Shadow Prince, page 7
part #2 of Demon Hunter Series
“I suspect,” said Porfiria, tapping her chin, “you are not as concerned with Adias, as you are with Prince Saviron.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“I would say that because you are never going to be charged for Adias' fall. Everything else said I'm here as a witness. I'm not the only one who knows you're innocent of both ends.”
“Thank you,” said Catricha. “But, Porfiria, I doubt my reputation will survive another blow should the matter ever go to a judge.”
“We can always hope the matter never goes so far. That night won’t live in peoples’ minds forever.”
“I don't want to merely hope.”
“Perhaps we should talk somewhere else?”
“No. This place is fine. We do business here. If we can't talk about what happened right here, we can’t discuss things anywhere. What we do in darkness is inevitably scrutinized by daylight.”
“Very well,” said Porfiria. “If we talk in public, do you want us to be overheard?”
“I’m hopeful, perhaps, in that regard.”
"Cat," said Porfiria, "Hope may even be too much to ask if things don't go in your favor. If the princedom's succession is taken by an insensitive or hostile household, your chances at poetic fame will disappear. A chance at marrying again will be lost next. Consider the danger watchful eyes and illusive whispers place on your family's claim to the throne of the city."
“I know, Porfiria,” said Catricha, “Still, I have to attempt to prove my innocence.”
“It is possible everyone outside your family suspects you,” said Porfiria, “Except me.”
“I know. That is why I need to convince more people of the truth.”
“Indeed, that would be of use,” said Porfiria. “But how?”
“I won’t guess,” said Catricha. “I want to find what truly happened that night.”
Porfiria folded her bare arms. “That remains the great mystery of the present. Where would we start?
“I would start where I can. I would think to start with finding the girl who took Adias from the party. She led all three of us, Adias, you, and me away just before the prince was attacked.”
“I suspect she could provide us more clues, yes.”
“Porfiria,” said Catricha with a frown. “Are you suggesting you plan to help me?”
“You’ve caught on.” Porfiria gave a small smile. “You’re my most promising project as a poet. I don't consider you a student, I consider you a friend.”
“I’m glad. I feel the same toward you.”
Porfiria glanced over Catricha’s shoulder. “Look, here comes another potential customer.”
Through the crowd of moneyed poetry patrons, advanced a figure in a dark cloak, making his way toward them, behind a tall young woman with wavy hair. The woman carried a short spear and moved with the elegant grace of a warrior. Porfiria once discouraged Catricha from practicing combat. The woman’s stride provided evidence no one ever suggested she train less with her weapon.
The man behind her moved almost as gracefully as the woman. He looked to be slightly older than the spear woman. Though his face was youthful, his bearing spoke of someone used to being obeyed. He was no noble Catricha recognized, but he must be of some importance somewhere, if not in Alliance.
“Greetings,” said the woman with the spear. “What are you dealing here?”
“We offer our poetry. These are plates engraved with my latest work,” said Catricha.
The woman stepped one side, allowing the man behind her to face Kat and Porfiria fully. He approached the table and poetry. He looked down at one plate. “Termita? Does this involve those awful burrowing insects?”
“As a metaphor does,” said Catricha. “Even the greatest poets only seek their power in the individual, but in outrage poetry, as I practice, we attempt to subvert expectations.”
The man nodded, then flashed a smile. “My name is Heron Olfrus. I am new to the city, and this...” He motioned the woman. “...is my bodyguard and a wizard in my employ, Melissa Dorian.”
“Melissa?” said Porfiria. “I've heard that name recently.”
“I doubt that. My name is hardly common,” said Melissa with a small frown. “Though there are people in the city from my family. We are not nobility.”
“Dorian,” said Porfiria. Then she snapped her fingers. “You are a member of the merchant family, correct?”
Melissa shrugged. “I was, at one point. I’d heard my parents may still dwell in Alliance.”
Heron picked up a plate with Termita written upon it. He turned the poem over in his hands, examining the small text and the printed seal at the end of the metal-wrought lines.
“What form of metal is this worked in?” he asked.
“We have versions of the poem engraved in both bronze and gold,” said Porfiria.
Heron peered at the plate in his hands. “In gold? That is rare, especially in outrage poetry.”
“It is,” said Porfiria. “But Termita is a rare work. I suspect soon, outrage poetry of such quality will be regarded at least as well as any canon currently taught or circulated.”
Catricha’s face grew hot. “Porfiria, please don’t burden me with such weighty praise.”
“I speak my opinion,” said Porfiria. “Of course, the gold carries more than its weight in value. Because gold is among the most incorruptible of materials when it comes to a demon’s touch. Every created entity, even those seen on high, may appreciate such work. Even the smallest...”
“Even the smallest,” said Catricha, starting to smile despite her embarrassment at the compliments. “even the smallest will be glorified.”
“Is that from your poem?” said Melissa.
Catricha nodded, face hotter than ever.
Heron hefted the plate of gold he held. “It is,” he said. “And it belongs to a great line, I see.”
Catricha smiled, cheeks burning. “Thank you for saying so, Lord Olfrus.”
“Like your friend, Lady Maltos, I say what I will.” Heron smiled brightly.
“I take it, you're new to the city?” said Catricha.
“We are,” said Heron. “I have come from the east, my ancestral home lies near the Chos Valley, but my family has moved to Alliance.”
“If I may ask, say, for what reason did you come here?” Porfiria said.
“I am here to claim the title of prince,” said Heron.
“You seek to become prince?” said Porfiria. “Truly?”
“Truly, I have come to ensure the city’s stability. And I will see to it that the laws of succession are upheld as I lead one of the more powerful families now present in the city. I suspect the selection will go well for my side, depending on who acts as judge and steward during the process.”
Catricha frowned. “I would not be so sure,” she said. “You must know each of the four families are powerful, especially mine.”
“Of course,” said Heron, “but the challenge makes an attempt all the more worthy.”
Catricha nodded. “Do you wish to buy that?” She motioned to the plate.
“I do,” said Heron. “Even in a family conflict, I can appreciate skillful lines of poetry.”
He opened a coin purse.
Melissa watched both directions to make sure no thief attempted to run by and snatch the purse. Heron paid for the plate. He tucked the poem under one arm bowed to Porfiria and then to Catricha.
“Thank you. I'm pleased to have met you both, my ladies. May I ask your names?”
“Catricha Maltos,” she said.
“Porfiria Amburen,” said Porfiria.
“Good to meet you both,” said Heron. “I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other in the future.”
THE FUNERAL PROCESSION wound through Alliance, bearing Prince Saviron to his final resting place in the tombs. Catricha and her family marched dutifully with the other nobles. Her mind lingered on the dress she received from Nansoela. The gown came earlier that day, bundled up in a cloth that hid its shape. Good, Catricha thought. Her parents wouldn’t wish her to wear that out tonight if they saw it.
The funeral was scheduled at dusk, and the sky was clear. Catricha watched the priests from near the front of the procession, waiting, among other families, as they spoke their words and said their prayers. They beseeched Mother Mercy for her gifts of repose and afterlife. No one, not even the immortals, spoke of Mother Mercy in anything but respectful terms, Catricha thought. Some figures were impossible to mock, even for an outrage poet.
She glanced through the crowd, noting only one noble among them carrying a sword, Vual Kuldettan. She wondered if that was going to continue even if the prince’s killer was caught. No reason to think he wouldn't because he's done it ever since he grew up.
Nansoela Paroth wore the same style of conservative black gown she had worn to Adias's funeral. Everyone here was fully garbed in ritual vestments beyond where the nobility stood, except for one man.
Deckard Hadrian stood, raven hair blowing in the wind, and watched from within the fortress of his iron robe. His eyes darted back and forth, bright and glimmering. Could he be searching for the killer?
Catricha doubted the immortals would consider it possible the attacker of the Prince and Adias would be so close to the funeral as to be ready to attack again. She must be among the suspects. Hadrian must consider the nobility, especially Catricha, among the potential assassins.
Never mind the fact that Catricha had never studied magic, and her power of words was nowhere near cutting enough to rent out a man's heart and steal his eyes. Especially, she thought, when she was not present at the killing. Of course, they might suspect her of keeping secret magic.
Magic she didn't have could become troublesome if it made her more suspicious to other nobles.
Porfiria and her small household stopped one side, she waited with her head bowed. Her servants knelt. They were but servants, as Porfiria had no husband or family or children. Her friend had never taken a hiatus from the poetry scene and thus was unlikely to have ever had a secret child, unlike some others.
They spoke their pieces, and the authorities and priests laid down their prayers until the daylight began to fail. Stars glimmered on the horizon, growing larger and brighter as the sun sank away.
Catricha glanced at the rest of her family. Her younger siblings and their light-skinned cousins looked both bored and solemn until the songs began from the tombs.
The choral music rang out as singers marched forth from the side streets at the end of the ceremony proved enchanting. Catricha rarely targeted that kind of music in her works of satire. The songs prevalent in the temples left her wordless to confront such beauty. Sweet refrains, guided souls toward the ring where Mother Mercy sat, enthroned on high, so the dead might rest at her side for eternity.
The funeral ended gradually as the crowds began to disperse. Noble families mounted their horses or carriages and turned toward their manor houses. Countless people of lower status streamed through the streets around their swifter lords and ladies.
Deckard Hadrian took to the air as if part of the breeze itself, floating like a dark bronze leaf in the autumn wind. He drifted skyward and then finally vanished above the city streets, disappearing behind the smoke billowing from chimneys into the gloom.
Catricha wondered if the immortal would have any more words for the nobility before a successor was chosen. Despite being the progenitor of House Kuldettan, he appeared not to be their friend, judging by how irritated Filavaye seemed with him the day before the funeral.
Perhaps Catricha could learn more at the party that night.
The new Lord Olfrus, freshly announced in Alliance, would be at the ball tonight, Catricha suspected. He might send representatives and not attend himself. After all, the nobility were meeting for their council, and Olfrus himself would have to be there.
More importantly, every poet of note could attend Nansoela’s party. The guest list doubtless included many known and unknown line-smiths. Catricha meant to speak with one of the less famous ones tonight. He’d been avoiding her for too long.
CATRICHA LOOKED AT the dress in her chambers within the family manor. The gown was white. That fact alone would be enough to instill her in the memory of any who saw her tonight. The funeral was too close for anyone to wear such a dress.
Neither of the shadow's victims had possessed much sense of decorum—especially not Adias, who'd frequently flaunted his lack of care for rules and etiquette. Consequences for him were always light.
Catricha might be an outrage poet but could still suffer backlash. Consequences of a widow wearing white could be harsh in the public eye. That only began to describe the ridiculousness of wearing such a bizarre gown tonight.
The hem and shoulders were patterned after human teeth as if her mantle consisted of gleaming incisors. The small jewels hanging from the waist appeared similarly patterned, carved to fit the shape of tiny teeth.
Nonetheless, Catricha began to dress. Nansoela had sent the gown, and that made her opportunity clear. Who cares about the feelings of dead men?
She adjusted the skirt before fastening the back of the dress. Despite a high slit on one side, the skirt itself was otherwise long enough to cause her no additional trouble. No more time remained for second-guessing her career path. How could one outrage the city more than appearing in such a bright, morbid gown just days after the funeral for a husband and just hours after the prince’s interment?
"Are you done in there?" asked Porfiria, waiting outside the door.
"Almost," said Catricha. "Is the carriage ready?”
"They’re waiting downstairs," said Porfiria. "I'm surprised you sent for the House Halth carriage. Why not use the one kept here?"
"The House Halth owe their service only to me for the moment," said Catricha. "I'm the one paying them, and I don't want to subject my parent’s servants to this indignity."
"Yet, you’re at peace with putting other servants through the same?"
"The consequences for them will be light because they have little say in the matter," said Catricha. "Everyone knows the common folk work for the coin of the realm. I only ask with money in hand."
"Indeed," said Porfiria. "And money opens doors as well as minds."
"Open minds are what we need," said Catricha fastening the ties on the back of her dress. The white gown revealed too much. Despite her will to excite tempers in the crowds of nobles at Nansoela's party, Catricha had her doubts. Her face grew hot as she considered what some might say. She took a deep breath, steeling her resolve.
"I'm ready.” She set her jaw, looked in the mirror, and then nodded to her reflection. "As ready as I can be.”
She marched to the door as Porfiria opened it.
"That is quite a dress,” said Porfiria.
Heat returned to Catricha’s face. "Nansoela has an unusual idea of what's appropriate for a canon poet.”
"What's appropriate probably never even entered into it," said Porfiria. “Judging by what she sent, she may be using the dress to play a game with you."
"If one evening gown is enough to destroy what remains of my reputation, I don’t deserve any fame." Catricha smiled slightly. "I'm already a widow seeking a divorce from her dead husband. I suspect that will never go over with those who love him."
"Adias is gone," said Porfiria. "I hope you can be your own woman, Cat."
"For the first time," said Catricha with a rueful frown. "I'd barely come of age when they betrothed us."
Porfiria nodded. "I don't understand why they moved things so quickly. and yet assumed two people who'd grown up as enemies would be able to preserve the partnership they forged through relations."
"They thought they could do anything," said Catricha. "After all, I am loyal to my family."
"Too loyal if you ask me," said Porfiria softly. “But, never mind that.”
“Shall we go?" asked Catricha, glad for Porfiria dropping the subject of family.
"If you wish," said Porfiria. But put on some kind of shawl or over-cloak. We don't want to show you off too early."
"Is it really that revealing?" asked Catricha, her face heating up even further.
"The dress leaves little to the imagination on the top," said Porfiria. “And on the slitted side as well."
"I was afraid of that," said Catricha. "But as Jadik invaded the north with nothing except faith in Mother Mercy on his side, I shall go to this party no matter how little I'm prepared to deal with what others will say."
"You shouldn't compare yourself to the founder of the empire," said Porfiria. "I'd wager you have more courage than he ever required."
"Now who's speaking outrage," said Catricha with a smirk.
"Only one who has much practice at it," said Porfiria. "Now, don't let me steal your essence, either."
"Oh," said Catricha. "I'll have a line or two of payback ready for you soon enough." She barked a laugh, then composed herself again. There would be no room for such harsh expression at Paroth Manor.
The two of them descended the staircase. Catricha used a brooch to fasten her cloak about her shoulders, hiding the tooth dress.
Catricha and Porfiria proceeded to the courtyard. They walked out of the massive doors to where the carriage waited.
Beside the carriage, stood Sion Arver, wearing the sword of House Halth in a scabbard as his side. Catricha gratefully touched the brooch that allowed her cloak to conceal her gown for the moment.
"Sir Arver," said Catricha. "I didn't realize you were going to escort us tonight."
"I thought it proper," said Sion. "After all, you are still my lady."
"Only as long as I remain a member of House Halth," said Catricha. "Those days may be numbered, my loyal friend."
"Friend?" said Sion with a smile. "I suppose that title fits."
"Shall we go?" said Porfiria. Sion bowed his head, then motioned toward the carriage doors. "This way, my ladies."
THE CARRIAGE ARRIVED at the party as night closed in like a choker of deep blue steel around the city.
“My ladies.” Sion turned to face them as Catricha reached for the carriage door. "Will you allow me to accompany you into the party as well?"
