The things the high families felt the need to waste money on … Orhan gazed around the courtyard, looking out for friends and enemies. Saw Bil almost immediately, sitting on a low bench on the other side of the court, near the firebox, talking to a young woman with fair hair and a pale face. He ought to at least tell her he was there. He wandered over to her, was half surprised to see her look almost pleased to see him.
‘Orhan,’ Bil said with a bright smile. ‘What a surprise. Landra: my husband, Lord Orhan Emmereth, Lord of the Rising Sun. Orhan: Lady Landra Relast. Her father is lord of a small rock somewhere in the far east. She only arrived here two days ago. I’ve promised to show her around a bit.’
The woman nodded her head in greeting and they exchanged pleasantries. No, she’d only been here a few days, not seen much of the city yet. Yes, the Great Temple was indeed beautiful, she’d seen that. No, she had no particular purpose being here. Just come to … nenenthelesal? ‘Get away from things’? Was that the right word?
Ah, indeed, Sorlost the Golden, city of dreaming, the greatest city on the face of the earth, where people came to wander around aimlessly, gawp, point, laugh!
Her Literan was poor, heavily accented with the soft bell chimes of Pernish. She was young, only in her mid-twenties, but had a hard, tired look to her. Sorrowful. Orhan had to admire the tact with which she readjusted her face after involuntarily glancing at Bil and then back to him.
Bil is a lovely creature, he thought sadly. If you look beyond the skin. She is almost beautiful. Almost desirable. The cruelty in people’s eyes, when they look at her and me. Do I love her despite it? Desire her because of it? Did I marry her for money? Were we plighted at birth? The question was so obvious, there in every eye that looked at them together. Should have it carved on her tomb.
She was dressed exquisitely, as always, in a deep blue gown with a mesh of diamonds in her red hair. Her white arms were bare and painted with spiralling patterns of gold flowers; she wore little gold bells on her wrists that tinkled prettily as she moved her hands. Fingernails an inch long, gilded and studded with pearls.
Yes, she was almost beautiful. Apart from the scars. The gold paint swirled over them, like cracking mud or leprosy. Eruptions of skin. Molten wounds.
If she was Lord Rhyl’s wife, the fashion would be for long sleeves and veils and high necks to cover. Or perhaps women would wear false scars, in clay and paint. All the women of Sorlost would copy every detail of the Nithque’s wife’s costume. But Lady Bilale Emmereth’s husband had no power, thus she must be grotesque and pretend she didn’t care.
A girl approached with a tray of cups. Orhan took one. Cold wine, mixed with snow. Very refreshing in the heat of the fire. More entirely pointless magery: it must have cost a fortune to transport and store the snow and keep it from melting even when being served. House Verneth was undeniably trying to prove something to someone tonight. Eloise would be melting down gold thalers in the candle flames by midnight, the way things were going. There was a story about an Imperial banquet where the food had been crushed gemstones, mixed with wine and honey to make a thick paste and shaped to resemble fruit, meat, bread. The Emperor had insisted his guests eat their fill, gorging themselves on rubies and diamonds until their guts ached and their mouths were cut and running with blood. The story embodied Sorlost: the great houses shat gold and pissed gems. In the version of the tale Orhan’s nurse had told him as a child, the night-soil men had scraped clean the sewers and built themselves great palaces of marble and cedar wood.
Bil fluttered away to stand in the coterie of Eloise Verneth. His sister and her grotesque headdress seemed to have disappeared. The sad-eyed young woman sat silent, watching the shifting colours of the fire-box dance. Orhan sat beside her for a while. The silks fluttered and swirled, alive, spelling out secret words. He thought of the knife-fighter, gleaming black skin and golden hair, the way his eyes had stared as he thrust his blade, the panting breath as he watched his opponent die. The colours beat in his vision, red, green, yellow, blue, red, green, yellow, blue, red, green, yellow, blue, red …
‘Mesmeric, isn’t it?’
Orhan turned round, startled. The handsome, hawk-nosed face of Darath Vorley looked down at him.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No … no …’ His mouth tasted dry. The wine was mildly dosed with hatha syrup, he realized, to enhance the effect of the fire and the coloured silks. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting gazing at it. The young woman whose father was lord of a small rock had gone.
Lord Vorley, Lord of All that Flowers and Fades, seated himself beside him and stretched out his legs. Coloured light danced on his copper-black skin.
‘Please don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me here,’ Orhan said after a while. ‘It’s getting repetitive. I’m surprised to see myself here, I don’t need constant reminding of it.’
‘Offended might be a better word. I had a party myself a little while ago. To my inconsolable grief, you didn’t attend.’
‘I was busy.’ Coloured light danced in Darath’s gold-black hair.
Darath waved down a passing servant and relieved him of a tray of candied dates. ‘Want one? Lovely and fat and sticky looking.’
‘I’m fine.’ Orhan shook his head, trying to clear it. Really didn’t need this right now. Shouldn’t have come. Really shouldn’t have come.
‘You always are. Bloodless bastard.’ Darath smiled at him lazily, honey on his lips. ‘So. Been seeing a lot of old Tam, haven’t you? I’ve noticed. So have others.’ He leaned closer, his breath in Orhan’s ear. Made Orhan shiver. ‘But whatever others might assume, I’ve been making some enquiries. Purely for political reasons, of course, don’t fret yourself. Imperial assassination. Really, Orhan, you have fallen off your pedestal, haven’t you?’
They walked away into a corner of the gardens, where the darkness was dimly illuminated by coloured mage glass globes. Bats called at the very edge of hearing, sad and painful, hunting white moths with glowing wings. Strings of bells hung between yellow rose trees; Orhan brushed one and it sang like a child’s laugh.
‘I want in,’ said Darath.
‘Absolutely and completely not. No. No.’
‘Oh, come on. I know what you’re doing. I can guess why. I might as well be involved already, frankly. I just need you to tell me when and how.’
‘Ask your spies, then. Or better yet, ask mine. They’re so badly paid they’ll tell you anything for a gold talent.’
‘A talent? My dear Lord Emmereth, they charged six dhol the last time I asked.’
‘For six dhol, I’m not sure you should trust a word they said. At that price, I’ve probably ordered them to tell you a pack of lies then throw the money to the nearest beggar.’
‘Ah, but they give me special rates. They all know me so well, after all.’ Their eyes met for a moment, like they were going to start really arguing. Ah, Darath. Moths’ wings flickering around his hair. ‘You don’t want me in. Fine. But I’ll find out. I might even be forced to take steps against you. Tell someone.’
Pause. Orhan’s heart pounding. You wouldn’t, he thought. You couldn’t. Even after everything. No. Please.
‘God’s knives. I’m sorry.’ Darath lowered his gaze from Orhan’s face. Read things there Orhan wasn’t sure he wanted him to see. You’re sorry. I’m sorry too. ‘I didn’t mean that. But I want in. In. Come on. I can help you. You know I can. God’s knives, you can trust me, Orhan.’ He looked vaguely embarrassed. ‘Despite what I just said.’
‘I’m tired. This isn’t exactly a private place