The Privilege of the Sword (22 page)

A
FEW DAYS LATER,
M
ARCUS BROUGHT ME THE SWORD.

“From one of the country estates,” he said, “for you, along with a big bag of fresh game, which is a good thing, I can tell you: I am getting awfully tired of fish.”

It was the basket-hilted sword I had practiced with at Highcombe. One of his, one of my master’s swords, mine now. I slipped it on a belt, along with the twisted dagger the duke had given me. The weight settled comfortably on my hips, one balancing the other.

“I’m going out,” I told Marcus. He looked me over and nodded.

I was lightheaded in the bright day, and did not go far. Snow crumbled under my feet—I was glad my boots were of the best—and wind cut through from both sides of the river. Everything in Riverside was timber and stone and plaster: old houses with crumbling fronts, some missing windows, some set with coats of arms, their stone worn away like melting butter over the centuries. The houses were clustered up against one another as if they were afraid to let in too much sky, as if to be sure nothing would grow there. Still, there were weeds frozen in the cracks between the cobbles of those streets so narrow no carriage could pass through.

I felt someone following me. I’m not sure how, but I had learned the feel of a stalk now. I looked for the nearest tree, found the corner of a house, stepped behind it and drew the untipped sword.

It was a boy, younger than me—or at least smaller. He had no sword, no coat either. “Pal,” he rasped, looking past the blade right at me. “Hey, pal, you got any money?”

I would have given him some if I had any. But I was not carrying a purse. I shook my head. The rake of his eyes up and down, from my thick boots to fur collar and hat, showed what he thought of that.

“Help me out,” he whined; “I won’t hurt ya.”

I shook my head again, helpless, but I started to sheathe my sword. He fumbled in his shirt and pulled out a knife, flat-bladed and worn.

“Give me what you’ve got.”

“No.”
For death, you want the heart, the throat, the eye….
I was not going to kill this boy. I would not. This was awful; there was no challenge here, no rules, no purpose but survival. I moved, he yelped, there was blood on the snow. I was fairly sure I’d only touched his hand. But he was gone before I could really see.

“Nice work.” It was a woman’s voice. She stepped out from the shadows of the house across from me, holding the edges of a tatty green velvet cloak heavily lined. Her red hair was dyed so bright she looked like a holly bush. “You really know how to use your blade. How about a drink for you?”

I felt so tired I couldn’t answer. I nodded, followed her. “You new here?” Her voice was a pleasant purr. She moved through the streets with confidence, barely even looking to avoid ruts and puddles. “You a foreigner? Can’t you speak? A drink, definitely, and then you can tell me all about yourself.”

I realized, suddenly, what she wanted of me, what she thought was going on. I stopped in the grey patch of light between the darker shadows of the houses. “I’m a girl,” I said. “I’m the Duke Tremontaine’s niece.”

“Is that a fact?” She squinted into my face, and shook her head. “He gets crazier every year.” The red-haired woman shrugged. “Well, you tell him Ginnie says hello. Ginnie; he’ll know who you mean.”

I was going to tell him nothing of the kind. So far, I had not seen my uncle, and I was just as glad to keep it that way.

“Well, good-bye,” I said, “and thank you for the—for the offer—”

“You should buy
me
one, young Tremontaine.”

“When I have money, I will,” I said lamely.

“Doesn’t he give you any, your rich uncle?” Ginnie snorted. “You make him pay you what you’re worth. He can afford it.”

O
UTSIDE
T
REMONTAINE’S
R
IVERSIDE HOUSE THE SNOW
was wet and trampled with horse and cart tracks. It wasn’t really one house; it was a twisting series of them, distinguished from the others around it by well-kept facades: the stone pointed, the shutters painted, the slate roofs and the gutters in perfect trim. I had made the mistake, when I left, of not looking behind me to note which door I’d come out of. Now I had to choose one at random, or rather, apply to one, for the doors of the duke’s Riverside house were gated and guarded. Luckily, they had orders to admit me.

I passed into a stone hall hung with tapestry, a huge fireplace and dark stairs carpeted in red. It looked like the right one; I remembered the tapestry. Up the stairs and down a hallway with windows that seemed a bit narrower than mine. I had decided that I was in fact lost when I heard voices: lots of people laughing, like a party. I knocked. Getting no answer, I opened the door.

The room was full of naked people.

“Shut the door, it’s cold!”

My uncle the Mad Duke strode amongst them in a very beautiful dressing gown. He saw me.

“Ah! You’re up. Good.”

He had a bottle of brandy in one hand, and began tipping it down the throat of an upside down man with his knees hooked around the bedpost. There wasn’t a stitch on him; if I had ever wondered how accurate the classical statues in the gardens of Tremontaine house were, I certainly knew now.

I started to back out.

“Don’t you want a drink?” drawled the duke. “Everyone else does.”

I heard my own voice, quiet and still. “I am not like everyone else.”

The upside down people wriggled and laughed, reaching for him and for each other. I was terrified that they would soon reach for me.

“Bravo.” He swigged on the bottle, just out of their reach. “Bravo, Lady Katherine.”

There was no one between me and the door. “Oh, by the way,” I told Tremontaine, doubtful of just how much longer he’d still be standing to hear anything, “Ginnie says hello.”

“Does she indeed?” The duke looked hard at me, swaying. “She always wants what’s mine. Miserable cow. You tell Ginnie Vandall the moment she touches you, her pension’s gone; I don’t pay her to meddle in my affairs—”

That was all I heard before my hand closed on the safety of the doorlatch. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to.

chapter
II

I
T WOULD HAVE BEEN CHURLISH, WHEN
L
YDIA
G
ODWIN
received an offer of marriage from Lord Armand Lindley, for her dear friend Artemisia to be anything but delighted at her friend’s good fortune. With the Godwin and Lindley families’ glowing approval, they were quickly betrothed and a wedding date set for the spring. But Lady Artemisia had always believed she herself would be the first to capture a husband, and she had to be careful not to think of that while congratulating Lydia and listening to her endless plans for the future. Of course, Lydia vowed a hundred times a day that even marriage to the sweetest man alive would never alter her eternal bond with her dearest Mi.

So said Lydia as they sat together in Artemisia’s window seat, dark and fair curls bent over the scraps of ribbon she had brought so that her friend could help her decide what colors she should trim the table with for her betrothal dinner. But the young lady was sensitive enough to note when her friend began to tire of the details of her upcoming nuptials, and she leaned back in the window seat and said encouragingly, “Now come, tell me about your suitors.”

Artemisia crunched a biscuit. “What suitors?” If she could not be a blushing betrothed, it would be best to take on the air of someone much wearied with the follies of courtship. “It is all very tedious. I go to dances, I receive flowers, but there is no one who touches my heart.”

“But surely there must be
one
—what about Greg Talbert? He is poor, but of ancient lineage and utterly mad for you.”

“Oh, him.” Artemisia rolled her eyes in what she trusted was a jaded way. “Last week’s news, my dear. All talk, no action.”

Her friend hissed in delighted horror. “You don’t mean that!”

Artemisia lowered her eyelids. She had seen Lady Hetley doing that, and thought it looked very sophisticated. “Do I not?”

“Well, then, what about Lord Ferris? He’s certainly been paying you marked attention.”

Artemisia shrieked. “As a
lover
? But he is so
old
!” She recollected her sophistication and smiled wryly. “He has polish, I’ll give him that. And he’s sent the most adorable roses—here, smell.”

“Mmm, lovely.” Lydia buried her face in the blossoms. “Expensive, too. Well, then—Terence Monteith?”

“Snowdrops.” Her friend gestured.

“Even so…it’s clear he’s vastly taken with you.”

She yawned. “Oh, he’s pretty enough, but a terrible bore. Besides, what are the Monteiths? He is only a second son; what can he offer a wife? He’ll be back to the country as soon as he’s found one, to manage his brother’s estate. I want a city life, and jewels, and gowns. How I envy you your Lindley, dearest!”

Lydia blushed. “Hardly mine. But I would not care were Armand as poor as a goatherd. I think I could live with him anywhere, if I could just feel his strong arm around me, and look into his eyes and know he loves me.”

“There.” Artemisia sighed. “That is true love. I believe it has made a woman of you already, Lydia, indeed I do. Your eyes—yes, there is a grave beauty in them that was never there before.” She took her friend’s face in her hands. “How I envy you!”

“Oh, dearest Mi.”

Lady Artemisia’s maid interrupted these girlish confidences with the news that her father required her immediate presence in the morning room. And so the friends were forced to part, with mutual assurance of future consultations.

T
HE MORNING ROOM CONTAINED BOTH
F
ITZ
-L
EVI
parents. Artemisia made her curtseys, and wondered frantically what she might have done wrong this time. They could not possibly have found out about the parrot. If they had, she’d kill her maid, truly she would.

“Daughter,” her papa said, “there’s very good news for you.” Not the parrot, then. Maybe her dress bill had been lower than she thought, or the shoemaker had lost her receipts. “Anthony Deverin, Lord Ferris, Crescent Chancellor of the Council of Lords, has asked our permission to pay his addresses to you, and if you agree, we’ll begin the thing at once.”

Artemisia felt the room grow exceedingly hot, and the next thing she knew, she was sitting on the couch, smelling spirits of hartshorne.

“There, Fitz,” her mother said, “I knew you’d make a botch of it.” Lady Fitz-Levi took her hand. “Listen, child, one of the most important nobles in the city wants to make you the mother of his heirs and mistress of his establishment. There’s not a girl in town but will be sick with envy. (Nor a mother, neither, I’ll warrant!) You let him pay his court to you, and we’ll make certain Lord Ferris makes a very decent settlement and allowance on you: all the dresses you want, shoes, jewels, gloves—and the houses, of course, furnished to your liking. Your dowry is nothing to sneeze at, and we mean you to live properly. You’ll be one of the first ladies of the city, right after Lady Godwin, what do you think of that?” Artemisia managed to smile. “Lording it even over your friend Lydia and the rest of that family, how’s that, then?”