A Conjuring of Assassins, page 19
Why, indeed? A treasured memory? A reminder? The Lady ever prodded me to question.
A brass latticework of the kind used to vent smoke centered a wood frame mounted on the wall of cherrywood panels.
“Be observant, daughter,” called Papa. “Would a fabric screen serve better than the brass?”
That would depend on whether there was anything behind the latticework, of course. I peered between the interlaced withes. There were varying thicknesses to the darkness, but the lattice was too fine to give any sensible shape to them or detect any movement.
“Perhaps a draping of silk to soften the edges,” I said and moved on to the next wall.
The painted doors were flanked by two statuary niches lined in gold mosaic. One niche held a life-sized figure of Gratiana, the mythic queen of Mercediare, holding Dragonis’s tail. She had cut it off to prevent it obliterating the two hundred islands its flailing had broken from the mainland. A wide marble plinth centered in the second niche stood vacant.
“If His Excellency grants us a second visit,” I said, “we must pester Labrier until he yields us some lengths of lampas—a shame it is so rare. Our merchandise must be worthy of such an elevated person.”
No, the plinth wasn’t vacant. A servant must have left behind the red rose—a bud just on the verge of opening. Beside the rose lay a small knife with a bone hilt and thin blade, slightly curved at the tip. The knife must be as sharp as it looked, or perhaps the great thorn on the rose stem was, as a single drop of fresh blood stood on the polished white marble.
Why did two items and a drop of blood, carelessly left, so disturb me?
Because this man does nothing carelessly. Certain, that was clear.
I was not squeamish. The rose and knife were laid out quite artfully on the white marble. The man had a taste for perfection. I approved.
“His Excellency Egerik di Sinterolla, Ambassador to the Independency of Cantagna by appointment of Her Eminence Cerelia Balbina Andreana di Vizio, Protector of Mercediare and the Two Hundred Islands.”
Cei’s announcement hurried me to Papa’s side just as he lumbered to his feet and the ambassador stepped through the open panel.
Dipping my knee gracefully, I allowed my crimp-curled hair to fall over one shoulder, as it displayed both hair and ruby silk bodice to best advantage. As a man of such position would expect, I lowered my eyes … but not before I assessed our mark.
Trim in the body; slightly more than modest height. Clean copper-brown hair swept back from a wide, intelligent forehead; a thin nose; a finely drawn mouth advantaged by the brief shadow of beard surrounding it. Attractive for his middling age, if not handsome. I had expected a wizened, miserly sort.
His appearance is as carefully considered as his chairs or his man Cei.
“Excellency.” Papa bowed deeply, gripping his cane. My hand crept under his elbow. The pain in his foot must be excruciating.
“Greetings of the morning, Excellency,” I said, laying two fingers of my left hand on the silver lacewing pendant at my breast.
“Please sit.” The ambassador’s voice was pleasant enough, crisp and light.
Papa returned quickly to his chair. I stood at his shoulder.
Egerik swung himself into the uncushioned chair. I admired his brisk ease.
At that very moment, he looked straight back at me. His eyes were not sunk under the narrow shelf of dark brows, but open and clear, his gaze forthright. He did not disguise his assessment of me. I took the slight lift of one eyebrow as approval.
His attention reverted to Papa. “Your fabrics come highly recommended, Merchant Fabroni.”
We always saw to that. I had a decent hand with pen and ink, and enjoyed composing recommendation letters on varied types of parchments. Papa collected seals. Some from junk bins at a market. Some from unhappy or annoying customers. He relished devising signatures appropriate to the names.
“We take pride in the value we provide,” Papa pronounced most sincerely. “I have cultivated suppliers from as far away as barbarian Eide, where the chill and the wet produce stout sheep with exceptional wool. Our wool guild is just now beginning to accept—”
“Forgive me. My time to indulge my interest in fabrics is limited.” The ambassador offered both the apology and the statement of priority without sentiment. Also without the contempt I expected from such an elevated man to the likes of Papa and me.
“Silk of pale hues interests me,” he continued. “As does lampas wrought in the blue of midnight, threaded with true silver. I hear that is difficult to procure, but I would like to see samples as soon as possible.”
A quiver of amusement at the corner of that fine mouth accompanied a quick glance in my direction. He’d been eavesdropping on us! Why would he admit that? Did he think we were too dull to notice?
“For Cantagnan winter I prefer a figured velvet of black and gray,” he continued, “and solid black to match. The climate of Mercediare does not favor velvet, but I very much appreciate the luxuriant feel of it, the sheen, the depth of color. Nothing in canary, if you please.”
There was the contempt. Papa’s nostrils flared enough to demonstrate he felt the sting of it, though his attitude of careful attention did not diminish. I had warned him that the yellow on a man of his imposing bearing was excessive, but he insisted a merchant of his stature should demonstrate the height of fashion. He never listened to me.
Egerik’s soft doublet of fine blue wool striped with brick-red braid was perfectly fitted. His shirt’s black collar rode high on the back of his neck with a scarf of matching red tucked into the front. His black sleeves were not puffed and slashed but comfortably loose, fitted at the wrist with the same red braid. Handsome. Every material the best. No, we would never see a rag-stuffed codpiece on Ambassador Egerik, or a hat with a brim the width of my forearm and a crimson-dyed plume that drooped over half his face as Papa’s did.
“Is anyone else to join us, Excellency? Your wife? Guests?”
I held my breath. Papa knew very well that Ambassador Egerik’s wife was dead.
“No.” The word could have sliced rare beef.
“All right, then. Monette, show his Excellency what we have. We’ve the silks and the figured velvet, though I believe we’ve only shades of blue and rose in our case.”
I dipped my knee to Papa, something I rarely did, but it seemed proper to remain dutiful in the face of the ambassador’s disdain. Kneeling beside the case, I pulled out our hemmed lengths of white, ivory, cream, and pale rose silk, unrolled them, and laid them over my arm. Imagining them draped over Cei’s skin surely heightened the color in my cheeks.
As I set other rolled samples aside to unbury the velvets, I glanced at Cei. He stood beside the panel door, directly behind Papa and me. Hands clasped behind his back, he was perfectly still, perfectly beautiful, and his focus remained on the floor in front of him. Interesting that Egerik hadn’t acknowledged his presence once. Not even a glance. That puzzled me. If one enjoyed beautiful things, why not look at them?
I crossed the few steps between Papa and the ambassador, and offered the gentleman the pile. “The items you mentioned, as well as an example of the finest embroidery in Cantagna.”
It would be paining Papa terribly that he couldn’t stand at my side, his imposing height diminishing the man in the chair, even as he bathed him in flattery.
Egerik did not look at Papa. “Bring that footstool over here, damizella, and be seated there as you display your samples for me,” he said. “One at a time, if you please.”
“Of course, Excellency.”
I laid the samples in Papa’s lap, gave him our anything-for-the-rich-customer eyeroll, and then carefully shifted his painful foot from the little stool to the floor. Perhaps this was Egerik’s revenge for the mention of his dead wife.
“So you serve Lady Fortune,” said Egerik, as I drew the stool to his chair. “Several of the recommendation letters mentioned your talent of divination. I find that most interesting.”
“Indeed, Excellency. I am humbled to be favored by the Lady. My father has indulged my studies even as I share his honorable trade.”
Not entirely honorable. I had mentioned my vocation in the letters apurpose. Along with a mention of our exceptional price for cloth of gold.
It was rumored that the ambassador craved cloth of gold, that rarest of fabrics. All the more reason for me to gain his trust and distract him from the quality of our sample. For us to buy even a sample length of authentic cloth of gold would leave us in penury. But the profit to be made from a decent order of our less-than-perfect fabric could set us for a year or more, making it worth the trouble to move on and restart our business in Varela or Riccia, well away from the customer’s wrath. Were the profit sizeable enough, I could call an end to this deceitful business and follow Lady Fortune’s call.
I positioned the footstool as the ambassador wished, well aware that this would put me in a subservient posture. Papa was aware of it, too, and displayed a ferocious scowl when I retrieved the samples from his lap and blocked the ambassador’s view. I returned the scowl and squeezed Papa’s knee in reassurance before taking my seat at Egerik’s feet. No need for pique to interrupt a presentation that could change our future.
Draping my skirts to display the red-and-black pattern and my hanging sleeves to best advantage, I beamed at the man as if it pleased me to look up at him. If he didn’t make a substantial order, I would be vexed that I had so abased myself. But then, Egerik was an attractive man … and obviously very rich.
“We supply only authentic Paolin silk, bought from private traders.” Allowing my sleeve to slip back to my elbow, I offered the sample of the ivory, letting it drape across my wrist and hand. It was the best and largest sample we had.
He didn’t take it, but held a fold with two fingers and drew them lightly along its length, not stopping when his fingers left the silk and continued up my bare forearm. “Exquisite.”
Gracious Lady, his fingers were warm, and very sure of themselves! Powerful men thought they could do anything. Yet I refused to take it amiss. If he appreciated me, well and good. My task of distraction would be all the easier.
He removed his fingers as I laid Dama Aliota’s sample atop the length of silk.
“Imagine this lovely silk trimmed with fine embroidery.”
“I am imagining many things,” he said. The charming creases that fanned from the outer corners of his light blue eyes deepened. Not quite a smile, perhaps, but pleasant. And interested.
“The silk is also available in pure white.” I held out the sample, but he waved one of those excellent fingers for the next.
“And cream.” Again the same, though I held the sample a little longer, knowing how well it harmonized with my own deep coloring. Those fingers … It had crossed my mind from time to time that an alliance with a wealthy patron with a devotion to Lady Fortune could be exactly the path laid out for me.
We moved on to the velvets, which Egerik deemed inferior to those of another merchant, likely Ganiu Stellani, the obnoxious sow. The ambassador very much liked the sample of the blue dye that would be found on the Kairys-made lampas, however, and agreed to see the samples whenever we acquired them. A small victory which prodded Papa out of his moping silence.
“Is there anything else that interests you, Your Grand Excellency?”
I pretended my father had not let his disapproval of the forward ambassador show beneath his business manners.
Egerik sat back and picked a silk thread from his knee. His gaze remained fixed on me. “Cloth of gold interests me.”
Hooked! An ambitious man could allow no other answer. No fabric so evidenced true power as cloth of gold. Only a few in all of the Costa Drago could afford it.
“Cloth of gold interests every man and woman in the world,” said Papa, his mercenary spark reignited, “till the price be told. If you’re thinking of a suit like mine own, ’twill cost at least the price of your grand house here and weigh near the same on your shoulders as you wear it. Yet, as it happens, I have sources in Lhampur. They cannot reduce the weight, but can offer a bid for your needs well below the price of goods from Kairys or Riccia.”
“I am considering a shoulder-to-hip sash—a ceremonial baldric—as a gift for my noble Protector Vizio, who celebrates her tenth year in her office two months from now.”
“A most generous and proper gift, Excellency, for the extraordinary lady of Mercediare! Monette, fetch our sample to show the ambassador.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Sniffing the prospect of a sale, Papa leaned forward in his chair and continued without taking a breath. “You understand the sample is necessarily small, segnoré. Few cloth merchants are able to provide cloth of gold to customers of taste and means, simply because the sample itself is so costly. But House Fabroni has shouldered that burden.”
“The expense lies primarily in the material,” I said. “Every tiny square of the fabric costs the same as an equal sized square of gold foil. Yet the making adds half again to the final valuing. It requires a weaver of exceptional skill and is so tedious that weaver might produce only a knuckle’s length of cloth in a day.”
“I specified in my message that I wished goods to be delivered to my tailor within the day. So that’s not possible?”
“Ordinarily no,” said Papa. “But for a modest length as that you’ve indicated, there is a slim possibility that some might be available. A change in requirements of size or delivery day. A canceled order. As soon as we leave here, I will dispatch messengers to my warehouse.”
While Papa gave Egerik estimates of cost and time to delivery, assuring him that a reasonable length could certainly be dispatched to Mercediare within a month, I fetched a flat, rectangular box of thick-walled bronze from the sample case. My heart thrummed, knowing that this would be our riskiest play. We could not allow Egerik to look too closely at our sample. Were a man of his stature—even a foreigner—to unmask our deception, he could have our license revoked, our stock and samples seized, and the two of us in the stocks for a month.
Seated on the footstool, I arranged my skirts yet again, this time ensuring the red silk bag marked with the Lady’s symbols hanging from my belt was positioned correctly.
“Your gift will last your honored mistress until her fiftieth year in office!” Papa flapped his fingers together, impatient as I unlocked the bronze casket and unfolded the soft linen wrappings to reveal the triangle of heavy fabric, each side two small fingers long.
“Ah, here we have it.” Papa clapped his hands as if my mother had just delivered him a son. “Still beautiful. Hold it to the light, Monette. See its shimmer, Excellency, a luster like no other. This simple weave is the purest, loveliest form of the rarest fabric in all the world. You will see that our gold wire is wound over a core filament of silk, the strongest of all threads. No common linen or wool. Show him, girl.”
Most of the sample’s raveled edge was bound with heavy stitching. With sharp, pointed tweezers from the bronze case, I prized apart the brushy threads of the short length left unbound. Unwinding one fine gold wire exposed the silken core. I made sure the wire was one of true gold and not the brass ones used to cheapen the sample’s making.
I raised the sample into the light where Egerik could see it, my tweezers gripping the core thread and the unspiraled gold. Giving him only the moment, I enfolded the sample in my fingers.
“Such a marvelous hand to the cloth,” I said, kneeling up to show him—as well as granting him an excellent view of my well-filled red bodice and Lady Fortune’s lacewing pendant settled nicely in the cleft of it. Distraction.
“Pliable, thanks to the silk core,” said Papa from behind me.
“And such a pleasing weight,” I said. “Feel it, Excellency. Not unbearably weighty. Reassuring. Valuable. Perfect. When the sash lies across your mistress’s breast”—I drew the side of my hand lightly across my own—“she will feel the weight of your regard. And your worth.”
I laid the sample in the ambassador’s outstretched hand, captured his gaze with mine, and smiled. His appreciative gaze did not leave my face as he hefted the scrap of cloth. His blue eyes were truly quite nice, especially when he responded with a genuine smile of his own. Why had I ever imagined him merely an ordinary man, trying to make himself beautiful by collecting beautiful things?
Reluctantly, it seemed, he turned his attention to the sample. Regretful, I made as if to stow my tweezers in a waist pocket. In truth I stabbed the tweezers’ sharp tips forcefully into the red silk bag …
“Sweet Lady!” I gasped and drew back my hand with nine exquisitely sharp needles embedded deep in my flesh. The pain was fierce and hot.
“Damizella!”
Papa bellowed, “Monette, sweetling! What have you done?”
I couldn’t answer. One by one, I yanked the needles out and dropped them to the floor, feeling the mark of its Mystery embossed on each—Mysticism, Presence, Power, Substance … By the time I reached the last, welling blood covered my hand and dripped on my gown, pain threatening my composure.
I clutched my arm to my chest. What had happened? I was only supposed to rip the bag and spill the needles, not impale myself.
Then Papa was there, whipping out his white kerchief and deftly wrapping it around my hand. “Are you going to be all right, daughter mine?”
He drew me to my feet and into his embrace. I buried my forehead in his chest. “The sample,” I whispered, a sob escaping me. I dared not forget.
Papa said, “Fortune’s dam…”
Egerik yet held the triangular scrap, but his attention was fixed on his polished floor, where the Needles of the Nine Mysteries lay tangled, blood spattered all around. More blood than a few needle sticks should cause. And indeed the sight struck me with awe.
“Spirits, Papa, look!” I pushed my father off me. “’Tis the Lady’s sign…”
I had set out to use the Lady’s favored telltales as a show, to distract a customer from our faulty sample. But some force within me—surely divine Espe herself—had dispersed the nine needles in piles laced with blood and pain. It was a sign no one who listened for Lady Fortune’s whispers could ignore.
