The Barrow (30 page)

“I'm sorry I missed it,” Bad Mowbray mused, looking the Palatian over.

The Gilded Lady clapped her hands as though she'd just had an idea. “I know. A command performance, then!” she cried. “A repeat of the entertainments of that night, but this time at a different wake, that of the Fat Prince. Would you agree to host the Guild, then, and honor our fallen Prince? Can a repeat be arranged?”

Gilgwyr looked stunned at the offer.
A wake for a Guild Prince. At the Sleight of Hand. Oh, wouldn't Guizo have hated that. A bad week is definitely looking up
, he thought. “We will repeat it and top it, my Lady,” Gilgwyr exclaimed, as Ariadesma blushed and looked as though she was about to faint. “You need but name the day!”

“This coming Priadum is the Festival of the Serpent, marking the last of the star-signs of the Celestial year,” said the Gilded Lady with a knowing smile. “Perhaps that evening, then, on the 19
th
? Is two days enough time for you to prepare?”

“We will be ready, my Lady,” Gilgwyr said with a deep bow.

“Fantastic,” said Bad Mowbray, nodding his head and looking about. “Outstanding. Oh, well done.” He and the Gilded Lady inclined their heads and those nearby bowed in response, and they stepped to the side to greet those amongst the Marked that awaited them, and allow the members of their crews to come forward and express their condolences. As they did, the pair of Princes paused by Erim.

“Oh, and this is the exquisite young thing I was telling you about,” the Gilded Lady said to Mowbray. “Black-Heart's new friend.”

“Ah, yes,” said Bad Mowbray, looking Erim over. “I see what you mean. Delicious.”

And then they moved on, and it was Erim's turn to blush again.

Arduin grew even angrier as the funeral progressed, if such a thing were possible. He had begun the day in a foul mood to begin with, for the week had brought an onslaught of bad tidings, one thing after another. After the celebratory high of Duke Pergwyn's offer had come the strange events during the night in their household, and the next morning had brought with it word of Harvald's death and the first hint of the unusual circumstances surrounding it. A fire in the great Library of the University; a maleficent and strange curse that had caused his brother's body to rot and decay from the inside out; the revelation of a theft and malfeasance at the Library, for which Harvald was seemingly responsible, and the destruction of the University's property; rumors of occult and forbidden magic. The tidings had grown dark indeed over that first day.

Then had come word the next day that the city fathers were refusing to relinquish Harvald's body for its rites, and instead were examining it to determine what kind of magic had been involved. The City Watch, the Magisters of the University, members of the High King's Court, Templars and Inquisitors from the Inquisition of the Sun Court, had all come to ask exhausting and perplexing questions. Then had come word that his father and brothers would not be returning for the funeral at all, leaving him to make the arrangements and plea for the release of his brother's body on his own. After several days of such humiliation, the City Watch had finally released Harvald's body, only to inform him that the Great Temple of the Divine King would not be available for the cremation, and that he would have to use the Public Temple.
Someone must have warned Father ahead of time of the slight
, Arduin had thought angrily when he learned of the Court's decision
. And so he leaves it to me, and poor Annwyn.
And all week long he had felt the sinking feeling in his stomach, the certainty that this scandal was going to bury their family, and his anger at Harvald and the whole world had grown ever more furious.

The growing turnout at the funeral only confirmed his worst fears. A small turnout would have been a blessed thing, to allow his family to grieve in private and send Harvald off in peace; or a large turnout with many notables at the Great Temple, as that would have signaled perhaps some embrace of the family in their time of trouble. But this was the worst of all possible worlds. Clearly none of the great players in the Court were going to put in an appearance: no Dukes, no Crown Prince, certainly no High King, and none of his great advisors or officers. Not a single noble of the rank of Baron or higher had yet appeared. Oh, but their wives certainly had, along with minor lords and lordlings of every stripe, merchants and moneylenders, courtiers and clerks. Elisa, Baroness of Karsiris was there, as was the Baroness of Loria, the Baroness of Chesterton, the Lady Sigalla, the Lady Ilona, and the Lady Gallas;
the gossip queens of the Court
, he thought, all of them there to see this fresh scandal visited upon his family, and cast their venomous, envious gazes upon the beauty of his sister. However Baroness Siglette of Djarfort and her daughter Lady Silga, whom his father had presumably hoped would marry him, were notably absent from that contingent, dashing whatever slim hope he might have clung to that something there was still possible.

And on top of that Annwyn was clearly, violently ill, and had been all week. She had been bed-ridden with fever, tossing and turning, moaning insensibly, ever since the night of Harvald's death. Her handmaidens had done their best, but after two days he had finally summoned a physiker to come and consult as to her condition. The physiker had been of no use, and each day Arduin had summoned a different healer, and each day her condition had not changed. He had been grateful for Malia that week; he did not normally like the Danian woman, having preferred that his sister's handmaidens be of proper Aurian bloodlines, but his sister had always been fond of her, and she had proven herself a capable helpmate that week and the household had run smoothly despite his sister's illness.

That morning he had been surprised when his sister had arisen from her bed at last. He had been thinking that the silver lining to her illness would have been that she could have skipped Harvald's funeral, and indeed if he could have thought of some excuse to leave her behind and be spared this humiliation, he would have. He had even suggested to her that perhaps staying home would have been the best course for her, given her condition; but in a weak and halting voice, she had insisted on coming, and he had known that her absence would have been just as remarked upon as her presence. But at least then she would not have had to directly endure their insincere condolences, their condemning glances, their whispers and snide giggles. The Duke had been right; all it had taken was the whiff of some fresh disgrace, and the decade-old scandal of his sister had been revived right along with it as though it had happened yesterday.
Harvald, you've ruined us
, he thought.

He had hoped for some word from Duke Pergwyn during the week, some note of condolence and confirmation that he would be summoned for the summer campaign against the Rebel Earl, but the Duke had been silent.
So that is likely how it will be, then
, he thought.
What chance of a marriage now? What opportunity to prove our worth to the High King? We will be known as a cursed house of fornicators and occultists. Scandal, ignominy, decline, and inevitably an end to our line. That will be our fate.

And now, as if to add a final insult to injury, the crowd at the funeral had definitely taken on a rather low-rent quality. At first it had just been a few friends of Harvald's from his days at the University and members of the Chancery congregating off to one side of the plaza, respectable enough men from the lettered class of the city who had studied or worked with his brother. But Arduin had watched with increasing unhappiness as their ranks had been swollen by the arrival of a decidedly unsavory and increasingly peculiar cast of characters, most of whom seemed to be content to just mingle amongst themselves. He knew, of course, that Harvald had been connected to some sordid parts of the city ever since the street fighting around the University the year before scandal befell their family. He had often wondered if the fires of that tense autumn had been the precursor to all the troubles that befell them.

But quite another thing to have them all show up to his funeral.

He was barely listening to the prattling yet seemingly sincere moron in front of him, his eyes drawn increasingly to the ruffians and ne'er-do-wells that mixed and mingled with the University crowd. He could definitely tell that some amongst the city gentry had also noticed the divide, and their scandalized glances were now split between his sister and the rest of the crowd. A small comfort, he supposed, that at least they were no longer focused solely on Annwyn's shame and condition.

He wondered if anyone else had noticed, and glanced quickly about. To his right, several paces away, stood Rodrick Urgoar, the High Priest of the Public Temple; he, at least, seemed happy and blissfully unaware, noted Arduin ruefully. The Urgoars were not highborn, but they had risen to power and position over many years of service in the Inquisition and the priestly hierarchies of the Sun Court and the temples of the Divine King. Rodrick Urgoar had been less than pleased with his posting to be High Priest of the Public Temple, something that he had made abundantly and publicly clear, much to the chagrin of many of his parishioners. Rodrick might normally be expected to officiate at the funeral or wedding of at best a wealthy merchant, or perhaps some member of the city's lettered class, perhaps an Under-Magister at the University; all of which he considered beneath him. But despite the scandal surrounding Harvald's death and his family, the Orwains of Araswell were vassals of the High King. So Rodrick Urgoar was having a banner day.

Several paces to his left by the bier swayed his sister, Annwyn, barely able to stand. Malia and Ilona stood on each side of her, partly holding her by her elbows, and around them was another protective layer of a half dozen handmaidens, acting as a shield and cushion against the intrusions of well-wishers. She seemed insensible, barely cognizant of her surroundings. He thought about sending her back to her coach.

“. . . and if my actions that day played some small part in Harvald's death, I humbly beseech your forgiveness,” the man in front of him was saying. Arduin frowned and focused on him again. The man—some sort of clerk?—seemed genuinely broken up about something. “I cannot say he took me into his private confidences, for I know much of his work was confidential to the Court, but I believe ours was a friendship based on mutual respect. And nothing in his behavior that day would have led me to suspect that something was amiss.” The man dabbed at his eyes. “He and I were supposed to have drinks this past week, you know. It shall forever weigh on my mind that we didn't get a chance to share a last pint of bitters.” The man leaned in a little closer than made Arduin comfortable, and added in conspiratorial airs, “He was going to tell me what he could about the work he'd been doing for . . . you know who.”

Arduin's face was a complete blank.

“You know . . .
Lord Rohan,”
the man said, almost in a whisper.

Lord Rohan Brigadim
? thought Arduin.
What on earth would my brother have had to do with Lord Rohan? Is that what people are saying now? That he worked for the king's spymaster?
He sighed inwardly. Arduin stared at the man a moment, realizing that he should be offering some sort of response, and then found himself saying, “Yes, well, I'm sure that Harvald would be grateful for your discretion in matters related to his work and the Court, whatever they might have been. And I'm also sure that he would be grateful for your presence and prayers here today, as I am.”

“It is an honor to be here to help him finish his final journey,” said the man with heartfelt conviction. “Should you ever need my help, you need but ask in his name.” He gave a great bow, and backed away, continuing to bow, until he disappeared into the crowd.

Arduin stared after him a moment, his mouth hanging open and a frown on his face, before finally shaking himself. He glanced about. Thankfully the line of well-wishers had gotten bottled up behind three old dowagers speaking to the High Priest, and he had a moment's respite. Sir Helgi handed him a flask of water, and he nodded his thanks as he took a sip.

“Who in the Six Hells are this lot?” asked Sir Helgi, indicating the growing crowd of well-dressed ruffians on the other side of the plaza.

“Since that is almost certainly where they are all going, I'm not sure their names really matter,” Arduin said drily. “Perhaps the Public Temple gives away free food after a funeral.”

“I wouldn't mind knowing the name of that one,” said Sir Helgi, indicating a young exotic-looking foreign woman, dressed rather scandalously for a funeral. Whoever she was, Arduin was actually somewhat glad she was there, as her dress was proving a small distraction from his sister amongst the gossip queens.

“And who are that tall couple the rest of them keep bowing to?” asked Sir Holgar.

Arduin squinted and shrugged. “I don't recognize them. Perhaps someone of importance from one of the Merchant Courts?” he ventured. “They're not nobles.” He scanned the sundry crowd, spotting the young clerk from the High King's Court that had been so helpful the other day there, and then a few others he knew by name. “I don't know the names of many of Harvald's old University friends. There's a few of them over there. That one, I remember. The Athairi. Stjepan, I think. His mother was some sort of witch, got burned at the stake. They call him the Black Heart or some sort of ridiculous thing.”