Shadow Prince, page 8
part #2 of Demon Hunter Series
"I see no reason why not, Sword Servant Arver," said Catricha.
"What happened to friend?" asked Porfiria.
"In public, we must keep up appearances," said Catricha. "It would be wrong of me to suggest my departed husband's sword servant is indeed close enough to be called by such a word."
"Sion," said Porfiria. "Sir Arver, please, lead the way."
Sion opened the door. "Which of you cares to take my arm?"
"Why not both of us?" said Catricha.
"Splendid.” Porfiria smiled slightly.
The three of them dismounted and then linked arms with Sion in the middle. They proceeded up the steps to the glowing halls of House Paroth.
Catricha separated from Porfiria and Sion after they made it inside. She went to the cloakroom to remove her outer garment.
She was reaching for her brooch to remove the pin when she heard footsteps behind her.
"So," said a voice, “you’re here too?"
She looked over her shoulder, one hand still holding the brooch at her chest. The large shadow behind her left no doubt. Even here, Vual Kuldettan wore his family's relic dueling sword.
"Vual," said Catricha. "Why wear a sword to a party?"
"I take my sword where I choose," said the heir of House Kuldettan. A snarl peeled his lips back. "I have a sense of decorum but also a sense of honor."
"A pity.” Catricha sniffed. "You'd be far more attractive if you carried less sense of violence about you at all times. After all, what woman wants to be associated with a warrior? In this city, of all places, where many parents, fathers, and mothers both, died at war far away.”
"Save the stage play for your sycophants," said Vual. "It’s not your place to shame those who fight for the lands of mercy, no matter how far they travel to meet the foe."
“Your opinion is noted," said Catricha. "In a book destined for the back of a shelf. The city’s people probably don’t want to open that volume again."
Vual’s brows darkened. “Don’t insult me—”
"Lady Maltos," said a voice from behind Vual. The heir of Kuldettan twitched in annoyance.
"Sion," said Catricha. "Wait a moment. I’m about change."
"Not with the Lord Kuldettan in there," said Sion, "Surely?"
“Of course not," said Catricha. "I merely meant that once he has removed his cloak. I'll be ready to do the same and join you all outside in the hall." She figured Vual would be further incensed by the sight of her toothy dress.
"You first," said Vual. "After all your insults, I doubt you can do worse tonight.”
“Unlike some other nights," said Catricha with a smirk. "I've seen you stare at me in the past."
"Unlike Adias.” Vual wrinkled his nose, cheeks reddening. "Now, perhaps we can remove our cloaks together?"
"Your cloak," said Catricha. “Best be the only garment your remove in my presence."
"Likewise," said Vual. He reached for the amulet that held his cloak in place. He removed the pin, then snapped the mechanism into place. His mantle fell back revealed a doublet and jacket beneath as bleak and forbidding as ever. Both garments were mostly black, but with traces of gray and patterns like spiderwebs creeping at the corners, made her sure Vual intended a grim appearance.
She put her hand to the brooch, reluctant to show him with only Sion present. His temper might overwhelm his sense.
"Go," said Vual. "I’ve removed my cloak.” He folded the garment on the bed. "Now, you do the same."
Catricha’s mouth felt dry. “Very well." She swallowed and removed the brooch.
The cloak fell around her shoulders and settled onto the rack behind her. Vual stepped forward, his face turning red, and his fists clenching.
"You..." He said. "Is this how you honor a prince at his death?"
"This is how I honor my husband's murder," said Catricha, smiling. She could show him as much disdain as necessary. No, he can't be any angrier with me than he is already.
Sion stepped further into the room. “You both disrobing in front of each other hardly seems proper."
"Don't worry about proper, Sir Arver," said Vual. "This prostitute has never known what is proper."
Catricha shrugged, then tossed back one arm in an exaggerated faint. "To be an outrage poet and a woman is to be called a prostitute," she said. "But to be a man and a noble is to be wicked to the core."
"Wicked, am I?" said Vual. "Perhaps you will understand how to taste steel when I introduce you to it."
"You will be introducing me to nothing," said Catricha. "Sir Arver, please escort me into the party."
Sion bowed his head, but his eyes remained open. His face was flushed. Surely, he’d not expected what he saw covering Catricha's frame."
"As you wish, my lady."
"Have you no pride, Sir Arver?" Vual snorted. "You still call this whore your lady?"
"Do not speak any further insults," said Sion calmly. "You’re more uncouth than Lady Maltos when it comes to foul language."
"Please," said Catricha. "Forgive my departure," she smiled at Vual, putting in extra curl to her lip. "I have a party with more talented folk to enjoy."
"Go," said Vual. "Before I drive you from this house."
"What would our host to say to that?" asked Catricha in a sweet tone. "Don't presume you know how Lady Paroth will react if you start attacking her guests, especially fellow poets."
"Get out," said Vual.
She smiled at Sion. “Really, Sir Arver? Am I not more foul-mouthed than him at times?”
Sion shook his head, a flush bright on his cheeks and no words on his tongue.
Catricha obliged Vual’s request. She marched into the front hall of the house, where the lanterns glowed on every surface, making the room bright as day. Together, Catricha and Sion met the party with a provocative dress and a knight’s scabbard between them.
"I HAVE QUESTIONS, ENRIN," said Deckard, alighting on the balcony outside Lord Maltos’ master bedroom.
Enrin Maltos turned from the mirror in his chamber, dark eyes narrowing. “You’re earlier than I expected, Lord Hadrian. Grown tired of your lover, and your ever-numerous descendants quickly have you?”
He had aged in the time since Deckard last saw him. That intense gaze that once made noble girls swoon now resided in a face softened and cracked by the years. Enrin’s features nearly made Deckard envious. After three hundred years of the same face, he was weary of his reflection and the attention his looks attracted.
“My other lines of inquiry are more vital than catching up with my descendants.” Deckard shook his head. “Besides, I’ve always found you interesting, if not agreeable.”
“You'll have your answers, Hadrian," said the graying Lord Maltos with a shrug. “Just let me finish with this—” He gestured to his collar and the twin black sashes, each tied around a separate silver ring, one on either side of his chin. “My funeral attire is less than convenient without a gentle servant’s help.”
"I hope you remain as cooperative as you suggest," said Deckard. "I recall you’ve been less than forthcoming with me in the past.”
“Speak plainly, Hadrian. I long ago tired of funerals.”
Deckard clenched a fist. “As have I.”
Enrin set to work on the ties of one sash, offering no reply to Deckard’s words.
“Your eldest daughter has my attention, Enrin,” said Deckard.
“You’ve never met her, have you?” Lord Maltos scowled, a vein bulging in his temple. “Catricha is recently widowed, and you’d dare—of course you dare–to insinuate some kind of relationship between you. I know you, Hadrian, but this is a new low.”
“And I know you, Enrin, as I’ve known your forebears. Besides, this is no romantic matter. I speak of Prince Saviron’s murder.”
Enrin’s lips quivered, his face turning a dark red color. “My family is called the shield of Alliance. That you’d dare accuse my daughter of conspiring to kill Prince Saviron is unthinkable. Even you will not escape such slander, no matter how many rumors Filavaye spreads.”
“I dare," said Deckard, "because the prince lies dead, and his steward is slain."
"In the name of Mother Mercy, Hadrian," said Enrin. "You ought to have learned enough wisdom not to accuse my daughter of anything before even meeting her. She was at that final party, but neither she nor her friend, Porfiria, who I'm sure you've already spoken to, can be tied to the killings. Virtually all the noble youth who were of age attended those parties, so why don’t you go accuse Vual Kuldettan or someone else with more to gain than lose?"
"Doesn't that make it more mysterious?" asked Deckard. "I'm not accusing anyone yet."
Enrin sighed through his teeth as he struggled with the ring for the sash. "What answer do you want from me?"
"I need to know about the prince’s parties," said Deckard. “You’ve already given me a hint.”
"You’re better off asking one of the young ones," said Enrin. "I’ve not attended anything like that since my wedding.”
"I recall you frequented similar parties often when you were younger," said Deckard. "Even beyond what a gentleman should."
"I'll ignore your implication," said Enrin. "I was young once. As were you, I imagine, centuries ago."
"Indeed," said Deckard softly.
He pictured the flower country in the southwest where he’d grown up. Fields of bright grass waved on a day no living mortal could still recall.
"Which ones would you recommend I speak with among the next generation?” Deckard asked.
"Catricha never much liked those parties," said Enrin. "That's probably because few among her peers liked her once she began darting them with her lines."
"Then who?" asked Deckard. "Perhaps her friends?"
"Catricha doesn't have many friends among the nobility these days," said Lord Maltos. "I fear she is growing isolated."
"I know little of your city’s young generation," said Deckard. “I suspect there will be fewer parties with the prince and his steward lying in their tombs.”
“Now, there is a grim thought.” Enrin abandoned his fight to untie his sashes. “There is but one party tonight. It is hosted by Nansoela Paroth at her family’s house. She is one of the finest canon poets in the city but has grown to be a spinster as she nears thirty. Perhaps she also enjoys her parties too much."
"Nansoela," said Deckard. "I’ve heard her name in other places from time to time.”
"Who among us has not?" asked Enrin. “Catricha sees her as something of a rival, I think. Still, Nansoela has nothing to do with my daughter's form of poetry, besides practicing the foil to her style."
"Perhaps that's where I will find my answers tonight." He turned to the balcony. "See to your sashes, Lord Maltos."
"Get gone, I say.” Enrin returned to fiddling with the rings around his collar. “I hope you won’t need me again, Hadrian."
Deckard said nothing as he took to the air.
DECKARD SOARED OVER the city, then descended toward the House of Paroth. He spotted the lights of the house, gleaming up over the street, outshining almost all the other lights of the city. Deckard circled once, then dropped on the rooftop, he landed softly, his feather sprites keeping his weight from making an impact.
He slipped across the rooftop, the dome and arches easily negotiated by leaps and bounds of his light feet. He came to a stop beside one window and peered into the room before him.
The party was well-attended, despite the grim nature of the day. The prince’s funeral evidently had not discouraged many guests from attending. Deckard spotted a cluster of three women moving outside the ballroom. Two of them were all-too-familiar. "Melissa Dorian," he said under his breath. "And Elaine Tanlos."
He frowned. And slipped back from the window so no one would see him.
"What are they doing here?" He asked himself. Then he considered the woman he'd seen beside them. He did not recognize her, but her red hair suggested she belonged to the Graef family or its relatives.
"Have they become bodyguards again so fast?" Deckard muttered. He regretted taking so long wandering. The dead were beyond help. Those before him still lived.
His job tonight was to find the identity of the prince’s murderer. Deckard waited silently for the three women to pass, then slipped into the vacant passage outside the ballroom. No one saw Deckard as he crept onto the gallery overlooking the dance floor.
“ANNOUNCING CATRICHA Dire-Maltos and Sir Sion Arver,” called the gentle servant standing by the entryway to the Paroth’s grand ballroom.
Faint musical chimes from glowing sprite-lamps, joined the sound of a piano, creating an ethereal tune on the dance floor. Catricha paced forward deliberately, arm-in-arm with Sion. She mustered all her poise and coolness of expression to draw the attention of the other guests.
Most of the dancing nobility dressed in more somber tones. Catricha’s snow-white gown stood out, tooth-patterns and all.
She did her best to appear aloof as her fellow nobles and poets stared.
Nothing could have been further from the rush of energy filling her. Vual was here, and there was no way the heir of Kuldettan had come without his brother.
She looked for Ruar Kuldettan. Not many others knew him in these circles yet, but he was a talented poet. His slow growth in status came from pursuing the challenging path of gallant poetry. Of the disciplines of poetry seen as viable in Alliance, gallants were perhaps the most out of place. To be a gallant poet, a writer needed deeds to their name beyond verses and lines. Somehow, Ruar had taken it into his head that such acts would present themselves in time, and such heroics were not necessarily dangerous.
When she first met him, Ruar had been just fifteen years old, and she only seventeen.
The two of them were fast friends. They steadily grew closer over two years before they first kissed.
Unfortunately, Catricha's parents had made their plans with the steward’s family before she could tell them of a potential liaison with Ruar. Marrying between Kuldettan and Maltos seemed impossible then, and remained so to the present. Having missed him at the funeral and not seen him since before the night of the final party, Catricha had begun to miss Ruar, even if he was doomed to remain just a friend.
"My lady?" said Sion. "May I..."
"You may relieve yourself," said Catricha. "Is that your question?"
Sion smiled. “How did you know?”
"I'm practiced in determining when someone is carrying waste," said Catricha.
Sion bowed, then left her side, releasing her arm, and marched toward the lavatory. Even his motion when heeding the call of nature looked knightly, Catricha thought. The cut of his trousers and jacket certainly did not do him any disservice, especially not from behind.
Catricha made her way through the party, avoiding the dance floor for the moment, as she looked for Ruar.
Nansoela, head haloed by yellow hair, caught Catricha’s eye, from a distance and then grinned. They changed course to meet each other.
The Lady of House Paroth hid her earlier glee as she made her way slowly forward to converge with Catricha's path. Catricha followed the edge of the crowd, still unable to find Ruar.
Nansoela met her. About halfway through the room, near where a cluster of noblemen stood whispering. Catricha stopped walking and gave a small curtsy to Nansoela. "Lady Paroth. A good evening you’ve set, and you make a fine hostess."
"Polite," said Nansoela. "But I'm sure others here are wondering what you're really thinking, wearing that dress tonight."
"I wear this dress because you supplied it for me," Catricha said, leaning in to speak quietly to Nansoela.
"Of course," said Nansoela. "It suits you, Lady Maltos."
"You knew it would make a stir," said Catricha. "So did I."
The men talking behind them moved off, taking their whispers and stolen glances with them. They shot the occasional bemused expression at Catricha and Nansoela.
Men.
Catricha smiled slightly, pleased that at least those fools-in-fine-clothing noticed her, even if their feelings were ambiguous. She turned to Nansoela and said, "I am pleased to wear it."
"Are you now?" Nansoela shook her head. "I fear it may cause you trouble."
"If it causes me trouble, recall, I made the choice to put it on. You only sent me a dress.”
"That is true," said Nansoela. "I've been reading your poetry, you know. Termita is a fantastic work, but when shall we expect to see the next part?”
"I didn't intend to write another part," said Catricha. "I've been somewhat slower than I’d like, writing long-form in the month since my husband's death."
"You make for a stunning widow," said Nansoela. "But a widow nonetheless."
"Have you seen Ruar Kuldettan?"
"Ruar?" asked Nansoela. "Do you not have contention with his brother?"
"Trouble occurred in the cloakroom," said Catricha. "Yes. But this is about something else."
"As long as you promise not to cause more trouble at my party.” Nansoela’s beaming face told Catricha the hostess wasn’t entirely sincere. "I'd tell you Ruar is on the balcony with a fellow gallant by the name of Eram."
“Eram?” said Catricha.
"Yes, the famous gallant lover," said Nansoela. "He's had many of the women in this room asking around for him, and yet you ask for the little Kuldettan brother with the odd stride."
"My matter is personal," said Catricha, "and has little to do with his family heritage or how he walks."
"Did you hear?” Nansoela said. "A new family in the city may be in contention for the throne. They’re called the House of Olfrus. Does that seem suspicious to you?"
""Suspicious of what, exactly?" Catricha asked. "There may be a battle for the title of prince, and I'll be here to cover every slimy detail with my poetry."
"So you have no ambitions of ascending to the throne yourself?" Nansoela arched an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
"That's quite forward for a canon poet to say," said Catricha. "But I’d have little chance if I even desired the throne."
"But someone will have it," said Nansoela. "If I'm honest, I'd say the seat has its attractions. Sitting a throne might mean less work perhaps than being a poet, even one famous in canon."
