Page 58

To His Grace Remin, Duke of Andelin, Savior of Lomonde, Vanquisher of Valleth, Shield of Argence, Supreme Sword of the Court of War…

Seated two chairs down from Remin at one of the longer tables in the storehouse, Miche listened with his eyes glazed over as Edemir read off Remin’s list of titles.

It wasn’t often that someone took the trouble to write out all of them.

The last of the petals have been swept from the streets of Segoile in the wake of Your Grace’s triumphal progress, and as the dust settles in the halls of the Five Courts, I take this opportunity to express my hope that the many works of Tresingale proceed well.

As you can imagine, there is much interest in the capital over so singular an endeavor as the resurrection of the Andelin, and surely it is exceptional to have such a great and eclectic collection of talent gathered at the furthest end of the Empire.

Several grunts greeted this as Edemir paused for breath.

It would take Juste to unpack all of that, but if nothing else, it was a very polite way of saying that the business of Tresingale was being monitored .

I would be remiss if I did not offer belated congratulations on Your Grace’s marriage.

The capital is still reeling from the news that the Emperor has kept a secret daughter these many years, elder sister to the Crown Princess.

Tales from Aldeburke, Celderline, and Granholme tell of a shy beauty, doted upon by a generous husband, an altogether praiseworthy young lady.

With all my heart, I wish the blessings of the stars benevolent for a joyous and fruitful marriage.

Remin had already read this letter, and that was the paragraph that made his hackles rise.

Those compliments might conceal a threat.

Generous husband to a shy wife; that could not be a guess.

And noting that Ophele was the elder sister was no accident, either.

There were many more paragraphs in a similar vein, and Remin’s knights frowned as they listened, the twisting words like the elegant motion of a sidewinder serpent.

The restoration of a ninth Great House to the duchies of the Empire must naturally rouse interest and curiosity, and much mathematical uncertainty as well.

It is my hope to personally welcome you among us upon the commencement of the next social season.

I will be in residence in the capital beginning in March, and would be proud to extend the hospitality of my House to the first Duke and Duchess of Andelin, particularly for Her Grace’s social debut…

“Going to take him up on that offer, Rem?”

Miche asked, cocking one blond eyebrow.

“Absolutely not.”

“Yours sincerely, et cetera et cetera, Duke Ghislain Berebet.”

Edemir handed the letter to Juste.

“He’s closer to the House of Agnephus than House Melun, Rem, but the last direct link to the Imperial family was four generations ago.

He has no celestial lineage.”

The spectrum of power in the Empire currently stretched from the House of Agnephus at one end and House Melun at the furthest opposite pole.

It was well known that the Emperor loathed his Empress.

Everyone else was fodder for the struggle between the two.

Sometimes Remin thought the Emperor dispatched assassins whenever he was frustrated that he couldn’t kill his wife .

“The Berebets are gamblers,”

said Tounot.

He and Edemir were always good at providing the background of Argencian nobility.

“A few times it’s almost ruined them, but they have a record of backing the right horse when it matters most.”

“This letter doesn’t mean Remin is their horse,”

Miche said dryly.

“I met his daughter when we were in Segoile.

She was very curious about the Supreme Sword of the Court of War, until I distracted her with mine.”

That was a good one, Remin had to admit.

“Both his daughters are married, aren’t they?”

Auber brought this up because everyone at the table needed to know whether to beware another husband that Miche had outraged.

“That didn’t seem to concern her,”

Miche drawled.

“But in her case, she went to such trouble to seduce me, it seemed only polite to find out why.

Other than the obvious,”

he added, with a jerk of his chin that somehow considered and approved his own beauty.

“What did she want?”

asked Remin.

“At the time, I thought it might be an opening bid.

Like that,”

Miche said, flicking his fingers at the letter in Juste’s hand.

“I saw her again, but she didn’t repeat the offer, so I let it go.”

“We’re not going to the capital next year.”

Remin resolutely turned his mind from such filthy matters.

It was likely that Miche would’ve bedded her anyway, but he didn’t like to think of anyone doing that sort of thing on his behalf.

“In a few years, perhaps, after House Andelin is well established, but not until then.”

He and Ophele would have at least two children before he risked either of them going to the capital.

And even then, the bare thought of taking her within a hundred miles of the Emperor made it hard to breathe.

“We ought to have connections to other Houses, Rem,”

Edemir replied, with sympathy.

He was the son of a prosperous county, and had been raised in the labyrinth of aristocratic politics.

“It will not help us in negotiation if we are viewed as a foreign power, no matter who we are negotiating with.

They will not give us favorable terms.”

“We’re already considered a foreign power,”

Miche pointed out.

“That last contract with the mason’s guild was highway robbery.

I say we go to Daitia for our masons if the Court of Artisans won’t deal with us squarely. ”

“That is a dangerous precedent.”

Juste set the letter carefully on the table.

“The way to bargain for better terms is to build a position of power, not to refuse to play the game.”

“It’s also foolish to play a rigged game,”

argued Tounot.

He was generally of Miche’s mind on this subject, though Miche was a creature of chaos while Tounot’s reservations were personal.

He had paid dearly for his long friendship with Remin.

It had soured him on both the Empire and his House.

“I say we build, and in a few years, they can come crawling to us if they want something. Let them sit on the south bank of the Brede with their hands out.”

“They will not,”

Juste said sharply.

“They will go to Valleth, and we will be between a hammer and an anvil.”

“They would rather give the Andelin back to Valleth than let Rem keep it?”

Tounot said skeptically.

“If they begin to fear Valleth less than they fear Remin Grimjaw, Supreme Sword of the Court of War, yes,”

said Juste firmly.

“If I wanted to instill such fear in the Empire, it would take very little effort.

All the seeds are already planted.

We will need friends if we want to pluck them out before someone decides to tend them.”

“Friends like Duke Berebet?”

Tounot snorted.

“That’s the sort of friendship you’ll find in the Empire, those that cover their threats with compliments.

One would think you of all people would know better, Juste.”

“I do not need you to lesson me.”

Spoken by Juste, it was the gentlest rebuke, but Remin could see the viciousness in his eyes.

“We need only be prudent, and we will be an unassailable power.

In time.

But I say we must play the games of Courts and Houses first.

Then we can win them so thoroughly, we will never have to play them again.”

“We’re not deciding that today.”

Remin called them to order.

Darri was at the table, present because soon he would be leaving for Segoile to play those games, and for his sake it was best that he didn’t hear too much talk like this.

“Auber, what do you say?”

“I say I am a farmer and your knight, Rem.”

Auber spread his hands.

“Give me a sword or a plow.

These matters are beyond me.”

That was an acceptable answer.

It was better to express no opinion than a poorly considered one.

Bram waved his hand before Remin could call on him; the former mercenary only offered an opinion when it was a strong one.

“Darri,”

Remin said, offering him the option to speak.

Cat-eyed Darri was one of Remin’s smallest knights, a few inches shy of Edemir’s height and so slight it seemed like a suit of armor would devour him, but he was unearthly quick and, so far as Remin could tell, almost indestructible.

“What say you?”

“It’s never hurt me to listen, my lord,”

he said, with a wary glance at his brother knights.

“But I’ve found the things I don’t know might hurt a great deal.”

That was the most reasonable position, Remin knew.

But he still didn’t like it.

He gestured for the letter and read it silently again, the frown lines deepening in his face.

It could do no harm to find out what Duke Berebet was proposing.

“We’ll draft a letter to Berebet,”

he said reluctantly.

“I want a base in Segoile, and we need to begin buying eyes and ears.

But I will keep nothing there I would regret losing.

Juste, Bram, Darri will need letters of introduction to your agents.

Edemir, letters to our factors. The discreet ones. Tounot, I want a messenger relay. It’s three hundred miles from here to Segoile. I want to be reading Darri’s messages four days after he writes them.”

His knights exchanged glances.

Anyone who knew Remin might see this as a provocation, a signal of extreme distrust of the Empire.

And it absolutely was.

But as a practical matter, it would be very hard for anyone to object to a nobleman using any sort of message system he liked.

“And I need you to stop at Aldeburke on the way,”

Remin remembered.

“There are a few things we left behind, including Her Grace’s seal.

You’ll need to bring a dozen men or so.

We’re confiscating the library.”

There was a short, explosive laugh from Edemir.

“I’ll go,”

said Miche immediately.

“Unless I’m much mistaken, the Hurrells will fight to the last dictionary.

No reason to make Darri sit through it.

And I owe a visit to a lady.”

“Stars, Miche, we weren’t there a week.”

Remin shook his head.

But if Miche was volunteering to go, he had something more on his mind than a woman, and Remin wouldn’t have to spare him for long.

In a few days, ferries would be operating at strategic points along the Brede, to speed the transport of supplies—and now libraries—from all over the Empire.

The thought satisfied him to the core of his logistician’s soul.

“Come and see me before you leave,”

he said, and adjourned the meeting.

* * *

Sousten Didion was a man in love with beauty.

The many kinds and qualities of beauty were hotly debated in the salons of Segoile, celebrated and deconstructed, but Sousten was one who pursued beauty as an ideal.

The sight of a beautiful man or woman, a perfect landscape, or the soaring glory of the Temple of Imele Mer gave him the fluttering palpitations of a man in love.

His greatest aspiration was to add his own masterpiece to the beautiful things of the world.

Alas, Sousten was an artist that could not paint, could not sculpt, could not carve, an actor without the gift to tread the boards.

In him, the impulse to create was expressed in graceful lines and skillful geometries, questions of scale and proportion, dreamlike visions ultimately realized by hands infinitely more skillful than his own.

But they were visions that would endure.

That was why he had come to the Andelin Valley, despite its lack of salons, theaters, society, fine wine, and plumbing.

It certainly wasn’t for love of His Grace Grimjaw, though the man was something of a work of art himself.

The Andelin was the largest blank canvas in the world, backed by the deepest pockets in the Empire.

There would never be another opportunity like this.

Sousten was already campaigning to be given charge of His Grace’s Academy and Sir Justenin’s observatory, once the manor was well underway. The observatory in particular thrilled him. To be sure, it was meant to be a place of quiet study, but the still-hazy object Sousten saw in his dreams whispered, masterpiece.

That was worth the hazards of dealing with His Grace, who cared unpredictably but intensely about very specific things.

His Grace and the little duchess were due to inspect the progress on the house an hour past sunrise, and Sousten was waiting on the steps as they approached on the duke’s big black horse.

He was pleased to have substantial progress to report, beginning with the sturdy twelve-foot stone wall visible at the base of the hill, a formidable barrier that would eventually surround the whole estate.

“My lord! My lady!”

he called, giving the lace at his wrists a tug as he hurried to greet them.

The duke was austere as ever, but at least the lady’s pink-and-cream gown suited her coloring and Sousten heartily approved of the ruffling on her skirt.

“Flower of the Andelin,”

he said, with a great upswell of emotion as he bowed to kiss the fingertips of Beauty.

“I dream of the day when I will see you in your proper setting.”

“Thank you?”

The duchess did not yet know how to accept a compliment gracefully, though that one was admittedly a little complicated.

“If it were anyone else, I would be offended,”

the duke said, with a black glance at Sousten as he tied his horse to a nearby hitching post.

“How high off the ground is that plaster, Sousten?”

“Six feet, my lord, as promised.”

Sousten hurried over to illustrate.

The first floor was raised on six feet of stone foundation, stacked Andelin granite that would be impossible to set afire.

“Next week we will begin coating the exterior timbers with black lacquer, which will preserve as well as finish them.

But you can see now, with these walls before you, the colors of the Berlawe Mountains: the gray granite, the white lime plaster that is their snowy peaks, and then the black lacquer that is their deepest shadows.

Immense in scale, to suit His Grace. One day, when you see this place from the river, it will be as if we have painted the stark lines of those mountains on top of this hill.”

His arms spread automatically to encompass the vision dancing before his eyes, as if it were settled and weighty reality. Glorious.

As usual, the duke stood there like an enormous plank, completely unmoved.

But the little duchess was a much more satisfying audience: imaginative, appreciative, and perfectly willing to be swept off wherever Sousten wanted to take her.

“Will it really?”

she asked excitedly, glancing back at the distant mountains as a reference.

“I do like how it looks already, and how you’ve made the towers all stone but left the plaster on the main house.

And such big windows.

Do you really think the diamond panes will look all right?”

“Yes, my lady, especially with the thick sashes.

And you can see they have already framed the roof,”

Sousten added, his artistic curls falling back from his forehead as he pointed four floors above them.

“Craftsmen are working on the stonework of the chimneys and towers, a rounded elegance to contrast with the sharp angles of the house.

It will follow the roofline like lace on a lady’s gown.”

“Ohhhhhh,”

breathed the duchess, gazing at the empty space where the roof was going to go.

The duke was staring at her, rather than the house.

This was not the first time that the master architect had taken a pair of newlyweds on a tour of their home.

He had built many homes throughout the Empire, of varying levels of grandeur.

But it was rare that he faced two such starkly different personalities.

“The balconies will benefit from similar detail,”

he said, turning to gesture to the wide, rounded balconies on both the second and third floor.

“You will have views from both ends of your bedchambers, Your Grace, of Tresingale from this side and the river on the other.”

“With roses under them?”

The duke’s eyes narrowed, eying his house as if he were considering various ways to assault it.

“Yes, my lord.

Noreven sentry roses.”

With three-inch thorns as sharp as daggers.

Sousten had even sent out inquiries to see if there might not be such things as poisonous roses, and if such a thing existed, he had no doubt His Grace would have approved a man-eating variety.

“Sentry roses?”

The duchess asked, innocent of these considerations, and Sousten’s heart contracted with mingled jealousy and approval as the duke’s face softened and he bent his head to tell her about peach-colored roses the size of his fist that would fill the courtyard with the fragrance of honey melons.

They would also mutilate anyone who tried to climb them, but the duke glossed over that.

The warning signs of impending romance had begun about two months ago.

Sousten, ever alert for such things, had noticed when the duke suddenly became very solicitous of his lady, shepherding her as if she were made of glass.

As the duchess was one of the most pleasing objects available to look at, naturally Sousten’s eyes found her often, and so he had observed the growing care with which the duke served her supper, the frequency with which his eyes sought her, the way he bent his head to listen to her, as if every word she spoke wafted forth with music and sunshine.

All indications of a man absolutely sick with love.

Sousten celebrated it on principle.

It was the first hint that the duke was capable of something resembling human emotion, and the architect had been trying to nurture the little sprout ever since.

No one was beyond hope. However…

“The windows and doors,”

he was finally forced to say loudly.

Poetry was all very well, but if they stopped to coo over each other every five minutes, this was going to take all day.

The inside of the house was shadowy in the early morning, with slanting sunlight falling through the empty gaps of the windows.

It was too much to expect them to imagine that light on floors and furniture yet, the glow that it would cast on the plaster walls, but Sousten could see it.

This house would be filled with warmth and light.

“The grand staircase will be here,”

he said, pacing off the width of a truly massive staircase, “and will consume much of the first and second floor of the entry hall.

This is your receiving space, my lady, which will eventually extend through the back of the house into a grand ballroom, surrounded by gardens.

Everything built on an exaggerated scale,”

he added, with a smile that bordered on smug.

“It will still be comfortable for you, my lady, but anyone who enters will know who lives here.”

Both of them nodded politely, failing utterly to grasp his vision.

“Of course, it will be very rough in the beginning,”

he said, veering back to practicality, lest he lose the duke.

“There is space on either side of the second floor for two large bedchambers.

In the Empire, of course, it is traditional for the lord and lady to each have their own…”

He trailed off delicately.

When he had presented his preliminary plans to the duke, there had been no question that there would be two.

But now the pair exchanged glances and the lady’s cheeks flushed as His Grace looked at her questioningly.

She gave the tiniest nod.

“One bedchamber,”

said the duke, in tones that did not encourage comment.

“Of course, my lord.”

Sousten bowed to hide a smile.

“Frankly, that will speed things considerably.

This suite will be completed first, bedchamber, boudoir, wardrobes, bath chamber, but plasterwork will continue over the winter on the remaining rooms…”

Gesturing for them to follow, he explained the layout of both the first and the second floor, the rooms for dining, offices, a solar for the lady’s use, privies, and a receiving parlor.

The question was, which room did they want completed first .

“The solar?”

The duke glanced down at his lady, his big hand laid protectively over hers as they walked through the rubble of building.

“That would give you a comfortable place to work, wife, and do us for the evening.

We can eat there until the dining room’s done.”

“I don’t mind waiting for that,”

she replied.

The duchess had a very soft voice, just this side of audible.

“Sir Edemir is worried about running out of space in the storehouse, oughtn’t we to do the offices next? And then…you could work there during the day, too, my lord.

If you wanted.”

“I would.”

His stern expression softened.

“It is well thought, wife.

We’re halfway between the barracks and storehouse anyway, it would be convenient…”

The words trailed away into murmurs, and Sousten cast his eyes to the non-existent ceiling and waited.

This was still preferable to many other couples he had dealt with, where the lady wanted a salon and his lordship wanted a room for cards and both of them complained about the cost of the drapes.

“The solar,”

Sousten confirmed, when they finally remembered he was there.

“That leaves us the matter of materials.

I have fabrics and design books from Segoile on the way, my lady, as well as more exotic samples from Daitia, Noreven, Hara Vos, and Capricia.

His Grace mentioned you want paper walls?”

“Oh. Yes,”

she said.

The timid thing always gave a start when first spoken to.

“Like the ones in the bathhouses? Have you seen them?”

“I would not defile the sacred ladies’ bath, Your Grace, but I have been often to see Master Balad.”

“In the hallway in the women’s bathhouse, they have landscapes,”

she explained, and did a rather good job of describing the scrolling rivers, the stark silhouettes of the pines, and the extravagantly curving fins of the pink and red carp.

“Moveable murals,”

Sousten breathed.

His hands went to his mouth as he pictured it.

“Paper is a natural material, softer than plaster, pleasant under light, that could be changed seasonally and replaced easily if damaged…it wouldn’t be practical throughout the whole house, no, no, but as accent walls…Your Grace, this is all but unheard of elsewhere in the Empire…”

“The Andelin Valley isn’t like anywhere else.”

The duke was fairly bursting with pride as he looked down at his wife .

“A natural palette.”

To Sousten, it was like lightning striking.

The most unlikely thing could trigger this reaction, the vision, and it was very important to him that it originated from them, not his own notions.

He felt a surge of energy.

“Yes.

Yes, an exceptional idea, my lady! Landscapes of the Andelin valley, its flora and fauna, its colors for our palette, leaf green, pine green, and berry colors for warmth, all of it supported with beautiful, natural wood, polished, never painted. A warm, tawny brown…”

Sousten looked down into the duchess’s arresting eyes, and his heart almost stopped.

“In Sachar Veche, my lord,”

he said, looking pointedly from the duke to the duchess, “there is an olive wood of particular beauty.

A specific soft and golden hue.”

The duke followed his gaze as the duchess looked between them, perplexed.

By now, Sousten knew her well enough to know it would embarrass her to be told that the wood throughout the entire house was going to be chosen to match her singular eyes.

“Yes,”

the duke said instantly.

“Do that.

That’s what you meant, about making the house my size, and this…the warmth of the wood? So it’s ours?”

At last, the duke understood.

“Yes,”

Sousten breathed, with the euphoria of an artist who had at last communicated his vision to the world.

And to this man, of all people, who Sousten had believed had not one ounce of poetry in his wooden soul.

“Yes, Your Grace.

That is it, precisely.”

* * *