Ferran's Map (31 page)

“It does,” she agreed immediately. Silas
came up with their supposed "family relationship" over breakfast:
Sora would pose as Ferran’s daughter, and Lori, his wife. Sora
wasn’t sure what possessed the pirate to devise the plan, but it
made sense and would be an easy story to stick to. She didn’t
entirely mind, though she wasn’t quite sure how to play the part,
since she never felt close to Lord Fallcrest.

“Can I pretend we don’t get along?” she
suggested. “Perhaps that would be more believable.”

“Perhaps so,” he said. He still seemed
uncertain.

Sora turned back to the mirror. The matter
was settled, but the thought still intimidated her. Lying to the
Ebonaire family? Claiming to be blood?
I must have lost my
mind,
she thought as she adjusted a pin in her braid.

She turned and offered her arm to Ferran,
just as a lady would. “Sir,” she said, with a slight bow. She felt
a little rusty, but he responded in kind, taking her arm gently and
escorting her from the room.

“When we get to the manor, let me speak,”
Ferran said as he walked with her across the deck. Outside, sullen
rain clouds hung heavy in the sky and moisture lay thick in the
air. A cold wind blew from the north. The wind rippled across the
waters of The Bath.

Ferran led her to the plank. She searched
for Crash on deck, and below on the docks. She spotted Silas
standing near a carriage some ways down the boardwalk toward the
South Gate, but no one else looked familiar. Perhaps Crash had
decided to search for Burn after all. She knew that was her
original request, but she felt slightly bereft. Without him, this
would be a very lonely and awkward excursion, indeed.

Sora walked down to the wooden boards of the
dock and started inland. Ferran released her arm at that point and
passed by her with his long strides. They headed for a black coach
at the end of the boardwalk. Admittedly, she took her time and
enjoyed seeing the bustling wharf at dawn, the long row of fishing
boats and the stacks of crayfish traps that lined the pier.

Someone fell into step next to her. She
glanced sideways, then stared.

She almost didn’t recognize him.

Gone were Crash’s worn clothes and leather
belts. His hair was trimmed and slicked back against his head with
Silas’ expensive oils, emphasizing his angular face. His jaw looked
clean and sharp. He wore a suit of black livery over a gray brocade
vest; a dark gray neckerchief tucked into the high collar of his
white shirt hid his scars. A few stray bangs fell across his
sea-green eyes.

He returned her look. “Milady,” he said
solemnly.

Sora almost tripped over her skirts. Her
predominant image of Crash was as a mud-stained, bristling warrior
in various forms of ripped clothing, certainly a far cry from
sophistication. But in his suit of livery, with his scars
well-hidden and his back so straight, she could no longer deny he
was a fine-looking man. Even handsome.

He intentionally glanced over her tightly
fitted jacket and billowing skirts, allowing his eyes to linger.
Sora felt her cheeks blush. Then he flashed her a smile. “You look
sweet,” he said.

“Sweet?” she balked. “What does that
mean?”

“Trustworthy. As you should.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Of course, Milady.” His words held a secret
laugh.

“I think I might enjoy this,” she teased,
just as a young lady might flirt with her handsome footman. “You’ll
be at my beck and call.”

“I’m Ferran’s footman,” he corrected.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ll soon see that
means nothing to a Lord’s daughter.”

Crash stepped back wordlessly. She walked
past him to the carriage and his eyes trailed after her.

Ferran and Silas waited at the carriage.
Silas gave them a short, mocking bow before handing Sora into the
coach. Her skirts caught on the door frame and she had to tug them
loose.

“That can’t happen when you get out of the
carriage,” Ferran murmured as he unhooked her petticoat from the
door’s latch.

“I know,” she hissed, embarrassed. Her
stepfather had always called her clumsy. In fact, she had even
tripped and fallen at her own Blooming!

But I’m not clumsy,
she thought,
considering her training with Crash.
Just nervous. Be
calm.

Ferran entered behind her, then Crash. The
two men sat across from her, giving her room for her skirts. Sora
remembered quite vividly how much she hated riding in carriages.
She barely had room to breathe.

“I’ll keep an eye on Lori for the time
being,” Silas said from the doorway. “She thinks she’ll be up and
walking tomorrow. Send word when you’re ready for us.”

“Us?” Ferran asked dryly.

“Aye,” Silas grinned. “What good is
befriending an Ebonaire if you don’t get to visit his house? I look
forward to a glass of aged brandy when I arrive.” He gave them a
little wave and shut the door.

With a few quick words, Silas paid the
driver and Sora heard a whip crack. She flinched on instinct,
remembering her fight with the female assassin. When she looked up,
she saw Ferran and Crash both grinning in amusement. Their
expressions quickly changed when she glared.

The coach rolled forward. Sora watched the
city pass by out the window. “Silas certainly seems confident,” she
muttered.

“Aye,” Ferran agreed. “Perhaps we should try
to do the same.”

* * *

Tourmaline Street was one of the longest
boulevards in the City of Crowns. It was wide enough for three
wagons to pass side-by-side and connected the South gate to the
West gate, traveling parallel to the Crown’s Rush. At mid-morning,
the streets were heavy with traffic.

Sora watched out the carriage window at
countless peasants, merchants, housewives and other city dwellers
going about their daily business. She lost track of how many
intersections were crossed. The carriage would pause briefly as
children, dogs or other coaches meandered past.

They passed over many bridges, some arced
like little rainbows, others broad and flat, purely utilitarian.
Canals crisscrossed the city. The smaller canals in the poorer
districts moved sluggishly, and the stench of rotting compost
seeped through the door into their carriage. Not even the brisk
wind outside could dispel it. The larger canals were more pleasant,
with faster-moving water. Despite the gloomy weather, Sora saw
pleasure crafts carrying well-dressed ladies and merchant barges
transporting goods.

At one point, they passed a large ship that
obviously hadn't been allowed in a particular canal, as it was
jammed at a crossing. Its forestay was broken and, from what she
could see, its mainmast was snapped and buried partway under the
bridge. A crowd of excited onlookers watched as the district
magistrate and street patrol spoke to the owner of the ship. Before
the scene disappeared from view, she saw several city guards
surround the captain and march him away. Apparently he disagreed
with their fines.

The city transitioned through every level of
poverty, from wooden lean-tos built against the eastern wall to low
thatched houses separated by narrow alleys. Tourmaline Street
became narrow and dirty, and travelers kept their eyes downcast,
keeping to the overhang of buildings or walking swiftly down the
road, braced against the wind.

Then the carriage crossed a large bridge,
leaving the poorer district behind. Sora watched the city transform
outside the window. Polished storefronts lined the streets,
supporting several stories of manicured apartments. They passed
residential areas where houses sported large columns, brick porches
and ornately sculpted facades. She imagined they were meant to
mimic the nobility’s houses in The Regency, if smaller and less
grand.

They arrived at The Regency gates after an
hour of travel. Heavy drizzle permeated the air, making the streets
slick and wet. The tall, bronze gates to The Regency were enclosed
on either side with granite walls covered in ivy. Emblems of the
royal crown and different house insignias stood at various
intervals along the stone surface. The walls looked high enough to
keep out a battalion, and the cast-iron gates were just as
intimidating.

Sora had never been to The Regency before,
but had heard plenty about it during her youth as a noblewoman. A
city within a city, The Regency contained its own private parks,
shopping districts and theater, meant only for the highest tiers.
Select merchants and tradesmen were allowed to run high-end
boutiques. Most peasants never saw the interior grounds in their
lifetime.

Several soldiers guarded the entrance, their
eyes heavy and solemn under their helmets.

Their coach rolled to a stop before the
gates. One of the soldiers approached them, and Ferran exited the
coach. The moment his foot hit the cobblestones, his entire
demeanor changed. He stood upright and raised his head, his chin
thrust forward. His shoulders were pulled back. Sora was surprised
again by just how tall he stood, several inches above six feet. His
narrow build only added to the effect.

She watched through the open door of the
coach. Ferran spoke to the guard calmly at first, then
emphatically, making a few quick gestures with his hand.

“What is he saying?” she muttered curiously,
watching them interact.

“Whatever a noble would say, I imagine,”
Crash replied. He sat next to her on the narrow seat, gazing out at
the opposite wall. His eyes scanned the streets endlessly, and she
suspected he was looking for a sign of the Shade.

Eventually, one of the guards let out a
genuine laugh and clapped Ferran on the shoulder, then nodded to
his fellows. A whistle blew somewhere out of sight, a wheel
churned, and the heavy iron gates swung open on metal gears.

Ferran returned to the coach and signaled
the driver to continue. He shut the door behind him.

As the coach rolled forward, Sora looked at
him curiously. “What was that about?” she asked.

“We weren’t on the entry list,” he said, “so
I told them the truth: we were visiting the Ebonaires, and we had
arrived early.”

“Wouldn’t they ask for a letter of
invitation?” Crash asked quietly.

Ferran shrugged. “I suppose this suit was
enough.” He flicked a bit of lint from his coat. “Should thank
Silas later. Or maybe not. We’ll see.”

“He certainly enjoys his clothes,” Sora
commented.

“Aye. Who knew they would ever come into
use?” Ferran smirked.

They traveled down several streets of
whitewashed townhouses, twice the height as those she had seen
outside The Regency gates, and decorated with intricate stonework.
A frozen stream, crossed over by small footbridges, separated the
row of houses from the cobblestone street. These townhouses would
belong to the Second Tier, the less wealthy nobility.

After several minutes, there were no more
townhouses and they entered a district of sprawling front lawns and
large manors. In this area of The Regency, the streets were wide
and lined with impressive elm trees and paved paths where people
could walk or ride horseback in the shade. The front drives seemed
impossibly long, circling around massive lawns adorned with statues
and carefully hedged bushes. She saw few people out on the street.
The sky darkened with rain, and the storm grew stronger.

The carriage reached a wide cul-de-sac at
the end of a long street. A copse of ancient oak trees stood as a
barrier between prying eyes and the estate beyond. The carriage
followed a single driveway around the thicket of trees. They
entered a long tunnel of thick, tangled oaks grown tall and wide
enough to arch over the entire road like a canvas. Now in winter,
their mighty branches were bare of leaves, and resembled a web of
thorny bracken. Sora caught sight of the rain-laden sky
overhead.

Eventually, they entered a large field of
trimmed green grass. A sprawling, decadent manor came into view. It
looked like a castle in its own right, twice the size of the manor
where she grew up. Sora stared at the spiraling turrets and
chimneys, the endless rows of windows and the old-world masonry of
the front entrance. She saw gargoyles, stone swords and emblems of
shields stamped around the entryway, and two flags flapping in the
wind. One carried the symbol of the phoenix, the insignia of the
Ebonaire house, and another of a boar’s head, the royal family. She
swallowed nervously. The Ebonaire bloodline went back to the
founding of the Kingdom and the war-tribes of days long past. Their
name was known by even the poorest urchin—as unquestionable as the
King’s own title.

Finally the coach came to a stop in the wide
pavilion before the house. Sora was surprised that there were no
people on the grounds. It looked well-nigh deserted, perhaps
because of the weather. At her manor in the country, stable boys
always stood on call, ready to assist with horses or luggage.
But our arrival is unannounced,
she thought.

She glanced nervously at Ferran and noticed
a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. He thrummed his fingers
against his knee. When the coachman opened the door, Ferran sprung
out of the carriage and strode tensely to the front door.

Crash followed him, a bit more subdued. He
paused to assist Sora with her dress. She was secretly grateful.
Her skirts seemed determined to catch on the doorway’s latch. She
felt extremely constricted by so many layers.

Finally she placed both feet on the
cobblestones and they approached the door; Ferran rapped on it
sharply. As they waited, he murmured, “Let me speak and don’t
interrupt.”

“By all means,” Sora replied under her
breath.

They waited a long moment, and then she
heard the doorknob click and the heavy door swung open. A man, most
obviously a butler, faced them. He looked in his mid-fifties and
stood with a dignified air. He reminded Sora a bit of a pigeon,
with a long hooked nose and dark eyes placed close together. His
hair was swooped back in a thin comb-over. His black and red livery
were perfectly clean and pressed. His clothes were so nicely
fitted, she almost didn’t notice his large gut.