The Privilege of the Sword (7 page)

“Not really. There’s a whole staff lives here. He comes and goes, you see. He likes to have things ready for him always, here. They’ll take care of you. Just tell Betty what you need.”

“Are—are you staying here?” I hated myself for wanting a particular answer, but at least he was a friendly face.

“No. I go where he goes.”

“When will you—will he—be back?”

“Whenever he feels like it. The Riverside house is warmer in winter; this one’s better in summer. In between, like now…” Marcus shrugged.

“Is it far out in the country?”

“Is what far?”

“Riverside.”

The boy laughed, as if I’d told him a joke on purpose. Then he shook his head. “Riverside? It’s right here in the city. The other end of the city, the old bit, near the docks. Riverside’s an island in the river. It’s nothing special, really. I wouldn’t live there. But he likes it.”

“Is it a nice house?”

“It’s an odd house.” Again, the shrug. “He likes it.”

“Well,” I said, and something struck me. “Then, while he is there, I am the mistress of this house?”

“Why would you be?”

I’d never met such a rude servant. But then, this wasn’t a normal household. I explained carefully to him, “Well, most houses have a master and a mistress. If the lord is unmarried, it’s a sister, or a daughter, most often, who takes over the duty. So it stands to reason—” Marcus continued to look at me patiently, waiting for me to begin making sense. It put me off. “It stands to reason that, as the duke’s niece, I would—In his absence I would be—”

“He left no instructions about that,” Marcus told me gravely. “I could ask him, if you like, but…”

He didn’t have to complete the thought. I had had quite enough of the Mad Duke’s notice already. “Well, then,” I said airily, looking around the huge front hall, “with no duties, I shall be a lady of leisure.”

“If you’re all right,” he said, “I’d better be getting back.”

Marcus did not bow as he left me. Only after he was gone did I realize that he had not seemed to notice the strangeness of my clothing, and that, while I was with him, neither had I.

I
N MY BEAUTIFUL ROOM OVER THE RIVER,
I
SAT IN A
delicate armchair working out just how miserable I could be. My visit to Artemisia’s had been a disappointment. But then, probably she hadn’t recognized me without my gown, and that terrible man with her had started being snide before I could explain. I’d just have to watch and wait for another chance. Artemisia had spoken last night of eternal friendship. Surely, once she knew what my uncle had done to me, my friend would help me to find some decent clothes and make sure I met decent people. I could not escape Tremontaine House entirely. I must do what I had to do to please the duke; after all, my family’s fortune depended on it. But surely I wasn’t meant to be a prisoner here!

I took a deep breath, and comforted myself opening a pretty box that contained beautifully ironed handkerchiefs. It wasn’t going to be so bad, was it? Alone in one of the loveliest houses in the city, with no Mad Duke popping out from behind doors to torment me. No onerous duties, no housework whatsoever, as far as I could tell. Stupid clothes and pointless lessons, of course. But Master Venturus hadn’t said anything about my killing people; he seemed to just want me to look nice with a sword. Like dance lessons; I could do that.

I looked in the charming gilded writing desk to see if it contained notepaper. There was none. I would have to tell Betty to get me some so that I could write to Artemisia, and to my mother. No, wait, that was in the bargain, too: no family letters for six months, and no visits, either. My brother Gregory had lodgings somewhere in the city, but he was not permitted anywhere near me. It was probably just as well. Gregory is very earnest, like our father; although he had been in the city for several months, the Mad Duke had never invited him to visit, and I could see why, now. Gregory believes in rules, so he would probably not try to sneak around and find me, even though my mother probably wished he would. I could write to her, anyway…but the thought of page after page of letters piling up unread over the weeks just made me feel worse.

How was she getting on without me? I worried. She was probably doing everything wrong, even though I’d left her a list—forgetting to air the winter linens, not keeping the tables waxed, letting the kitchen maids fight over the boot boy…. And who was going to comb her hair out so it didn’t hurt, and match her embroidery silks, and remind her to take her tonic?

The house was doubtless going to wrack and ruin in my absence, and here I was, a useless creature being asked to take up useless skills I wasn’t even any good at and never would be! And all for some mad whim of my mad uncle, who couldn’t even be bothered to say good-bye to me when he left me alone in a strange house.

My boots made a satisfying thump as I stomped downstairs to look for a library where there might be paper. Or maybe I could find a genealogy that would tell me all of my stupid uncle’s mysterious names, so I could impress him if ever I saw him again. At last I found it, a grand room laced floor to ceiling with more books than I’d ever seen in my life. They looked very dull:
On the Causes of Nature, The Tyrant’s Dialogue
, that sort of thing. Most of the bindings were chased and stamped with gold, making the outsides far more appealing than the insides. Lost in the wealth of volumes, at last I found a lavish book called
Geographical Exotica
and settled into a window seat to examine pictures and descriptions of distant places I only half-believed existed. In the margin of a page about the island of Kyros, someone had written,
Where the honey comes from!
The book said it was an island of thyme, in which the bees sang all day.

chapter
V

I
N A WARM AND RICHLY FURNISHED ROOM IN
R
IVERSIDE,
the smell of candles and food and bodies and wine wove a net of security and comfort around a group of men who usually settled for less. They were as happy as they were ever likely to be, with bellies nearly full, and no brakes upon the conversation.

“Pass Soliman the meat,” the Duke Tremontaine commanded. “He can’t discuss our animal nature until he becomes one with it!”

With his plate well stacked, the philosopher started up again. “All I was saying, with Dorimund’s permission, is that training is the antithesis of nature. It must be. If shunning what is called vice were natural, as shunning cold or the pain of a fire is, then we would not need to be counseled against it!”

Taking a drink, an older, bearded man said, “I see you have no children, Sol. You must pull their hands back from the fire a hundred times, or risk losing them to it.”

“Experience,” another asserted. “Experience is the teacher there. ‘The burnt hand shuns the fire’ and all that. There is a difference between experience and training.”

“Abstract thinking is what we’re talking about. The fruits of vice are not immediately apparent, as the pain of fire is.”

The duke leaned forward across the table. Like the scholars he was dressed in black, only his was studded with jet and dark embroidery. “The ‘fruits of vice,’” he said, “are open to debate. They are not empirical, like a burnt finger. They may be abstract, Dorimund, but—” He stopped when the boy Marcus appeared at his side. “Yes, what?”

“A woman,” Marcus murmured, “has come to the West door.”

“Bugger the woman,” the duke snarled. “Make her wait.”

His servant showed him a ring. “She said you gave her this.”

The duke’s eyes widened slightly. “And so I did. I didn’t think she’d show. I had better—” He pulled himself up from the table, bowing to his guests. “Gentlemen. I’ll catch the rest of this later, or when Soliman publishes his controversial theories to the disgust of all right-thinking people, an effort I will be delighted to finance. Sol, stop eating, you look all round and rosy and harmless; people will feel silly hissing someone on the street who looks like a cradle doll.”

To the laughter of his guests he left the table, ducking between hanging cloths, following Marcus through an arched door and down two small flights of steps, each one a different width, one turning to the left and another to the right.

T
HE CLOAKED WOMAN STARTED WHEN HE ENTERED.
She had not expected a door behind the paneling. The duke shrugged. “It’s quicker. I didn’t want you to wait. I was afraid you’d lose your nerve.”

Her voice was only a little breathy. “It’s quite steeled, thank you.”

Abruptly he caught her hand in his. “But you’re cold.”

“Chilly. I often am before a performance.”

“I’m not a demanding audience.”

“I’ve heard otherwise.”

His smile was slow and personal, oddly charming. “And you the celebrated Black Rose. Well, I am honored.”

“The honor is mine, my Lord of Tremontaine.” She took a strand of his long hair between her fingers, put it to her lips.

The duke closed his eyes for a moment. Then he twined thumb and forefinger about her wrist. “Not just yet,” he said. “There is the matter of your intriguing friend, first.”

She stood quite still. “He’s not all that intriguing.”

“I find him so.”

“You don’t have to sleep with him.”

“Neither do you, really, but you choose to do so.” She drew breath to speak, but he put his fingers lightly on her lips. “Lord Davenant is becoming an important man, closely allied to the new Crescent Chancellor. Prestige, money, adventure…It’s your game; I won’t tell you how to play it. I’m just delighted you’re going to play it with me, too.”

She raised her own hand to his to caress the backs of his fingers on her lips. Abruptly he turned away, businesslike. “I asked you for evidence of his latest clever scheme. Now, let’s see it. Even flat on my back—or yours—I can tell a real document from a fake one.”

The actress reached into the folds of her cloak. He stepped back a pace, because it might always be a dagger. But she produced a real document, hung with seals and ribbons, very official.

“Nice,” the duke said, examining it. “Very nice. This will more than do. Marcus—” Without looking behind him, he handed it to his servant. “Arthur knows what to do with this. Tell him to make two copies and return the original”—he looked the woman in the eyes—“how soon, do you think?”

“Soon. I’ll be missed if I’m not back tonight.”

“Can’t you tell him your rehearsal ran late?”

“I already have.”

The actress was trembling. The duke drew her into the crook of his arm, and slipped his ring back onto her finger. “Keep it.”

“I’ll probably sell it.”

“That’s all right.” The man in black pulled her against his chest. “I don’t give things away with an eye on their future.”

The Black Rose turned in his arms, a tall woman who still came only to his chin. Her mouth sought his skin above the embroidered collar. “You’re very generous.”

“Am I? You don’t have to sleep with me, either, but if it—”

“Prestige,” she murmured into his throat, “money, adventure.”

“—if it makes it any easier, I can give you—”