threatened to dip below the horizon. There had been no time to do more than splash a wet sponge here and there, and as for her hair—well, the lightweight oil was doing its best to tame the flyaways, but it still had a decidedly wild look that Eska did not have the time to help. At least she was dressed appropriately for the state dinner. If only she weren’t still sweating.

  “Are you ready?”

  Sorina de Caraval appeared in the mirror over Eska’s shoulder and Eska turned to face her mother.

  “Do I look acceptable?” State dinners were matters of great import and formality. The tone set that evening would affect the negotiations between the Vismarch’s chancellors and the ducal delegation.

  Sorina smiled. “You look like yourself, which is to say, you look both like a windswept prairie and a goddess of legend.”

  Eska laughed. “I quite like the sound of that.”

  “You should. No one else will look like that tonight. And I’m counting on it.” Sorina stepped close to her daughter and straightened the jewel that hung from Eska’s neck. Then she paused. “On second thought, take that off. You’re all the more alluring without it.”

  Eska reached up to undo the clasp. “Counting on it? You sound like you’re trying to marry me off.”

  “It’s important that we please the Vismarch tonight, Eska,” Sorina said. “I want you to charm him.”

  “We all know the Vismarch isn’t interested in women, Mama. My charms will likely go unnoticed.” Eska set the necklace on her dressing table.

  Sorina smiled again, her dark eyes twinkling. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an eye for beauty. Besides, he happens to be a self-proclaimed expert on ancient artifacts. No doubt the two of you have much to speak of.”

  “Self-proclaimed.” Eska sighed and put a hand to her heart in mock agony. “Mama, you know just how to torture me.”

  Sorina laughed. “Fair is fair. You used my ship. I’m using your brain.”

  “I understand and accept my charge, Ambassador-Superior,” Eska said, sweeping low in a bow. “I’ll have the Vismarch staring deeply into my eyes as we speak of the nuances in clay pot firing techniques utilized by the Evidorian civilization.”

  “And you’ll enjoy yourself, though you might swear otherwise. Now, if you hadn’t been digging in the dirt all day, you’d be better prepared for tomorrow’s initial meeting with Chancellors Fiorlieu and Pelle, but you should know before going in there tonight that the Archduke has charged us with negotiating a better deal on the fees Arconian ships pay to use Toridium’s harbor.”

  “They are exorbitant,” Eska murmured as she bent down to adjust one of her shoes. “My purse is considerably lighter since arriving yesterday.”

  “Naturally nothing will be said tomorrow of ships and harbors. We’ll begin by speaking to the Chancellors of grain transports—overland.”

  “Naturally. I take it that at some point an innocuous comment about the dangers to transports posed by bandits and other nefarious schemers will be voiced? They’re so slow and large, after all, and difficult to protect. Not to mention the very poor state of the roads running to and from Toridium. Why, there must be a graveyard of broken wagon wheels and axles along the Tor road. Such a waste. It would be enough to make any prudent Arconian merchants look elsewhere to sell their goods.”

  Sorina smiled. “Exactly.”

  “Ambassador-Superior?” A skinny young assistant dressed in black poked his head into the dressing chamber in the suite of rooms Eska had been granted use of by the Vismarch. “Everyone is assembled.”

  Sorina nodded. “Good. Thank you, Hugo.” She turned to Eska. “Do try not to let the Vismarch hear your stomach rumbling, my dear.”

  Eska flushed and was trying not to laugh as she and the Ambassador-Superior joined the rest of the ducal delegation in the wide, tiled hallway. They began to process to the Hall of the Lions, the great pyramid-shaped chamber that had been built by the old kings of Toridium.

  She was still smiling when the Vismarch of Toridium took her hand in that pyramid—because the Vismarch of Toridium was wearing a very elaborate, very ornate, very ostentatious collar, a heavy thing of gold and gems and obsidian that lay across his collarbones in the abstract shape of an eagle, wings reaching to his shoulders, talons clutching a large emerald.

  It also happened to be very fake.

  Eska made the necessary gestures, the words flowing from her tongue with the ease of one who has lived her whole life in the sphere of the rulers of the Seven Cities. But her eyes never strayed long from the piece around his neck—meant, it was clear, to be a relic of the ancient Pharecian queens of the sweeping sands far to the south. It was a beautiful forgery. Made with skill and care. But for one error. The queens of Pharecia never put eyes on their eagles and this one had a pair of very gorgeous, very blue sapphires set in its golden head. Perhaps the craftsman had not known. Or perhaps the original owner, unsettled by the unnerving gaze of the sightless creature, had demanded the alteration. Either way, Eska wondered if the Vismarch was aware of the lie he wore with such obvious pleasure.

  “You are all welcome to Toridium,” the Vismarch was saying after Eska and her mother had greeted the high-ranking officials arrayed behind him. “And I honor you as I would honor the Archduke himself, as friends, allies, brothers and sisters, in recognition of the love I bear for my brother-in-rule.” He clapped his slender hands together, his sleeves rippling just so. “Come, let us drink a toast in his name.” Servants rushed forward bearing trays of sp
arkling wine and the Vismarch waited until each member of the ducal delegation, down to the youngest scribe, had a diamond-encrusted glass before continuing. He raised his own and Eska mirrored him. “To the great and good health of Valexi Arcturos de Vauquelin-Preux.”

  “Arcturos,” Eska murmured alongside the rest of the Arconians, using the shortened name the Archduke permitted. They drank from their glasses.

  “And to your health, my dear Vismarch,” Sorina spoke up. “You are, as always, the most generous of hosts.” She nodded her deference and the glasses were raised once more.

  The Vismarch smiled and lifted his free hand. “Unfortunately, we do not dine alone tonight. I regret that our simple little supper party between friends has, by necessity, expanded into a larger affair.” He did not seem very regretful at all. Eska noted the way the left corner of his mouth kept twitching upward—either it had a mind of its own or he had reason to be pleased by the prospect of the new arrangements. “Ah, I think I hear our new companions now.”

  It was Alexandre. Of course it was Alexandre.

  Eska knew she could hardly expect that the Vismarch of Toridium would exclude the suddenly-arrived Arch-Commander of Arconia. Such things weren’t done. And yet she hoped the extra dining couches she had noticed upon entering—greater in number than the delegation and the Toridium representatives—were part of the entertainment.

  Alexandre de Minos entered the pyramid as he entered any other room, that is, he managed to own the Hall of the Lions from the moment he set foot in it without giving the appearance—or threat—of doing so.

  His strides were strong and precise, with just a hint of the drill yard, his five-button coat outrageously simple for the occasion and yet just as outrageously refined, the polish of his boots rivaled the shine on the glass-infused tile floor, and four officers who had perfected the art of staring an opponent into submission acted as escort.

  Alexandre bowed low before the Vismarch. “Please forgive our lateness, your Eminence.”

  Eska exchanged a glance with her mother, knowing they were of one mind. Though the dinner was a formal one, not meant to witness any true negotiations, the presence of guests from outside the delegation, most especially the presence of a war hero who ranked only just below the rulers of the Seven Cities of Bellara, rendered it nearly useless.

  “You no doubt know your compatriots,” the Vismarch was saying, and Eska became aware he was gesturing in her direction. Alexandre met her gaze without any hint of the hesitation she had detected by the river that morning.

  “Ambassador-Superior.” Alexandre stepped forward and bowed once more. “Lady de Caraval.” Eska swallowed her grimace and found it was not difficult to match his poise and distance.

  “Arch-Commander de Minos,” she said, nodding her respect, eyes lowered. “What an honor that you are able to join us this evening.”

  “I assure you, my lady, the honor is all mine.”

  The Vismarch clapped his hands once more and the servants stepped in unison to their posts beside each dining couch. Eska’s mother was granted the seat of honor on the Vismarch’s right, Alexandre on the left, leaving Eska, once all the finely dressed officials of Toridium had arranged themselves, with a couch some four removed from the Vismarch. As she settled onto the cushions, she shared another look with Sorina, whose frustration was noticeable only to those who understood that her smile was just a touch too sharp. There would be little chance of Eska conversing with the Vismarch that evening, little hope of establishing a rapport the Ambassador-Superior could use to her advantage in the negotiations to come.

  “That’s a very green sort of green.”

  The voice came from Eska’s left, the speaker a man who would have been counted as thin were it not for the decidedly rotund belly that protruded from his middle, entirely at odds with his scrawny frame. He perched on one hip and elbow and held out his hands one at a time for a servant to wipe clean as he looked at Eska’s dress.

  Eska glanced down at her gown and then back at her dining companion. “Why, I do believe you’re correct, sir.”

  He frowned, clearly uncertain if she was mocking him, then shooed away the servant, who fetched a new cloth and came to Eska’s couch. “What do you call it?” he asked.

  “Well, I daresay green would do. But perhaps you’d prefer peacock.”

  This seemed to displease him. “Peacocks are far more blue in the feather, madam.”

  “Then surely it’s jade.”

  His lips merged into a thin line and he merely shook his head at that suggestion, clearly unable to voice his extreme disagreement.

  “What, then, would you call it, sir?”

  He pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Green.”

  “Ah.” Eska would have given a great deal in that moment to be able to roll her eyes all the way up to the tip of the pyramid far above, but her grip on decorum was just strong enough—for the time being. “May I have the honor of your name, sir?”

  The man sniffed as though the honor was very high indeed. “I am Antoni Cesare Beranaire, Master Clothier to the Vismarch himself.”

  What a clothier, however lofty, was doing at a state dinner was beyond Eska, but she smiled and nodded. “I am—”

  “I know who you are.” Beranaire sniffed again and turned his face away to contemplate, with not inconsiderable disdain, the plate of figs and tiny pickled fish set on the low table before him.

  “How charming,” Eska muttered as she, too, resolved to focus on her food for a moment before forcing herself to utter more pleasantries. Beranaire, apparently in conflict with the sneer on his face, did not give her the chance to do more than pick up a fig before speaking again.

  “You Arconians have such limited taste in clothing, you know. You should look to others for inspiration.” He gestured at Eska, a fish waggling between his fingers. “No structure. No artistry.”

  “Where would you suggest I look, sir?”

  The clothier made his gesture larger, encompassing the entire pyramid. Eska half-feared, half-hoped to see the fish slip free and arc across to the dining couches opposite. “Look around,” Beranaire said. “The Vismarch is an example of the highest degree. I dress half of his officials as well.”

  “Only half?” The disbelief was perhaps a bit too thick on her tongue, but Beranaire seemed not to notice.

  “You are not unattractive, madam,” he went on. “I would dress you in swaths of white.”

  “Swaths. Sounds difficult to walk in.” Eska managed a bite of her fig. By all the dead librarians, she was hungry.

  Beranaire looked at Eska as though she were speaking gibberish. “Walk? Are you meaning to make a pilgrimage from here to Teroa?”

  “I am an archeologist, sir, and as such need a certain degree of mobility.”

  Eska did not think his expression of outrage could be greater if she had said the Vismarch was poorly dressed. The fish had still not made it to his mouth. They were both going to be insufficiently fed at this rate.

  “You are a spider herder?” he spluttered.

  Eska stared, decorum forgotten for a moment as she tried to decipher the man’s words. Perhaps he was under the influence of a great deal of wine.

  “You mean an arachnidologist,” Eska said, inventing the profession on the spot. “Unfortunately, sir, I do not work with spiders, much less have the rare ability to herd them.”

  His gaze narrowed, his incomprehension a palatable presence between them. Eska very desperately wanted to laugh or tell Albus—or both, preferably both. She could imagine earning a snicker from the librarian, for he would attempt to maintain his dignity, a snicker that would burst into tear-inducing laughter. She could have gone on, could have played on the man’s complete ignorance and confused notions about spiders for the rest of the dinner—and gotten a great deal of amusement out of it. But her mother’s presence four couches away held Eska in check and she kept her mouth shut, resolving instead to focus on the next plate lest she miss out on that one, too,
provided Beranaire would let her eat.

  He didn’t.

  By the time four courses had come and gone, Eska had managed to swallow no more than one fig, a single bite of a mushroom stuffed with onions, a tiny raw, jellied quail egg dipped in spiced oil, and a spoonful of cold soup—it hadn’t arrived cold. Despite his obvious distaste for Eska, her city, and the shade of green she was wearing, Beranaire seemed determined to prevent either of them from having a moment’s peace. She honestly could not have said which of them was more miserable.

  Rescue came in the form of the Arch-Commander of Arconia. Were she not so absurdly grateful when Alexandre called over from his couch to ask her opinion on where the Archduke should build his latest palace, she might have resented knowing that Alexandre had been watching her predicament, no doubt with no small amount of amusement, and deemed her in need of assistance.

  “The Bay of Heloi is the obvious answer,” Eska answered promptly. “The white sands and cliffs will complement the black stone he has purchased for the project.”

  “Black stone?” The Vismarch leaned forward on his elbow. “From Cienna? Or Pharecian?”

  “Pharecian, your Eminence. It is the finest black stone in all the world, after all.”

  The Vismarch smiled; clearly they were about to enter upon one of his favored subjects. “Indeed, the Pharecian queens had the finest of everything, save for the skill to keep power. This collar is Pharecian,” he said, his hand coming up to rest on the eagle’s outstretched, jeweled feathers, “though I’m sure you knew that already, Lady de Caraval. Your mother tells me you are quite knowledgeable about such things.”

  And there it was. A moment for Eska to make an impression on the Vismarch. Also a moment to nearly guarantee she wouldn’t have to exchange another syllable with Beranaire, but that, surely, was not the reason Eska spoke her next words. Surely.