The Fall of Ventaris (43 page)

Duchess considered. “What if a Kell made a claim now?”

“Assuming the claim could be proven — and testimony from me would help in that regard — that Kell would inherit everything: the lands, the gold, even the title of lord.” He gave her a long look. “Or lady.” Before she could respond, he held up a long, thin finger. “But there is something else you should know. Your father and I planned for
Justin
to make that claim, not you or Marguerite. Justin would have been seventeen, two years shy of the age of majority, but he would most likely have been permitted to inherit without any imperial supervision. If you were to make that claim...well, you are almost the same age as Justin would have been, but as a woman...” He pursed his lips. “You would likely be assigned a guardian who would manage the estate until your nineteenth birthday, by which time you would already have been married. Your husband, of course, would then assume control of the estate in your name.”

“And so a stranger would become Lord Kell.”

Terence sighed, looking mournful. “I do not make the law, Marina, and much as I might wish I cannot change it.”

She rose from her seat, anger burning away the haze of ale. Claiming what was hers by right would turn her into another Lady Agalia, forced to wed to secure her House. Would she be paired up with another Ivan Gallius, a well-off criminal in search of a noble name? Or perhaps an Adam Whitehall, from a House old in honor but personally cruel? Neither option was attractive. And what of the work she’d done with Jana? Her fledgling business would end up as yet another part of the bounty her husband would inherit. Would her Grey cloak even mean anything? All the risks she’d taken, dangers she’d faced, and strength she’d gained would be as nothing. She would no longer be Duchess of the Shallows.
 

She had to laugh; she had spent these last months haunted by the ghost of what she might have been, and now the ghost of what she might yet be had come knocking at her door.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Terence, because this isn’t funny. The girl you came looking for died in a fire many, many years ago.” She met his gaze squarely. “Since then every step has taken me further and further away from that life. There is no going back.” She thought of Jana and the Atropi. Julius and Jadis and Amabilis. “I am many things, but I am not Marina Kell.”

Terence looked at her kindly. “Only you may make that decision. There are so many years between your life now and the life you were meant to lead, it – ” his voice shook and he paused for a long moment. “I fear that I’ve only brought you heartache, and for that I apologize. Consider what I have told you, and if you change your mind please know that you can count on my support.” He smiled then, unexpectedly. “Perhaps you are right. Marina is gone, but it seems that Duchess thrives. Even in Scholars District we have heard of Baron Eusbius and his disappearing dagger. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t clean me out of house and home.”

She took a deep breath. “You were a good friend to my father. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner, but...I learned fear at an early age. And I’m sorry I sent your daughter snooping about your study.”

Terence chuckled. “That girl is ten times trouble even without you to egg her on. Thank goodness
that’s
been put to an end.” He paused and raised an eyebrow, waiting for her nod. “Do you know that she still hasn’t told me how you and she met?” He shook his head. “She’s strong-willed, like her mother, and I never had the heart to take that away from her. She’ll need it, in this city.”
 

“Yes, she will,” she replied, thinking of Jana.
Others would see that softness and take it for weakness.
“Savant, you took quite a risk coming down here alone. I
did
break into your house, after all. How could you be sure I wouldn’t...” She gestured vaguely. “Try something underhanded? Or dangerous?”

“I couldn’t be sure,” he replied. “Which is why I did not come alone.” He gestured, and the drunken lout she’d nearly stepped on in the alley entered through the door, silent as a shadow. She’d never heard him climbing the stairs. He moved to Terence’s side, his hands behind his back, all sign of drunkenness gone. “Imperial Whites,” Terence said wistfully, “don’t always wear their armor.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: The nature of elegance

“You look worse than I do,” Lysander said as they trudged across Bell Plaza towards Beggar’s Gate. “I’ve got my work cut out for me today.”

He had shown up later than he’d promised, but as Duchess had been sleeping when he arrived she could scarcely complain. Fortunately, she didn’t need to concern herself with dressing and bathing — Tremaine had said she would see to that — Duchess had only to throw on yesterday’s clothes before setting out to the guildmaster’s shop.

“I’m sure you’re up to the task,” Duchess replied. “The next time I go to the imperial palace, remind me
not
to spend the night before getting drunk.”

He chuckled. “I still don’t understand why Tremaine wants you to go to the Fall with her.”

She shrugged. “Most likely she wants me there so that if things go wrong she won’t have to look far for someone to blame.” She glanced at him. “I wish you were going, too.”
 

“I can’t, not if you’re posing as the guildmaster’s handmaid. Most servants don’t have servants of their own.” He turned more serious. “With the empress there, though...this just sounds dangerous. I have this feeling something bad is going to happen.”

“Well, I might vomit all over the Atropi, but other than that I should be safe enough,” Duchess replied, more lightly than she felt. She, too, had a nervous stomach. Robbing an upjumped smuggler was one thing, but this caper was to take place before Violana, Most High Sovereign of the Empire of Rodaas. Part of her would rather face the Brutes again.

They crossed the Godswalk and turned towards Scholars. “Are you sure we’ll get past the gate with me carrying this?” Lysander hefted the wooden box he was carrying, nearly two feet wide, with iron clasps and hinges. “The blackarms can look inside if they want, but...”

She waved a hand to reassure him. “Tremaine gave me a letter, stamped with the guild’s seal, if you can believe it. I doubt any blackarm is going to question that.”
 

She was right. There was a good deal of traffic at the gate and the blackarms gave them only a cursory glance as they passed. Soon enough they arrived at the shop, where Lynda escorted them to the main workroom. Tremaine was waiting, clad in red and yellow, along with a large brass tub of steaming water.
 

“I dismissed my apprentices at noon,” the elegant woman said, by way of greeting. “The better to prevent them from seeing you and your...assistant.” She glanced at Lysander and his box. “I hope you are skilled with makeup and hair and all that a lady needs to appear presentable. Your skills are most certainly needed here.” She gave Duchess a sour look. “I’ve done all I can with needle and thread, but
some
things are beyond my powers. I trust you know how to make the Shallows look at least one district higher.”

Lysander nodded. “Indeed I do, but I’ll need to see to Duchess before I get to you.” Tremaine’s eyes shot daggers, but he merely gave her an appraising look. “I’m not hopeful, in truth. Some things are simply beyond my powers.”

Tremaine turned to Duchess. “I suggest you make use of the tub.” She swept from the room without another word. Duchess and Lysander shared a smile and got to work.

The bath was hot and wonderful, and Tremaine had considerately provided several vials of bath oil, which Duchess had never used. She chose one that smelled sharp but sweet, while Lysander opened his box, removing bottles, jars and various brushes. The only makeup he’d ever applied to her face was the clay and ashes of a Feaster. She wondered if that said something about her. Washed, ready and wrapped in a towel, she sat at a nearby vanity, closed her eyes and let him get to work.

First, he applied color to her face. Not Minette’s pure white but a mellow peach, somewhat darker than her own skin tone. “
This
,” he said, dipping his brush in the small jar, “covers any, ah, imperfections.” She almost had her mouth open before he clipped it shut with a finger under her chin. “Which of course you don’t have.” She dipped a finger into the jar; the makeup was smooth like ointment and yet somewhat gritty, almost like salt. “And it
doesn’t
go on your fingers,” he warned, shooing her away.

“It feels hot. Will it be hot? I’m going to have to wear it all throughout the feast and after.”

He began to apply the goop to her face. “Ever notice how the noblewomen never seem to sweat? This is why. It absorbs moisture without running.”

She smirked. “Sounds like you speak from personal experience.”

“No smiling. I need to get this right.” She tried to keep her face a mask while he worked with the brush. “And, yes, I’ve worn this a time or ten, although not always on my face. Before you ask...” She giggled, earning a frown from him. He dipped and brushed, dipped and brushed, until she felt like her face was coated with paint, which in a way it was.
 

“Noblewomen wear this
every day
?” she asked, moving her jaw as little as possible.

“Just to parties and balls...and the Fall of Ventaris.” He set down the brush and drew back to look at her. “Now just a bit of the rose,” he said, taking up another jar. She groaned. “You’ll thank me when this is all over.” He produced another, smaller brush and went to work. “I wish,” he said, suddenly more serious, “that you were taking Castor with you tonight.”
 

She sighed. “In all honesty, I don’t know if I’ll be seeing Castor again any time soon.
Especially
if tonight goes well. It’s a lesson, I suppose. Every man has his limits, and I ran into one of his.” She flicked her eyes about the room to indicate that the guildmaster might be listening from some hidden bolthole. “In any case, he protected me with his sword, and if things go wrong tonight a
hundred
swords won’t protect me.”

“No,” Lysander said quietly, “they won’t.” He sighed as well. “We keep ending up here, don’t we? So many leaps from so many cliffs and me calling you fool all the way down.”

She thought of Jana’s card, and of the pit beneath the hill. “Maybe it’s who I am, Lysander.” She thought of who she was, and who he was. Jana had said there was no word in Rodaasi for Lysander, and maybe that was why she had taken so long to understand that he was not for her. As the facet said, naming a thing gave you power over it. Perhaps if you had no name, you had no power.
 

She looked at him for a long time, so long that he stopped fiddling with the powder. “What?”

“There’s someone who will love you as much as I do, you know.” She hesitated. “I think one day you’ll find him,” she said, emphasizing the final word.

She’d seen Lysander cry only once, and that because of her. Now his blue eyes gleamed, but this time she
hoped
she was the reason. “Maybe I will.” He paused and looked away. “And maybe you will too.” They were both quiet for a long time. Then Lysander sighed and turned back to her, the moment passed. He brandished another brush. “But not before I finish those lips.” He reached for another jar, this one filled with a dark red substance that was slightly iridescent,.

She shook her head in disgust. “Ugh. It smells awful. Where does
that
horrid stuff come from?”

He grinned. “Boiled fish scales. Now pucker up.”

*
 
*
 
*

The door opened perhaps a half-bell later to admit the guildmaster, dressed in a shimmering purple and gold gown embroidered with tiny suns along the collar, sleeves and hem. In other circumstances Duchess would have felt tawdry in comparison, but not today. Lysander had worked magic. In the floor-length mirror her skin glowed, smooth and flawless, with just a hint of red along her cheekbones. He’d trimmed her freshly washed hair with a small pair of shears, then rubbed in oil until it shone. He had arranged her hair, too, piling it elaborately atop her head in loops and coils, leaving a strand to dangle seductively here and there. No jewelry – that was unheard of for a mere attendant, Lysander had insisted – but he had daubed her with a scent that smelled of apples and cinnamon, with just a hint of smoke.
 

And, of course, the dress Tremaine had created finished the look: a beauty of rich burgundy satin that was somehow form-fitting and relaxed all at once, showing off Duchess’s slender figure without appearing vulgar. The neckline was modest, but swirls of black lace cascaded down the bodice to the snug waist, emphasizing the swell of her breasts and the flat of her belly. The skirt was ankle-length, but a small slit in the back revealed her calves against an inner lining of rich black felt. The dress was shamelessly sleeveless, but accoutered by a waist-length capelet of the same color. Gazing at her reflection, she felt reborn.

Lysander had already left, taking his makeup and brushes with him, leaving her to face Tremaine alone. The guildmaster walked a circle around Duchess, eyeing her critically. “The heels are a bit lower than ideal,” she remarked, looking at Duchess’ shoes, “and I would have chosen a lighter shade of red for the blush. Otherwise, your...friend...has done an exceptional job. One would never know you were from the wrong side of the hill.” Duchess felt absurdly grateful for the praise. She had never thought it was possible for her to look beautiful. In her father’s house Marguerite had been the pretty one; in Noam’s bakery that title had been held by Jossalyn; on the street, Lysander. She’d been smart and clever and bold, but never pretty. She blinked back sudden tears, lest she spoil all of Lysander’s efforts.

Tremaine continued studying her for a long moment, and Duchess had the feeling the older woman sensed something of her thoughts. Then she nodded. “Come along, then.” Duchess followed Tremaine back to her private workroom, where Lynda waited. She stood in the doorway while they whispered together for a long moment. Last-minute preparations, she supposed. Then Lynda stepped past Duchess, flashing her an approving look as she passed.