City of Night (48 page)

Sigurne had said, in a distant tower, on a night entirely bereft of music, light, and society, that demons could see a man’s soul. And if this one could, what matter hiding? What pretense could he offer, what words could adorn and ultimately distract her from the shoddy state of the effects of this life?

He thought of Amarais. He thought of Jewel. He thought of the ways in which he had failed both. He accepted that love, his version of it, had always been flawed and narrow; it had always been selfish.

“Nothing,” he whispered, offering her that much.

Even this was not mollifying; it was not enough. She reached out with both of her hands, cupped his face in either palm, held his gaze, although she would have held it, regardless. Music quelled around them; movement ceased. It would start again, soon, or it would never start.

Rath did not much care.

“I will kill you for this,” she whispered. He felt her nails against his skin, stroking it lightly, biting it on the edge of sensation that was not—quite—pain. “Will you not struggle? Will you not plead?”

“No.” Silence, and then, softly, he said, “I have already said that I do not love you. What struggle and what plea could I therefore be moved to make?”

She withdrew her hands slowly as the music started. Some of the fire left her eyes, then. “You will understand, in time, the answer to your question. Even you will understand, who clings to a love that you do not even believe is of value.”

He bowed to her, then, and he offered her his arm.

She stared at it, stared at him, and then glanced around the floor upon which men and women had begun their slow overtures. Wordless, she spun, and wordless, she parted the crowd in her wrath. The envy and the petty jealousy, the attraction and the heated desire, that she had spent the evening evoking at every opportunity, she left behind, as if seeing—as if reminded, by his careless words—how unworthy these merely mortal vessels were of such a benediction.

 

Sigurne was waiting at the edge of the floor, in silence. She glanced at his face, her eyes tracing the scratch across one cheek. “That was unwise,” she told him, the words stiff with mingled disapproval and concern.

He bowed. “It was entirely unwise.”

“If your intent was to anger her, you succeeded.”

“I had no conscious intentions, Sigurne. I did attempt to gracefully refuse her, if you recall.”

“Given the way you were dancing, I was not entirely certain that you did.”

He chuckled, but he found himself glancing toward the great hall. “I understand,” he said softly, “where the danger lies in those who are not mortal.”

“I would have imagined you would understand it well, by now. You’ve met many who were not.”

“Yes. And I killed them. But the purpose of those encounters was entirely death; there was no conversation, no exchange of information; I had no time to appreciate any nuance, any subtlety. And truthfully, it is neither of those things that I find compelling, in her; she is not particularly subtle.”

Sigurne waited.

“She does not doubt. She does not fear. She scruples to hide what she is because it is necessary to achieve her goals—but it is only for that reason that she bothers. And even so, she does it poorly. She—” he shook his head. “I am not besotted, Sigurne; you needn’t look at me like that.”

“It is not some youthful fancy that I fear.”

“She used no magic. Had she, the entire gathering would have known. But . . . she requires none. She is compelling simply because she is strong.”

“A very narrow definition of strength, I think.”

“She is like your white bears,” he replied, “but she can talk and think and feel.” He turned away from the great hall, and toward his companion.

In the poor lighting, she seemed old and bent. Age of this type would never grace Sor Na Shannen; it would never diminish her fire. But it would also never lessen her pain or calm her anger.

“Ararath?”

It would never lend her wisdom. He smiled at Sigurne Mellifas, a woman who had, in spite of age and the vagaries of mortality, made power her study, her goal, and her responsibility. It was this last that defined her. Had it always defined her?

No. No,
he thought. But in weakness, she had learned the core of what she required to be strong. And because she owned weakness, because she did not fear it, she could afford to be kind. “Yes,” he said. “It is a narrow definition of strength. It is, perhaps, a younger man’s definition of strength, and at heart, we are foolish enough to gloss over the misery and ignorance that was youth; we see only the things that burned, because we cling to their very odd, very painful beauty. Come. Let us repair to the great hall. I find myself thirsty.”

He bowed, and then offered her his arm; let Matteos flounder. “Where,” he asked, as they began their leisurely stroll toward the refreshments the great hall housed, “has Member APhaniel gone?”

They were almost upon the great tables at which food had been laid out when they had an answer, of sorts: The distant sound of thunder, and the sudden, sharp, shock that traveled through the mansion.

 

Sigurne grimaced, and caught Matteos’ arm. “Wine,” she told him, more command in the single word than she had used all evening. “Ararath.” He had dropped his arm and spun, although the tremor was not directional. She lifted her arm, and that wordless gesture was also a command; he at once offered her the arm he had removed.

Matteos was grinding his teeth in frustration, but to Rath’s eye, fear was in the mix. “I told you, Sigurne.”

“Indeed you did. And next time, he will have to do far more than just ask politely.”

“Are you so certain that it is Meralonne?” Rath asked softly.

Another shudder shook the floor.

Sigurne lifted a white brow; she did not otherwise dignify the question with a response. “Do you see Lord Cordufar?”

“Yes. He is standing by the musicians.”

“Does he seem overly concerned?”

“Not at this distance.”

“Good. Be visible, Ararath, and allow me to be visible as well. I believe that I see our young master bard, and I would very much like to have his attention
now
.” She began to make her way through the crowd, to where said bard was flirting in a charming and entirely proper way with a number of young ladies.

Age, Rath thought, had its privileges. Sigurne was entirely polite in her approach, if one did not consider the audience that had already gathered around the bard.

The bard, however, understood the social standing that age granted women; he disengaged almost instantly, and he tendered Sigurne a very respectful bow. “Guildmaster,” he said, as he rose, introducing her without the trouble of actually offering her the names of the young women surrounding him.

The young women were wise enough not to look displeased; they were aware enough, in fact, to look slightly troubled.

“Kallandras.”

“If you will excuse me,” he said to the four young women. His smile as he offered this apology was, to Rath’s practiced eye, perfect; it implied regret at being forced to abandon their company due to the burden of the more onerous manners and attention expected by the elderly, without ever descending into actual words.

Sigurne, however, lifted a brow at the performance. Kallandras’ smile deepened into something that was very wry. “Your pardon, Member Mellifas. I did not expect to have your company, and I have duties to Senniel.”

“Visibility?”

“Indeed. Would you care to join me in the hall?”

“I would,” she replied, “because if I am not mistaken, I will soon be approached by a somewhat angry Lord Cordufar.”

Kallandras raised a brow. “You mean we will have excitement at this ball?”

“Beyond the excitement caused by his mistress?”

Kallandras laughed. “She is very striking.”

“Oh, indeed. My companion was lucky enough to dance with her.”

Ararath, who vastly preferred to be mere witness to the conversation, lifted a hand. “It was a single dance,” he said, “And only a dance. We hardly exchanged a word.”

“I see,” the bard replied, and from the tone of his voice, he did. While Rath understood the value of the bards to both the Empire and the Kings, he found them disconcerting. “Pardon my manners. I am Kallandras of Senniel.”

“I am Ararath of Handernesse.”

“Handernesse?”

Rath nodded.

“Will you join us, Ararath?”

“He will,” Sigurne replied. “I would like it to be noted that both he and I were present, and in your company.”

“You expect a writ to be served.” Kallandras’ smile had lessened as they walked.

“I expect a writ to be served, or rather, I expect a writ of exemption to be demanded, and before you ask, no, I do not yet know on what grounds.”

“And do you carry such a writ?”

“I would prefer not to speak about writs of exemption,” she replied. “As they are exceedingly rare, and I am the guildmaster. I am old for this, Kallandras. It is a young man’s game.”

Kallandras, very wisely, chose to offer no opinion on this subject, but from that moment on, as he made his way through the small enclaves of Lord Cordufar’s esteemed guests, he drew their attention, and made certain, both in subtle and less subtle ways, that their attention was also caught, for a moment, by Ararath, Sigurne, and even the taciturn Matteos.

 

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, Lord Cordufar suddenly stiffened. Ararath, watching from the great hall with a lazy and suitable ennui, touched Sigurne’s shoulder briefly. She did not speak a word; she was otherwise engaged in conversation with a middle-aged woman from Lessar, a merchant house that was neither as old nor as wealthy as Araven.

Rath turned to the conversation at hand as if it were suddenly of interest.

Lord Cordufar apparently thought it might be.

“Member Mellifas,” he said, and she turned. Everyone did.

“Lord Cordufar,” she replied. She inclined her head slightly; more was not required of a woman of her rank and her age.

“Ararath of Handernesse,” Lord Cordufar continued. “I was not aware that you were an acquaintance of the guildmaster.”

Rath raised a brow. “It is, of course, my privilege, but I was not aware that it would be of significance, here.”

“One can hardly dally with a First Circle mage as a matter of happenstance.”

“Ah, no. I have some well- known interest in the antiquities, and I have spent countless hours within the Order itself.”

“And those interests would lead you to the woman who governs said Order?”

“Clearly,” was the dry reply Rath offered. “She herself has no little knowledge of an area in which I had hoped to be considered an expert.”

The silence was slight, but notable.

“Where, Member Mellifas, is your other companion?”

She frowned. “Member APhaniel?”

“Indeed.”

“Matteos, have you seen him recently? I must apologize,” she added, in the sweetest and most conciliatory of tones, “but Member APhaniel is famed for his intense dislike of dancing. I confess I am not entirely certain
why
he should dislike it so; I myself do not attempt to dance, but find much of interest in merely observing.”

Sigurne, Rath thought, was a marvel. Had he not known better, he would have said all of her words were entirely genuine.

“As an example,” she continued, and Rath tensed, “your very lovely Sorna Shannen accepted Ararath’s invitation to join him on the floor. Did you see them?”

Lord Cordufar looked at Rath. It was a look that hovered between glare and gaze, with the intensity of the former and the neutrality of the latter. “I was myself much occupied in my duties,” he told Sigurne, although his eyes did not leave Rath’s face. “But indeed, as you say, she is an elegant, powerful dancer.”

Those eyes certainly noticed the scratch across Rath’s face.

“If you would like to speak with Meralonne, we can attempt to find him. He favors his pipe after dinner,” she added, “and it is likely that he will be outside, in the pavilion.”

“I will search for him myself.”

“Is there a problem or a concern?”

“Believe that if there is, Guildmaster, you will be among the first to know.”

“My gratitude for your consideration.”

He raised a brow and then his eyes narrowed, but she was hidden behind the mask of her face, and what was there beyond it, not even Rath could say. He wanted, briefly, to introduce Sigurne to Haval, just for the sheer joy of watching their conversation and their silences.

Lord Cordufar desired to say more; that much was clear. But he was aware of the presence of his guests, in particular the young master bard, and after a moment, he bowed curtly and made his retreat. It was a long retreat, and it carried him directly out of the great hall, through a door that led to the kitchens and the rooms beyond.

“Member Mellifas,” Kallandras said, bowing. “Perhaps we should seek Meralonne APhaniel.”

“He is not in a particularly social mood,” she replied, “And I, for one, do not desire more of either his pipe or his complaints. You, however, are far more familiar with the patriciate than I; I was raised in a simple village in the North, and much of what occurs here is beyond my ken. If you think it wise, Kallandras, I will bow to your experience.”

He offered her his arm, and she accepted the offer; the hall was quite warm, and the night, cooling in the light of the moons. Doors led from the ballroom itself onto large terraces; there were three. From the middle terrace, winding stairs led to a path that was three men wide; this path was lit, and led, in turn, toward a garden that even in the fading light was impressive, to Rath’s view. The scent of rowan was strong, but mingled with the scent of lilac, and indeed, white lilac, and violet, grew near the path.

But as they descended, Kallandras said, “Be wary of the lord, Sigurne.”