"No." I dismissed her suggestion, but kindly. "Thank you, Gemma. If I were going anywhere but the Palace, it would do nicely, and you are good to offer. No, I need somewhat else. If I am to debut as a Servant of Naamah among my peers, it must be somewhat no one has ever seen." Chin in hands, I mused. "Cecilie is right. I need a seamstress." Gemma ran for paper—she had been quick to discern my ways—and I penned a swift note.
As a former adept of Cereus House and one of the great courtesans of her time, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin's status was undiminished within the Night Court for, within a day, I had an appointment to meet with Favrielle no Eglantine, and if I thought my own standing had aught to do with it, I was disabused of the notion within minutes of meeting my prospective seamstress.
All of the Thirteen Houses claim different strengths; as all of the Thirteen hold to different versions of Naamah.
Eglantine is the artists' House, and her adepts are skilled in a dozen disciplines: players, poets, artists, musicians, dancers and tumblers. And, it would appear, clothiers. Even so, all adepts must make their marques before dedicating them selves to their artistic pursuits, and I was puzzled as to how a young clothier had risen to renown while still under the aegis of her House.
I was not puzzled for long.
"Comtesse," Favrielle no Eglantine greeted me briefly, siz ing me up in one wry glance. "You realize you've chosen the worst possible time to request my services? I have two dozen adepts clamoring for masque attire, and this is scant notice."
Taken aback, I blinked. She was no older than I; younger, perhaps, by a year or two. Wide grey eyes and a mop of red-gold curls, a charming sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose—there is a limit, within the canons, of the number allowable for beauty. Favrielle's met it. What did not was the scar that marred her upper lip, twisting it slightly.
She saw me take notice. "Shall we get it out of the way? I am flawed goods, Comtesse," she said in a voice laden with irony. "Unfit for patrons, with a marque to meet nonetheless. This compels me to take commissions, when my Dowayne allows it. And inconvenient as it is, I cannot bypass this opportunity. So shall we do business?"
"How did it happen?"
Favrielle sighed. "I slipped in the bath," she recited tone lessly, "and split my lip." Glancing at a note, she raised her eyebrows. "The Palace masque, yes? Is that what you want?"
"Favrielle." I touched her arm. "I understand, a little. I grew up in Cereus House, flawed, unfit to serve."
"And now you are Kushiel's chosen, the Comtesse de Montrève, bringer of the Alban army, heroine of the Battle of Troyes-le-Mont and the Queen's pet courtesan." Her scarred lip curled. "Yes, Phèdre no Delaunay, I know. And when you can transform me into the same, let me know. Until then, tell me what you want to wear."
Stung, I lifted my chin and made my reply coolly. "Some thing fitting for the first peer of the realm in a hundred years to debut as a Servant of Naamah at the Royal Masque."
"Fine." Favrielle crossed her arms. "Strip.”
It had been, I found, a surprisingly long time since I sub jected myself to the critical gaze of a Night Court adept. I stood naked in the fitting-room of Eglantine House, surrounded by mirrors while Favrielle paced around me, grey eyes narrowed, measuring me here and there with an im personal touch, draping bolts of various cloth over my shoulders to study the lie of it.
"You could be taller," she said grudgingly; there was not much else for her to criticize. I may have been absent from Naamah's Service for a year and more, but I had not let myself go. "It makes for a better line. At least you're proportioned well." Satisfied, she nodded curtly. "Put your clothes on and I'll tell you what I think."
Obediently, I dressed and waited in the draping room. A blushing apprentice brought mint tea, pouring gracefully. Favrielle emerged to join me, taking an unceremonious gulp of tea.
"Costuming will be ornate this season," she said abruptly. "Heavy brocades, layers of skirts, lacework and trim, triple- slashed sleeves, masques an arm-span broad. Prosperity on the heels of war and all that. If I tried to outdo for you what I've already begun for others, I'd have you in so many lay ers you'd scarce be able to move. So." Her cup clattered on the tray as she set it down and reached for a length of fabric. "You want to stand out,
anguissettel
We go the other way. Simplicity."
I fingered the fabric; a silk jersey spun so fine it flowed like water through my fingers. "On what theme?"
"You know Mara's Tale?" Favrielle raised her brows in quiringly. I shook my head, and she made a sound of dis gust. "Kushiel's chosen, and ignorant as a pig. Livia..." she turned to the apprentice, "... run to the library and fetch me Sarea's
History ofNamarre.
The illustrated version."
I opened and closed my mouth, deciding discretion was the wiser part of couture. Ignorant as a pig! I spoke five lan guages with passing fluency, and had unravelled the riddle of the Master of the Straits. But it was true that Eglantine House was a repository of more lore and learning than the academies of Siovale, and much of it unknown outside their bounds.
"Here." Favrielle opened the leather-bound book and pointed to a glowing illustration; a slender, dark-haired woman clad in a crimson gown that flowed like flame. Her hair was upswept in an elaborate coif of ringlets, and a sheer black veil hid her eyes. " 'In the fifth year of Elua, Naamah lay with a man condemned for murder,' " she read aloud, " 'and his skin was fair and his eyes as black as coal. And he was hanged by the neck until dead, but Naamah had taken his seed unto herself, and she was with child. Unto Naamah was born a daughter in the sixth year of Elua in Terre d'Ange that was, and that daughter she named Mara. And Mara bore the curse of her faÃer's blood, and went with her eyes veiled. In atonement for the curse she bore, she went unto Kushiel, and in pity he granted her penance and made her his handmaiden.' " Over my faint sound of protest, Favrielle closed the book. "You see?"
I did. "You think she was an
anguissette."
"It's a likely story." Favrielle shrugged. "We're not supposed to tell it," she admitted grudgingly. "Beggars, princes and shepherds are all right, but the Night Court doesn't like it known that Naamah lay with a murderer. Still." Biting her knuckle, she regarded me. "Some know it. I thought you might. You'd make a good Mara."
It was true; more than true, it was brilliant. I eyed the closed volume. "Is there any chance I might have a copy made of that?"
"No." Favrielle's reply was curt. "You're interested in the
book?"
"
"The fruit of the future is rooted in the soil of history,'' I said in flawless Caerdicci, quoting the historian Calpur nius; the look of surprise on Favrielle's face was deeply gratifying. "Never mind. I'll speak to the Dowayne. Tell me your idea for my costume."
Taking a deep breath, she did, sketching it out in swift, elegant lines on a piece of foolscap. It was gorgeous, and it was perfect. I wished it had not been, for I did not like her overmuch, but once seen, I could not forget it.
"We'll need to leave a seam open, there ..." she pointed, "... and stitch it closed once you're wearing it. If your maid is handy, she might do. It's the only way, with the back so low. But with your marque, it would be a crime not to." Favrielle tapped the stylus absently against her teeth and gave me a skeptical look. "I'd have expected to find you welted from stem to stern, from the stories I've heard, but you've skin like cream."
"I heal clean," I said briefly; it is the only blessing to being an
anguissette.
Kushiel's chosen would not last long were it not so. "What would be the cost?"
"Five hundred ducats." Her words were blunt.
It is a tribute, I think, to my self-control that I did no more than blink. It was an outrageous amount. It was also • an amount I did not possess. "I beg your pardon? I thought you said five hundred ducats."
"The fabric will have to be dyed to order. It's a rushed job." She shrugged. "You will recoup it in a night, if you well and truly intend to enter Naamah's Service, Comtesse. And I have my marque to think of. What I do for the House is reckoned my upkeep. The Dowayne has granted me leave to take your commission. I cannot afford to charge less."
"If the costume is a success, you will have patrons from the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange knocking at the gates of Eglantine House for your services," I observed. "And your Dowayne will not turn them away. Three hundred, no more."
"The design is sound," Favrielle said flatly. "Whether or not it succeeds depends wholly on your fortitude, and I would sooner put my faith in my coffer. Four hundred."
"If you find another
anguissette
whose fortitude you like better, I would be interested to hear it. Three hundred fifty." I didn't have that either, but I would find a way.
"Done." The young seamstress gave a faint smile. They do not drive so hard a bargain as Bryony House, who know well the erotic power money holds, but they are no slouches in Eglantine. None of the Thirteen Houses are. "I will send for the Chancellor to draw up the contract. Livia, bring my pigments. I must match the color of your marque, Com tesse."
We were some time concluding our business. I hoped that Favrielle would warm to me once our bargain was struck, for I felt a reluctant sympathy for her and I misliked such ani mosity in one my own age, but her manner was unchanged.
It would be a stunning costume.
I found Remy awaiting me in the outer sitting room. A bronze-haired boy clad in the green and white of Eglantine House leaned on his knee, watching agape as Remy showed him the trick of walking a copper coin across his knuckles.
"My lady," my chevalier greeted me, making the coin disappear, and seemingly pulling it from the boy's hair. "Here," he said to the lad. "You keep it, and practice."
The boy giggled; darting forward, he planted a kiss on Remy's lips, then slithered away, skipping out of reach and doing a handspring out of pure high spirits.
Remy watched him wonderingly. "Truly, were you like that as a child of the Night Court, my lady?"
"No." I shook my head. "It would have been reckoned brazen, in Cereus House." Night-Blooming Cereus prides itself on offering beauty of a most ephemeral nature; I was taught delicacy of conduct, there. "My lord Delaunay made me learn tumbling, though," I added, "and Hyacinthe taught me some sleight of hand."
"You can turn handsprings?" Remy asked it straight- faced, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye with the scarcest hint of amusement.
"And pick locks." I daresay he didn't believe me; it made me laugh. "Come. I need to visit my factor, to see if he'll advance me a loan. I've just signed a contract I can't pay, chevalier, and I need to do somewhat about it."
My factor in the City of Elua was a man named Jacques Brenin. I'd been referred to him by no less than the Chan cellor of the Exchequer himself, and his reputation was stainless. Unfortunately, the very stringency that made him an irreproachably honest agent rendered him reluctant to make me the loan I requested.
"My lady," he said, clearing his throat, "I can only ad vance funds for goods vouched in kind. I cannot indulge in speculation against your... probable income ... as a Ser vant of Naamah any more than I can next spring's shearing. Certainly there are factors willing to do so, but I tell you, I do not advise it. If you wish to pledge a portion of the acreage of Montrève as surety, or the house in the City ..."
"No," I said firmly. "I will not barter with my lord Delaunay's inheritance, nor the roof that houses my retainers. In conscience, I cannot do so."
Jacques Brenin spread his hands
in a
gesture of helpless ness. "If you are not willing to take these risks ..."
"Messire Brenin." I cut him off. "I do offer goods in kind." Slow and deliberate, I rose from my chair and began to unlace my bodice. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and stared as I slid the sleeves from my shoulders and let my gown fall to my hips, turning as I did so.
I had seen, in the mirrors at Eglantine House; I did not need to see to know how my bare skin glowed in the dim lamplight of my factor's office. And rising from the dimples at the small of my back to the final at my nape was my marque, the bold, intricate design etched in black, with crimson accents. It had been inked by Master Robert Tielhard, the greatest marquist of his day.
My factor swallowed audibly. Without haste, I drew my gown back up and laced my bodice. When I turned around, his face was pale. "You offer your services as surety if you should default on your loan." He kept his voice even with commendable effort.
"I do." I smiled. "But I do not think I will default."
"Neither do I," Jacques Brenin muttered, scribbling out a receipt. Licking his lips again, he handed it to me. 'Take this to my treasurer, she will advance you the funds. Re payment within sixty days at a rate of twelve percent. And Elua help your patrons."
I laughed. "Thank you, Messire Brenin."
"Don't thank me," he said dryly. "I find myself hoping you default."
SEVEN
In the days that followed, there was little enough to do in preparing for the Midwinter Masque. I went once to Eglan tine House for Favrielle to check her measurements, but the draping proper awaited the arrival of the fabric.
