little job for Thero,” Alec explained.
“Anything I can help with?”
“Keep your ears open for talk of Elani and Phoria,” Seregil replied.
Laughter drifted in from the garden through the open dining room door, then the sound of something breaking.
“Micum!” Kari shouted from the kitchen.
Micum rose, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I think I’ll go help Illia keep the damage to a minimum.”
As much as Alec had complained, by the time the guests started arriving that evening he was the very model of a noble young host. He wore his embroidered violet coat impeccably, as he did the fancy amethyst earring dangling from his right earlobe. With his long blond hair loose over his shoulders, he looked a bit older than usual. Or perhaps it was his demeanor. Glancing sidelong at his talímenios, Seregil—in sea green and gold tonight—felt a familiar tug of pride. When Alec had first come to Rhíminee he’d been charmingly—and sometimes dangerously—naïve and unworldly. The naïveté was long gone, of course, but there was still a freshness about him that drew people, and made many underestimate him in the most convenient ways, just as they dismissed Seregil as a rich young wastrel—charming and entertaining, to be sure, and always a generous host, even in these hard times, but a wastrel nonetheless.
“My face is beginning to hurt with all this smiling,” Alec muttered as they greeted the steady stream of guests.
Stationed at the salon door in his best blue coat, silver buttonsaglow in the candlelight, Runcer announced each noble as they arrived.
A good many of them were young lords and ladies Seregil and Alec gambled and drank with, including Count Selin, who arrived early and caught Alec in a friendly, one-armed hug as he balanced on his elaborately carved and gilded crutch.
The other guests were interspersed with wealthy merchants who oversaw Seregil’s many and varied trade investments. There were also poets, artists, and even a few of the most brilliant male and female courtesans from the Street of Lights houses.
“How many did you invite?” Alec whispered to Seregil as guests continued to arrive.
“Counting the Cavishes? Only a hundred or so, give or take.”
“Lord Thero of Rhíminee,” Runcer intoned gravely. “Wizard of the Second Order of the Third Orëska.”
The abbreviated name still sounded strange to Seregil. For centuries, ever since one of the Skalan queens had taken one of Seregil’s great-uncles as consort, the court had used the ’faie fashion of lengthy patronymics and matronymics. Despite the fact that Aurënen was supplying horses and arms to Queen Phoria, she had put an end to that, reverting to “proper” Skalan nomenclature and short hair for men. The latter was fashion rather than law, of course, so Seregil and Alec, as well as a good many others, had left theirs long in silent protest.
Lady Kylith was the next to arrive, accompanied by her niece Ysmay and the handsome auburn-haired actor from the Basket Street theater, resplendent now in black and silver. It appeared the man had wasted no time in spending their money.
“You remember Master Atre, don’t you?” Kylith said as she kissed each of them.
The actor bowed deeply. “I hope I give no offense, my lords, with my humble presence.”
“Great artists are always welcome here,” Seregil assured him. “I think you’ll find yourself in good company.”
“I hope you will visit our theater again, my lords,” Atre said. When he smiled, the corners of his dark blue eyes tilted up in the most engaging way. A touch of cosmetics there? Or perhaps it wasn’t necessary. Atre’s skin was smooth, his eyes bright with youth. A naturally handsome man.
“We have several other plays, depending on the night,” Atre was saying.
“If Seregil can be coaxed from the
bakshi
tables,” Kylith said, lazily waving a fan in one hand. “Oh, but I see the delightful Lady Kari is here!” Kylith went off to
“Anything I can help with?”
“Keep your ears open for talk of Elani and Phoria,” Seregil replied.
Laughter drifted in from the garden through the open dining room door, then the sound of something breaking.
“Micum!” Kari shouted from the kitchen.
Micum rose, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I think I’ll go help Illia keep the damage to a minimum.”
As much as Alec had complained, by the time the guests started arriving that evening he was the very model of a noble young host. He wore his embroidered violet coat impeccably, as he did the fancy amethyst earring dangling from his right earlobe. With his long blond hair loose over his shoulders, he looked a bit older than usual. Or perhaps it was his demeanor. Glancing sidelong at his talímenios, Seregil—in sea green and gold tonight—felt a familiar tug of pride. When Alec had first come to Rhíminee he’d been charmingly—and sometimes dangerously—naïve and unworldly. The naïveté was long gone, of course, but there was still a freshness about him that drew people, and made many underestimate him in the most convenient ways, just as they dismissed Seregil as a rich young wastrel—charming and entertaining, to be sure, and always a generous host, even in these hard times, but a wastrel nonetheless.
“My face is beginning to hurt with all this smiling,” Alec muttered as they greeted the steady stream of guests.
Stationed at the salon door in his best blue coat, silver buttonsaglow in the candlelight, Runcer announced each noble as they arrived.
A good many of them were young lords and ladies Seregil and Alec gambled and drank with, including Count Selin, who arrived early and caught Alec in a friendly, one-armed hug as he balanced on his elaborately carved and gilded crutch.
The other guests were interspersed with wealthy merchants who oversaw Seregil’s many and varied trade investments. There were also poets, artists, and even a few of the most brilliant male and female courtesans from the Street of Lights houses.
“How many did you invite?” Alec whispered to Seregil as guests continued to arrive.
“Counting the Cavishes? Only a hundred or so, give or take.”
“Lord Thero of Rhíminee,” Runcer intoned gravely. “Wizard of the Second Order of the Third Orëska.”
The abbreviated name still sounded strange to Seregil. For centuries, ever since one of the Skalan queens had taken one of Seregil’s great-uncles as consort, the court had used the ’faie fashion of lengthy patronymics and matronymics. Despite the fact that Aurënen was supplying horses and arms to Queen Phoria, she had put an end to that, reverting to “proper” Skalan nomenclature and short hair for men. The latter was fashion rather than law, of course, so Seregil and Alec, as well as a good many others, had left theirs long in silent protest.
Lady Kylith was the next to arrive, accompanied by her niece Ysmay and the handsome auburn-haired actor from the Basket Street theater, resplendent now in black and silver. It appeared the man had wasted no time in spending their money.
“You remember Master Atre, don’t you?” Kylith said as she kissed each of them.
The actor bowed deeply. “I hope I give no offense, my lords, with my humble presence.”
“Great artists are always welcome here,” Seregil assured him. “I think you’ll find yourself in good company.”
“I hope you will visit our theater again, my lords,” Atre said. When he smiled, the corners of his dark blue eyes tilted up in the most engaging way. A touch of cosmetics there? Or perhaps it wasn’t necessary. Atre’s skin was smooth, his eyes bright with youth. A naturally handsome man.
“We have several other plays, depending on the night,” Atre was saying.
“If Seregil can be coaxed from the
bakshi
tables,” Kylith said, lazily waving a fan in one hand. “Oh, but I see the delightful Lady Kari is here!” Kylith went off to
Similar Books
