The Adorned by John Tristan Page B

and sizes, a bewildering profusion of flowers, waist-high grass. I saw, between the gaps of one fence, a white rose the size of my head.
    “ Always shall we put beauty before us; beauty shall precede us like a herald. ”
    I turned to Isadel. Her smile was thin and serene. She was quoting, I thought; I did not know what. Tallisk’s own expression was sour.
    The house we stopped at was not the largest, though it seemed, to me, the finest. Its garden looked like a forest at dawn. Birch and willow and trees I could not name, smaller than they would grow in the wild, had been arranged to form paths and bowers. Some of their leaves had an unnatural glow, an almost golden touch to them.
    The carriage halted at the gate. Two groomsmen, bowing, took over care of the horses, freeing Yana to precede us as key-master. We were expected. The gate was opened for us, and a servant in white led us down a gently sloping path.
    Near the bottom of it was a pond, and a stone bench. A man reclined there; I could see no more of him than white clothes and a suggestion of dark hair. The bench was flanked by two burly bloodguards, and servants went to and fro with silver salvers. One, a dark-skinned Southern woman, played a harp. A willow swooned over the scene.
    “Give me that,” Tallisk said to Isadel under his breath. He grabbed the parasol, and his other arm he reached out to me, like a suitor asking for a dance. I blinked at it. “Take my arm,” he said. “And walk with head held high.”
    So we proceeded.
    The Count did not rise as we approached, though his servants did, with bowed heads. The harpist paused her song, hands held taut above the strings.
    “The household of Master Roberd Tallisk,” Yana said, with a quick bow.
    “Maestro Tallisk.” The Count had a low, musical voice; laughter seemed to lurk in it. “You are welcome here. I have been expecting you.”
    The harpist resumed her play, though softer, and the servants moved toward us, offering treats from their silver tray. Tallisk’s hand, hard on my arm, told me to demur.
    “Your Grace,” he said, releasing my arm. “Allow me to present Etan writ-Tallisk.”
    Now he did rise. I had not before met any of the Blooded, but I would have known it of him had I seen him in beggar’s rags. He was tall, and beautiful in a sharp, remote fashion, like a fox or a bird of prey. His hair was black and silk smooth, and his eyes had the telltale opalescent cast of his kind. They were grey gold, like old jewelry.
    “Very nice,” he said, circling us. His long fingers almost brushed my bare back, and I shivered. “This is a new direction for you, Maestro. You must be taking inspiration from the fine spring.”
    “Indeed.” The harshness of Tallisk’s voice startled me.
    The Count smiled. The teeth at the corners of his mouth were sharp. “Isadel, my dear,” he said, “I have a notion.”
    She curtsied to him. “My lord?”
    “Haqan—Lord Loren, that is—has his natal day soon. I plan to throw him a feast.”
    “Yes, my lord?”
    He laughed. “Loren’s colors are green and red. How fine would it be for you and your writ-brother both to attend at his feast? An auspicious first contract for him, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Auspicious indeed, my lord,” she said, though her tone was dubious.
    Tallisk stood impassive, holding the parasol above me, as the Count hatched his plan. Patron or not, I thought, Tallisk seemed to have little love for him.
    “Yes,” the Count said, “I think so. I shall have Geodery come to draw up a contract for the boy. Isadel shall once again be displayed on our agreed terms, I trust?”
    Tallisk shifted his shoulders. “Of course, Your Grace.”
    “Very well.” He looked at me once more, smiling. The fox in his features was clear in that smile: he looked hungry. “Oh, and I will make sure the boy—Etan, was it?—has a proper display-costume made up, as well. I trust you have his measurements? I will bear that expense, of course. Haqan will