City of Night (44 page)

“Member Mellifas.”

She inclined her head, smiling. She walked with a cane in one hand, and it, like the woman whose hand rested upon its polished brass handle, was practical. No carvings adorned its length, and no jewels had been imbedded in metal and offered for the ostentation of such a fine gathering. Yet it was not poorly made, and the wood itself was dark and hard.

She would never have been one for the very fine, and very daring, court dresses whose styles changed, year after year. Even in her youth, he could not imagine those dresses in her wardrobe, never mind on her person. No; she wore the gray robes of her chosen profession, and although they were of a fine cloth, they were edged in neither gold nor silver. She wore shoes that were not, perhaps, practical in the confines of a tower with narrow, winding steps as the only method of entrance—or exit—but these were the only obvious concession to the occasion.

Sigurne, like Master Gilafas ADelios, was not known for attendance at events of this nature. But unlike the Maker, Rath understood some part of why Sigurne chose to be present.

“Is Member APhaniel present?” he asked, as he rose from his bow.

“He is, indeed. I am not entirely sure where he has gone,” she added, “but he is often like that at gatherings that seem official in nature.”

“Meaning?”

“He chafes under their tedium.”

Rath laughed, and the sound almost startled him. “I thought he might be here in attendance.”

“Mine?” She shook her head. “Matteos is here. He has, however, gone in search of wine or sweet water, and I fear that he will have some difficulty locating me.”

Rath, smiling, offered her his arm.

She accepted, of course. But as she did, she slid a hand into her robes—the advantage of such a volume of cloth being that they could both contain and hide much. “Come,” she said. “Lord Cordufar has coaxed the youngest of Senniel’s master bards out for the evening, and I would like to hear him sing.”

“He can make himself heard to the Isle,” Rath replied.

“Very well. I would like to
see
him sing, if that is possible in this crowd.”

“It is, indeed, Member Mellifas. Very well. Let us go and stand in discreet awe of Senniel College.” He turned to Andrei. “Will you accept the escort of Sigurne Mellifas as a guaranty of my good behavior and return to my godfather’s side?”

Andrei’s smile was slight. “As you wish. But be cautious, Ararath, if that is in you this eve.” Andrei knew well that were there to be trouble in the vicinity of any of the Magi, blame would be laid at the feet of the Order, regardless of who had actually started it.

“Cautious? We merely seek closer proximity to the Master Bard.”

 

It was harder done than said.

Kallandras of Senniel was enormously popular with the young ladies. He was, however, enormously popular with the older ones as well, and if the young men who hoped to make an impression on either of these formidable groups resented the ease with which the bard commanded their regard, they were wise enough not to show it. The charm and the diffidence for which Kallandras was famed was turned wholly toward his music at the moment, although bards were seldom called upon to sing during either the dinner or the following dance itself.

And bards, unlike servants and guards, were expected to socialize when they were not singing; they were expected to eat, drink, and if the occasion called for it, dance.

Sigurne sighed a moment, and turned to her companion. “Have you seen Lord Cordufar’s mistress?”

“No. She is striking enough that were you to see her, you would know.”

Sigurne raised a delicate brow. “Will she be present?”

“I cannot say with certainty. But in a gathering of this size? I think it likely.”

“She concerns you.”

“At the moment,” he said softly, “she concerns me less than Lord Cordufar, even given the dreams.”

“You spoke with him.”

“Briefly.”

“Your impression?”

“He is dangerous.” He gestured toward the stage. “I believe we might have an opening, if you still desire it.” He offered her his arm, and she took it. “I admit I had not expected to see you here, this eve.”

“I did not expect to accept the invitation,” she replied carefully, “but given our current concerns, Member APhaniel wished to be in attendance. I believe,” she added, “that he will be offending some minor noble in a corner somewhere; Meralonne is not easily confined in a setting of this nature.”

Rath raised a brow.

“It is true. He is irritable, and often irritating, in equal measure. He is seldom as serious about titles and wealth as most of the patriciate require when they seek the service of a mage. He can be brusque beyond bearing, even among the mages.” She stopped walking and turned to him. “But I admit that I have seldom seen him so focused or so driven as he has become in these last few weeks. He is almost a different man.”

“Oh?”

“He reminds me of the Meralonne I met in my youth.”

He remembered how they had met, and nodded. “If you fear—”

She glanced at his face, and then turned, quietly, in the direction of his gaze. A woman had entered the room. She was tall, for a woman, and clearly unconcerned with her height; she wore it in the bold and easy way the Northern men might. Her hair was one long drape of sleek black, straight from head to knees. She wore a deep blue gown, and it was edged in red and black; the gown was long, with a demitrain, and it was fitted as if it were skin. Her shoulders were exposed, and a thick gold chain circled her neck. But it was her eyes that caught, and held, attention; they were a brown so dark, they seemed all pupil.

“So,” Sigurne said wearily.

Rath looked back to the head of the Order of Knowledge with some difficulty.

“Come, Ararath,” the Magi said. “We would do well to be away.”

He allowed himself to be led. “It is hard to believe,” he told Sigurne, recovering his voice, “that such a woman could be hidden away at any man’s pleasure.”

“It is,” was the quiet reply. “And yet, she was. She is not hidden now,” Sigurne added.

“No. Perhaps she no longer feels she must be.”

“Which tells us much, and none of it to my liking.”

 

It was not to the liking of any woman present. Rath, well aware of the ways in which jealousy and envy could color a crowd, watched in quiet fascination as this woman—he could barely bring himself to think of her as a demon, although he knew it for truth—made her way through the great room, pausing a moment here or there to speak. He could not hear her voice at this remove, but he could
feel
it; had he still been young, he would have been drawn across the floor in fascination, like a moth to fire.

He grimaced. Were it not for Sigurne, he would, youth or no, be drawn to her regardless. Even knowing.

The men who did not, however, turned to her as she approached, even if she approached from behind; they were aware of her presence, and aware, as Rath was aware, of the promise implied by presence alone. The rest of the women, young and old, were aware of the sudden lack of their own. Talk shifted and died, souring in places as many of the younger women retreated.

“No,” Rath said quietly. “If she has ever been frightened at the thought of discovery, she knows little fear now.”

“She is bold, and I fear that it will not be to Lord Cordufar’s liking.”

“Perhaps. But in claiming her,” Rath replied, scanning the crowd for some glimpse of said lord, “he will underline his own power and wealth. Ah. There he is. And I would say, Sigurne, that I owe you an apology. He is not well pleased by the presence of his mistress.”

Lord Cordufar, trailing various guests, came to stand beside the tall, arresting woman. Rath did not think her beautiful, although in any natural sense of the word, she was. Commanding, striking, undeniably attractive, yes. But these were also accolades he might offer to the Generals of the Southern armies; there was something about that woman that reminded him of those men. She was—obviously—alive, but it was not life, in the end, that moved her.

Lord Cordufar, however, did. He caught her elbow firmly in his left hand, and the silk of her sleeve dimpled with the force of the grip, even at the distance that Rath had chosen to maintain. Or, if he were being entirely truthful, that Sigurne had chosen for him. He could not hear what passed between these two, but it was not short, and judging by expressions alone, it was not pleasant.

One or two of the men to whom she’d been speaking raised brows, and poured their own words into what was barely conversation. The woman glanced at them, and then at Lord Cordufar’s hand. He removed it, but slowly, silk running through his fingers. She smiled, then, and the expression was exquisite. Reaching out, she cupped the cheek of one of the men who had so clearly interceded on her behalf. He was not by any means a young man, certainly old enough to know better, but regardless, his face flushed in the light, which produced another smile from her.

And another few words from Cordufar. Whatever he had chosen to say this time, she heeded, but it was not to her liking. She did not pout or flirt or play the fool—these things, Rath thought, were, and would remain, beneath her. But she bowed to them all, spoke again, and smiled with just a hint of regret, before she turned and joined her lord. It was a subtle regret—but even so, one that could be seen halfway across the room with ease.

Rath, who had never been possessed of Jewel’s talent, nonetheless felt a momentary chill as he watched the man she had graced with the touch of her palm.

“Ararath?”

“I do not think that man will survive the evening,” he said quietly. He folded his hands behind his back.

“Do not,” she warned him, “draw those here.”

“As you say, Sigurne.” He forced his hands back to his sides. “But it is not clear to me, at this remove, who is lord here.”

“No,” she replied, “and that is interesting. But I confess some curiosity about the Cordufar family; I wonder if the picture galleries are open.”

 

The picture gallery was, indeed, open. Of the varied galleries that framed the courtyard, it was the longest, and the windows were the most ornate; they balanced, in some ways, the visual pull of the framed portraits that ran the length of the hall. Between the larger windows were small, functional ones, and these were open; neither, at this time of night, provided illumination, and Rath regretted the hour of the day, because he thought the sunlight, seen through colored glass, would underscore both the colors of the house, and the gallery itself.

Still, in a mansion of this size, light could always be provided by other means. The wall sconces were decorative; the magelights were imbedded between the exposed beams of the ceiling above.

The gallery was by no means empty, but it was sparsely populated, and the conversations that the paintings invoked were muted.

Matteos Corvel had finally found Sigurne as she and Rath headed out of one set of open doors toward the gallery, and he joined them silently. Rath smiled, however, at his expression; he was clearly not a man who was comfortable in crowds of gaily dressed and well-decorated people. Rath surrendered Sigurne’s arm with a pang of regret; Matteos Corvel assumed his position like a starving man who has just found food.

Rath noted, however, that he had failed to find water, and smiled.

Sigurne, therefore, led. It was almost comforting to follow her, in part because any conversation that was in any way delicate could be made inaudible to inconvenient eavesdroppers. There was enough base magic on the grounds in lights alone that the use of such minor magic itself would go unnoticed, and even if it did not, the magic was of a legal variety.

They walked the length of the hall, noting the artists where the artists were noteworthy, and noting the family resemblances where the artist was not. Sigurne paid particular attention to the portrait of the current Lord Cordufar’s grandfather, standing in the midst of his sons. The sons, one of whom had reigned until he was almost eighty, were all dark-haired and dark-eyed, although the style of cut hair was outdated.

The son that had succeeded this man was represented by a portrait in which he stood alone, with no sons and no wife. “I think this is new,” she said quietly.

“He was a striking man, in his prime.” Rath noted the line of jaw, the prominence of brow, and the color of his eyes. “And his son is very much in the same mold.”

“He is. The painting,” she added softly, moving to the current Lord Cordufar, “does not do him justice.”

“No. It captures likeness, however.”

“It does. But his chin seems weaker, and the beard does not suit him.”

“No, but he no longer has the beard.”

“When was this painted, Ararath?”

Rath bent closer. “In 397.”

“Which would be the year his father died.”

Rath nodded. “What do you think, Sigurne?”

“I think you are correct in what you’ve surmised,” she replied softly. “The man in this painting and the man in the great room? I think they look identical. But I would not be at all surprised if the current Lord Cordufar rose to the occasion of the title in a way that surprised almost everyone.”

“He did,” Rath said, staring at the portrait. Wondering, now, if the current lord’s son was human.

As if she could hear the thought, Sigurne said, “but the heir is, at present, unpromising. Self-indulgent and wont to require money to resolve the issues that arise in his personal life.”

“That,” a familiar voice said, “is an unkind representation of my son.”

Turning slightly, they saw that they had been joined by Lord Cordufar.

 

Sigurne had the grace to look embarrassed; she retreated into the posture of the old woman she claimed to be. But Rath saw her eyes, and the slight tightening of her lips, and he knew that she was now as watchful, or ready, as he had yet seen her. Matteos Corvel, however, looked as if he had turned to stone.