Cursor's Fury (24 page)

Chapter 12

Vorello’s Pool was one of the most beautiful places Isana had ever visited. Centered around a crystalline pool in the base of a rocky grotto, the whole of the dining house had seemingly been built from the trees and vines planted within the grotto and growing as living partitions, bridges, and stairways. Tables were arranged upon rocky shelves around the pool at varying heights. Several tables were set upon flat stones rising from the pool itself, and employees of the hotel would ferry customers out to the tables with graceful boats propelled by furies within the pool’s waters.

Furylamps cast luminous color over each table, and the colors constantly, slowly shifted and changed from hue to hue. From a distance, it looked like a cloud of fireflies hovering over the surface of the water. More lights within the pool itself shone up, also changing colors over time, casting shadows up the walls of the grotto and half-shadowing each table.

Singers, mostly young women, stood upon a number of raised rocks or sat upon the low-hanging branches of one of the trees. They sang songs of beauty and sadness in quiet, hauntingly lovely voices. Instrumental music supported the voices, drifting through the restaurant with no evident source.

One of the staff showed Isana to a table, set upon a rocky outcropping over the pool, framed by the embrace of the long, strong roots of a tree above. She had hardly settled into her seat before Bernard and Amara arrived, with Giraldi trailing in their wake.

Isana rose to meet her little brother’s bearish, affectionate embrace, and knew at once that something had happened. Her entire sense of him was filled
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with a brimming excitement and mirth that she hadn’t felt in him since . . . Isana drew in a sharp breath. Since he’d been married. She stared at his face for a moment, his own happiness drawing a smile onto her face, then glanced aside at Amara.

The Countess looked as she always did—distant, golden, and difficult to read. She had the warm, honey brown skin characteristic of the folk of sunny Parcia in the south, and her straight, fine hair was almost the precise same shade, giving her, in stillness, the appearance of a statue, some work dedicated to a huntress figure, lean and intense and dangerous. Isana had come to know that it was only part of the Countess’s personality. Her beauty could best be seen in motion, as she walked or flew.

Isana glanced aside at Amara, and the Countess avoided her eyes. Amara’s cheeks flushed with color, and her usual reserved expression changed, becoming something young and girlish and delighted. She fidgeted in place, and she and Bernard’s hands found one another without either of them seeming to be aware of it before she became still again.

“Well,” Isana said to her brother. “Shall I order a bottle of something special?”

“Why would you ask that?” Bernard said, his tone smug.

“Because she’s not stupid,” growled Giraldi. The old centurion, grizzled and stalwart despite his limp, stepped around Bernard to bow politely to Isana. She laughed and gave him a fond embrace. Giraldi smiled, evidently pleased, and said, “But don’t buy any special drink on my account. Just something that will make me think the food tastes good if I drink enough of it.”

“Then you’ll need almost nothing,” Amara said. “The food here is wonderful—though the gourmands from my own home city disdain it. They hate it when any cook makes them eat too much by daring to exceed their expectations, I think.”

Giraldi grunted and looked around. “I don’t know. Awful lot of upper crust in this place.” He nodded at a table above their own. “High Lady Parcia, there, having dinner with High Lady Attica’s daughter. Couple of Senators, over there. And that’s Lord Mandus, from Rhodes. He’s the Fleet Tribune in their navy. They aren’t the sort of folk that eat decent food.”

Amara laughed. “If the meal isn’t to your liking, centurion, I’ll pay someone to fetch you a steak and a pitcher of ale.”

Giraldi grinned and subsided. “Well, then.”

Isana paused to regard Amara. There was a warmth in her voice and manner she had never sensed there before. Isana already respected Amara, but to
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see her and Bernard together and so clearly happy, made it very difficult for her not to share some portion of her brother’s affection for the young woman. She was wearing a dress, too, which was unusual in Isana’s experience. Isana did not miss the fact that the Cursor wore a gown in the rich green and brown Bernard had chosen for his colors, and not the somber, muted tones of red and blue generally favored for formal wear by the Cursors and other servants of the Crown.

Isana had always maintained a certain distance from the Cursor, the young woman who owed her personal loyalty to Gaius Sextus. Isana’s harsh feelings toward the First Lord had spilled over onto Amara. She knew, on some level, that it was unfair of her to hold the sins of the liege against the Cursor who served him, and yet she had never been able to bring herself to give Amara a chance to prove herself in her own right.

Perhaps it was time for that to change. Bernard clearly adored the young Countess, and she had obviously brought Isana’s little brother a great deal of happiness. If what Isana suspected was true, Amara might be around for a very long while. That was reason enough to force Isana to face the fact that she owed it to her brother to attempt at least to make peace with the Cursor.

“Ma’am,” the old soldier said. He waited for Amara to be seated, then lowered himself into his own chair, leaning on his cane and briefly grimacing in discomfort.

“Count brought in some big healer from Riva. It’s been poked enough. Problem isn’t the wound. The leg is getting old,” Giraldi said, a small smile on his lips. “It had a good run, Isana. And I can still march. I’ll finish this hitch. So don’t you worry about it.”

Isana felt the little spike of disappointment and regret in Giraldi’s voice, but it was a small thing beside his resolve and his pride—or perhaps more accurately, his self-satisfaction, a form of inner peace. Giraldi had been badly wounded in battle against the vord at the Battle of Aricholt, but he had never
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faltered in his duty, never failed to fight in defense of the Realm. He had spent a lifetime in the Legions and in service to the Realm, and made a difference by doing so. That knowledge formed a bedrock for the old soldier, Isana reasoned.

“How have your presentations gone?” she asked, looking at Giraldi, then Bernard.

Bernard grunted. “Well enough.”

“Well enough with soldiers,” Giraldi corrected. “The Senators are all certain that we poor countryfolk have been bamboozled by the Marat, and that the vord aren’t really anything to worry about.”

Isana frowned. “That hardly sounds encouraging.”

Bernard shook his head. “The Senators won’t be doing the fighting. The Legions do that.”

To Isana, he sounded like a man trying to convince himself of something. “But doesn’t the Senate administer the Crown’s military budget?”

“Well,” Bernard said, frowning. “Yes.”

“We’ve done all we can,” Amara said, and put her hand over Bernard’s. “There’s no reason to blame yourself for the Senate’s reaction.”

“What about you, Steadholder?” Amara asked, once the server had withdrawn. “What were the results of the League’s summit with the abolitionists?”

“Complete success,” Isana replied. “Senator Parmos addressed the entire assembly this afternoon. He’s going to sponsor Lady Aquitaines proposal.”

Amara’s eyebrows lifted. “Is he?”

Isana frowned. “Is that such a surprise?”

“Yes, actually,” Amara said, frowning. “From my understanding of the situation in the Senate, any emancipation legislation would have been blocked by the southern Senators. Between Rhodes and Kalare, they have votes enough to kill any such motion.”

Isana arched an eyebrow. Amara’s information was doubtless obtained from the Crown’s intelligence network. If Amara had been unaware of the shift in the
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balance of power, then it was entirely possible that the First Lord was, too. “The Rhodesian Senators have cast their support to the abolitionists.”

Amara stiffened in her seat. “
All
of them?”

“Yes,” Isana said. “I thought you’d know already.”

Amara shook her head, her lips pressed together. Isana could feel the Cursor’s anxiety rising. “When did this happen?”

“I’m not sure,” Isana said. “I overheard two members of the League discussing it during Lady Aquitaine’s tour. Perhaps three weeks ago?”

Amara suddenly rose, her voice tight. “Bernard, I need to contact the First Lord. Immediately.”

Bernard frowned at her in concern. “Why? Amara, what’s wrong?”

“It’s too much,” Amara said, her eyes focused elsewhere, her voice running in quick bursts that mirrored her furious thought. “Kalare’s being forced into a corner. He won’t take covert measures. He can’t. Between emancipation laws and the letter . . . we’re not ready. Oh, crows, not ready.”

Isana felt the Cursor’s anxiety begin to change into rising fear. “What do you mean?”

Amara shook her head rapidly. “I’m sorry, I don’t dare say more. Not here.” She looked around quickly. “Bernard, I need to get to the river, immediately. Isana, I’m sorry to disrupt the dinner—”

Isana frowned and stared up at the sky. She could not see the full glory of the stars in the furylit beauty of the city of Ceres, but the brightest stars were still visible. The entire western half of the sky was filled with crimson pinpoints of light. As she watched, the white stars overhead burned sullen, and the scarlet light spread like some kind of plague to the east, marching slowly and steadily forward. “Is it some kind of furycrafting?” she murmured.