Текст книги "Cascet of Souls"

Автор книги: Lynn Flewelling

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CHAPTER 6. Ulia

ULIA squatted in the weeds above the breakwater, poking at the dead gull’s shiny gold eye with a twig. It was pretty, and she wished it were a bead she could wear on a string around her neck. But it also meant that the bird was freshly dead.

The child’s bare arms and legs were like knobby twigs themselves, sticking out of the shapeless grey folds of her sister’s cast-off dress. She picked the bird up by one still-supple orange foot and carefully held it at arm’s length so the blood dripping from its gaping bone-colored beak wouldn’t get on her clothing or bare feet. The bird was nearly as big as she was. Even when she held her hand up high, the head dragged on the ground and the broad grey-backed wings flapped clumsily, as if it didn’t want to go in her mama’s stewpot. Ulia looked around quickly, judging the distance across the barren shorefront to the row of sagging tenements where she and her large family lived, and measuring who else was around to see. An older child, or even a grown-up, would take it from her for sure, and then her family would go hungry another night. But there was no one at the moment, except for the bent old woman sitting on one of the granite anchor stones nearby, leaning on a gnarled stick.

Ulia would have avoided her, too, except that the woman was holding something up between her gloved fingers that caught the light and sparkled like sunlight on ice. Curious, Ulia sidled over toward her, arm already aching from the weight of the bird. Keeping out of reach, she craned her neck, trying to see what it was that was sparkling so.

The old woman wore a dress as crude and tattered as her own, and the scarf wound around her head under the brown shawl might have been red once. But Ulia was a child starved for color. Even the gull’s blood was pretty to her. What she could see of the old woman’s face under the kerchief was sun-browned and lined, and she had white whiskers on her chin. As Ulia came closer, she saw that the old grandmother had on the strangest belt; it was made of rope, and had things hanging from it on bits of string: bent spoons, broken hair combs, bones, a bracelet made of dried rosebuds, stones and shells with holes through them. But Ulia’s gaze lingered longest on what the woman still held between her fingers. It was a bit of yellow rock crystal, clear as rainwater, bright as a star in the daytime, prettier than the gull’s golden eye.

“Hello, little one,” the old woman said, giving her a broken-toothed smile.

Ulia warily kept her distance. “Hello, old mother.”

“I see you’ve found your dinner.”

Ulia instinctively tried to hold the gull behind her.

The old woman laughed. “I’ve got my own supper waiting, love. I’m not going to take yours.” She thumped her twisted stick on the ground. “My chasing days are over, anyway, don’t you see?”

Ulia stood on one leg and scratched the back of her calf with the other foot where the seagull’s wing feathers made it itch. “That’s a pretty rock.”

The old woman cocked her head and regarded the crystal. “It is, indeed, but I have so many!” She leaned her stick against the stone and rummaged in the folds of her skirts. At last she found a pouch on a length of fisherman’s twine and dumped the contents into the palm of her glove. White and yellow stones caught the light like sharp crystal teeth. “Would you like to have one?”

Ulia’s eyes widened at that and she let the gull fall and took a step closer, eyes fixed on the sparkling stones. “I can have one?”

As she raised her hand to reach for one, however, the old woman drew her own hand back and closed her fingers around them. “A trade, to keep the bad luck off.”

Ulia glanced back at the gull.

“No, love. I told you, I don’t need your dinner,” the old woman said with a warm chuckle.

What else did she have? The child raised her hand to the little bit of faded blue silk ribbon knotted into a hank of her lank brown hair. It was only a few inches long; her mother had found a long piece trodden into the dirty snow in the marketplace last winter, lost by some wealthy girl. She’d washed it and cut it into five little pieces, one for each daughter, and tied it into their hair in bows that looked like tiny butterflies. Ulia pulled the bedraggled bit of cloth loose, wincing as several strands of hair came with it, and held it out.

The old woman smiled down at her, holding Ulia’s gaze as she took it. Her fingers brushed the girl’s and for an instant Ulia felt the slightest hint of a tingle in her chest, as though she had to cough.

The old woman tucked the ribbon away inside her tattered glove and let the child choose the stone she wanted. The one the grandmother had been holding when Ulia had first seen her was the largest. Ulia’s fingers hovered over that one and the old woman smiled. “Whatever one you like, love.”

Ulia hesitated, then chose a smaller one that was yellow as a daisy’s eye. “It’s so clear! Is it magic?”

“No, sweetness, it’s just a pretty stone I found. Not worth a broken penny but to you and me. Now you better run along and get that fine bird to your mama.”

Unused to such kindness, Ulia impulsively kissed the old woman, then grabbed up the gull and ran home, laughing.

CHAPTER 7. Wheel Street

OVER the next week Alec and Seregil kept an eye on the duke and Kyrin from a safe distance, but the men did nothing particularly suspicious, other than frequent visits to each other’s houses. Thero was getting impatient, and so were they, especially at not being able to burgle Reltheus.

It was something of a relief to move back to Wheel Street on the third day of Shemin, despite the usual fuss of having to make a show of returning to the city as if they’d actually been gone. Riding through the afternoon crowds, Alec and Seregil made a point of waving to friends and acquaintances they met along the way.

Wheel Street was a quiet boulevard on the edge of the Noble Quarter, and fashionable without being grand. The narrow houses with their fancy Skalan facades fronted onto the street, saving their walls for the back gardens. Here and there a shop took up the street-level floor: a tailor, a milliner, a gem dealer, a dealer in fine cards and gaming pieces.

The street ended in a circle, and there was a public stable there to serve the minor nobles like Seregil who didn’t have room for their own. Leaving Windrunner and Cynril with Master Rorik, they walked across the street to their house, the one with the carving of grapevines above the polished oak door. The rich, toothsome, and very unexpected aroma of roast duck greeted them as they walked through the small antechamber and into the painted salon beyond. Poultry was another scarcity.

This room was already decked out for the party. The murals of forest scenes were festooned with ropes of bright dried flowers and greenery, and the carpets had been taken away, leaving the colorful mosaic floor ready for dancing. Trestles were set around the room, already laden with Seregil’s best freshly polished silver chargers and cups. The musicians’ gallery overhead was freshly dusted and free of cobwebs. Runcer the Younger, who ran the household, appeared from behind the curtains of the service corridor with Seregil’s two huge white Zengati hounds, Zir and Marag, at his heels. As soon as the dogs caught sight of their masters, they ambled over to greet them. Alec went down on one knee to hug them and give their heads a good scratching.

Seregil looked around. “Where are our houseguests? I expected to be swarmed by Illia and the boys.”

“Not knowing when you’d arrive, the Cavishes have gone to dine with their daughter Elsbet at the temple. Will you be wanting dinner now, my lords?”

“Yes. Is that a brace of duck in pastry I smell?” asked Alec.

“It is, my lord,” Runcer replied with the hint of a smile. He prided himself on anticipating his masters’ wishes.

“Where in the world did you find ducks this summer?” asked Alec. “Or pastry flour, for that matter?”

“I can’t say, my lord. Perhaps Cook knows.”

“And she’ll tell us to ask you, I bet,” Seregil chuckled. “Whatever the case, well done.”

“Will you eat now, my lords?”

“As soon as we wash up.”

“Very good, my lord. Oh, and the package you’ve been expecting arrived in your absence, Lord Seregil.”

Seregil grinned at Alec. “Come upstairs, tali.”

Alec returned the grin, murmuring “I always like hearing that.”

But Seregil led him into the library rather than the bedroom. A long, thin bundle several feet long lay across the desk at the far side of the room, wrapped in oilcloth and string and wax seals.

“What’s this?” Alec asked as Seregil placed it in his hands.

“Your birthday gift, of course.” He looked remarkably pleased with himself.

“The party isn’t until tomorrow.”

“I wanted to be the first. Go on. Open it!”

Intrigued, Alec sat down in an armchair, pulled the strings loose, and unrolled the bundle, feeling something curved and familiar underneath. When the last of the wrapping fell away, he let out a gasp. “A Black Radly! But-how?”

Seregil was positively beaming now. “I sent for one as soon as we got back this spring. I had no idea if it would make it all the way from Wolde, but as you see, it did.”

The wayfarer bow, made in two halves, lay in the wrappings in pieces, a braided linen bow string curled around them. Alec fitted the steel-clad post of one limb into the ferrule hidden in the grip in the other and twisted it to lock the two together. In one piece, it was only a few hand spans shorter than a long bow. Made of black yew, which grew only around Blackwater Lake in the north, the oil-rubbed limbs shone like dark horn. Master Radly was the finest bowyer Alec had ever found, and he’d mourned the loss of the first Radly that Seregil had given him, which was probably in the hands of a slave ship captain now.

Alec inspected the maker’s mark engraved on the ivory disk set into the back of the handgrip. Radly’s yew-tree mark stood out, and there was a tiny R in the crown of branches, proof that this was the product of the master’s own hands, rather than one of his workmen. Such bows were costly, but more than worth the price: strong, sturdy, and true.

Still gripping it in one hand, he jumped up and grabbed Seregil in an enthusiastic hug. “Thank you, tali. I just… I don’t know what to say, except thank you!” Holding the bottom end of the bow against his foot, he bent it to set the bowstring in its notches, then eyed down the length of it. “It’s perfect.”

“That’s good. It would be a long ride to return it. That bow Riagil gave you is a good one, but I could tell you missed yours, so I couldn’t very well leave you without one, could I? I had Runcer set up a few targets in the garden. Care to try it out?”

Alec was already out the door to fetch his quiver.

The back garden wasn’t large enough to set up a very challenging target, but Alec split a few wands and murdered a bull’s-eye painted on a board propped against the garden wall. When he was done, Seregil and several of the servants who’d come to watch applauded.

“I feel safer already,” said Seregil.

They were at supper when Micum and his family arrived. Alec tossed his napkin aside and hurried into the hall to greet them.

“Here we are at last!” Micum had little Gherin on his shoulder and his giggling blond foster son, Luthas, under one arm. Gherin had his father’s red hair and freckles but his mother’s dark eyes. Luthas looked more like his birth mother every time they saw the child. That couldn’t be easy for Seregil, Alec knew, given the lingering guilt he still felt over Cilla’s death.

Kari came in just behind Micum, one arm around Elsbet, their middle daughter-still in her temple initiate’s robe-and holding young Illia by the hand, laughing with them over something. Unlike Beka and Gherin, both girls had taken after her, pretty and dark-haired.

“Uncle!” Illia ran to Alec and threw her arms around him. When he’d first met her at Watermead, he’d been able to sweep her up in his arms with ease. Now her head came nearly to his shoulder, but she hadn’t lost any of her natural exuberance.

“Why haven’t you come to Watermead this summer?” she demanded.

Alec laughed. “That’s your greeting?”

Ignoring that, she ran to hug Seregil as he came in. “Uncle Seregil!”

Seregil swung her around and kissed her. “At least she isn’t demanding presents from you, Alec.”

“Because she knows you always have them,” her mother said, shaking her head as she came to kiss them both. Illia was wearing the tiny pearl necklace and earrings they’d given her a few years ago, as well as a silver ring from Seregil.

Elsbet had lost some of her shyness since she’d entered the Temple of Illior as an initiate and didn’t have to be coaxed into a hug.

“Look,” she said, showing them a round, elaborate tattoo of Illior’s dragon on the palm of her hand. It was done in black, but now some small parts of the design had been filled in with green and blue.

“Second level already?” said Seregil.

“She is the family scholar, after all,” Micum said proudly. “The head priestess was very complimentary.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Alec.

“Do I get to sleep in the library again?” asked Illia.

“Of course,” Seregil replied.

“But you’re not to stay up all night reading,” her mother warned.

Illia gave Alec a conspiratorial look; why else would she want to sleep there?

They’d hardly gotten settled in for the night when Runcer appeared at their chamber with a familiar pinched look of disapproval around his eyes and mouth.

“That young boy is back, asking for you, my lords,” he told them, sounding pained at having to deliver such distasteful news. “I put him in the garden.”

“Thank you. I’ll see to him,” said Seregil.

They’d met Kepi, so to speak, in the spring when the boy had cut Thero’s purse in the Harvest Market. He’d led Seregil and Alec a merry chase to get it back, too. It wasn’t that there was anything irreplaceable in the purse, but the fact that the boy had been able to get that close to a wizard and two nightrunners and then nearly gotten away intrigued Seregil. Since then, they’d found occasion to use him as an extra set of eyes and ears, together with a handful of other youngsters Kepi brought them.

The boy was perched on the rain butt, wolfing down a mince tart. Runcer might not approve of him, but the cook, Sara, had a soft spot for the child and never let him get away without something in his belly.

Kepi was a true child of the streets, and knew neither his

parents nor his own age. From the looks of him, he could have been anywhere from ten to a malnourished twelve or thirteen. He was skinny, with a pointed little face, wide blue eyes, and a tangle of blond hair so pale it was nearly white under the faded silk head scarf Seregil had given him. His long tunic-some nephew’s castoffs that Sara had cut down for him-hung loose on his narrow shoulders, and his legs and feet were bare and dusty beneath it. He could play the innocent when needed, but in truth he possessed all the craftiness and the streak of savagery needed to survive in his part of the city. But he was also bright and quick, and utterly devoted to his benefactors. As soon as he caught sight of Seregil and Alec, he hopped down from the barrel and made them an awkward little bow. “Evenin’, my lords,” he said, spewing crumbs. “Hope I didn’t disturb you or nuthin’.”

“No. Is there something you wanted?” asked Seregil. The boy had no outstanding assignments from them.

“I was hoping you had some work, my lord. With you gone so long, it’s been a hungry time.”

“What happened to the money we left you with?” asked Alec.

Kepi’s brash grin faltered. “Gambled it, my lord.”

Seregil chuckled. “A lesson from Illior. Hard-won money is easily lost.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You’re in luck, though. I do have something for you to do. I want you to watch the house of Duke Reltheus in Silvermoon Street. It’s the fifth one on the palace side, east of the gate. If the duke goes out at night, especially alone late at night, I want to know when and where. And keep an eye on who goes in. Don’t worry about the daytime, just after dark. And find someone to keep an eye on Marquis Kyrin in Emerald Street, too.”

“I will, my lords, just as you say.”

Seregil counted out a handful of coins and let the boy out the back postern gate. Kepi disappeared into the night like a stray cat.

CHAPTER 8. A Glittering Evening

ALEC wasn’t really displeased about the party, but when he was growing up in the wilds, his father had never made any particular fuss about his name day except to note it. Neither had Seregil until now, since it came so soon after the summer festival, but this year he claimed that Alec reaching his majority warranted a proper party among the nobles.

“It’s an important event, tali. People would talk if we didn’t,” he told Alec firmly as they shared breakfast with the Cavishes that morning.

Alec rolled his eyes. “They talk about us, anyway.”

Micum chuckled. “Well, you were quite the scandal.”

“What’s a scadnal, Papa?” asked Luthas.

“It’s silly people being jealous because our uncles are so handsome together,” Illia explained, much to her father’s amusement. “Aren’t they, Uncle Seregil?”

“Of course! They’re green with envy at my good luck.” Seregil raised Alec’s hand to his lips, making him blush.

Illia noisily kissed the back of her own hand, mocking them, and the two little boys did the same, thinking it the greatest joke. Alec stuck his spoon to his nose and crossed his eyes at them, making the children scream with laughter.

“That’s enough of that,” said Kari. “Illia, take these jackdaws out to play. There’s still work to be done for the party. Come along, Elsbet.”

“Kari, you’re our guests,” Alec objected. “You don’t have to work.”

“Don’t be silly.” Kari shooed the children out and headed for the kitchen to consult with Sara.

Micum sat back in his chair and sighed. “I learned long ago to just get out of her way when she makes up her mind. And you know she enjoys it.”

“And I hate to have you working at your own party, too, Alec,” said Seregil. “But if you can sound Selin out about his friend, it will be a good night’s work.”

Micum raised a bushy red brow. “You two are up to something.”

“Just a little job for Thero,” Alec explained.

“Anything I can help with?”

“Keep your ears open for talk of Elani and Phoria,” Seregil replied.

Laughter drifted in from the garden through the open dining room door, then the sound of something breaking.

“Micum!” Kari shouted from the kitchen.

Micum rose, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I think I’ll go help Illia keep the damage to a minimum.”

As much as Alec had complained, by the time the guests started arriving that evening he was the very model of a noble young host. He wore his embroidered violet coat impeccably, as he did the fancy amethyst earring dangling from his right earlobe. With his long blond hair loose over his shoulders, he looked a bit older than usual. Or perhaps it was his demeanor. Glancing sidelong at his talimenios, Seregil-in sea green and gold tonight-felt a familiar tug of pride. When Alec had first come to Rhiminee he’d been charmingly-and sometimes dangerously-naive and unworldly. The naivete was long gone, of course, but there was still a freshness about him that drew people, and made many underestimate him in the most convenient ways, just as they dismissed Seregil as a rich young wastrel-charming and entertaining, to be sure, and always a generous host, even in these hard times, but a wastrel nonetheless.

“My face is beginning to hurt with all this smiling,” Alec muttered as they greeted the steady stream of guests.

Stationed at the salon door in his best blue coat, silver buttons

aglow in the candlelight, Runcer announced each noble as they arrived.

A good many of them were young lords and ladies Seregil and Alec gambled and drank with, including Count Selin, who arrived early and caught Alec in a friendly, one-armed hug as he balanced on his elaborately carved and gilded crutch.

The other guests were interspersed with wealthy merchants who oversaw Seregil’s many and varied trade investments. There were also poets, artists, and even a few of the most brilliant male and female courtesans from the Street of Lights houses.

“How many did you invite?” Alec whispered to Seregil as guests continued to arrive.

“Counting the Cavishes? Only a hundred or so, give or take.”

“Lord Thero of Rhiminee,” Runcer intoned gravely. “Wizard of the Second Order of the Third Oreska.”

The abbreviated name still sounded strange to Seregil. For centuries, ever since one of the Skalan queens had taken one of Seregil’s great-uncles as consort, the court had used the ’faie fashion of lengthy patronymics and matronymics. Despite the fact that Aurenen was supplying horses and arms to Queen Phoria, she had put an end to that, reverting to “proper” Skalan nomenclature and short hair for men. The latter was fashion rather than law, of course, so Seregil and Alec, as well as a good many others, had left theirs long in silent protest.

Lady Kylith was the next to arrive, accompanied by her niece Ysmay and the handsome auburn-haired actor from the Basket Street theater, resplendent now in black and silver. It appeared the man had wasted no time in spending their money.

“You remember Master Atre, don’t you?” Kylith said as she kissed each of them.

The actor bowed deeply. “I hope I give no offense, my lords, with my humble presence.”

“Great artists are always welcome here,” Seregil assured him. “I think you’ll find yourself in good company.”

“I hope you will visit our theater again, my lords,” Atre said. When he smiled, the corners of his dark blue eyes tilted up in the most engaging way. A touch of cosmetics there? Or perhaps it wasn’t necessary. Atre’s skin was smooth, his eyes bright with youth. A naturally handsome man.

“We have several other plays, depending on the night,” Atre was saying.

“If Seregil can be coaxed from the bakshitables,” Kylith said, lazily waving a fan in one hand. “Oh, but I see the delightful Lady Kari is here!” Kylith went off to greet her friend with Atre in tow.

Duke Malthus entered with his wife, Ania, and they both hugged Alec warmly.

“We haven’t seen nearly enough of you this summer!” Ania exclaimed as Malthus carried their silk-wrapped gift to a table already groaning with them.

“I couldn’t agree more, dear lady,” Seregil replied.

“I’m off to our summer villa in a few days. Malthus must stay and work, of course, but you two should come with me.”

“I will consult our calendar,” Seregil promised.

Their friend, Eirual-yet another of Seregil’s past lovers-who owned one of the most elegant pink-lantern brothels in the Street of Lights, swept in soon after with several of her protegees. The queen had set the fashion for higher necklines. Eirual and her courtesans led the fashion and flouted it all at once; their gowns featured bodices made of colorful jeweled lace and high lacy collars, but sheer enough to still offer a tantalizing hint of the assets beneath.

Eirual was half Zengati, and her exotic beauty had made her fortune in the Street. But it wasn’t only her looks; she enjoyed life to the fullest and made sure those around her did, too. The lovely Myrhichia was with her, her dark, elaborately coiffed hair sparkling with sapphire hairpins.

“My darlings!” Eirual cried, kissing them both soundly. “Why in the names of all the Four don’t you have a country house to whisk me away to?”

“And rusticate away from the delights of the city?” Seregil shuddered. “I wouldn’t last a week!”

“And yet you’re always disappearing.” Lady Syllia and her

current lover, the celebrated actress Lavinis, had come up behind Eirual and stood there, smirking at Seregil. Seregil could smell wine on their breath from here. “Where doyou two get off to, anyway?”

“Other cities, I assure you,” Seregil said with a laugh. “I have all my ventures to oversee. Not all of us were born to fortunes.”

Seregil and Alec’s occasional disappearances did cause talk, but over the years Seregil had gotten very good at spinning yarns boring enough that his listeners seldom asked for details, and Alec had easily picked up the habit.

As more guests arrived, Seregil waved to the musicians and they struck up a lively tune, not for dancing yet, just to keep things festive. Everyone was gravitating toward the well-laden tables at the far end of the room, which featured more than a few contraband delicacies shipped in from Aurenen and Zengat. Illia and the boys had already found playmates and disappeared into the garden.

As Alec mingled with his guests, he found Thero gazing around with a rather odd expression.

“What’s wrong?” Alec asked.

“Nothing, I just thought I felt-No, it’s nothing. Wonderful party, Alec.”

“I’m glad you’re here. And guess who else is?”

“I have no idea.”

“Atre, the Mycenian actor we told you about!” Alec looked around for Atre. “I don’t see him, but he’s here somewhere. If I find him I’ll introduce you.”

Thero looked less than enthused at the idea.

“And you aregoing to come to the theater with us,” Alec chided. “You spend too much time up in that tower of yours.”

“I will, at some point. I’m very busy.”

Alec grinned. “So you’re always saying. Well, I’m glad you came tonight.”

Seregil appeared out of the crowd and took Alec’s arm. “Time to begin, tali. It’s up to you to do the honors.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Thero,” Alec said as Seregil led him

away to the feast. “And I’m holding you to going to the theater-”

But the wizard had already disappeared into the crowd, no doubt to avoid making any promises.

There was no sign of the summer’s deprivations here. Stacks of flat parsley loaves were piled on the table beside platters of cold sliced duck, boiled lobsters, butter fish, and bowls of little whelks in vinegar, as well as roasted vegetables with lemon sauce. Fruit tarts and spun sugar animals crowded another table. Anat, the young scullion, was stationed there, guarding the food from the hounds, who were lurking among the guests, yellow eyes fixed hungrily on the food.

Alec picked up a loaf of bread and tore it in two, then poured the libation to the Four, signaling the beginning of the feast.

When the meal was done and the sweet wine was being passed, there were gifts to be opened and admired-gloves, rings, earrings, expensive gaming stones, wines, embroidered handkerchiefs from several young ladies, and the like. Given the current privations, much of it was probably secondhand. Alec lingered just long enough over each one, and then it was time for magic and dancing.

“Shall I?” asked Thero.

“If you would,” Seregil replied with a wink. “Runcer, please fetch the children.”

Over the years it had become something of a tradition for Seregil’s various wizard friends to bring the salon mural to life. The leafy grove, with its distant view of the sea, had been populated by all sorts of fanciful animals and beings, from fiery salamanders to centaur harpists. Tonight Thero conjured dragons-not just large ones flying in the distance, but also the little fingerlings often encountered in Aurenen, skittering among the fallen painted leaves, darting up painted tree trunks, and fluttering among the branches. To the Skalans it was magical, a gorgeous fantasy; for Seregil and Alec, it was a bit of home. Singing birds with golden feathers soon appeared with them, and a huge dragon stalked its way

around the room just inside the trees, glaring balefully at the partygoers as it emerged from behind a doorway.

Amid much clapping and laughing, Seregil took Alec by the hand and drew him halfway up the sweeping staircase. Raising his wine cup, he saluted Alec with it. “To my lover!”

“Who’s finally old enough for you all to stop shaking your heads over,” added Micum, raising his cup.

“A scadnal!” Luthas piped from somewhere in the throng.

This was greeted with cheers and more laughter, and the dancing began. Alec and Seregil led the first lively reel, then split up to make the rounds of their guests.

So it was that Seregil found himself partnered with Atre for the pavane.

“Will you really come to the theater again, my lord?” the actor asked, affecting a rather warm look as they moved through the slow graceful steps.

Seregil laughed. “Don’t go working your wiles on me!”

This was greeted with a dazzling smile. “Merely humble admiration, my lord!”

Alec passed them in the circle with Kylith’s niece, Ysmay, on his arm and gave Seregil a questioning look. Seregil just winked.

“Lady Kylith told me that you and Lord Alec are among the greatest patrons of the arts in Rhiminee,” said Atre. “I can see that, by your guests.”

It was extravagant praise, but there were many artists and poets in the crowd, several of whom had gathered clusters of rapt listeners. Donaeus, the most famous-and the most arrogant-poet was, as usual, the focus of the largest, youngest knot of admirers. The man towered over them in his shabby velvets, declaiming his latest epos in his rich, sonorous voice. The great sculptor Ravinus, who had recently unveiled an acclaimed statue of the late Queen Idrilain in Temple Square, was apparently explaining some method to Lord Zymeus, shaping the air with his hands.

“You excel at patronage,” Atre noted.

“And you at flattery,” Seregil countered. “Would I be right in guessing you’re looking for backing for a new play?”

Atre didn’t even look abashed. “And how could it not be a

lucrative investment, with me as the principal actor? We are constrained by our current location, though. So many nobles won’t go there, and it’s so small we’re having to turn people away…”

“That’s too bad. Have you come up with a solution?”

Atre completed a stately turn and faced him again. “I have been looking at a larger venue in Gannet Lane.”

“Gannet Lane? How ambitious of you!” Seregil chuckled. It was on the outskirts of the Noble Quarter, close enough to attract rich patrons. “Well, I am getting a bit bored with trade.”

As the music ended, Atre bowed over Seregil’s hand. “My lord, your servant.”

Seregil kept his expression neutral as he tightened his hand on the actor’s and murmured, “I do hope you mean that, Master Atre.”