Beasts of Tabat (22 page)

Alberic turns to me. “Bella, you will take him to visit Milosh Della Rose.” Turning back to the healer, he says, “The Della Rose family knows more about plants than any other in the city, and their greenhouses are famed across the continent.”

I know that last part well, for Marta, Milosh’s daughter, told me it more than once.

This is not an oblivious moment on Alberic’s part. He is well aware that Marta and I parted badly, and it amuses him. There is a challenge in his eyes, asking if I intend to push back.

But he is the leader of Tabat, and I am sworn to the city. What will it be like, when someone else leads? I let that thought warm a smile for Alberic, and he smiles back, thinking I am acceding.

* * *

Every city has its own customs, and Tabat is no different. They grow from and are shaped by the circumstances around them, the history and the geography and what is plentiful or scarce, which exert a much greater influence than any individual ever will, even the Duke. One of the things Tabat has much of is clay, mined from the marshes north of us and processed in the Slumpers. That is where the great kilns roar day and night, baking clay into tiles and pottery, glazed green and blue and purple. And a very small portion of that clay is used to make the tiny marking tiles that are set in the doorway of any building that has been distinguished in some way by a particular denizen.

In this way history is kept, tiles whose color tells of famed Scholars or Government Officials or Generals or Explorers or even great Artists. At one point there was a particular tile that marked a Champion of Tabat, but did not distinguish between them. Ten years ago it was decided that I would have a unique tile, one that marked my presence, Bella Kanto’s presence and no one else’s. An honor given very few indeed. Only the rulers of Tabat have held that in the past. While he has never challenged me on it, I know that it grates on Alberic, and that he thinks it is not truly due me. That it was presumptuous for the tile makers to come up with the idea; that it was even more presumptuous of me to accept.

I have received many honors over the years, but few of them have thrilled me the way that tile does, though. There is something about seeing it set between the other tiles, and knowing that it will still be there for as long as the building stands.

I rarely thwart Alberic. In this, I did.

The Della Rose house’s entrance is ringed with tiles, including mine.

I never spent the night with Marta here, though I dined here more than once. Technically, they should not have set my tile in the entrance. It says something of Marta that it appeared after the first meal I shared with her. Perhaps her way of trying to mark me as hers, but that is something I have never allowed any lover.

I am tired of Alberic’s games, of dancing to his tune. I find myself almost looking forward to the elections, despite the chaos that I know that they will bring. At least I will be rid of him then.

I was irritated when Alberic directed me here, and I realize now that I have been discourteous to the healer. But when I turn to speak to him, he does not seem to have noticed. He looks around himself with curiosity and the serenity that the citizens of the Rose Kingdom all seem to possess. He is slender and slight of muscle, but moves gracefully. His robe is too thin to truly keep him warm, but he does not shiver. It is made of rough woven green silk, the color of a new leaf unfurling with bands of blue and red flowers along the seams, a style that almost makes me smile, recalling as it does my days there.

I say to him, “Do you know of this family and their work?”

He shakes his head, eyes downcast to the glaze of ice along the cobblestones. His shoes are thin leather, dyed to match his robe.

There is something odd about him. Something that reminds me of something I’d forgotten, but I cannot think what it might be. I shake that thought away, for surely my mind is playing tricks on me.

I say, “Each Merchant house takes its name from the wares that they have built their business on. Their family name is Della Rose, and their ancestors were the first to do business with your kingdom long ago.”

His eyebrow rises. “Then I would think I would have heard of them.” There is question in his tone.

I shake my head. “Tabat has been in existence for almost three centuries now. There is no wonder that you have not heard of something that happened so long ago. Nowadays all trade with the Rose Kingdom comes through the Merchant’s council rather than any individual family.”

I raise my hand to the door and knock out a brisk
rat-tat-tat
. Over my shoulder I say, “But they have maintained their interest in plants, although they deal in much more than roses now. Their greenhouses are without equal in this city. That is why the Duke wishes you to consult with them, so you know what plants you may draw upon.”

Before he can ask any other questions, the door swings open. I know the servant there, and he knows me, of course, and knows enough to raise his eyebrow in turn, clearly wondering what Marta will think of this and whether he should call her.

I say quickly, before he can ask that question aloud, “We are here to see Master Milosh.”

He nods and stands aside. I shake snow off my cloak and ice from my hair, wondering again how it is that the healer does not feel such cold. Perhaps he is a failed Rose Knight and has undergone their training. And even more importantly, undergone the process that they all undertake: the grafting of branches from the hedge into their flesh, until they are as much plant as Human. I have fought Rose Knights. They are among the most dangerous opponents I have ever faced, between the thorns along their arms and the thick armor that clings to their skin.

The healer looks around curiously as the servant departs to fetch the master of the house. The Della Roses are wealthy, and this house’s furnishings are the equal of any in the Duke’s Castle. The household sigil of flowers and leaves are woven into the carpet underneath my feet, thick and plushy and swallowing every sound. The furniture is ironwood, and smells of beeswax and lemons, as though newly polished.

Perhaps these are even finer than their counterparts in the ducal castle. Merchants are always given to show, for they count it advertisement for their house. I have learned this over years of dealing with them.

Milosh arrives, smiling at me. I find myself smiling back, despite my worries that Marta will appear at any moment. He is a kindly soul.

I introduce him to the healer and explain why I have brought him. Milosh nods and says, “Come, I will show you the greenhouses.” He looks at me with the same question the servant had in his eyes and I shake my head quickly. He tries not to smile but makes a surreptitious gesture, a flapping of his hand at me, that lets me know I am in the danger, as I suspect, of encountering Marta at any second and that I should flee.

Milosh knows that his daughter is thornier than any blossom in his greenhouses. Perhaps it even amuses him that she is capable of making a Gladiator flee.

And so I do flee, back out into the street and the cold and the ice.

Somehow, it does not surprise me when I find myself, yet again, before the gates of the Brides of Steel.

But it does surprise me to find Skye waiting there. As I approach, she says, “I knew that you were coming.”

Does she possess some magic, or have I become predictable?

I suspect it is the latter.

As we spar, I am distracted. Not by outside thoughts, but by Skye herself, the way her body bends and sways, the way I cannot help but imagine it under mine, my lips setting her alight, the way she might cry her pleasure out, or else bite her lip and keep it all inside. Finally, I say enough.

She says, “You’re off your game.”

I turn, surprised by the impudence. She bites her lip, but meets my eyes and says, “I thought that perhaps the baths might help.”

It amuses me to hear this. I’ve used this ploy myself, in the past. I know what she really wants or at least what I hope she really wants.

The silence as we descend to the baths confirms it. Normally I would see other girls down here, but for some odd reason, a reason that I think has much to do with Skye, no one is about. The baths are deserted, even though fresh flowers have been scattered on the surface of the smallest pool.

I say, “How much did it cost you to have them all clear away?”

She doesn’t pretend not to understand but instead says, “I’ll be doing other people’s chores for a month. And all of my spending money.”

I say, “Will it be worth it?”

She says, and this time her eyes meet mine, clear and direct and trusting enough to give me qualms, “I don’t know. Will it?”

I turn away and begin to prepare myself for bathing, stripping away the fighting armor, buying myself moments in which to think. This would make Lucya furious. If she finds us I do not know what the consequences will be. Usually I can predict how she might react, but she is angry enough about this, angry enough about all the times I have refused to step down, that I do not know what might happen, although I suspect the worst. I hear Skye behind me, stripping away her own clothes, then a pause. When I do not turn around, I hear the soft splash as she slips into the water.

When I turn, naked, she is watching me, but I cannot meet her eyes.

I am trembling. I do not know that I have ever trembled like this before. It is as though each place her eyes rest on my skin is set afire. No, not afire, that is a different kind of burning. There are no words I know for this.

There are no words I know for what I discover in her arms, there, dipping in and out of the water, where I kiss away the torchlight that adorns every inch of her skin.

* * *

We are lucky. Lucya does not discover us.

But I know that if this continues, that if we dare to do this again, she will, eventually. Perhaps not the next time, or even the time after that, but it is inevitable.

I do not know what to do about it. How can it be that I, Bella Kanto, the one who always knows the answers, am at such a loss?

* * *

I walk alone in a daze. I keep feeling the memory of kisses on my skin, a memory like a second touch, one that sends new shivers down my spine. And they are not shivers evoked by the cold wind that sweeps along the streets. I am feverish. I am consumed.

This happy haze sustains me all the way home. It buoys my step as I come in through the door, and lightens my heart, making me smile as I pause in the kitchen to steal a fish biscuit from the platter that Abernia keeps waiting there, exchanging a conspiratorial wink with Teo.

He says, “You have a visitor. Abernia showed her up to your sitting room.”

“Oh?” I say. “Who is it?”

He shakes his head. “The woman who sent the flowers, I think,” he says. Boyhood still tilts his voice high.

Armored, I go upstairs.

Marta says, “My father said you came to visit.” She sits posed in the armchair near the window. I am sure she is aware of the picture she makes. She is dressed well, and blue paint gilds her eyelids, her lips are red as though she has been biting them. I know the scent she wears; it is the one she thinks the most seductive.

I say, cautiously, “The Duke asked me to bring a visitor to see your father.” I curse Milosh for telling her, but perhaps that is unkind. Perhaps a servant told her and she simply went to confirm it with him. Either way, he could have lied to her. Although it may be asking too much for him to have any loyalty to me, we have been allies in the past against Marta’s temper tantrums.

It is as though she does not hear the words that leave my lips. She gazes at me with a touch of complacency. She doesn’t realize I know that the flowers hid a spell. She has deluded herself.

But for the first time, I understand why. How would I react if Skye were to turn me away? I would haunt her doorway. I would follow her. I would make her realize her error. This is what Marta is trying to do, so I only look at her, trying to figure out the words that will discourage her without snapping her heart in half.

But I am no good at this sort of thing. I see her register the expression on my face, see her process it, see the thoughts slide behind her eyes, the realization that everything she has convinced herself of is wrong. Entirely wrong. Then I see her fury rise at that mistake. Not directed at herself, of course, but at me, as though I am responsible for all of this. Somehow, I suppose that I am.

But I cannot let regrets consume me. Even this new perspective on all my old lovers is not something I will allow to sway me. Otherwise I will find myself re-saddled with Marta, and that would not be good for any of us. Not for Marta. Not for me. And even more, not for Skye.

She snaps, “Do not pity me!” I hadn’t realized that was what was causing her anger, rather than my rejection. The thought that I might find her pitiful is somehow worse than anything else I could do, but it is a blade that I do not know how to blunt.

I take a step forward as though I will go to her and comfort her, and then realize what a mistake that would be as well, and stop. She rises hastily, glaring at me.

Anger tightens her voice as she says, “I will destroy you, Bella Kanto.”

I make another mistake. I laugh.

But I cannot help it. It’s like a line from a penny-wide, a line spoken by some story’s master villain, drawn much larger than life, a creature of emotions too grand for any Human to stomach. Is that how she sees herself?

She screams imprecations and obscenities at me. She starts to throw the vase that’s close at hand, but I have had enough of this and pluck it from her grasp. I propel her towards the door, and say, as calmly as I can, “It is time for you to go now.”

She senses something. How does she know to ask, “Who is she?” Am I so changed that it shines out of me without my ever saying a word? That is dangerous. That is very dangerous, that I would betray myself that way, without knowing.

She cannot know anything about Skye. I can defend myself from her malice. I do not think that Skye can, and I cannot protect her without being constantly at her side, another impossibility, even if Lucya would allow it. It crosses my mind momentarily to throw some other victim in her way, make up a name, perhaps? Or even some old lover better suited to keeping themselves from harm, Adelina perhaps, who is well versed in Merchantly feuds. But that would be a bad gift to my friend, to saddle her with this. So I do not answer but only close the door between Marta and myself.