The Iron Ship (17 page)

“Once, I had a cat,” she said unexpectedly.

“Oh?”

“My father wished to have him castrated, for he feared the cat might grow wilful and scratch me. I was against it. The kennelmaster was to do it. He explained how his drive for sexual relations might turn him against me, and that if he were relieved of his stones then he would not. He would, in the goodman’s words, remain ‘an affable little chap’.”

“What a sinister phrase.”

“Just there,” she said, “stands an affable little chap. Whereas there,” she indicated Katriona, “is a cat whose stones are very much attached.”

Guis laughed loudly. The Hag smiled at this response, becoming energised by it. “Why do you find him objectionable?” Guis said.

“I did not say that I found him objectionable, goodfellow. What I intended to convey is that your brother-in-law is entirely unremarkable. Do you see, he possesses no great passions, and can rarely be stirred from a position of distracted geniality. He is the sort of man who is easy to overlook. You can see it in his face, and in his bearing. Today he is outshone by his bride, you say. But anyone with half an eye can see it will always be so. He is a candle against the sun.”

“As is polite to say of all brides on their wedding day.”

“It will be said of her much longer.”

“I suppose that is true. Still, he will be happy. Demion had been besotted with my sister for years.”

“That is all the more reason she will dominate him, mark my words.”

“I can only agree. Well read. You describe the boy I knew, and doubtless the man he is. You really are a magister.”

“Simple observation, goodfellow. I work no magic, and would not be accepted as one even if I could.”

“Being a person of the female persuasion?”

She performed a mocking curtsey. “I follow the latest treatises of course, but theory is all I might muster. I have no talent for the esoteric arts, and no desire to employ someone who has so that I might experiment with the greater magics. There are plenty of magisters falling over each other in their desire to build bigger and better machines to ape the Morfaan and Old Maceriyans.”

“Like my brother,” said Guis.

“I content myself with gazing at the stars. There are mysteries among them enough to satisfy the most inquiring of minds. And I do have an inquiring mind, sir.”

“As I said, a magister.”

“Not as the common usage of the word would have it,” she insisted.

“There is little common about me, countess. Nor anyone here. I will speak properly.”

“I am but a talented amateur,” she said with mock humility.

“That is not what I have heard.”

“People talk a lot about me.”

“They do.” There was no point pretending otherwise.

“It is you, I hear, that is the magister. You are mageborn, are you not? But you are neither mage nor magister.” Her manner became sharply appraising.

“That I have put behind me. I was not fit.” He changed the subject. “My sister says that half of what they say about you is nonsense, but that the more scandalous half is true.”

“I very much hope that is correct. Very well, if you must call me something, I prefer the term of empiricist. I measure the world as it is, and do nothing if I can help it to change it. The creator struck an equilibrium in all things. I seek to understand it, not how it might be manipulated.”

“Empiricist it is then, goodlady. You may have heard that I am a playwright.”

“I have, I have even seen one of your plays.”

“Truly?” said Guis.

“Your star is rising.”

“Even as my bank balance falls.”

“We are both seekers of truth, you and I,” she continued. “For what do we do but look into things and attempt to uncover the heart of the matter?”

“You possess a telescope?”

“A very fine one, the lenses are from Marceny. Mogawn is ideally situated. The stars over the sea margin are unobscured by the filth of Karsa’s factories. Tell me,” she said. “Would you like to see it?”

Guis hesitated. “I cannot say I would not. To look at the stars with great clarity... What would anyone with but a little poet in them say to such opportunity? We live in times of great progress. I am fascinated by the new sciences.”

“As your plays so eloquently attest. But?”

Guis shifted uncomfortably. “I am a teller of tales, goodlady. I cannot guarantee that what I witness of you and yours will not work themselves into my plays.”

“So long as what you say is truthful, what matter? In fact, I insist you do write something. Ah!” she said, and tapped his chest with her folded fan as if claiming him for a dance. “I will make it my condition. You may come to visit with me, but you must write of it. Are you happy now? Please, it would be my honour to host you at Castle Mogawn.”

“Countess, I would not wish to impose,” said Guis. His objection was more than perfunctory ritual.

“And what gentleman would? I insist. I am mistress of my own house and offer my invitation unreservedly. If you are as interested in the new as you say, then I have something very special to show you.”

Guis paused. He was a Kressind. His speaking with this woman would fuel the scandal broadsheets for a week on its own. If he were to go to her castle alone the embarrassment to his father would be immense... He smiled.

“Something amuses you?” the countess asked.

“No madam, I am merely pleased at your offer. I would be delighted to visit with you.”

“Very good! Very good. I shall have my servant, Mansanio, contact you and arrange it all.”

Guis nodded. “It is agreed. I will reply within...” He broke off. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me, but I must ask something of my sister.”

“Oh,” said the hag, disappointed. “Until next time then.”

Guis bowed his head. “Until next time.” Then, with as much haste as was seemly, he went to his sister’s aid.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Revelry

A
LANRYS WORE ALL
the glory of Karsa upon his left breast in an array of glittering medals. His uniform was an elaborate version of that of the Third Dragoons. Over his brocaded jacket he wore a short overcoat held together at the neck by a gold chain, the sleeves cast over his back and pinned with the cuff facing upward. His right jacket arm was stiff with insignia woven of copper thread. He carried a tall shako under his left arm. A sabre swung from hangars on his belt. His belt, boots, and pistol baldric were of ribbed black dracon leather, polished to a gleaming shine. He was handsome, the very image of a dashing sauralier, his face the subject of a thousand fantasies. His moustache and whiskers were immaculate. Most praised were his eyes, gorgeous pools framed by the handsome crags of his features. It was these that Guis liked the least. They were the eyes of a predator, colder than a dracon’s.

Katriona was pale under her make-up. Alanrys had her left hand in his right. He spoke to her quietly, a smile that to anyone else but Guis and Katriona probably looked sincere.

Guis stepped up to the colonel.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

Alanrys lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Your father invited me. I am an old friend of the family.”

“You are no friend of mine, or my sister’s. Let her go.”

“Or what, Guis?” Alanrys’s smile turned upon Guis threateningly. “I’ll not be ordered about by the family madman. Now, if you were Garten, or perhaps even that drunken sot you call your youngest brother, I might take note. But you are not quite the swordsman either of them are. Do not give me cause to call you out, the world would be such a dull place without your little plays. Besides,” he said, “I’m rather busy of late. I doubt I’d have time free to dispatch you. Perhaps you could save me the bother and drink yourself to death? I hear you are making sterling progress already.”

Guis boiled. Katriona winced as Alanrys squeezed her hand. “I am so sorry Captain Kressind could not be present. His journey would not wait.” He locked his eyes on hers. “I did what I could to keep him here, but the Gates are such an important posting. You should be proud of him.”

Guis pushed himself between Alanrys and his sister. She stepped back, her hand slipped from his. Alanrys made a show of throwing his own up in search of it, a play of regret on his face. He locked eyes with Guis for a long moment. Guis stood his ground.

“As you wish. Good day, Goodlady Morthrock. I wish you all the happiness for your future. Good day, Guis.”

He bowed, sidestepped a chattering pair of lordlings, and disappeared into the crowd.

Guis shook his head. “You’ll be safe from him now.”

“You think Demion can save me from that?” she said. She stared hatred after him. “I fear he’ll dog me for my entire life.”

“No sister, I don’t think Demion is up to that sort of thing,” said Guis. “But I imagine you can use marriage as a shield to protect yourself. He can’t carry on behaving this way toward you, not without damaging his reputation.”

She slipped her arm through his. “Thank you, Guis.”

He laid his hand over hers. “You’ve saved me more times than I’ve helped you. I still owe you a great deal.”

“S
HE SHOULD HAVE
married Alanrys.”

“Do you think, father? She hates him,” said Trassan,

Gelbion Kressind grunted. “What has like or dislike to do with it? It’s marriage boy. He’s a hero of Karsa!”

“He’s a monster.”

“There’s too much of your mother in you children. What kind of a man do you think makes a hero? Not the likes of you. Only strong men can perform such deeds. It is up to their country to decide if they are heroes or not. Heroism is an ugly business, Trassan.”

Gelbion Kressind was old before his time, twisted by apoplexy four years gone. His left leg moved stiffly, and the weight on that side he supported on a stick. This he held awkwardly across his body with his good right arm, his left arm also having been affected with weakness. His arms were thus awkwardly crossed. His posture was otherwise unaltered, and he stood as tall as his weakened limbs allowed. In his face the full ravages of his condition were apparent. His left eyelid drooped, the skin slack around it as if partially melted, while half his mouth was frozen upwards in a perpetual sneer. But the real damage was deeper inside. Gelbion Kressind had been a man of influence, of power. Forced to withdraw from the politicking of the Second House, he had become bitter. His ambition was thwarted, and become poison.

“If only she’d been born a boy,” said Gelbion.

“She is talented, father.”

The right side of his mouth twisted to match the left. He banged his stick on the floor. “She is a woman. She cannot inherit, and she’s ruled by her emotions. See how she dismissed Alanrys like a peasant, calling that worthless brother of yours to help her. She is the most like her mother of all of you. Weak! One setback and she sinks into misery. Is she the first young widow in this world? No! So it goes if one tries to engage with women as equals. The cycle of their menses rules their minds. Women are flighty and inconstant, Trassan. You would be good to remember it.”

“I think you underestimate our sister, father,” said Trassan. His father scowled intently, a master craftsman inspecting inferior work.

“And what would you know about it, childless and wifeless as you are? Spend six months sharing your bed with the same woman, then you’ll know. It’s about time you left your dalliances behind boy. Settle down.”

Trassan persisted. “Katriona is intelligent. She...”

“It matters not one jot! You can teach a woman many things, but you cannot make her a man,” said Gelbion. He had trained away much of the speech impediment the apoplexy had left him with, but he slurred when angry, and dribble spilled from his lips. He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief held in his feeble left hand. “Even if she overcomes all that nature has put in her way, how by all the banished gods will she ever get anyone to take her seriously? Look at that over there, that creature your brother was cavorting with,” he said with disgust, “conducting herself so shamelessly. There is a woman who would be as a man. Do you see how she is laughed at, how despised? Her cunt rules her mind, she is filth. A bitch sniffing around the dogs. She acts like a man and seeks to outdo them to prove her point. She is a countess! Where is her dignity? A disgrace. How Demion Morthrock has the temerity to invite her to this celebration...” Gelbion slammed his cane down again. “If you love your sister as I do, my boy, you will not encourage her. Shame and infamy is all that awaits her.”

Trassan nodded. “Yes father.”

“Good boy, good boy.” He patted at his son, anger suddenly spent. “Now help me to a seat and sit with me. Standing so long suits me poorly.” Trassan took his father’s elbow and guided him across the polished floor. Guests moved aside. Trassan caught their reactions. The pitying glance, the patronising smile, the expressions of distaste. “Tell me about this latest venture of yours. I am glad to see you putting your mind to good use, unlike that pointless elder brother of yours.”

Trassan stole a look over his shoulder at Guis. Their eyes met, and Guis raised his glass in salute. Trassan smiled back. At least Guis had stopped sulking, that was something.

“The witches are proving popular.”

Gelbion’s ruined hand twitched. “Their time is done. Not so long ago they’d have been at court. Look at them now, performing tricks for coppers. The magisters’ science is infinitely preferable. This era will see magic tamed, and it will herald prosperity for all.”

They reached a chair, and Trassan eased Gelbion into it. Gelbion stuck his bad leg out and sighed. “That is better. There are some things, Trassan, that will never change. Never mind Alanrys. Demion is a good enough match for Katriona. An alliance between the Morthrock and Kressind families will stand us in good stead. Especially you. You’re an engineer. One of the best, trusted of Arkadian Vand himself. Bloody fool that he is, but it counts for something.”

“He is sorry he could not attend.”

Gelbion sniffed. “Well. Vand’s a bloody fool and you’re a bloody fool to follow him so closely. A genius when it comes to building, but a dog of a businessman, and I won’t have you going the same way, do you hear? If you continue as you are, you’ll be the one to take over after me. Don’t look so damned surprised, or I’ll change my mind. Don’t say anything. You’ve a clumsy mouth and you would only make a mess of it. That, my boy, we will have to work on, but what other choice do I have? Garten’s sworn into service of the crown, Katriona’s a bloody female and I wouldn’t trust Guis with my legacy if the rest of you fell off a cliff, Rel’s an idiot and Aarin has his vocation. Well done Garten for providing me with grandchildren, confound him for producing girls. No, it has to be you.”