City of Night (43 page)

 

Rath, true to his word, had begun his inquiries, but they were not expansive. Indeed, they started—and stopped—in the house of one man.

It was Lord Cordufar’s duty as host to personally greet each of his many guests as they arrived. They were announced, as a matter of form, when they entered the exquisitely decorated grand foyer of the Cordufar manse. Some houses, built for entertainment in a bygone era, had been constructed with an eye to exactly that announcement and presentation, and new arrivals—the timing being specifically spaced—would be announced only once they had reached the height of either stairs or balcony.

The Cordufar manse did not boast either of these social niceties, and the balconies that did exist did not have the requisite stairs from which one might descend into the crowd. Here, the ballroom on the level with the dining chambers, the great room, and the well-oiled wood of the reception rooms, he was forced to make do.

He had done so flawlessly. He was not possessed of any notable charm; there was nothing light or socially assured in the way he gripped—or kissed—a hand. But he exuded the confidence of wealth, or more precisely, power, and this was seldom without its attraction.

He was a man of middle age, but it was an age that suggested that youth was callow and untried; his hair had not significantly paled with the passage of time, and the width of his heavy frame was girded entirely by muscle. To the eye.

His son at his side, and his guards—in gray livery—as attendants, he offered his thanks to each and every man, woman, and not-quite-child who crossed his threshold. This was, as Rath remembered from his youth, quite tedious. He approached Lord Cordufar quietly, in the midst of Hectore of Araven’s many sisters, children, and grandchildren. Andrei was present as an attendant, and not as a guest; he was therefore free to observe, although his observation was, as expected, silent.

But Rath was not there as a servant; neither had he come as one of Araven’s extended family. When his name was announced, at the end of all of theirs, he stepped forward.

“Ararath of Handernesse,” Lord Cordufar said, extending his hand.

Rath took it smoothly; it was adorned by rings, that would, on any other hand, seem a sign of vanity and ostentation. Rath noted them because he was used to noting objects of value.

“Lord Cordufar,” he replied, offering an expert bow.

“Something about your House Name is familiar.”

“Perhaps.” Rath forced himself to smile. “I am frequently far from home, and I have just returned. My godfather seeks to indulge me and perhaps reacquaint me with the joy that is Averalaan society.”

“A worthy man,” Lord Cordufar replied, bowing in turn. When he rose, his eyes were narrow, and a flicker of darkness etched its way across the triangles of the whites.

“Indeed.”

“If you come with his recommendation,” Lord Cordufar added, “I will be duly impressed. Enjoy the hospitality of Cordufar. Perhaps if we make your stay worthwhile, we will have the pleasure of your company at a less . . . crowded event.”

Rath was prepared for his smile, and did not react to it in any way. “I cannot say, for certain, how long I will remain in Averalaan, but perhaps I will accept your offer.” His own smile, offered in precisely the same manner as Lord Cordufar’s, accompanied his last words. “I believe we have much to discuss, you and I.”

 

Lord Cordufar had attempted to use no magic. Had he, Rath would have known—Rath and everyone standing in the foyer. Andrei had insisted that Rath wear something protective; Rath had insisted that it was not required. Hectore, coming in midway, had insisted that Rath accommodate Andrei’s request, even if he had failed to actually
hear
it.

If Rath had been a better man, he would have failed to bring this to Andrei’s attention; he was not. He was, however, a cautious man, and contented himself with one long glance and the lift of a single brow once they were quit of their host.

Andrei answered in kind, entirely unflustered. His expression suggested that the evening—which promised to be long—was not yet close to over.

Rath conceded the point with a grimace; half of the guests, if that, had arrived, and there would be a long and interminable reception for each and every one before dining and dancing were even considered.

The time he had spent in the past year at the side of Sigurne Mellifas often made him remember—and regret—the choices he had made in his angry youth. Occasions of this nature, however, merely reaffirmed them. Rath glanced once at the guards to either side of the large and open arch that led from the foyer into the great hall. From above, to the right and left, were shallow galleries, and beneath those, tapestries and paintings. The pillars that traversed the hall to the left had been adorned with sculptures that suggested that delicate, graceful stone hands held the roof above them. The roof itself? Rounded, corniced near the pillars.

The floors were not carpeted; they were a dark, stained wood. There was very little in this hall that muffled sound, and therefore, there was a good deal of it. Here, nestled against the walls, were long benches and chairs at which those weary of the standing crowds in the great chamber and the rooms beyond might sit a moment in privacy. They were not, now, in use, but they would be before the evening’s end.

Rath paused in front of one painting, his hands behind his back.

“It’s a Lauvelin,” Hectore pointed out.

Rath nodded. “But an unusual subject, for Lauvelin.”

“I think,” Hectore added, coming close enough to touch the large stretch of canvas, “that this is one of his youthful pieces. It has, at any rate, that feel.”

It did. Raw, red, ugly: Lauvelin’s war. He had painted only a handful of such pieces that had escaped into the world; he was known for the quality of his use of both light and shadow, and very little of the former was in evidence here. Here, Rath thought, was the eye of a soldier, and indeed, the dead that littered the field as far as the eye could see had only the faintest hint of the markings that would have identified which banners they had come to the field under.

Cloth was stained, its color lost; arms, limbs, the unattached parts of the dead, had fallen in just such a way that they could almost entirely obscure crests. The standards flew, proclaiming the leadership of two armies, but they flew only over the dead, like carrion birds.

“He knew war,” Rath said softly.

“Yes. But in the end he chose to make his name bringing to light the things that war does not touch. Beauty, in all its guises.” Andrei’s voice. “It is a lesson,” he added quietly, “that we would do well to learn.”

“And yet,” Rath replied, knowing full well the range of Lauvelin’s luminescent work: his children, his women, his young men bursting with pride or shadowed, a moment, with worry in the bustle of life; his flowers, his vases, the odd flash of flight in his birds and butterflies. “Much of that is also extinguished, in the end, by unchecked war.”

“Yes. But in some small way, that is why we fight, even if we do not, in the end succeed.”

“Fight? I think, rather, that is why
they
die.”

“And is that different? They die, if you prefer, to preserve the things that they hope war will not touch.”

“If they knew, for certain, that they would face death—and at that, an unpleasant, undignified, ugly death—they might never march at all.”

“Perhaps. But if they knew, if they could know, that one life, or if you prefer, one death could turn the tide of the battle?”

Rath glanced at Andrei. His expression, his unblinking regard, was entirely unfamiliar.

“Come, Ararath, Hectore has already all but left us behind.”

 

Rath stood by the long, open arch between the great room and the great hall, at the end of which, on a gleaming, dark stage, musicians played and sang. He recognized only one: the youngest master bard of Senniel College.

As the gathering was meant to impress the various Cordufar merchants and their associates, Lord Cordufar had extended the hospitality of his home in as wide a circle as a man of his rank could, with any dignity, do. Among the associates Cordufar claimed was one of The Ten: The Darias, otherwise known as Archon to those who held him in no high regard, holding court to the left of the stage. If Rath had still had a place among the patriciate, he would nonetheless have been unable to identify The Darias on sight; Handernesse had never been of enough consequence to merit visits to, or from, The Ten.

But he recognized The Darias from description, if nothing else: an autocratic man at the edge of his prime, gray streaks showing in the brown of his hair. Not more than six feet in height, he nonetheless dominated the small crowd that had gathered around him. He wore the muted colors of House Darias: russet, brown, and gold. They did not entirely suit his coloring.

“Ararath?” his companion said quietly.

Rath glanced at Hectore of Aravan. “I did not realize The Darius himself would be in attendance this eve. It must have been difficult indeed to arrange an invitation on my behalf.”

Hectore smiled. “No. I am, after all, one of the merchant houses which Cordufar desires to impress. And he clearly desires to impress, this eve; The Darias is not the most significant of the luminaries you will see in attendance.”

“Senniel’s master bard?”

“Very good. But it is not the bard to whom I refer.”

Rath raised a brow, and Hectore laughed again, pausing only to relieve an overburdened servant of both drink and food. The servant paused in front of Rath, and Rath shook his head slightly.

“Ararath,” Hectore said, “the vintage is excellent. Even Andrei would approve.”

“I note, however, that the inestimable Andrei is not partaking.”

Hectore raised a brow. “He, like any good servant, does not drink while working.”

Rath nodded, scanning the crowd. It spilled out into three or four rooms. His brows drew together slightly, which, in Rath, was as much an expression of surprise as he ever showed.

Hectore smiled, greatly pleased with himself. “You’ve seen Guildmaster Gilafas of the Makers’ Guild.”

“Indeed.”

Gilafas ADelios was commonly referred to as the most powerful man—outside of the Kings and The Ten—in Averalaan. He was not particularly handsome, and neither young nor old; he was not particularly fit, but his body had not yet surrendered to age or gravity. He wore his hair, which was not yet white, in a long braid at his back. His clothing was very, very fine, and he wore it with the indifference—the casual indifference—that marked the very wealthy. Its colors were a rich, deep burgundy, with traces of gold and silver along the hems, but he had forgone jacket for the more stately robes of the elder gentleman.

As he was not a terribly forbidding man, he was surrounded by men and women whom Rath did not recognize. He did not look entirely
pleased
to have garnered this attention, but bore it well.

“I can count the number of times that Master Gilafas accepts invitations that require him to leave the guildhalls on one hand,” Hectore added. “Lord Cordufar has outdone himself, this eve.”

“As you say, Hectore.”

The patris of Araven raised an iron brow. “Ararath, I have not asked you what your business here is, but conduct it less obviously.”

Rath offered his godfather the lightest of smiles. “As you say. Will there be dancing, this eve?”

“No doubt,” Hectore replied with a grimace. “Which will please my wife and daughters to no end. And my granddaughters, if truth be told.” He smiled, and added, “All but the youngest. You should spend some time with her, Ararath. She would meet with your approval, I’ve little doubt.”

“I have the greatest of respect for all of your family.”

“Yes, yes.” He raised a hand before Rath’s attempt at polite praise could leave his lips. “Don’t overdo it. I’ll leave you with Andrei,” he added, “because I see my lovely wife’s expression, and I believe it indicates that I am being neglectful.”

“Take Andrei.”

“No.” He turned to his servant. “If Ararath desires trouble, make certain that he does not receive it at
this
event.”

Andrei bowed. They watched in silence as Hectore made his way through the crowd, skirts parting and circling as women and girls moved to one side or another without pausing to see who had passed them.

“He is concerned for you,” Andrei said quietly.

Rath nodded. “I would have spared him the worry.”

“Indeed. It is perhaps one of the reasons why he still values you so highly. Ah,” he added, seeing the waves of brightly colored cloth ripple as the crowd parted once more. “I forget myself.”

Rath allowed himself a small smile of recognition as he saw who now approached. He bowed, and it was both perfect, formal, and exactly the correct gesture to offer the woman who appeared in the small gap left by two men.