Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1) (17 page)

Siv stopped when they reached a walled greathouse with an elaborate Fire-formed gate. He turned to Dara, shadows cutting across his high cheekbones.

“Zage told me the story of these doors when I was a little boy,” he said. “Forged by my great-grandfather.”

“The First Good King?”

“One and the same,” he said. “The last Amintelle to have even a hint of the Firespark. When he realized his son didn’t have the Spark, he appointed the first Fire Warden to control the mountain source and keep the peace amongst the Firewielders of old.”

“You mean this is the Fire Warden’s greathouse?” Dara examined the intricate swirls on the gate. There was no discernible picture, but the abstract designs suggested Fireworks far grander than the ones performed these days. This house sat atop the Well deep in the heart of the mountain, the mysterious source of the Fire itself. This house was where the Fire Warden parsed out the flows of Fire, disbursing it to all the Fireshops across the three peaks. She could almost feel the heat of old Vertigon in her blood as she thought about the raw power the Fire Warden controlled from here, the kind of power she had never been able to touch.

“I’d expect the daughter of Rafe Ruminor to have been here before,” Siv said, turning to walk alongside the Fire Warden’s high-walled home. Dara fell in beside him.

“My parents don’t get along very well with Zage Lorrid,” she said quietly, wondering again if she should tell him about Renna.

“And you don’t get along with them.”

“I never said that.”

“Call it a hunch.” Siv nudged her arm with his elbow then didn’t pull away, keeping contact as they walked. Pool blinked.

“They’re pressuring me to get more involved with their business,” Dara said. “They think dueling is a waste of time. But it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. When I was a little girl and discovered I couldn’t—” Dara stopped. Some hurts didn’t need to be aired. She remembered the hours she had spent trying to draw on the Fire all too well, sometimes sneaking to her father’s workshop in the middle of the night. She had cried on her knees in front of the access point, unable to understand why the Fire wouldn’t come to her. She hated letting on how much it bothered her that she couldn’t Work the Fire, and she didn’t want to get into all that with Siv. “Never mind.”

The prince didn’t press her further. He led the way past an elaborate pillar at the corner of the Fire Warden’s wall to a smaller greathouse beside it. It was bigger than her parents’ dwelling and shop combined. Marble columns rose beside the door, and light and laughter tumbled through the window.

Parlors had a long and venerated history in Vertigon. Those who deemed themselves too important to be seen in simple taverns congregated in the front rooms of the greathouses on King’s Peak. They’d engage in the same drinking, gambling, and socializing activities as in any other tavern, but around a more affluent set. The hosts would be repaid many times over through the business contacts and goodwill they cultivated in their parlors.

“Here we are!” Siv rapped on the door. It flew open immediately, and a voluptuous woman in a pink silk gown stood before them.

“Prince Sivarrion!” she crowed, her rich voice seeming to issue from the depths of her body.

“My Lady Atria.” Siv kissed her hand gallantly. “Always a pleasure. May I introduce Dara Ruminor, my dueling partner, and you know Pool.”

“My lady.” Pool bowed stiffly, his ears going red.

“Come in, come in!” Atria cried. She squeezed Dara’s hand. “A dueling partner, eh? Glorious. And Pool, you must call me Atria.”

“Of course, my lady,” Pool said.

A servant whisked away Dara’s cloak, and they followed Lady Atria through a brightly lit entryway. Dara glimpsed people in the front room, laughing and drinking in tight groups of three and four. Servants bearing trays with goblets of wine, delicate cakes, and fruit tarts wound among them. A grand suit of armor decorated one corner of the room, and finely dressed ladies draped themselves over puffy couches—and over finely dressed gentlemen. It was a warm, colorful scene, enriched with the smell of perfume and spices.

But they didn’t go into the main parlor. Atria led them toward the back of the house, chatting to Siv and rattling off the names of those who had already arrived. Dara walked beside Pool, who ducked his head into rooms as they passed, always keeping an eye on Siv and Atria.

“Are you looking for someone?” Dara asked.

“It’s wise to assess the landscape for potential threats,” Pool said. “It is a Castle Guard’s primary imperative.”

“Do you think someone
here
would harm the prince?”

“What I think is irrelevant,” Pool said. “We must be alert for every eventuality. You would do well to remain ever vigilant.”

This man is as paranoid as Berg
, Dara thought. She didn’t think they’d find any threats in Lady Atria’s parlor, but she kept her eyes open just in case. She didn’t want to lose her “dueling partner,” as Siv had described her.

At the back of the greathouse, Lady Atria led them down a short flight of stone steps to a door set into the rock of the mountain. Inside was a low-ceilinged, musky space lined with couches and clusters of tables. People lounged about, engaged in more staid conversations than the revelers in the rooms above.

“This is where the true influencers gather,” Siv said. “Lady Atria collects them.”

“Nonsense.” The big woman smiled beatifically. “They are simply my good friends. Enjoy yourselves, dear hearts.” Atria swept off to talk to a diminutive man in a bright-red coat sitting alone in a corner. Pool chose a spot to stand guard beside the door and didn’t join them as he had at the tavern.

Siv offered Dara his arm. She took it after a second’s hesitation. She had never spent time with the prince outside the dueling hall, and she wasn’t sure how they were supposed to act toward each other in mixed company. She was still a craftsman’s daughter, and he was still the heir-prince. But when she rested her fingers on the green sleeve of his coat, he smiled down at her, and a surge of warmth went right through her.

Siv led her to a low table against the far wall where two men and a woman lounged on low couches covered in bright cushions. Smoke from a pipe drifted above them.

“Evening,” Siv said. “Have you started the game without me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my prince,” answered a young man with smooth dark skin. He was dressed in sturdy traveling clothes, and a cloak was draped on the couch beside him. “Who is your lady friend?”

Siv straightened, and Dara could have sworn his chest swelled. “May I present Dara Ruminor, one of the finest young duelists on our fair mountain.”

“Ruminor? As in the lanterns?”

“Yes.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The man stood, his movements crisp, and offered her his hand. “Chala Choven. I’m with the Below Lands Trade Alliance. I come from Soole.”

Dara released her grip on Siv’s arm to take Chala’s hand and felt instantly colder. Chala bowed low.

“Never mind your schmoozing,” said the other young man, who had remained seated. “I’ve seen you duel, Dara. You’re quite good.”

“This is Lord Bolden Rollendar,” Siv said.

“You’re Kel’s patron!” Dara burst out, remembering too late that she wasn’t supposed to mention the word patron.

“That I am.” Bolden had sandy hair and a neat mustache beneath a long, sharp nose. “Kelad talks about you all the time. I’ve won a bet or two on that fellow. Good duelist.”

“You’ve probably lost a bet
to
him too,” Dara said.

Bolden laughed. “That I have. Are you joining us for tiles, Siv?”

“Of course. Oh, and this is Lady Tull, the Widow Denmore.” Siv bowed to the final member of the trio, a woman who couldn’t be more than four years older than Dara. Lady Tull was beautiful. Stunning, actually. The traditional mourning veil she’d worn since her young husband, Lord Denmore, was killed in a tragic fall from Orchard Bridge didn’t hide that fact. The accident had been the talk of Village Peak for much of last year, and it had left Tull the head of one of the most powerful noble families in Vertigon.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Tull said. She held out a tiny, soft hand. Dara took it, feeling ungainly in her presence. She wished she could hide the way her muscles, ordinarily a source of pride, rippled in her hand and arm when she greeted the delicate lady.

Siv flopped down onto the cushions beside Lady Tull and indicated that Dara should sit between him and Chala Choven. An elegantly dressed serving man appeared and poured goblets of wine for each of them. Dara took a single sip of hers then set it on the low table. She twisted her hands in her skirt, unsure what to say in the presence of so many young nobles.

Chala began distributing the tiles for a game of mijen while Bolden filled Siv in on the latest gossip. Apparently earlier in the evening someone had tried to sneak into the back room uninvited.

“He’ll be on Atria’s blacklist for eternity,” Bolden said. He laughed, a loud, braying sound.

“She’s not especially forgiving,” Siv said.

“She forgave you for that incident with the Fireroot,” Bolden remarked, “but then you are the prince.”

“You do love to bring that up, don’t you?” Siv grinned at Bolden, who grinned back, all teeth. Neither one looked happy somehow.

“You can go first, Dara,” Chala said, handing her the starting mijen tile. “You’re our guest.”

“Which rules do you play by?” she asked.

“Bern’s, of course,” Bolden said.

“I prefer Riiv’s myself,” Siv said.

Mijen could be played with two different methods. Riiv’s method was favored in the Village. Dara suspected Siv was trying to make her more comfortable by suggesting the more common version of the rules.

“We needn’t always do what you prefer,” Bolden said, “my prince.”

Siv laughed, but it sounded forced, not at all like his usual jovial tone. He wasn’t happy to have Bolden speaking to him like that. Dara wondered, briefly, when she had learned to tell Siv’s laughs apart.

“Bern’s method it is, then,” Siv said.

Dara laid her first tile. Siv met her eyes and gave her a reassuring nod. But there was a tightness in his eyes that wasn’t usually there.

The five players laid tiles as the servants poured more wine. Chala relit his pipe and puffed smoke over their heads. Members of other groups came over to speak to the prince, mostly just to wish him well. A few had actual requests: for audiences with the king, for special dispensations, even for opportunities to buy the prince a drink at a later date. He handled the interruptions graciously. Although these were apparently his friends, he was also performing his royal role as the heir-prince. Dara had never seen him do that before. He looked older and more regal somehow, and far more serious than when it was just the two of them in the dueling hall.

Dara listened to the conversation around the mijen table, but she didn’t have a lot to add. She was more comfortable with her dueling friends and their straightforward exchanges than in this smoky back parlor, where she wasn’t sure exactly where everyone stood. Chala laughed a little too loud at the noblemen’s jokes, acting solicitous and accommodating. Bolden kept trying to provoke a reaction from Siv. Dara wondered what they were each getting out of this supposed friendship. Lady Tull didn’t speak much either, but whenever she did the three men leaned close to hang on her every word, even Siv.

At least Dara was winning the game. She may prefer Riiv’s method, but even using Bern’s rules she was an excellent mijen player. Lady Tull was the worst of the bunch, and Dara didn’t feel bad at all about taking control of nearly a third of her tiles with one move.

Chala raised an approving eyebrow at that and leaned in to study the game more intently, his pipe forgotten. While he contemplated his next move, Dara studied the other people in the parlor. They were an eclectic mix, some dressed in their best finery and others looking as if they’d just climbed the Fissure. The nobles were easy to spot because they each had a hovering ring of attendants waiting to serve them. A handful of Fireworkers gathered at a center table, clinking glasses of spiced wine and warming their contents with pocket Firesticks. Showing off their wares, no doubt. At least one of those men, Jara the Gilder, was a close associate of Dara’s father. What was he doing here?

As she scanned the dark edges of the room, she spotted a glint of silver in the far corner. There was something familiar about it, but it disappeared into the shadows before she could get a good look.

“So, Dara, what does you father think about the Fire Warden’s latest regulatory actions?” Chala asked, drawing her attention back to the group. He had made a move that was clearly intended to take away her lead. He must think he could distract her from the game. He was in for a surprise.

“Yes, I’m curious about that as well,” Lady Tull said. “My advisors tell me Lantern Maker Ruminor opposes regulation.”

“Oh, we don’t discuss business at home,” Dara said. That wasn’t strictly true, but she doubted her father’s opinion would be welcome amongst Zage Lorrid’s friends.

“Don’t be coy, Dara,” Bolden said. “We all know Rafe Ruminor wants fewer restrictions.”

“It’s not about that,” Dara said. “He doesn’t want the Fire to be diluted by people who haven’t studied the art enough.” She moved a tile casually, hoping Chala wouldn’t catch on to what she was doing.

“If you ask me, he’s right,” Chala said. “There are many who want policy changes . . . and not necessarily in the direction they’re going. The more rare the Fireworks are, the better it is for our profit margins. It’s hard to transport and trade high quantities of less valuable Works. The Below Lands Trade Alliance is willing to support those who see things our way.”

“Come now, we’re not discussing politics, are we?” said a dry, papery voice behind them. “This is a quiet gathering among friends.”

A hand landed heavily on Dara’s shoulder. It was cold as ice. She shuddered involuntarily, looking up to find that the hand and the voice belonged to none other than Zage Lorrid.

“Just making conversation, Fire Warden,” Chala drew back, adjusting his tall collar. He hadn’t reacted to Dara’s move yet.