Passion Play (2 page)

“What was that?” Klara said.

Therez roused herself. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of … past lives.”

“Ah, those.” Klara’s black eyes glinted with curiosity. “I must have been a marsh frog at least once. Though marsh frogs seldom care to become humans. What about you?”

Therez shrugged and pretended to study her water cup. But she could sense Klara’s attention. Her friend might pretend indifference, but she was watching Therez closely. “Oh, a scholar,” she said lightly. “I remember ink stains on my fingers. I had a lover, too. Another scholar. I remember us wandering through a library filled with books about everything in the world. About history and poetry, about Lir and Toc. About …” About magic and Lir’s jewels, gifts from the goddess to Erythandra’s priests in ancient times, she thought. She had been a scholar more than once, but she didn’t want to tell Klara that part.

Klara, however, was smiling thoughtfully. “Scholar,” she said softly. “That I can believe. Do you remember how it ended, your time with your lover?”

Which one?
Therez thought. The answer was the same for both.
In the darkness, running from a man I’d known years and lives before.
But who her lover was, or who the other man was, she still did not know.

She turned her head away. “It ended badly. That’s all I know. What about you?”

“Ah, mine.” Klara smiled pensively. “Mine are little more than vague dreams—shadows in the night, as the poets call them. But this I do remember—how in all of them I always had friends. It gives me joy to think that.”

Some of the ache in Therez’s chest eased. “And so it should.”

A brisk knock startled them both. Klara arched her eyebrows. “It cannot be your father,” she whispered. “He never knocks.”

“Klara, do not make a joke, please—”

She broke off as the door opened to a liveried boy. “Mistress Therez,” he said. “Your mother would see you at once in her parlor.”

Klara immediately stood and shook out the folds of her loose summer gown. “A summons, I see. Then I shall not detain you a single moment.” She leaned close and whispered, “We shall continue our talk tomorrow, my scholarly friend.”

I should not have told her anything,
Therez thought as she escorted her friend down the stairs. That was the danger of the word-linking game. Admit one secret and the rest come spilling out. It had nearly happened when her mother first mentioned the cousin’s invitation. She’d wanted to cheer or laugh, both of them inappropriate reactions. Both guaranteed to convince her father she ought to stay home. Oh, not that she had any true plans. Just hopes and wishes that a twelve-month at Veraene’s capital city would let chance show itself. That she might meet a poet or a scholar—anyone who was not a merchant’s son.

Or even a merchant’s son. As long as he is not like my father, I shall not care.

She parted from Klara at the next landing, and turned into the family’s private wing. All the house was quiet, except when Petr Zhalina held meetings or dinners for his colleagues, but the silence here was deeper, and the air lay heavy, thick with the scent of crushed herbs. Therez drew a deep breath, wishing for a cleansing northern wind, then hurried onward to her mother’s rooms.

She found her mother surrounded by a handful of servants who were laying out pens and ink bottles, parchment, drying dust, and packets of sealing wax. A tray with cups and two carafes occupied the center of the table.

Isolde Zhalina turned at her daughter’s entrance. “There you are, Therez. I’m sorry to have interrupted your visit, but we have much to do. Your father has decided to hold a dinner party next week, and you’re to help with the arrangements. I’m sending out the invitations today.”

“Next week?” Therez asked. “Why the hurry? Papa said nothing before.”

Her mother glanced briefly toward the servants. “Why ever the hurry? Therez, don’t ask such questions.”

So there were business matters afoot. Therez obediently seated herself at the table and poured herself a cup of tea. She waited until her mother had dismissed the servants before she spoke again.

“What is the matter?” she asked. “Can you tell me now?”

“Business,” her mother said, taking her own seat with a heavy sigh. “Your father decided to start contract negotiations early this year. He’s anxious. So is Ehren.”

Late summer brought the annual contract negotiations when merchants settled with the caravan companies and shipping guilds for next year’s transportation. Other guilds often set their contracts as well—the silk guilds who provided raw silks, or woven fabrics, or finished goods; the miners’ guilds who specialized in marble and granite and gemstones; the sundry smaller guilds and artisans who commissioned merchants to sell their wares. The season’s negotiations made for tense conversations at dinner. Still, that did not explain the urgency in her mother’s voice.

“Your father is fretting about losing influence,” her mother continued. “The City Council didn’t invite him to the debate on caravan tolls, and even though they apologized, saying they thought him too ill to attend, I cannot believe the oversight was entirely accidental. Then there are the rumors about higher taxes, talk about closing the border …”

“We heard those rumors last year.”

“Yes, but the rumors are louder this year. Much louder. I didn’t pay attention at first, but Ehren says he heard the same reports in Duenne. The king is anxious, and because he’s anxious, he wants more taxes, more fees, and stricter controls between all Morauvín’s cities and Károví. And if the king
does
close the borders, we shall have to depend on smugglers or forgo our trade across the border. Your father would dislike that, especially after he’s invested so much time and money in opening those routes.”

She poured herself a cup of black tea from the other carafe and stirred in a spoonful of honey. The pale sunlight, filtered through the room’s smoky glass, was not kind to her delicate features. Therez could plainly see faint lines crisscrossing her face, and silvery strands glinted from her neatly dressed hair, like frost upon the mountains. Her mother’s troubled look was not new, not since her father’s illness last spring, but this volubility about taxes and trade was a marked change.

“That’s not all, is it?” Therez said softly.

Her mother glanced toward the door. “No,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Maester Galt has taken charge of the shipping guild, and he’s proposing changes to the fee structure. Talk says he’s already given the best terms to Maester Friedeck and his son. Your father thinks …” Another beat of hesitation. “We do not know if Ehren can return to the university, or if you can make your visit.”

Therez’s chest squeezed tight in sudden distress. It took her a moment before she knew she had her voice under control. “Ah, I see. I had no idea how difficult the year had been.”

Her mother shrugged. “We are not in danger of poverty. But you know your father.”

“Yes, I do.” Therez fell silent. Her tea stood cooling, hardly touched, but she no longer had any desire for its delicate flavor. She had always told herself that her plans might be overturned, but she had not realized how much she had depended on them. Her thoughts flicked back to her word game with Klara. Melnek. Home. Hurt. The sequence was not far from the truth. If only she could live a year—or even two—away from home, perhaps she could determine if hurt was a necessary part of life.

“May I see the guest list?” she asked.

Her mother handed her a sheet. Therez read through the list of names, written in her father’s plain square handwriting. Galt, the head of the shipping guild, of course, and various other guild masters. Maester Gerd Bartos, the current head of the City Council, whose eldest daughter was contracted to marry Galt. A dozen of the most influential merchants and liaisons to the City Council, Klara’s father among them. The list covered an entire page.

“Papa’s invited half of Melnek,” she commented.

“Yes. We must extend ourselves more than usual.” Her mother called up a brief unconvincing smile. “Though it won’t be all work. We shall have music and special dishes and dancing afterward. You are to pick the musicians yourself.”

She took back the list of guests and went through Petr Zhalina’s orders for the dinner, which were more exacting than usual—not only whom to invite, but also how many courses to serve, how much to spend on musicians and decorations, how long the dancing would last. It was unnecessary for Therez’s mother to emphasize that Petr Zhalina wished to make a good impression. The length and detail of these instructions were evidence enough.

Therez absorbed all these implications for a moment. One dinner could not ruin their business, but clearly any future success would build upon its outcome. Every guild head invited. Every leading merchant—

Then it struck her. “I didn’t see Maester Friedeck’s name on the list. You might want to add him. Or no? What’s wrong?”

The habitual crease between her mother’s eyes deepened. “No. When your father heard the news about Maester Galt and Maester Friedeck, they … quarreled.”

Therez bit her lip. Suggestions were a delicate matter, even with her mother. “Could you convince Papa to change his mind and invite him? Maester Friedeck, I mean.”

Her mother dipped her pen in the inkwell, still frowning. “Why?”

“Because if the rumors are true, Papa will want Maester Friedeck as an ally, not a rival. He could use this evening to win his goodwill, if not his support. And if the rumors are false, and we snub him, then Papa would needlessly antagonize an important man. You did say this dinner was the key to next year’s success.”

Isolde Zhalina studied her daughter a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I can see why Maester Friedeck should come. But let us have Ehren make the suggestion. That will do better.”

She nodded firmly. That, too, was out of character, Therez thought. A sign that all was not well in this household.

It never was.

Be quiet. It can be.

Still arguing with herself, Therez wrote down the name of a prominent musician. She immediately drew a line through the name, unhappy with her choice. Her pen hovered over the paper. When was the last time her mother had laughed or smiled without care? How had she looked, nearly five and twenty years ago, when Petr Zhalina courted her? Had he promised his love and all his heart? Had she, like Lir, laughed with delight? Or was theirs a marriage of gold and politics, even from the beginning?

The scratching of her mother’s pen ceased. She was staring at the guest list and frowning harder than before.

“A problem?” Therez asked.

“No. But I always find it hard to pick the right words. Especially for certain guests.”

Ah, so the list was not the complete list. Somehow this did not surprise Therez. “Who else is coming?” she asked.

Her mother wrote a line, paused. Her glance flicked up and back down to the parchment before her. “Baron Mann, if he accepts,” she said at last. “A few others.”

Therez exhaled softly. Baron Josef Mann had recently come from a season at Duenne’s Court. Her father must have special plans indeed.

“Paschke,” she said. “We must engage Launus Paschke for the evening. With him and his company, we won’t need any other musicians.”

“Paschke would indeed make a favorable impression,” her mother murmured. “I only hope—”

She broke off and frowned again. Therez reminded herself that a failure meant more than disappointment for herself and Ehren. Failure also meant a lecture from Petr Zhalina to his wife, delivered in a soft monotone that would wash all emotion from her mother’s face. And he would not drop the matter after one or two days—or even a week, Therez thought. That anyone could endure. But her father would bring up the subject weeks and years later—small pointed reminders of his wife’s failings. Strange how a whisper could wound so deep.

It would come out right, Therez told herself. They would dazzle their guests, her father would secure his contracts, and she would see her own plans to fruition. But every detail must be perfect.

*  *  *

BY LATE AFTERNOON,
Therez had planned the wines and most of the decorations. She had written to various artists for advice with the finer details; she had also sent a letter to Launus Paschke, asking to meet and discuss hiring his company. In turn her mother had completed the invitations and given them over to Petr Zhalina’s senior runner for delivery.

“We are done for today,” her mother told her. “Go and visit your grandmother. I know you want to.”

Therez did not wait for her mother to repeat the suggestion. She ran to her rooms to store away her notes, then hurried down the corridor to the lavish suite where her grandmother lived alone. Naděžda Zhalina called these rooms her empire, and there she had once ruled with vigor. But in the last year, age and illness had overtaken her—the empire had shrunk to her bedchamber, invaded by nurses and maids and companions. Therez came into the richly ornamented sitting room that formed the outer defenses of that kingdom.

A maid sat there, mending stockings.