Page 13 of Mistress of Bones

So, to the Marquess de Gracia’s house they went.

It was quite a walk, and by the end of it, De Anví was glad to be in simple shirtsleeves instead of the elaborate doublet and half cape befitting his station.

They didn’t have to wait for His Grace, since he was already home, and they were soon shown into a beautiful, airy parlor, where Sergado de Gracia welcomed them and introduced his companion, the artist Isile Manzar.

De Gracia was in his mid-twenties, with dark brown hair that defied custom and was shorn short enough to fall in waves around his face rather than to his shoulders or chest. His friend wore his black hair gathered into a tail by his nape, his skin a richer golden tone than the lighter tan common in these parts of Sancia.

He was about the same age as De Gracia, and the ease in his movements and conversation spoke of the young man’s friendship with His Grace as well as his talent—here was someone whose art had made him equal to a marquess.

Perhaps, De Anví thought fleetingly as they made use of the two settees in the room, he could ask him how a few blurred strokes could change shape so dramatically depending on the distance from a painting.

Esparza chose to remain by the door, too much of a guard and too aware of his station to join them.

“Tell me,” the Witch said, angling toward Manzar, “do you ever wear masks?”

Manzar’s surprise was evident. “If I must.”

“Do you gain inspiration from your dreams?”

This, he mulled for a few moments. “Occasionally, but I prefer to study my subjects with my eyes open.”

“A dream will show what sight cannot.”

Manzar shook his head. “The Lady Dream tends to steal them as soon as I wake, I’m afraid.”

“There are ways around that,” the Witch replied. Then, with a secretive smile, “Seek me later, Isile Manzar, and I will help you.”

The young man smiled in response, polite but wary.

“Losing your touch,” murmured Esparza.

Something flickered in the Witch’s eyes, but her face was too hard to read beneath her mask.

“Your Grace,” De Anví said, addressing the marquess, “I’m afraid we are here to raise some bad memories.”

De Gracia’s easy smile faded into a straight line. “Then you are here about my father.”

“Yes.” De Anví inclined his head toward Manzar. “Perhaps this would be a conversation better kept private.”

“Nothing about my father’s death was kept a secret. I don’t see why we should start now.”

“As you wish. I need to ask if you’ve done any inquiries about his demise.”

“Murder, you mean,” De Gracia said, steel backing his voice. “And, yes, but why do you ask?”

“Forgive me, Your Honor,” Manzar said, “but wouldn’t you be in a better position to know about it?”

“It’s a matter of the City Guard, not the palace,” De Anví answered. “And I’m sure His Grace trusts their usefulness as much as I do.” He spared a glance at Esparza and found his mocking salute.

De Gracia nodded again. “Indeed. But again, what is your interest? If I may be blunt, we have barely exchanged words before today, and now you ask?”

De Anví considered how to best approach the matter.

Being second-in-command of the Golden Dogs, if only for a year and a half, had accustomed him to awe, respect, and a certain eagerness to please—even if the outward deference was covering disdain.

He’d forgotten there were others who didn’t share the sentiment.

“I was ambushed two evenings ago by masked men seeking to take me to someone.” By the men’s expressions, he could tell the tale hadn’t yet reached them.

“This one,” he continued, motioning toward the Witch, “insists my unsuccessful abduction and your sire’s successful murder have something in common. ”

“The summer court is upon us,” the Witch said. “It’s been two years since it last convened, and we all know what’s on everyone’s mind.”

“Anchor,” De Anví stated.

De Gracia frowned at this. Manzar stood and got them each a drink from a nearby decanter.

De Anví enjoyed the hit of fruity fire running down his throat, but partook of no more than one sip. Placing the cup on the low table between them, he avoided looking at the marquetry swirls on its surface lest he feel forced to spend the rest of the day aligning the cup with the pattern.

“My father believed in the ban,” the marquess said, looking at his own cup but not drinking.

“Our family had some interests in Girende that went down with the rest of the city. It’s a well-known fact.

” He raised his eyes to meet everyone else’s.

“Was this why he was murdered? Would the mining proponents be so blatant?”

“You are young—your views can be molded, cajoled, or scared into what they want,” De Anví said.

“But, yes, these have been bold strokes. Desperation, perhaps?” Did De Fernán lack enough support to lift the ban and had turned to extremes to get it?

He looked at Esparza for confirmation. The man simply shrugged.

“Sergado doesn’t care about politics,” Manzar said. “Everyone knows this too.”

“What do you care about?” the Witch asked, too eagerly for De Anví’s taste.

“Art, science, and the like,” De Gracia answered.

“Matters that move us forward,” Manzar added.

“And the court moves us backward?” De Anví asked dryly.

“No offense meant, Your Honor,” Manzar said with haste. “But from what we hear, they do seem to walk in circles.”

“Father warned me of the court’s pettiness,” De Gracia agreed.

“And although he had little liking for it, he was raising me to take his place eventually. I have—had—been helping him since I was a child. I don’t care if they mine Anchor or not.

My interests lie elsewhere. If Girende’s cave-in was meant to be a warning, I’ll let scientists and philosophers tell me how I should feel. ”

“And this is a known view?” De Anví asked.

“We all hold similar views in our circle.”

“Then your sire’s death was certainly about the Anchor ban.

A muddled view like yours is easier to direct than a strict one like your father’s,” De Anví said.

And, damn her soul, perhaps the Witch was right and his ambush was about the ban as well—his views on the ban weren’t far from De Gracia’s.

“Hire personal guards, pay them well, and watch your back. Whoever is behind this plot might not be so lenient if you go against their wishes. Esparza over there can help you arrange for it.”

“I’ve had a personal guard since I was a child. I am well aware of the risks in my position, no matter how inconvenient I might find them.” De Gracia pointed toward a pistol lying on the windowsill.

De Anví had yet to be impressed by such weapons. “Those are as likely to explode and take your hand than expel the bullet. Your point, however, stands. I can see you are aware of the dangers.”

“It would be foolish not to be,” De Gracia added with a wry curve of his lips.

Here was someone who thought his own intellect a step above everyone else’s, De Anví thought. They might as well take their leave.

“What shall we do now?” the Witch asked with unashamed eagerness once they were outside the marquess’s large home.

“Nothing,” De Anví said curtly. “We have no leads on the three strangers, and we learned nothing we didn’t already suspect from De Gracia.”

“We’ll have to wait and see if you get corralled again,” Esparza said, though De Anví had no doubt he’d nose into both his confrontation and the elder De Gracia’s murder. “Until then, I have my City Guard duties to conduct.”

With a tip of his hat, Esparza went on his way. The Witch abandoned De Anví’s side as well, thank the gods, likely in pursuit of more information about De Gracia’s artist friend.

As De Anví returned to his own house, the familiar blanket of bleak tiredness embraced him. The excitement was gone. All the things he must do—must keep doing—now that this escapade was done pressed on his shoulders.

If only he had someone to share in the pointlessness of it all.

But all he had were dreams.