“How many?”
“Four. They killed themselves with poison when they failed. We were unable to question any of them.”
“And you’re certain they were Plenimarans?”
“They were in uniform.” She let out a small laugh. “And who else would want me dead?”
I can think of a few. But he held his tongue. A Plenimaran attack was really not that surprising, and those were certainly recognizable tactics.
Klia gave him the details of the latest battle and the attack, but soon it was obvious that the effort was taxing what strength she had.
“Rest well, and call on me whenever you need,” he said.
Her smile was warm this time. “You know I will, my friend. Don’t let Korathan worry too much, please.”
“I’ll do my best, Highness.”
“Good.” With that she closed her eyes. After a moment of gazing at that beloved face, he broke off the spell.
* * *
Thero entered Prince Korathan’s palace room just after dawn. The prince was dressed and seated by the hearth, stroking the ears of one of his hunting dogs.
“I have news, Highness,” Thero told him. “Klia was attacked last night.”
“Attacked?” Korathan stared at him in alarm. “Sakor’s Fire, is she all right?”
“Yes. There was poison involved, but her drysian saved her.”
“Thank the Sailor. But how do you know this?”
Thero explained the night’s events as succinctly as he could.
“They sound more like professional assassins,” Korathan remarked when he was finished.
“Yes, but they might have been soldiers, as well. Klia said they were in uniform.”
“I suppose so. Have you told Seregil and Alec?”
“No, I came straight to you.”
“Good. I think it would be better if we kept this to ourselves for now. Klia is a popular commander and given the mood of the city, this kind of bad news isn’t needed.”
“But Seregil wouldn’t—”
“There’s nothing they can do about it, Thero. I’m not asking.”
Thero bowed low. “Of course, Highness. I will say nothing.”
“Good. She can tell the story herself when she comes home. And Thero?”
“Highness?”
“How did you happen to be talking to my sister?”
“She gave me a talisman, Highness, so that I could contact her. And I gave her message wands so she could contact me. That’s what happened last night; she called for me and I opened a window spell so we could see and speak to each other.”
Korathan raised a pale eyebrow. “Really? And how did this unique system come about?”
Thero couldn’t tell if the prince was displeased or not, but he forged ahead with the truth. “When I had to leave her behind in Aurënen, we exchanged talismans. So I could help her if she needed it.”
“You consider yourself her protector, then.”
Thero met the prince’s gaze steadily. “I do.”
The prince looked at him for a long moment, then, with a hint of a smile, said, “Good.”
ONCE Atre had Seregil’s and Kylith’s money in hand, the actor wasted no time in moving his company to their new theater, now named the Golden Crane.
Two weeks after they’d first seen the place, Alec attended the opening performance with Seregil and Kylith. Tonight Atre was launching a new play—a lovers’ tragedy—and it was the best production so far, now that the players had the money for proper costumes, cosmetics, and scenery.
As promised, Seregil and Alec sat with Lady Kylith in the lavishly appointed patrons’ box reserved for them. A wine jar and fine cups stood waiting on a small table, with a basket of pears.
“Patronage has its pleasures,” Seregil said, selecting a piece of fruit. “We certainly have the best seats in the house.”
“And room for more,” Alec noted.
“I do hope you don’t mind, but I invited a few friends,” Kylith told them.
“Not at all. Who will be joining us?”
“Malthus and Ania, and Duke Laneus and his lovely wife, Eona. I don’t believe you know them.”
Seregil squeezed her hand. “We’re always happy to make new acquaintances, my dear.” He knew Laneus by sight; he was one of the queen’s ministers.
“I’m sure you’ll like them. Eona is such a dark beauty! Her grandmother was a Zengati princess, you know.” Kylith paused and gave Seregil a concerned look. “I’m sure she’s from one of the tribes friendly to Aurënen.”
“I’ll assume that to be the case,” Seregil replied with a smile. “Besides, you can’t blame anyone for their grandparents, now can you?”
Word of the company had certainly spread, and the seats were soon full, from the boxes crowded with nobles down to the crowded groundling area.
The rest of their party soon arrived in satin, silks, and jewels. Alec rose with Seregil and bowed to the newcomers.
“You honor us with your presence,” Seregil said, shaking hands with the two men and kissing the duchesses’ hands.
Though fair-skinned, Eona had the dark shining curls and deep violet eyes of her Zengati forebears. As Kylith had noted, she was a stunning beauty, and Alec did his best not to stare.
“Oh, I am looking forward to this!” she exclaimed, settling next to Kylith. “And I’m so glad to meet you, my lords. One hears such wicked things about you.”
“Don’t embarrass the gentlemen,” her husband, a tall, grizzled man, scolded mildly, though the look he gave her was indulgent.
Seregil gave her his most charming and foppish smile. “I’m sure most of it’s true, but I promise we’ll behave ourselves tonight.” He raised Alec’s hand to his lips. “Won’t we, my love?”
“I’ll try,” Alec assured her, managing to blush a little, which clearly amused and charmed their guests.
The play was very fine, one of the best they’d seen so far.
“Doesn’t Atre look especially dazzling tonight?” Kylith whispered.
“The wonders of expensive cosmetics,” Seregil said with a soft chuckle. All of the actors were professionally made up, but Atre did stand out among them, looking younger and more vibrant than ever. Alec supposed they must be eating better these days.
Between acts Brader’s young sons Kalin and Van sold wine and ale, and little Ela went around the boxes with a basket of flowers. Their party already had refreshments, but Seregil summoned Van over and gave him a sealed note—an invitation for Atre and his cast to a celebratory dinner after the show. During the second intermission the boy brought back word that the older players would be honored to join them.
“You will join us, I hope, Your Graces,” said Kylith.
“Unfortunately we have a previous engagement,” Malthus told her. “But certainly next time.”
When the show was over, the dukes and their wives departed with promises of invitations to come. Alec and the others remained in their box as the cast received compliments and gifts from their admirers.
It was obvious that while all the actors had some following, Atre and Merina were by far the most popular. Flowers and small gifts were pressed upon them by women and men alike. Alec watched as one besotted young merchant’s daughter took a gold chain from around her neck and placed it around Atre’s. The way he gazed into her eyes as she did so pinked her cheeks and left her flustered. He was less warm to the men, though polite, although that didn’t seem to dampen the ardor of the more smitten.
At last Brader made their apologies and the actors disappeared backstage to change clothes and wash their faces. Atre looked up and waved to Seregil and Alec as he went, as if to make certain they were still there.
Soon bored, Seregil wandered down to the stage and jumped up into the glow of the footlights. Striking a pose for Alec’s amusement, he sang a verse from the lover’s lament Atre had sung in the second act.
“My love, why do you look so coldly upon me?
Why is your heart
as distant as the moon from mine?
What have I done that you should spurn my knee
And refuse your limbs with mine to entwine?”
Kylith laughed. “That’s the first thing that came to mind, is it?”
Seregil pressed a hand to his heart. “The heroine’s death has left me a bit melancholy.”
“It suits you. My lord looks very natural on the stage.” Atre stepped smiling from the shadows of the wings. He was richly dressed tonight—more of his patrons’ money well spent—and had rings on nearly every finger and an expensive teardrop-shaped black pearl dangling from one earlobe. “And you have a far better singing voice than mine. As good as any bard’s.”
Seregil made him a florid bow worthy of Aren Silverleaf. “As always, you are too modest, Master Atre.”
The actor had evidently removed his paint, but still looked exceptionally handsome. Alec caught himself staring and hastily looked away.
“Do nobles ever take the stage here?” asked Atre.
“Only for private entertainments.”
“Well, if you ever want to arrange something, let me know. I’ve a number of roles that would suit you very well.”
“Heroes or villains?” asked Alec from the groundling area.
“I’m sure Lord Seregil could play any role, my lord. You yourself would make the perfect young lover.”
“I’ll leave that to you two. I prefer to stay on this side of the proscenium.”
Brader, Merina, Leea, and Zell soon joined them, all dressed in new finery, though far fewer jewels. Brader wore none at all, Alec noticed.
They dined together at a nearby tavern and found the actors good company, raucous without being crude, with many entertaining stories to tell. When the fruit and nuts were gone but the wine was still flowing, Atre and Merina entertained the house with several songs. Their fellow diners were a receptive audience, and Atre wasn’t shy about promoting their upcoming productions.
Alec took stock of the actor and his friends. Or perhaps friends wasn’t quite the right word, for they clearly deferred to Atre—all except for Brader, but he was a quiet one and hard to read. Zell and Leea were journeyman actors, good at their craft but not stellar, and there were still traces of the Mycenian countryside in their accents, while the vivacious Merina had all the polish of a noblewoman. She shone brightly, flirting harmlessly with Alec, tossing her shining dark hair as she laughed. Brader showed the most emotion when he looked at his wife or spoke to her, and Alec guessed there was genuine love between them.
But Atre was the real star and center of attention. He was at ease with his patrons, despite their rank, yet never overstepped the bounds of respect. He was careful to include all three of them in the conversation, but showed Kylith just that little extra attention that acknowledged her as the most influential of the trio. No doubt he’d done a bit of asking around. In his place that’s what Seregil would have done, Alec knew, having observed him play that game many times. Watching Atre, Alec began to feel like he was watching Seregil immersed in some role, and he wondered what was really going on behind those lively blue eyes.
He looked more closely at the earring, which Atre most assuredly hadn’t been able to afford the last time Alec had seen him. A gift, no doubt. The hole through his earlobe was an old one, well healed, so he wasn’t new to such adornments, or to such gatherings as these, either, if his manner was anything to go by.
“Who was your patron in Nanta, Master Atre?” he asked at last.
“The lord mayor and his wife, my lord,” Atre replied with obvious pride. In Mycena that was the equivalent of nobility. “Alas, I don’t know if they are alive or dead now, after the siege on the city last fall that drove my little company westward.”
“Tell the tale of how you and your players came to Rhíminee, won’t you?” Kylith urged.
“We began our escape from Mycena on foot, after several of our members were killed,” Atre replied. “It was a dreadful journey. Finally we took ship in Nysana and reached Cirna just before your Mourning Night. We earned enough there in the streets to buy passage here early this spring. We began in the marketplaces, adding to our meager savings, and managed to scrape together enough to rent the theater in Basket Street where, most fortuitously you, dear lady, found us. And you, my lords.”
Seregil raised his wine cup. “To those in whom the flame of art burns brightest!”
The rest joined him in the toast. Alec was impressed to see tears glitter in the actor’s eyes as he humbly accepted the praise.
“I must say, I am delighted with your success,” said Seregil.
“Tell me more about yourselves,” said Kylith, nodding to Brader, who had been largely silent. “How did you and your lovely wife meet?”
“Father, Mother, and I were with a company of traveling players,” Merina told her. “Atre and Brader joined us at Rudderford in Mycena. Do you know it? No? It’s in northern Mycena, almost to the freeholdings.”
“What were you doing all the way up there, Brader?” asked Alec, trying to get the taciturn man to speak for himself.
But it was Atre who answered. “We are northerners ourselves, Lord Alec. We’d established a small company in Dresher’s Ford, but a plague struck the town and carried off most of our players. Brader and I took to the road to seek our fortunes elsewhere, and ran across Zell and his company in the process. They invited us to join them.”
“And as you can imagine, Atre soon took over,” old Zell said with a laugh. “Our own principal actor took issue with that and dissolved the company. We threw in with Atre and Brader and headed south to seek better fortunes. And along the way, Brader stole my girl’s heart. No woman could ask for a better husband, either.”
Brader smiled with a warmth Alec hadn’t suspected the man capable of. “And no man could have a better wife.”
“And such talented children,” Kylith added. “I’ve enjoyed their antics in the comedies, and Van died very well tonight! We all wept, didn’t we, Alec?”
“No higher praise than that,” Brader said, warming more at the mention of his children. “They’ve been onstage all their lives. They don’t know any other life.”
“But you’ve been unlucky in finding a home, it seems,” Seregil noted. “First plague, then the attack on Nanta.”
“And a few troubles in between,” said Leea.
“But our luck has changed for the better in Rhíminee,” said Atre, saluting his patrons with his wine cup. “I hope to stay here for a very long time.”
“I’ll drink to that!” said Seregil.
SEREGIL and Alec’s fortunes continued to improve when they received an invitation in the archduchess’s own hand, asking them to join her salon the following evening. Seregil, in turn, sent a message to Atre. The actor appeared at their door the next day, dressed nearly as splendidly as they were.
“Sorry to pull you away from your work,” said Seregil as they set off on horseback, but only out of politeness. “I suppose you had to cancel the show?”
“Oh, no,” Atre assured him blithely. The man had hired a glossy black gelding for the evening and rode well. “We have a few plays in our repertoire that don’t include me. My understudy, Calieus, and young Teibo have center stage tonight. But of course, I would have come, even if it meant canceling a performance. I’m delighted to repay your generosity in such a small way.”
“And I’m delighted that you are a man of your word,” Seregil replied.
A damp, salt-laden breeze blew up from the harbor as they rode through the well-lit streets of the Noble Quarter to the grandest part bordering Silvermoon Street.
Alaya’s villa was four times the size of the house in Wheel Street. When they arrived, Seregil was surprised to find not only two servants in white livery ready to greet them and take charge of their horses, but half a dozen of the Palace Guard on duty as well.
The captain politely asked their names and gave them a slight bow. “Her Grace is expecting you.”
Servants ush
ered them inside and led them through a lavishly appointed receiving room into a grand salon, the walls of which were painted, Skalan-style, with colorful murals depicting ocean scenes. The archduchess’s main holdings were on the southeastern coast, though she was seldom there now that she served at court.
A large set of double doors at the far side of the room stood open, and through these they stepped into a garden courtyard ringed with fragrant flowers and trees and lit by crystal lanterns on tall gilt stands. The center was paved with pink marble slabs with compact lines of aromatic creeping thyme between them, bright with tiny purple flowers. Alaya and her guests reclined at ease on silk-draped couches set up beside a moss-crusted fountain. Carved sea serpents rose up out of the broad marble basin to spit tinkling streams of water.
Reltheus was already there, sharing a couch with a middle-aged woman Seregil recognized at once as Princess Aralain, mother of Elani. The princess royal sat with Alaya, slender as a boy in her sea-green silk. Elani had her aunt and mother’s fair hair and pale eyes, but must have taken after her father more than the royal side, for she was rather pretty, though Seregil noted a small scar just to the left of her chin, and another across the back of her right hand; swordsman’s scars. Her hands were not coarse—no doubt she wore gloves—but her nails were trimmed short.
Archduchess Alaya was dressed in purple silk, her white hair a mass of jeweled braids and ringlets. Marquise Evesia and her husband occupied another couch, and Marquis Kyrin completed the party, Seregil was surprised but pleased to see.
A young woman with red-blond hair stood in the circle of couches, the celebrated poetess Jenaria. She was reciting lyric verse at the moment. Seregil, Alec, and the actor remained respectfully in the doorway, waiting for her to finish.
When the poetess finished and sat down amid a flurry of applause, Seregil and his companions stepped forward and bowed deeply to the princesses and their hostess. Atre remained behind them.
Reltheus stood and joined them. “Your Highnesses, Your Grace, allow me to present Lord Seregil of Rhíminee, and his companion, Lord Alec of Ivywell.”