A Choir of Lies

by Alexandra Rowland

  I shook my head. “Only visiting. He’ll be leaving . . . sometime.”

  “Visiting. Pleasure or business?”

  “Business. His family are merchants.”

  Her frown deepened. “A foreign merchant. Now, Chant, not that I don’t trust you to know your business, but . . . Just be careful, all right? I know merchants better than anybody, and I know foreigners better than—” I gave her a pointed look. “Well, almost as well as you do, I suppose, now that I think about it.”

  “He’s nice,” I said. “We don’t expect anything of each other.”

  “Don’t let him be a distraction,” she said sharply. I blinked at her—she’d been so warm a moment ago. “You have duties and obligations.” I flinched. “I would hate to see you cast aside a promising career for the sake of some foreign boy that no one knows.”

  “He’s going back to Pezia after the stormy season passes. He has duties and obligations too; his whole family is merchants, or . . . merchant-adjacent.”

  She paused again. “Pezia?”

  “That’s where they’re from.”

  “A merchant family, you said?”

  I blinked again. “Yes.”

  “From Pezia.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “What did you say his name was?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. She kept changing tacks so quick that I only wanted to dig in my heels and make the conversation as tedious for her as it was becoming for me.

  She looked at me, expectantly, eyebrows raised. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “His name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “Your lover.”

  “Which one?”

  “The mann from Pezia that you’re fucking,” she snarled. “His name.”

  “Orfeo.”

  “His surname!”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Dammit, Chant!” she said, banging one hand on the table.

  “Acampora,” I said.

  She sat back sharply in her chair. All the irritation had run out of her expression like snowmelt, and now she was once again warm and approving. “Orfeo Acampora. My goodness. Well done, you. Which one is he? I haven’t met all of them. There was the one at van Vlymen’s, but he was only an Acampora by marriage, hardly anyone to speak of. But this boy?”

  “Simoneto’s nephew,” I said slowly, cautiously. She didn’t need to know anything else, and it certainly wasn’t my place to speak of Orfeo’s troubles with his family.

  “Hm. Young thing, then. Your age.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not married?”

  The very thought! Orfeo’s not the marrying type. “Definitely not.”

  “Hm,” she said again, steepling her fingers. “Hm.” I couldn’t read her expression—it was still shifting from one emotion to the next, as if she was having a cascading debate with herself in her own mind.

  “Do you mind if I go back to my desk?” I said, gesturing towards the door. “I have the Anagonye contracts to translate—”

  “Not yet. Sit there; let me think.”

  So I sat there, and I let her think.

  “How often do you see the Acampora boy?” she asked, nonchalant.

  I shrugged. “Every day. We stay at the same inn.”

  Another long silence.

  “Right,” she said eventually, after nearly a full minute of silence. “Right. I’m hosting a party.”

  That was the first I’d heard of it. “In the middle of the stormy season?” I asked dubiously.

  “Hardly the middle yet, is it? And really, what better time? It shall be a cozy little gathering of friends, perhaps fifty or so. Three days hence. At my country house.” By this she meant the large villa she owns about an hour’s ride from her offices, towards the edge of the city where it is less crowded and there is space for gardens—very near Heer van Vlymen’s house, where we’d attended the salon. But none of this seemed to require my input, so I said nothing. “You’ll attend, of course. I’ve already put in an order with van Vlymen for a few new outfits like the one you wore to Stroekshall. We can’t have you appearing in the same thing twice.” I glanced down at my usual ensemble of faded and threadbare secondhand clothes, which was one of only two sets that I own and which I have definitely worn to salons, the Rojkstraat, and her offices dozens and dozens of times, and still I said nothing. I could guess what was coming next, and in due course it did: “When you see the Acamporas tonight, I’ll have you deliver an invitation.” A smile slunk across her face. “If they try to decline, use your powers of persuasion. If they still decline, at least convince what’s-his-name, the nephew. Surely you have wiles aplenty for him.”

  “You said you’d met some of them, though. Why not invite them yourself? Why does it fall to me?”

  “Because I employ you and I’m directing you to do it,” she said flatly. “All I have is an acquaintanceship—not even that. I was introduced to them once. Not enough of an excuse to invite them to my house. They’re Pezians; you can’t just walk up and introduce yourself to Pezians. They don’t take it well at all. You always have to find a mutual connection to be a go-between. You’re it, chickadee!”

  “You want to do business with them.”

  “I want to get on their good side. Of course I do. They’re one of the richest families in Pezia—they’ve got their fingers in everything, not just trade. Banking, politics. They could even give some of the Araşti a run for their money, if anyone could just figure out how those fucking highway robbers build ships that go that fast—they can even dodge the sea serpents in the breeding season, you know, that’s how quick they are.” She sighed and folded her hands on the desk. “The Acamporas could be powerful allies for us, Chant. You’ve already got one of them wrapped around your finger; knowing you, I’m sure the others are equally charmed.”

  “I’ve eaten dinner with them a couple times at the inn, that’s all. They’re friendly enough, but I wouldn’t say they’re charmed.” Maybe Simoneto is—Orfeo keeps getting extra money from him to fund little outings with me. The rest of them just seem like they don’t know exactly what to do with me. They know Orfeo and I have been sleeping together, so I suppose they must be wondering why he hasn’t gotten skittish and run away yet. Orfeo was right—they really haven’t noticed that he’s changed. “I’m welcome at their table, but . . .”

  “That’s enough of a precedent! Invite them to a party—not for business, just as your guests.”

  “Surely it’s strange for me to invite two dozen guests to a party that’s not mine,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Bring as many as will come. Say that I gave you permission, and my hospitality is unbounded. I need them to attend. After that, I won’t need your connection—I’ll have one of my own. Business is business, after all, but one can be graceful about it.”

  So that was the premise.

  I did as she asked. I spoke to Simoneto and I gave him the invitation card that one of Sterre’s clerks had drawn up for her, and when I said that the party was to be held at the house of Mevrol de Waeyer, he quirked an eyebrow in interest. “Ah yes, your employer! The woman with a keen eye for flowers. When did you say this was? Three days from now?” I nodded, and his whole expression furrowed into thoughtful regret. “I’m terribly flattered at the invitation, of course, but our social calendars . . . We’re busy people, Chant,” he said with a shrug.

  “All of you?”

  He laughed. “Young man, we don’t come all the way from Pezia to sightsee, you know—well, not most of us. Ah!” He brightened. “There’s a thought. Why don’t you take that useless nephew of mine? He’s really only with us for educational purposes and to look ornamental. And because he gets into trouble if he doesn’t have at least five cousins holding him down at any given moment. That boy needs someone with a sensible head holding on to the back of his shirt-collar.”

  “Mevrol de Waeyer was very hopeful that at least a few of you might come to the party. . . .”

  “No, no,” Si
moneto said, warming to his solution. “This will be good in many ways at once! Of course you want to look good to your employer; I can’t blame you for that. So you’ll have an Acampora on your arm to show for it—Orfeo’s good at parties. A very sociable boy. Too sociable, at times. But you’ve already turned his head, so there’s no need to worry about any youthful mischief or escapades. You strike me as a terribly sensible sort, even so—I daresay you could manage him if some dreadful whimsy seized him. So I can send him off by himself to get some practice at being useful. I’m assuming Mevrol de Waeyer has some interest in business discussions, yes?”

  “My understanding is that it’s to be more of a social function,” I said faintly.

  But Simoneto Acampora is a canny sort. He chuckled quietly into his beard in that way he had, eyes twinkling. “It’s all a dance, my boy!” he said. “De Waeyer knows her steps. Very proper. Of course she wants to do business with us. But we really do have prior engagements this time. Give me this chance to toss my useless nephew into deep water and see how well he’s learned how to swim. I’ll be happy; you’ll be happy; de Waeyer will be happy. Orfeo will grumble a little, but he’ll do as he’s told. And I daresay he won’t turn down a chance to put on pretty clothes and squire you about.”

  Which brings me to . . . today. With Orfeo, at the party, wearing the latest uncomfortable costume that Sterre had bundled into my arms as soon as I stepped through her front door. It was made of that near-magical two-tone silk I’d spotted at the auction, an emerald green that flashed brilliant pink at certain angles, slashed and ruffled extravagantly, and laid over sheer butter-yellow cotton—cotton!303—the whole embroidered with gold.304

  I don’t care to write it down, so I’ll skip Sterre interrogating me about whether the Acamporas had accepted the invitation. I’ll skip the part where she was exasperated with me when I said only Orfeo was going to come, and how she asked whether I had even tried to convince the others. She was frustrated, and I could tell, even though she tried to hide it. She’s not really one to take things out on other people.

  Of course she was polite to Orfeo, treating him as if he were the heir to the entire Acampora company, a young merchant prince. Orfeo was wildly flattered by the attention she paid him, how she introduced him to all the other guests and poured his wine by her own hand. He was giddy with it, which soothed my ruffled feathers and made me think the whole party might possibly have been worth it. I was happy to see him happy, at least.

  For nearly two hours, Sterre made elegant conversation that didn’t once touch on issues of business, walking Orfeo around the garden as I drifted silent a few steps behind them.

  “Your garden is as lovely as I expected,” Orfeo said. “I hear that you had quite the reputation for it, even before your recent success.”

  “I dabble,” Sterre said, poorly feigning modesty.

  “Are those the new flowers?” Orfeo nodded to a small ornamental pond that we had passed several times, which did indeed contain a dozen or two of the stars-in-the-marsh, clustered in bunches along the opposite shore. “Lovely.”

  “Lovelier at night, of course,” Sterre said. “And terribly romantic. Perhaps you’d like to see them sometime—Chant would be delighted to bring you back to show you.”

  Orfeo quirked an eyebrow at me over his shoulder; he’d glanced back to watch me following them several times with an increasingly curious expression, probably wondering why I was hanging back. This time was more . . . sardonic. It wasn’t the first time Sterre had spoken for me. “I couldn’t presume upon your hospitality.”

  “Nonsense, young man! Chant is like family to me.” She kept talking about how we’d be more than welcome to wander through her gardens at any hour, but Orfeo’s smile flickered.

  He glanced back at me again, then gave Sterre a strange look that she entirely missed. “Ah, really? Like family—is that right, Chant?” He stopped and tucked his hands behind his back, turning to face me so Sterre was forced to do the same. That not-name on his lips still trickled over my skin like an unexpected handful of snow down the back of my collar. But I knew what he meant: Was she really like family if she was calling me Chant, not Ylfing?

  I shrugged. I said nothing.

  “Of course he is,” she said, far too jolly to sound at all sincere, even to my ears. “He’s very precious to me—I couldn’t have had such success with the stars-in-the-marsh without him, you know.”

  Orfeo smiled faintly. His shoulders were set in a way I’d never seen before. “No, I don’t expect you could have,” he agreed.

  “He’s indispensable.” Something in Orfeo’s expression changed, like windows slammed closed. Sterre hadn’t yet even looked at me, occupying herself instead with inspecting the budding fruit hanging from a small tree by the garden path. That hadn’t escaped Orfeo’s attention—he dropped back a few steps to stand directly beside me, nudging me with his elbow when Sterre wasn’t looking. I shrugged again and dropped my eyes to the path.

  “I’m glad you think so,” Orfeo said. “My uncle had some very complimentary things to say about him after the auction. We were all very impressed with him.”

  Sterre paused and turned then, smiling. “Did he? How kind. I’m sure Chant has told you that we have some great plans for the future.” All at once, the Chanting parts of my brain clicked into motion. There was another conversation, a subtler one, happening beneath the one they were having with words—Sterre might as well have said, Your uncle can go fuck himself; I’ve got dibs on this one.

  “Not at all.” Orfeo’s smile in return was brittle. “Chant isn’t at all the type to betray a confidence. You’re very right to trust him. I can assure you I’ve heard nothing about any plans, even ones that aren’t secrets.” Do you really have plans? Not ones he cares about, or I’d know.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t count it as a confidence,” she said in a voice like sweet mead. “Perhaps he was keeping it to himself for his own reasons. You’re right, though: he is very discreet. But of course one lets little things slip to a lover now and then, if one is fond of them.” That hardly needed translation at all—she was nearly outright accusing him of being meaningless to me.305

  Abruptly, I turned away and wove between the shrubs, off deeper into the garden—we were on the outskirts of the city, here, where owning a nice sweeping parcel of land was not as impossible as it would have been in the middle of town. Sterre’s gardens were still limited, but more than generous by city standards.

  There were stars-in-the-marsh everywhere, though. Sometimes it was just one or two tucked into a nook, a miniature swamp built into ornamental ceramic pots. I wondered how she ever managed to throw evening dinner parties; though the smell of the flowers is markedly fainter during the day than the miasma they give off at night, the whole garden still had a faintly sulfuric odor to it.

  I found a bench, wedged between two of the miniature swamps and overhung by the curtaining cascades of a mature willow tree. I collapsed onto it, heedless of my silks and cottons, slouching because the stupid pants wouldn’t even let me bend my legs, even at the cost of cutting off my circulation. I rubbed my hands over my face. The headache remained—it was one of those steady ones, not pounding, like there’s something heavy pressing in on you.

  I stayed there for I don’t know how long—long enough that a few of the other guests started and finished a game of lawn-bowling on the other side of the garden. Long enough for Orfeo to come find me, swarming through the curtains of the willow, flushed and heaving with breath, his eyes blazing. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “Me? Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You ran off. After those things she was smirking about,” he hissed, shooting a withering glare somewhere in Sterre’s presumed direction.

  I sighed and gestured expansively in a way that was meant to say, Well, what can you do?

  Orfeo was not placated—he began to pace. “How dare she? Honestly, how could she?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Did somet
hing else happen?”

  “She doesn’t think you’re special,” Orfeo said, in an entirely different voice.

  “Of course she does. She does actually have a lot of plans for me. I think she . . . Well. She just has a certain way of communicating. You’re from different backgrounds—of course you’d misunderstand each other.”

  “It’s not misunderstanding, Ylfing, that’s—she’s an ass.”

  “It’s nothing; that’s just how she is sometimes.”

  He turned sharply to me, agape. “She talks to you like that all the time?”

  “Not all the time. It’s nothing. I don’t care.”

  “I care!” Orfeo cried, and then froze, pink-cheeked and breathing unsteadily. He swallowed and looked away from me, clenching his jaw and his fists. “She shouldn’t talk like that about you,” he said, quieter but no less intense. “You’re—you’re incredible; you know that. What you did at Stroekshall and what you do every day for her. The way you are in front of people.”

  “Anyone could learn it,” I said softly.

  “No. No, they couldn’t. You can’t teach that.” He flung himself onto the bench beside me. “You’re responsible for her success. The flowers would have been a little pointless fad for gardeners and hobby botanists, and you made it something . . . bigger, and more beautiful, and important. That was you. No one else could have done it, not as quickly and certainly not as well.” He took my hand. “If you don’t care what she says about you, that’s fine. But I do. It matters a lot to me that people know those things about you.”

  I blinked at him. “You’re . . . more upset than I would have thought you’d be.”

  He bit his lip, ran his thumb over my knuckles. “It’s just that you deserve better than that,” he said, even more softly, barely more than a whisper. “With your knowledge and talent, you could—you could go anywhere, you know. Somewhere new.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you?” he asked. “Do you know? Do you know that Uncle Simoneto would snap you up in a heartbeat if he thought you were looking for work? Do you know he’d pay you whatever you asked?”