Chisaad descended the seven steps to the floor of the grand ballroom at an unhurried pace, casually flicking his gaze over the vast room. He had arrived neither early nor late, in accordance with his usual preference. He inclined his head to his hosts and spoke the customary greetings, repeated the Prince’s apologies to be sure. Millago and his wife bowed low and gushed their thanks for his presence, and their condolences for the soon-to-be-loss of his mentor. Chisaad made sure he added the right touch of melancholy to his acceptance, before he admired the new baby and generally did exactly what everyone expected of him. After the obligatory banal exchanges, he managed to extricate himself smoothly from their company and began a circumambulation of the crowd, muttering polite nothings as appropriate.
All the while his eyes searched for his target.
The south end of the ballroom had been marked off with velvet-wrapped ropes. Curved rows of chairs faced a raised stage where two workmen tightened a brace for a long tightrope above the platform. Ladders and other ropes were already anchored into stout wooden braces around and behind it. Drapery and paper screens covered the frescoed walls. It all looked stark and simple compared to the few other productions he had seen, which surprised him.
Ahhh, I see. It’s meant to concentrate our attention on the performers.
Chisaad recognized the two testing the ropes as part of the family he’d seen outside the cemetery gate. I was right, it is this DiUmbra clan that’s sheltering him.
He moved on into the swirl of guests, greeting Ap Marn and a dozen others. Distantly he heard the bells of the Mother Temple ringing the hour. The play would not start for some time yet; he curbed his impatience.
I hope Ymera arrives soon. I must manipulate her into my debt.
* * *
“Dear Arriga,” Ymera murmured to herself as she tucked the invitation into her sleeve. “You’ve done your old teacher proud. It will be lovely to see you again.” She adjusted her protection spells and nodded to her servants to open the front doors of her House.
The Two Suns had already impaled themselves on the peaks of the Bright Mountains, which bled their deadly light away. Ymera paused on the front steps to enjoy a brief defiance of those ancient enemies. Not too much, not too long, or she’d have to rebuild her shield spells again; but a few moments could be afforded. Their last light showed off her new dress magnificently, the fine white silk decked with the same scarlet ribbons that were the mark of a prostitute in Silbar. As ruler of the Red Street, she would flaunt her pariah status and challenge anyone to look down on her tonight.
Several early customers, older men mostly, paused in astonishment. One missed a step and had to be saved from a fall by one of her more alert manservants. Ymera mentally marked that man for bonus pay. All eyes turned to her for a lovely long moment, a tasty precursor of the greater effect she hoped to inspire at the celebration.
She descended the steps lightly as two maids carried the train of her dress. That was redundant, since she had woven an extra spell into the exquisite fabric to repel soil and dust. But it added to her status to display her servants this way.
She wondered who else might be present tonight. Arriga’s husband Reshghar Bovea Millago had awesome wealth but lacked any noble lineage. He had grown rich on the trade in silver and sulfur and other ingredients of sorcery, and richer still on the export of its products throughout the Gwythlo Empire. Rumor claimed that he owned an interest in every eighth ship that left Aretzo’s docks, and Gee’s spying had confirmed it for her. A party thrown by him would be one of the chief social events of the year, one which even the bluest of Silbari blue-bloods could scarcely avoid attending, lest their peers regale them with un-toppable anecdotes.
Tonight’s guest list could be entertaining.
She settled herself inside her carriage with her maids on the facing seat. The vehicle rolled out of her Street into the Bazaar’s swarming mass of tents and booths.
Sounds assaulted her, unmanaged and careless out here beyond the harmonious artistry of her carefully controlled Street. She drew it all in, the snatches of music, tears, laughter, haggling, and occasional screeching imprecations too, as Aretzo’s thousands milled and shopped in the cool of evening.
I haven’t gone out often in the last decade or two, she mused. Perhaps that’s unwise.
Outside her carriage the pullulating masses of the city ebbed and flowed. She saw a well-dressed Silbari woman furtively moving down an alley between two red pillars toward that very special booth Ymera maintained. An Orthodox priestess glanced at the furtive woman and glared helplessly at Ymera’s carriage. Ymera did not allow her flash of triumph to show on her face.
The women of this city support me in more ways than one. Willingly. And as much as the priestesses want to stop them, every Dona in the Hierarchy knows they cannot.
When she’d been younger, such petty triumphs had given her a heady rush of another kind of power. She’d learned better, only grateful to have survived the learning. Silbar’s millions might be mayflies dancing desperately on the rushing wind of time, but they could walk unheeding under the Two Suns.
Her driver maneuvered her coach to join a long line of other coaches filing past the big plaza before the Mother Temple and its Orthodox Collegium. Priestesses robed in yellow and white walked the Sacred Precinct, acolytes and postulants trailing in orderly rows. Ymera could smell the power that filled the domed sanctuary with a clear light. She cast a little unglamour over her coach while they passed. It wouldn’t do to provoke the Hierarchy too much; there were thousands of priestesses in this city and only one of her. She was stronger than any of them, even the Hierarch herself, but Ymera knew she would never be stronger than all of them.
The cost of prudence was low, after all, and the return could be critically high.
Her carriage soon discharged her on the doorstep of the mansion recently rebuilt by Arriga and her upstart husband. Her maids arrayed her dress for a proper entrance to the arched marble of the great ballroom, where leaded glass windows, ornate new mirrors as big as her coach, and tiered chandeliers glittered as if the stars had been brought down for this spectacle. She paused in brief admiration, also to allow the herald time to announce her and the assembled multitude to notice her. That didn’t take long; her name and dress guaranteed it.
A shocked murmur ran around the room almost instantly as her fluttering scarlet ribbons were seen. Though not, she judged, quite as shocked as she had expected.
Can I be losing my sensibility? Ymera thought, feeling the beginnings of alarm. Have I spent too much time away from the dance of style?
Ah. No. The student has learned well, and nearly outdone her teacher!
She controlled her budding smile and swept down the few steps and across the lavish room. Arriga and her husband waited on a dais to greet each arrival. Only when she had curtsied and stood face to face with her hostess did she let the humor blossom to full freedom.
“Darling Arriga, you look lovely tonight.”
The flushed young woman in the cream-colored silk bedecked with the dozen—yes, those were scarlet—ribbons, curtsied back in matronly dignity, then spoiled it slightly by seizing the hands of her former mistress and beaming like a child. She did manage to maintain a reasonable semblance of a cultured voice.
“My Lady Ymera, thank you ever so much for attending! And what a perfect dress!” Arriga gestured at the thousand scarlet ribbons bedecking Ymera’s own dress, with as much poise and polish as if welcoming the most notorious madam in all Silbar constituted an everyday occurance and not a daring thing to do.
Nice to see my training hasn’t slipped! Ymera chuckled inside. They exchanged ritual greetings followed by introduction of the husband, who still looked as doting as he had a year ago. And why not? Their firstborn son lay in a cradle tended by a self-effacing nurse and appeared robust as any newborn and more so than many.
Ymera carefully did not approach the child, but only nodded and smiled from a distance. She sensed a sublim
inal lessening of tension from the father at this obvious restraint—and even from Arriga. The nurse’s hand made a small gesture of aversion behind the crib, her eyes wide.
Sadness pierced Ymera, instantly suppressed. They know how I must feed to live. She tasted again the bitter dregs at the bottom of the cup of her life. Yet they want to trust me. That is my reward for two centuries of restraint; that they truly want to trust me. I will not begrudge the effort that it costs them.
She bowed herself away into the swirl of the crowd, drifting through it as wavelessly as possible in a dress with a train longer than she stood tall. Her maids warded the fabric from careless feet as she warmly acknowledged all who acknowledged her. Which included nearly all, to her gratification, though some were more frightened than friendly.
Speak truth, she scolded herself. Most here are more frightened than friendly. A pity the Prince is absent; I would be pleased to see how he handles this assemblage. But there will be other opportunities.
The city’s wealthiest corn factor murmured polite words over her hand, his nervous eyes darting to her face and away again. He had received his young-man’s instruction in the ways of pillowing two decades ago at her own House, she remembered, as his attendant wife must suspect. Ymera responded with distant correctness and they both relaxed fractionally.
Nervous children, she thought tolerantly. Fearful that I might spank them from irritation. Ah well. If I must choose between being feared and being loved, I know which one is more dependable. She tasted again the familiar chill that thought left behind; it stopped her motion for an instant. You came here to impress the crowd, and to listen. Walk and do both.
She forced herself into motion again and studied the crowd as she strolled. The rising merchant class dominated it, shipmasters and factors and Magisters of a hundred workshops. Also well-leavened with dispossessed aristocrats who were not too proud to rebuild their devastated fortunes through trade, the only avenue left open by their conquerors. A few of the new Gwythlo lords were present too, their pale northern faces often burned ruddy.
Only mad dogs and Gwythlos go about uncovered under Silbar’s noonday sun! She greeted several of the newer Lords, noting which ones had already patronized her Street.
Wailor Reesford, the dissolute Count of the Harbor, featured on that list. She remembered him as a proud northern conqueror striding down from his war-battered ship onto the docks of defeated Silbar at his Emperor’s right hand. The new ruler of the city had casually gifted his ship captain with the richest port in the known world on his way to receive Queen Shyrill’s surrender. Wailor the pale-skinned young lion had gazed about, feet planted on the teak wharf, awestruck at his good fortune.
Now his paunchy face swayed over her hand, sagging like over-risen bread dough. He had the pointed ears of his Gwythlo ancestry, his pale skin discolored by liver spots and his blond mane gone stringy gray. Already armored in a fine miasma of wine fumes. Conquered by his own indulgence.
She kept pity and contempt off her face as she answered him politely.
His impatient eldest son pawed the floor like a stud horse at his side, unhappily bridled by etiquette and parental authority. On Wailor Junior the ears and skin only accented a natural devilment, the more handsome for his hard muscularity. He reminded her of popular religious paintings of the Imps of the Tormentor, though those usually featured black hair instead of blond. She amused herself imagining hooves inside his northern-style boots, and a barbed tail coiled uncomfortably inside his pants.
He’d been punishing the wine already, the oversized goblet in his hand mostly empty. His young eyes took fire as the boy-man gazed on her in thoughtless adolescent lust.
In your dreams, child. I’ve no interest in being a vessel for you to pleasure yourself. She gave him her most ancient smile and left him blinking, taken aback by an almost-glimpse of the fanged skull beneath her perfect skin. Remember what I am, and what you are.
And then the swirl of people parted, and she found herself facing the yellow and white robes of the leader of the Purist sect. That role, titled the ‘sixth rank’ or Hectissima, belonged to a harridan named Hellas D’Illbinth D’Isernia, tonight accompanied by her granddaughter Keldra D’Illbinth D’Ilar, harridan-in-training. Who had come clad in an astonishing confection of silver and white threads not woven, but magically felted into a spectacular hourglass shape that branched and trailed a full three yards behind the girl in a double train. It practically glowed with all the magic pumped in to sustain its flaunting artistry.
I know how you’ve been spending the collection plate. Ymera bowed low, in a courtesy so respectful that it neared insulting. Last tenday you denounced me from your pulpit and called for my execution, for the fifth year in a row. Time for a little retribution, delivered my way.
“Hellas.” Ymera softly addressed her enemy with a familiarity sure to annoy and then switched to a more obsequious tone as she pitched her voice louder. “Dona Hectissima, what a magnificent dress you’ve clothed Dona Keldra in tonight. I confess astonished envy.”
Keldra looked torn between apprehension and gratitude. It couldn’t be easy to be the focus of the harridan’s hopes. Her rich brown skin showed off the silver threads to perfect effect as they shifted endlessly, a movement probably intended to create a winking glitter but which Ymera privately thought looked like crawling worms.
More thoughts of death? Or am I simply wishing destruction to the harridan’s seed? My struggle is with her grandmother, so let’s not be uncharitable to the girl. There’s no need to perpetuate this feud another generation.
Hellas’ eyes went to the scarlet ribbons on Ymera’s dress and her gaze narrowed. “I see you are still flaunting your sordid profession in the faces of decent folk.” She omitted any acknowledgement of Ymera’s rank, not even nodding her head.
Ymera made a small tutting sound and smiled indulgently in a way calculated to goad the Purist priestess beyond bearing. It worked.
“If The One grants my plea,” Hellas spat back, “I’ll hear you confess your unholy nature to the crowd at an Extreme Inquisition. And burn!”
“My goodness, how choleric of you, Dona Hellas.” Ymera’s smile grew wider. “Do be more careful or that unhealthy temper of yours may aggravate your heart problem. It would be a tragedy for you to send yourself to an early grave.”
Hellas’ face flushed even redder but this time she realized she was being baited. Her eyes bulged as she strained to control her tongue.
Ymera bowed again and swept away, smiling.
“A most expertly cruel exchange,” a familiar voice observed neutrally.
Ymera turned to find Chisaad standing by. The Acting Royal Wizard wore a typically bland expression, a blank detachment that he’d been cultivating so long that she wondered if his facial muscles could still smile, or frown. Considering the ticklish duty that he’d inherited when his mentor and superior had been hauled off to Gwythford Castle by Emperor Brion, she could not fault him for such self-protection. And now Shimoor is dying . . .
“She chose this conflict,” Ymera answered. “And chooses it again each year. I would be perfectly willing to avoid her entirely, but if she remains determined to thrust her arrogance and anger upon me, then I will continue to resist.”
“Mmm. Yes, I saw a copy of her latest denunciation of you. Stridency tends to become self-defeating. As does spite.”
He left that observation hanging. Her lips curved up in an appreciative smile.
“Why Chisaad, I do believe I’ve been scolded. And by the Royal Wizard, no less!” She put on a mock downcast expression.
“Scolding is a rather strong word for such a commonplace observation, almost a platitude.” He made a small self-deprecating gesture, as spare and economical as the rest of his public persona. His facial muscles betrayed no hint of movement.
“And you would never stoop to anything so abrasive, so basely aggressive, as scolding, would you?” She grinned at him with mischievous amusement.
“I might entertain the possibility with you,” he conceded thoughtfully. “From the point of view of the Crown, you are a valued force for stability in these troubled times. The desire of some to overthrow even a small part of what little stability the nation possesses is cause for worry among those who make policy.”
Probably meaning former Imperial Governor Madoc Ap Marn, Chisaad’s direct superior. Word had already spread that the new Prince had kept him on for a few months to ease the transition. She doubted that Chisaad referred to the Prince, since the youth hadn’t been here for long. She glanced over Chisaad’s shoulder and found Ap Marn standing a little distance back and turned half away, but he watched her from the corners of his eyes. Nervously.
“And therefore, those of us who must carry that policy out,” Chisaad added, not quite acknowledging his immediate superior’s presence in this little charade, as if that would prevent her from knowing on whose behalf he spoke.
“Nicely two-edged,” Ymera remarked admiringly. “Will you be rebuking her in like tactful fashion tonight?”
“If suitable opportunity presents itself or can be arranged.” He inclined his head politely and added, “I hope you will enjoy your evening, Lady Ymera,” before he drifted on.
Tactfully rebuking the harridan will be a difficult project, Ymera thought with amusement; Hellas D’Illbinth possessed all the subtlety of a bronze club. Ymera carefully bowed her head in Ap Marn’s direction, enough to acknowledge receipt of the message, and smiled to see the fractional relaxation of the man’s rigid posture.
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