Vergence (49 page)

De'Argent ran at an angle to put Spetimane between him and Orim, and as he reached the outer range limit of the dart tube, he shot his last dart. A flash of flame burst the dart aimed at Orim, but De'Argent knew his final one would find Spetimane without waiting to see. He'd given himself enough time to escape, a few precious moments.

Ten long paces, and H'nChae disappeared as he tumbled away into the void.

Orim knelt down next to Spetimane, watching as the colour drained from the old man's face.

“Why?” Orim asked.

Spetimane sucked in a laboured breath, and something like a half smile formed on his lips. “The Cassadian could only kill me once—”

Orim leant close to Spetimane's face to hear his words. “I would have protected you, why turn back?”

“No … not you …” Spetimane's head rolled backwards, and Orim could see the muscles relaxing in his face.

“Tell me who,” Orim shouted, seizing Spetimane by the shoulder to keep him awake.

“… all for the boy …” Spetimane's pupils eased to barely visible points, and his body slackened.

After a few moments, Orim straightened up.

One of the cheg made grunting noises as it lay dying near the rocks, and steam from his flame-strikes hung in the air overhead. How many times had he stood in a place like this, surrounded by the dead? One day, he knew, another would stand in his place, over his body, but not this day.

The assassin escaped, but Orim had seen his face. Just above average height, slim, with plain features, and dressed in the style of the Cassadian guilds.

Orim rolled Spetimane's body over with his foot, and bent to retrieve the dart he saw there. He held it between thumb and forefinger, handling the deadly object with great delicacy, examining it with care, admiring the perfection of its craftsmanship, the simplicity of design. A weapon created to fly with unsurpassed accuracy. The needle-sharp steel point, stained dark with deadly venom, could easily penetrate thick fabric or even light armour.

And hidden within the heart of the metal he'd found a suggestion of a link, back to the place, the very workshop, where it had been made.

The Stilts Dance

P
ALONA WAITED
until most of her guests had arrived before she entered the hall. She stopped at the top of the stairs, long enough to be sure all her guests would see her before she descended, looked over their heads to where the specially imported Ulpitorian players plucked out a traditional tune from the balcony above the main entrance. Her eyes found Jaquit concealed there, half in shadows, on the adjoining walkway.

Parties and other public events were just about the only thing Palona did without Jaquit. Palona loved them, and Jaquit hated them.

Jaquit hated being visible in a crowd, and so, after a miserable early attempt, had refused to attend any others. They had one of their rare proper fights over this, and eventually Jaquit compromised by agreeing to watch from some hidden place or another.

The festival of stilts was a festival Palona had made her own by hosting one of the most sought after social gatherings of the entire year. Hundreds of pairs of eyes watched her as she descended, women examining her dress, and hair, and details of jewellery, and young men vying to catch her eye.

Walking carefully down the steps Palona knew she'd made good choices. The midnight blue dress had been cut long enough to trail on the floor, and on her head she wore a fine mesh covered in dozens of the Magadigar pearls she'd received as a gift from Nepet.

Each pearl glowed with a silvery inner light. Not the work of one of those abominable curse-makers, she'd been assured, but rather a rare natural property of the pearls themselves.

As she stepped onto the main floor dozens of guests surrounded her, talking all at once, each eager to gain her attention first.

Palona drifted between knots of guests, a few of her closer acquaintances moving with her, laughing appreciatively at her wittier observations.

She took her time, putting names to faces, as she worked her way through the room. With every aspect of the dance carefully planned the last thing she wanted would be to create a disaster by saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.

With Scora attending, she'd spared no effort to make everything perfect, working through the arrangements in painstaking detail, checking everything from the flower arrangements to personally sampling every dish served that evening.

Staff had been specially hired, or loaned temporarily by friends — a dedicated steward, sklled servants, musicians imported directly from Ulpitor, and the best cooks the city had to offer.

She made a point to collect Dimancy as she passed, taking his arm insistently, and drawing him away from the men he'd been standing with.

“Why are you ignoring me, Dimancy? You promised you'd dance with me first.”

“I was waiting for you, my dear Palona,” he said, patting her hand reassuringly. “I stood there because I knew only you would have the courage to approach such severe company.”

Dimancy stood tall and slim, and had impeccable manners — the kind of man she'd consider, if it weren’t for his squint and mismatched eye colours. He also happened to be the best dancer she knew, and he always made her look that much better when they took to the floor together.

She dragged Dimancy with her as she completed her rounds, greeting all her favourite guests, and making a fuss of the diplomatically important ones.

Duty first, she reminded herself, as she struggled to overcome Sii-Tai's limited range of Volanian words. Sii-Tai wore a ridiculously exaggerated costume in mid-blue and red, with dozens of huge bows, a high collar, and a tiny black hat. She had an ugly, squashed face, and a stubby upturned nose which she might have borrowed from a dog.

Altogether unpleasant, yet Sii-Tai held some incomprehensible, but important, position in the Chochin diplomatic delegation. Besides the overwhelming dominance of their trade fleets, they also counted the greatest number of converts to the three-headed god amongst their people.

Pausing to scan the room for late arrivals, Palona recognised a young woman called Selene hovering near a lonely pillar. The daughter of a grain importer and one of Scora's friends, she wore a lumpy dark mauve gown, and looked completely out of place.

Palona greeted her with an air kiss to the cheek. “Selene. How kind of you come. What an intriguing dress you're wearing. You really must tell me who made it for you.”

Palona pretended to wave at someone on the far side of the room, and moved on before Selene had finished answering.

“So I know who to avoid using,” she said when she was far enough away not to be overheard, raising a muffled laugh from her friends.

Confident she had the full attention of her small audience, Palona launched into a suitably exaggerated tale of another acquaintance who'd managed to get her hair sewn to the outside of her dress at a fitting.

As she reached the most entertaining section of the story, she realised they were no longer listening, their attention diverted by something happening near the entrance.

She turned to see Lord Muro arriving, and with him, a young woman. The entire room seemed to be watching them — Muro preening himself, the woman smiling, and laughing unselfconsciously.

Even at a distance, Palona could see the new arrival had striking, uncommonly beautiful looks, with long fair hair falling over her shoulders, and was wearing a shimmering plain white dress.

The dress was uncompromisingly simple, contrasting with the more elaborate designs most of the other woman had attended in, yet undeniably effective for showing off a perfect figure, and flawless copper skin.

“I see Lord Muro is here,” Palona said. “Please excuse me for a moment. I should welcome him.”

She couldn't help feeling irritated with Muro as she crossed the room. The invitations allowed for a partner, but her guests always understood this to be a polite formality. If she wanted someone here, they'd be invited individually, or as a couple.

Those who broke this unwritten convention were seldom invited again, effectively turning them into social outcasts in her circles. Bae would not have made such a blunder, she chided herself, if only he hadn't been so annoying, and rude when she was writing the guest list.

Palona felt a growing sense of dismay as she approached. Unknown to her as the woman was, and she knew everybody of any importance, she'd expected the fabric of the dress to appear cheaper as she drew nearer — merely cut to look striking from a distance.

Up close she found the dress possessed an almost luminescent quality, as if woven from flowing water. The overall effect, while simple, was captivating. She didn't recognise the source of the material, probably some impossibly rare silk. It must have been fabulously costly.

“What a pleasant surprise to see a new face,” Palona said, stopping in front of Muro.

“Yes, isn't it,” Muro said, clearly enjoying the spectacle his arrival had created.

Muro's partner stepped forward with a hand extended, and Palona took it without thinking. She held the offered hand limply, and let go quickly.

“You must be Lady Palona. I'm Sashael — call me Sash.”

“Yes, I'm Lady Palona. Such a pleasure to have unexpected guests.”

She gave Muro a look so acid it made several of her other guests wince, but neither he nor his partner seemed to notice.

Palona was appalled. Sashael had shown a shocking lack of propriety in talking before a formal introduction had been offered. Not only had this Sashael not understood, but worse, Palona couldn't detect even a hint of deference in her eyes — as if she thought the guests here were no more significant than one of the doormen.

She forced herself to smile, determined not to let her control slip away. Time for dancing, she decided.

“Do you like dancing?” she asked Sashael, adopting a sweet expression.

“I love dancing. It's how Muro persuaded me to come.”

Palona chanced a glance at Muro, noting the tightening lines in his smile, and saw a way to punish him. “What about you, Lord Muro, are you joining us for a turn about the floor?”

“I'll watch from here,” Muro muttered.

Palona looked up, trying to catch the eye of the music master as she moved to the centre of the room, to signal the start of the dance. The faces of all the musicians behind him looked disconcertingly red. Too hot, she realised.

For a moment she had a horrific vision of sweat dripping down from the balcony onto her friends. She hadn't realised formal Ulpitorian wear meant winter weight. In spite of their obvious discomfort, the players launched into a spirited version of the first tune she'd chosen.

The dance floor cleared as she approached, yet even as they took their places Palona had the disconcerting feeling of being invisible standing next to Sashael.

She'd chosen a mix of easy Ulpitorian formal court dances, interspersed with quicker regional styles for fun.

Two lines quickly formed, each line alternating men and women facing their partners. Palona motioned for Dimancy to join her, and chose plodding Dalaway to dance with Sashael.

By the second dance, as Dimancy nearly stepped on her toes for the third time, Palona realised he'd spent the entire time with her watching Sashael over her shoulder, his mismatched eyes concealing the true direction of his gaze.

Palona finished the dance breathing fast and stood near one of the elbow high pedestals, each the size of a large platter, which held a selection of drinks, and fine delicacies. She selected a Burundian nectar wine, served very cold in a frosted glass, and turned back to watch.

She looked up to where Jaquit sat, partially concealed behind a fold of curtain on the balcony, noting the arched eyebrow. And standing directly below Jaquit at the edge of the dance floor, Scora with her lips twisted into a smirk.

Palona turned away, feeling blood rushing to her cheeks. Insufferable.

True to her word, Sashael had learnt the style of dance by watching a single round, and by the third was superior to many who'd spent half a life-time studying it. She wove through the sequences of steps like an expert, and more than once men in the dance missed their step or collided as they watched too long. Somehow, she even managed to make Dalaway look good, and the admission galled Palona.