Stranger At The Wedding (16 page)

Behind her Kyra saw Blore Spenson at the reins of his light one-horse chaise. He had called out to her, so it was too late to make him think she was a scarf seller or somebody's maid.

“Thank you.” She strode back to him and climbed in, hanging up the flounce of her petticoat on the step. “I was afraid I'd miss breakfast.”

Spenson laughed and flicked the reins; he might, she realized a few moments later, have had some other destination in mind than her father's house, but if so, he let it go gracefully and concentrated on steering around a cab driver who'd pulled up in the middle of Bent Hill Lane to buy breakfast from a woman selling muffins from a cart.

“I hope you riding with me means you forgive me. For setting your father at you,” he added, glancing briefly at the baffled expression on her face and then turning his attention back to avoiding a butcher's wagon and two court sedan chairs complete with bodyguards—not needed in daylight but a necessity if one were setting out for the gambling hells of Algoswive district at two in the morning. “I never meant to do that.”

“Oh, don't take credit for anything extraordinary,” Kyra said lightly, feeling the back of her hood where the damp had soaked through from her hair. “Father's been set against me from the day I took vows not to meddle in mundane affairs. I think he'd have been perfectly happy for me to be a dog wizard and put good words on his account books.” He drove well, she observed, his touch on the reins as light as it had been on her hand yesterday, and such unexpected hazards as small dogs and two urchins rolling a hoop along the pavement did not seem to take him by surprise. But presumably neither had pirates, Oriental potentates, or irate sea-island natives.

“Would he?” Her prospective brother-in-law glanced sidelong at her, and she saw his fair, level brows bunch. “It didn't sound like he had much use for dog wizards. I know he's run them out of this neighborhood. As you know,” he added awkwardly.

“Ah.” Kyra's smile was tight. “You're thinking of Tibbeth of Hale.”

“He was burned, wasn't he?” The deliberate neutrality of his tone—the setting of the event at a distance— surprised her. He was the only person besides Alix who seemed to realize that mention of the scandal might still cause her pain. And, she thought, he'd seen through her airy lie about her father's attitude toward her magic—not a piece of perception she'd have credited to the stiff and silent man who'd had so little to say at dinner. “I'd shipped as supercargo on the Inzibar Queen” he went on. “Her maiden voyage, out through the Tarand Straits; she's still one of our best merchantmen. It was all over by the time I returned.”

It occurred to Kyra that if she had had Lord Mayor Spenson for a father, she'd have gone to sea as well.

“Well,” she remarked lightly, “the trial did have something to do with my decision to embrace the Academic variety of wizardry, which at least protects its adherents from the vagaries of public opinion.”

“Wasn't he your teacher?”

She shrugged. “For a time.”

She was aware of his glance touching her profile again and had the uneasy feeling that he saw through her flippancy to the scars beneath. Her eyes were scanning the streets around them, looking for places that her attention persistently skipped—so far, nothing seemed to be pushing away her gaze. On the balconies of the houses of rose and golden brick, maidservants were airing bed linen; a religious procession passed down the pavement on the opposite side, the monks in the blue robes of the Hilatian Order walking in a chanting chain, each man's hand on the shoulder of the man before him, all blindfolded while the flute player who led them piped shrilly to drown out unholy sounds and unholy thoughts. Spenson's horse flung up her head and snorted in disgust at the incense.

“I owe you two apologies, really,” Spenson said after a straitened silence, “and thanks. Because you were right. I was having—dreams…” He could barely get the word out, and his face had gone rufous again. “… about the Earthwygg girl.” His blue eyes met hers squarely, as if daring her to speak of the matter, and Kyra, who was about to observe that there was nothing to be embarrassed about except perhaps the implication that he might find Esmin Earthwygg attractive without the aid of magic, realized that he was highly embarrassed.

So she said instead, and in a quieter voice than her usual half-ironic tone, “Well, considering the state of that family's finances, it's hardly surprising her mother would try something of the kind on you. She must have been spitting blood when the betrothal was announced.”

Spenson looked startled. “I hardly know the girl!”

“Good heavens, you don't think that had anything to do with it, do you? You hardly know my sister.”

He turned his attention back to his driving, and for some time he seemed to be intently studying the mare's ears. His mouth settled into the hard line it sometimes had in Alix's presence, and the color was long in fading from his cheeks.

Kyra wondered how vivid the dreams had been.

After a time he said, “I know the difference between a woman who'll make a man a good wife and one who won't.”

Hearing the world of discomfit in his voice, she picked her words carefully. “Believe me, you're no more to blame than if—than if someone had put a Get-Lost spell on your carriage and you'd been four hours late for dinner. Spells like that have absolutely nothing to do with their subject's real desires.”

“Have they not?” He looked back to her, interest driving the flush from his face. Then he chuckled ruefully. “Well, I suppose their strength lies in how thoroughly they make you think that is your real desire, at the time, at least. And being about to marry your sister…”

Kyra regarded him for a moment, her brows tugging down over her tawny eyes. “That must have been quite appalling for you,” she said. For the first time she reflected that his irrational lust for Esmin Earthwygg had put him through some masculine version of Alix's division of soul, complicated by his genuine dislike of the girl and his precise knowledge of how much of a legal tangle it would take to get out of the contracted match. No wonder he'd had precious little to say, hiding his doubts behind a countenance of weathered oak.

“On the other hand,” she added judiciously, “that was no reason to shout at me for removing them.”

One corner of his mouth turned down, and his blue eyes twinkled. “My girl, no man likes to be told that he's been led around by his… er… nose.”

“Well,” Kyra said, “if you say so.”

He laughed at her doubtful tone and drew rein to let a cartful of fresh ivy and trailing chains of smilax turn into Upper Tollam Street ahead of them. As he followed the slowly jogging vehicle, Kyra realized that it must contain supplies for the new garlands all the servants would weave and hang tonight. Poor Father, she thought with regret. With smilax ten coppers the basket, and ivy three… Spenson's hands on the reins were brown from the sun, heavy with muscle that made their skill all the more surprising. She realized, gazing absently at them, that she had momentarily forgotten her anxiety, and renewed awareness of the shortness of the time left rushed back on her.

Casually, she inquired, “You say he's run off other dog wizards from this neighborhood?”

Spenson nodded. “According to Father. Three years ago there was a woman over on Lesser Queen Street; your father took against her as soon as he heard she was there. He and some of the other guildsmen warned her to find other quarters. And there was a man who worked out of the attic of the Feathered Snake. Quiet and inoffensive, but I heard it was your father who set the Witchfinders on him. So I'll admit I was surprised when I saw you back in his house.”

He was quiet for a time, and the wheels of the gig, crushing dropped ivy leaves on the gray paving stones, sent up frail traces of their sappy green smell to contend with the waft of the flowers in the cart ahead and the odors of wash water thrown in the gutters and horse piss from the cab stand on the corner of Upper Tollam Street.

Then his glance returned to her again.

“It doesn't sound like a man angry because you wouldn't turn dog wizard to help his business.”

“Well, having quite spectacularly denounced one wizard and thrown another one out of his house, he could scarcely go about hiring a third or a fourth to make up the deficit, could he? I daresay it got to be a habit with him. Do you know what became of them? The woman from Queen Street, I mean, and the wizard who worked out of the Feathered Snake.”

Spenson shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

“I'd hate to think my decision seriously inconvenienced a couple of perfectly innocent bystanders, particularly if the Witchfinders really were called in.” Kyra spoke lightly, but she remembered Nandiharrow's oddly shaped black gloves and what was—and wasn't—inside them. Half the novices at the Citadel called him Nandiharrow the Nine Fingered as a matter of course, not remembering that up until eighteen months ago he'd gone by a different nickname.

His smile was wry. “I don't think your father feels any wizard is innocent.”

“Well, he's quite right, you know.” Kyra stepped down from the gig before the open gate of the kitchen yard, through which the flower cart was rumbling. “Will you come in and join us for breakfast, Master Spenson? My sister should be awake by this time.”

Her mind was already racing ahead, probing at alleys, leads, inquiries, raging at the constant petty turmoil that kept her from systematically searching the house, but she knew also that she needed food. Besides, she thought, looking up at the man in the gig above her, she found Spenson surprisingly good company.

The mention of Alix's name made him glance away, and his easiness vanished like dew in the sun. “Another time, Miss Peldyrin,” he said with the old dinner-party stiffness. “I'm late to the countinghouse as it is. God knows, with all these delays, it's all I can do to keep things together there. We're trying to work in a new factor to send to the Sykerst fur traders, and the man's turned out a fool. I only wanted to apologize for… for speaking on matters I should have known better than to bring up.” He raised his whipstock to touch the brim of his high-crowned hat and, With a flick of the reins, was gone across the square.

Not an easy apology for a hot-tempered man, Kyra thought, standing for a time on the flagway, watching the broad, brown back disappearing between the shoulders of the buildings that guarded Upper Tollam Street. She remembered that the Spenson countinghouse was down on Salt Hill Lane, and Prandhauer Street was only a short way north of it. Baynorth Square lay nowhere between. He'd gone out of his way rather than let her walk.

She made her way, swift and unnoticed, to her room and concealed Lily's frock in the armoire, hoping Spenson hadn't noticed what she'd been wearing under her cloak. Then she hooked herself into one of her own outlandish dresses, a brilliant yellow garment draped back over a skirt of white and yellow ribbonwork and strange old-fashioned hoops. Part of her teenage desire to revolutionize fashion—at least the fashions she wore—had involved efficiency and a desire to get into her clothes without the aid of servants, so in addition to suiting her jagged looks and strong coloring, most of the gowns she had designed for herself fastened up the front.

She viewed herself critically in the mirror as she put up her hair, which was still damp at the ends, threading it with an old necklace of raw amber instead of the flowers dictated by current fashion. Even at the age of ten she had known she could never compete with the fashionable girls, the girls who studied each sleeve flounce and pleat worn by the leading Court beauties, who could tell by the cut of the stomacher or the number of its bows whether a gown was truly new or last season's made over.

Rather than lose to them in their game, she had made her own rules, and she wondered for a moment, throwing a chain of turquoises over her head and surveying the colorful result, where that would have taken her had she not been what she was.

With a shake of her head, she descended to the breakfast room, where her mother and Alix were finishing toast and cocoa.

From the gallery she caught the whiff of it, and the sweetness of the chocolate made her stomach grip with the old craving for sugar. Her mother's light babble drifted on the scented steam, but Alix, when Kyra entered the room, was silent, though putting up a good appearance of interest. Despite the careful application of rice powder and rouge, Kyra could see that her sister had been crying.

“Kyra, darling!” Her mother half rose in a drift of patchouli. “We were just… That is, there's a little problem—a question, really—that we need… Well…” She took a sip of her cocoa to buy herself time while Kyra reached over to the bellpull to summon Briory.

“The fact is, darling, your father brought up the question of the wedding procession tomorrow morning. Now, under ordinary circumstances, of course you would have a place in Alix's carriage…”

“Under ordinary circumstances,” Kyra remarked, “yes. Briory, could you get me some of Joblin's blintzes and jam? And coffee, please. Under ordinary circumstances, I'd be carrying a corner of Alix's veil as matron of honor, assuming that anybody would have married me in the intervening years. Is there cocoa in that pot still?”

“It'll have skin on it like a lizard,” Alix warned.

“At the moment I'd drink it if it was lizard skin. I take it,” she added, turning a limpid gaze upon her parent, “that circumstances have been rendered too extraordinary for me to be invited to go along?”

“Oh, of course not, darling,” Binnie Peldyrin hastened to say, reaching over to lay a small, moist hand on her elder daughter's bony wrist. Kyra had never liked her mother's habit of fingering her daughters and husband and gently extracted her arm from the grip; Binnie noticed no more than she ever had, but her wide blue eyes blinked nervously. “The thing is, you see, since you're not a member of Alix's train at the church, you wouldn't be riding in her carriage, and I'd already asked Lord and Lady Earthwygg—I mean, before you came back—to ride with your father and me in ours, and… well…”

“Hmmn,” Kyra said. “And I don't expect either Aunt Murdwym or Cousin Wyrdlees would want me in the carriage with them. Perhaps Father could rent me a closed sedan chair to follow immediately after.”