Shadows of Ivory

by T L Greylock

  “If I may be so bold, your Eminence, the next time you have occasion to come to Arconia, it would be my great honor to serve as your escort should you choose to grace the Lordican with your presence.”

  The smile grew, the smile, Eska thought, of a man who has come to accept that his life is not his own. “I should like nothing more. Unfortunately, we’ve been gone rather a long time, and I wouldn’t want your mother to fret, considering the circumstances of our exit. Come, let us return.”

  With one last glance over her shoulder at the Pharecian eagle, Eska followed the Vismarch the length of the room once more as they returned to the Hall of the Lions.

  “They will have continued eating without us,” the Vismarch said as he opened the door into the pyramid, “as is Toridua tradition. Food waits for no man or woman in my city. But we should be in time for the sweet course to finish off the meal.”

  Eska allowed herself a moment to mourn the lost courses, then swept back into the hall, matching her smile to the Vismarch’s, and returned to her couch.

  “A misunderstanding,” the Vismarch said, waving away the heads that turned to mark their entrance. And that was that. Not a question was asked, not a remark was made. But Alexandre’s gaze burned into Eska from his place next to the Vismarch, and, after making her features carefully blank, she allowed herself to meet it. Let him wonder.

  To her relief, Antoni Cesare Beranaire had withdrawn as far from her as the parameters of his couch would allow, no doubt for fear of being tainted by Eska’s disruption of the peace. He sniffed as she settled on her couch and shifted his gaze to the Arconian opposite him. To Eska’s delight, the man was wearing green and she watched Beranaire’s lips curl into a grimace as though the sight pained him.

  The Vismarch had spoken true. The servants laid out dishes of sweet confections, chocolate mosaics, iced cakes, and cream-filled pastries, with not a hint of proper sustenance remaining. Eska sighed and nibbled on a lacy piece of chocolate in the shape of butterfly. At least her stomach had long given up on crying out for attention.

  The dinner ended quietly, the Vismarch seeing his guests out with polite distance. Eska understood he was no longer the man she had spoken to in private, the man who had allowed her a glimpse of what lay beyond his public persona. He was the representative and protector of his city—and the morning would see the first official negotiations between his Chancellors and Eska’s mother. Brothers-in-rule he and the Archduke might be, steady allies the cities of Toridium and Arconia might be, but there was a great deal at stake, his pride and power not least of all.

  But amid all the polite murmurings between the representatives of the two cities at the grand doors to the Hall of the Lions, Eska noticed Alexandre in quiet conversation with the Vismarch. The Arch-Commander spoke earnestly but with the proper deference, leaving Eska to wonder what he needed from the Vismarch of Toridium.

  Eska, tired after her day out in the sun, hastened her exit, bidding her mother goodnight before hurrying back through the Vismarch’s palace to her suite in the wing granted to the ducal delegation. She withdrew gratefully into the darkness and silence, noting the pleasant scent of white miranna drifting in through the open windows from the garden below.

  Tall white candles had been left for her, alongside two letters on the desk near the windows of the sitting room. Eska scanned them—a note from her father wishing her luck in all that had brought her to Toridium, and one from Firenzia Company’s lawyer apprising her of a pending change in the excise laws of Arconia that would alter precisely nothing in the day-to-day operations of the company. The lawyer was brilliant, devoted, and tremendously good with detail, but Eska often found herself wishing he would keep such tedious nuggets of boredom to himself. And yet her uncle seldom bothered with such information, leaving Eska to feel obliged to do so in his place.

  Eska drifted to the large bay window, the notes still in hand, and settled onto the amply-cushioned seat, her mind thinking ahead to the next day and how she would fit in a visit to the excavation site amid the negotiations. Not that Cedric couldn’t handle everything without her. The dig master was fastidiously capable and the crew respected him even if they did laugh at his mustache. But she wanted to be there, wanted to see the soil samples, wanted to help direct the first exploratory trench, wanted to feel the earth beneath her boots and her tools in her hands. And if she was honest with herself, she wanted to be the first to uncover a piece of the pottery that had drawn her to Toridium. The crew held a friendly wager at each excavation, and though she would never collect the winnings, Eska always enjoyed the race.

  The hand on her shoulder startled her from a sleep that had fallen so swiftly and so heavily she had no notion she wasn’t awake. Lurching upright—no, sideways, as it turned out—Eska tumbled from the window seat and to the floor, her flailing arms catching at the figure she could not quite make out in the low candlelight.

  The laughter, however, told her everything she needed to know.

  “If you find it amusing to appear in a woman’s private chambers in the middle of the night and frighten her half to death, Alexandre de Minos, you deserve to get kneed in a very unpleasant location.” Eska rose to her knees, brandishing the pieces of mail, which were somehow still in her grasp. “And a thousand paper cuts.”

  Alexandre was on one knee in front of her, not even bothering to look contrite. “Forgive me, Eska. I only thought you might be hungry.”

  She was. Ravenous, in fact.

  “Snails?”

  “Snails? I ate a fig and a spoonful of soup for dinner and you offer me snails?”

  Alexandre stood and held out his hand. “That’s only the start. That is, if you’re not too angry at me to eat.”

  Eska took his hand and allowed him to pull her upright, using the moment to consider if Alexandre de Minos might have a reason other than feeding her for coming to see her in the middle of the night. Not that reason. No, something perhaps to do with his discrete conversation with the Vismarch. She would find out if she could.

  “Thank you. I suppose.”

  Smiling, Alexandre turned and went to the door. Opening it, he beckoned in a short parade of servants, each bearing a covered platter of things that smelled delicious. Alexandre looked around, then evidently decided the writing desk was no adequate dining table. With a flourish, he settled a square of blue, embroidered linen on the floor—the floor!—and a servant, apparently unperturbed by this turn of events, rushed forward to lay out plates, silverware, and delicate crystal wineglasses. Meanwhile, Alexandre found a cadre of suitable cushions and set them on two sides of the linen.

  “Close enough to the Toridua style, don’t you think?” he asked Eska, who could do nothing more than sigh, laugh, and shake her head all at once.

  As though they were attending the Archduke in the Varadome, Alexandre extended his hand once more to Eska, bowing low. She accepted it and lowered herself as gracefully as possible to the cushions. Alexandre did the same opposite her and dismissed the servants with a gesture.

  “That will be all. The lady and I are quite capable of serving ourselves,” he said, already lifting the lid from one of the platters as the servants vanished with quiet precision. “Ah, these smell divine.”

  The snails did indeed set Eska’s tongue to watering, but it was the swordfish that caught her attention and she helped herself to a generous portion, following that up with cold peas and radishes in a sharp dressing. For a moment, she ate in silence and Alexandre, wearing an indulgent smile on his face, let her behave like a starving urchin.

  “You really ought to bring a proper chef on these expeditions. It’s not as though the Company can’t afford it.” Alexandre spooned snails into a shallow bowl and placed it next to Eska’s plate.

  “Expeditions are for digging, Sascha, not eating. Besides, I expect most of my meals will be taken with the delegation, not with my crew.”

  Alexandre laughed and gestured to the manner in which Eska attacked her snails. “And yet he
re you are.”

  Eska made a face. “I blame my dinner companion. I swear, Sascha, I do not know the last time I had a more ridiculous conversation. The man thinks spiders can be herded.”

  Alexandre laughed. “I can only imagine how that topic came up.”

  “I’d have given anything for a meal under the stars with my crew after a hard day in the dirt. Better company, better conversation.”

  “Just admit it, you like the idea of roughing it. Sleeping under the moon, eating the same thing for weeks on end, washing your clothes in the river. Lets you believe you’re actually working.” The grin on his lips was genuine, but calculated to provoke as much as his words.

  Eska leaned back, the food forgotten for the moment, her temper swirling. “You know how hard I work, Sascha. No one on my crew would suggest I do not pull my weight.”

  “Would they dare complain about anything the Vice-Chancelier’s daughter does?” Alexandre laughed as Eska felt heat flush into her cheeks and he put his hands out, palms up, in mock surrender. “I jest, Eska, and only because you make it so easy to do.” He turned serious. “You know the respect I have for you, your work, and the company you run so ably.” He made sure she was looking him in the eye before continuing. “The same respect they have. You should be proud of what you have done.”

  The satisfaction Eska felt at hearing those words from Alexandre was stronger than she would have liked, but she managed to summon up a tart response. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  Alexandre laughed. “Of course not.” He pulled back the cloth covering a basket, revealing one of Eska’s most-loved dishes: steamed peppered buns with pockets of crispy roast pork and tiny, just set quail eggs. She couldn’t help but smile.

  “Do you remember the last time we ate these?” The question was out of Eska’s mouth before she had the chance to consider the consequences.

  Alexandre looked up from his plate and set down the knife he had been using to cut his bun in half.

  “How could I forget.”

  The words weren’t angry. The voice wasn’t cold. But there was an edge in the moment. And rightly so. The last time Alexandre and Eska shared steamed buns, they had just dodged a rainstorm, sprinting through the streets of a seaside village, hand in hand, laughing, seeking shelter in a tiny tea shop as the skies opened. Three days later, after a storm of a different kind, Alexandre asked her to marry him and Eska had refused. It wasn’t a thing easily forgotten.

  The conversation slipped into safer things. Eska took refuge in her work, speaking of the known history of the site along the river and the things she hoped to learn from what they unearthed in the coming days.

  “The pottery alone ought to be quite revealing. Based on the techniques used—say, whether the handles were fashioned from separate pieces of clay and attached after the formation of the vessel, or whether they were shaped during the formation—we’ll know if the Onandya people from this area had contact with the Bardonian culture to the south. And if we know that, well that opens up a whole host of possibilities about trade networks and language. It could throw Hevere’s entire theory about the region off a cliff. And that’s before we even get to the possibilities regarding the burial rituals.” Eska looked up from the salmon and seaweed and saw Alexandre sitting back, no longer eating, watching her quietly. She smiled. “Am I being frightfully boring?”

  “Not at all. But you know I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Alescu silver and a worthless spoon fished out of the sea.”

  “Says the man who furnishes his home with priceless ancinni silk screens and uses only Norvichy iron on his ship—don’t think I didn’t notice this morning,” Eska said.

  Alexandre laughed. “What you mean is I have expensive tastes.” He took a drink of wine. “But you were talking about Hevere’s theories. About throwing them off a cliff, I think. That ought to satisfy you. You’ve had a bone to pick with him for as long as I’ve known you. Shame he’s been dead a century.”

  “I’m not saying he’s got it all wrong. And his work on the Forthinal peninsula was extraordinary.” Eska held out her glass for a refill. “I just think his notions about the isolated nature of the Onandya peoples who populated the eastern plains are entirely wrongheaded.”

  “Exactly,” Alexandre said, grinning. “Off a cliff. Don’t pretend you’re not relishing the opportunity to prove one of the most revered scholars of archaeology wrong.”

  “It would be an important contribution to the discipline,” Eska maintained, keeping her face as still and composed as she could manage. “It’s hardly my fault if no one else is bold enough to question the great Hevere.”

  Alexandre laughed. “Hardly,” he agreed. “But what of the delegation? What concessions is your mother going to win from Toridium tomorrow?”

  “You place a great deal of confidence in her capabilities.”

  “Come, Eska, we both know your mother is not the Ambassador-Superior of Arconia without good reason. She could talk a god into giving up his immortality.”

  Eska couldn’t keep the pride from her face. “She could. But this is far more mundane. Fees, transport of goods. Quite boring, really. I’m sure your own business with the Vismarch is more interesting.” Eska glanced at Alexandre over the rim of her glass as she spoke, half of his face in sharp relief, the other cast in a golden shadow of candlelight and crystal.

  “Merely a courtesy visit.” Alexandre did not look away, as though challenging her to press for more.

  “Forgive me, Sascha, but the Arch-Commander does not make simple courtesy visits.”

  “You’re correct, he does not. But I’m afraid I can’t say more, Eska.”

  “Very convenient.” They looked at each other for a long moment, Eska wondering if she looked as wary to him as he did to her. Once, this kind of sparring, while full of sharp edges, had been purely an exercise, humorous and with no real consequences. Now it was laced with undercurrents she could not quite identify. Or perhaps she was simply feeling the distance—the necessary distance—that had grown between them in two years.

  “Did you speak of Manon Barca to the Vismarch?” Alexandre’s question broke the silence.

  Eska roused herself from the past. “That’s the most pressing question you have about my private moments with one of the most powerful people in the Seven Cities?”

  Alexandre shrugged. “I imagine if he were throwing you into a cage or having you silenced for your transgression, he would have done it already. Besides, I know you. You are never wrong. If you say that eagle is a forgery, it’s a forgery. Either you convinced him of this or you didn’t—either way, he has reason to keep quiet about it, which tells me he’s a prudent man.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Eska took a sip of wine. “I quite like him. He’s invited me to explore his private collection, if I have the time to do so.”

  “Then you said nothing of the incident in the harbor.”

  “I’d rather not play all my cards at once.”

  “Ah, then you’ll be using his newly acquired fondness for you to Arconia’s advantage in the negotiations to come.”

  “As is my duty.”

  Alexandre nodded. He would not blame her for acting thus, she knew, not when he would do the same. “Did your mother put you up to it?”

  “Did she put me up to publically insulting the Vismarch so I could gain a private audience with him? She’s good at her job, Sascha, but as far as I am aware, she cannot read minds. I was meant to establish a good rapport with the Vismarch, that’s all. And I was hard-pressed to do so given my placement at dinner—not to mention your presence.”

  Alexandre laughed. “So I am to blame after all. I should have realized. I’ll have you know I requested that the Vismarch host me and my officers for dinner tomorrow, specifically because I did not want to intrude on the work of the delegation.” He spread his hands. “The decision was not mine to make.”

  “And yet you had to know the Vismarch would hardly keep one of the mo
st celebrated men in the Seven Cities waiting.”

  Alexandre accepted this with a nod. “I am what I am.” It was not an arrogant statement or a puffed up credential. Alexandre’s ability to know himself and understand the effect he had on people, both those in positions of authority and those whose lives he could change with a word, was one of the reasons she had been drawn to him in the first place. “As are you.” Eska looked away, half wishing he had not said that. His next words sent her heart into her stomach. “As were we together.” She met his gaze for the span of a heartbeat.

  They moved in unison, coming to their feet, though whether Alexandre was merely taking his cues from her or if he, too, felt the conversation was poised before an abyss the depths of which Eska was not sure she wanted to explore, she did not know. They stepped around the side of the linen and the spread of dishes.

  “I’ll send a servant back to fetch everything,” he said. He stared down at her, blue eyes radiating something she couldn’t quite name. Eska broke away from that stare and found herself gazing at her feet. When had she taken her shoes off? Alexandre’s hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear brought her attention back to his face. But something in that familiarity, in those eyes, woke the need to retreat from the edge of the unknown.

  After a long moment, Alexandre nodded to himself and then made the smallest of bows, an ordinary gesture that opened a gulf between them.

  “Goodnight, Eska.” And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, and Eska was left to wonder if it would have been better if he had not come at all.

  Interlude 4

  A letter from Alexandre de Minos to Eska de Caraval, dated four years ago

  Dearest Eska,

  Did you know there is a species of whale in the far northern seas that has learned how to hunt seals in groups by using their tails to create waves, thereby rocking floating pieces of ice hard enough to send the poor seals—just hoping to catch a bit of sun and a nap—tumbling into the whales’ waiting jaws?