The day of Lord Mavagar’s feast was a restless one for Farek. He was looking forward to Silea’s company, and to whatever he might learn about their host. His office in their mansion was littered with stacks of pages and books he had been studying, but he sat in the midst of it all without the ability to focus.
When there were two hours before he would need to meet Silea at her front door, he finally escaped his stupor by marching through the door. One of his subordinates, a money-counter named Lorg, stuttered as Prince Gallendris brushed past without a word. Farek’s pace took him quickly off of their property. He needed a drink—and he had not recently checked the Royal Whale tavern for word from House Viotro. The sun gleamed off the pink water of Raider’s Bay and illuminated his walk with a burgundy glow.
From a market stall, he borrowed a wide-brimmed straw hat, the sort a swamp worker might where to keep insects out of his hair. With hands clapped in the grime caked to one of the few run-down walls he passed, he patted dust and dirt against his face and neck, rolled his sleeves up and considered his disguise complete. When he sat down at the crowded bar of the Royal Whale, he hunched his shoulders and asked the barkeep with a Raderan accent, “Anything from House Viotro?”
“Who for?” the tender asked, with a remarkably smug face.
Farek felt a twinge of hope. “For the only person who would ask for it here,” he replied. House Viotro hadn’t been given any moniker for Lord Thrane’s extorting cohort, but they certainly were not in the habit of leaving letters behind bars.
The barkeep scratched his beard with his well-trimmed finger nails and shrugged. “Just a moment.” A moment later, he passed Farek a folded parchment clasped with an amber wax seal and a fish emblem. He also smirked and slammed a mug down beside the letter. “My finest ale,” he declared, and poured from a hefty silver flagon until the brown liquid nearly spilled.
With a smile, Farek took a sip of his ale so he could walk to a more private location safely. The beer was delicious, and he raised it, with a tip of his head to the barkeep before retiring. At a corner table, he swallowed a few more mouthfuls of the sturdy stuff before cracking the fish seal and reading House Viotro’s findings.
Farek read the letter without moving his lips: “Dear stranger, in our corner of the world, a spy name Erril had grown to quite repute by his own leg-work instead of his contacts, and, by coincidence, he’s recently been staying in Noress-That-Was. Upon request concerning a glove of paralysis, he confirmed that he knows of it. While he offered a financial transaction or a bargain to reveal what he knows, we did not feel it our place to accept this deal or reveal possession of the glove in Soros. Erril will remain in Noress-That-Was for a few weeks, assuredly, so please consider him your best option to learn more. Master Kovver, servant of House Viotro.”
The innkeeper’s finest ale, on Viotro coin, washed the unvoiced words down and made way for Farek’s half-restrained grin. He’d most certainly contact Erril, but was hesitant to give information to anyone else on his behalf. A trip to Noress-That-Was? He would need to travel incognito, not as Prince Farek Gallendris.
He finished off the ale and walked down along the waterfront to discard the page and wash his face and neck clean. On the way back through the market, he returned the hat—wordlessly—to the market stall. The merchant still did not notice him amongst the two or three others browsing.
As Farek made his way to Silea’s residence, he considered his options further. A few trusted guards would make for a precautionary escort; Farek had made a few enemies, after all. And he would need to go soon, this week or the next. A trip to Noress-That-Was absent Erril would be a waste of time, energy, and risked publicity. His plans faded from his mind, when he started up the stone pathway through Silea’s gardens to see the woman standing in her doorway. Her black hair was bound behind her head with a white laurel, while a black and silver trumpet gown contrasted her bare shoulders. She grabbed a white lace shawl from a shelf, obstructed from Farek’s view by the opening’s wooden frame and lay it about her shoulders as he approached the bottom of her steps.
“You’re… breathtaking,” he said, smiling.
Silea grinned and bowed her head as she made her way down the natural rock stairway. Farek had discarded the plain shirt he had worn before, now wearing a short-sleeve tunic of stiff black flannel and soft silk trim. Gold buckles down his chest and a handful of fancy pins along each pocket caught the light from the door and he felt like more than his cheeks were aglow. He raised one palm and bowed his head. Silea took it, smiling ear-to-ear and turned to wave to a window on the face of the house. An elderly woman waved back, her mouth a narrow, but pleased, dimple.
“You’re early,” Silea told him.
Farek shrugged. “But you were ready.”
She laughed, patting his hand as they walked together through the small garden. A small brick wall protected the boundary, and a few magpies cawed at them as they entered the street. The crimson glow from the setting sun was beginning to fade, and Silea’s copper skin seemed brighter. “I was ready hours ago,” she said. “I’ve only been to a banquet on Coin Hill a few times.” Farek made a joke that it was rare for him too, but they both knew it as the jest that it was.
While Farek’s estate was the wealthiest and most expensive structure in the City of Sorrows, it reserved itself with business and functionality. House Mavagar’s home was as illustrious and brilliant as anywhere Farek could remember going. Bowing men with robed heads topped each of the stone columns, while marble slabs led across a mosaic courtyard. The circular crest of red bricks around the main marble pathway portrayed a man on Farek’s right side wrestling a creature with the horns of a ram and the feathers of a bird. The white marble walkway between the spectacular artwork was dotted with groups of friends socializing while the occasional couple kissed in the shadows between the scattered silver braziers.
Farek had been here before, a year or two ago, but this courtyard had been dotted with wagons and workers, and there had been no lights to fill the twilight air with a white glow.
The door to the Mavagar great hall was probably fifteen feet tall, but had already been opened. Two burly guardians stood vigil there, while a herald readied his heavenly tongue to proclaim the new arrivals. “Lord Gallendris and…” The booming declaration became a hiss of lost breath.
“Silea Shandrell,” the young woman informed him.
“And Lady Shandrell!” cheered the crier. A few smiles and waves greeted the new arrivals. Farek hooked his arm through Silea’s and felt her silver-striped gown brush his legs as they walked closely through the doorway. One or two clapped politely, and Farek waved to them with a raised finger or a nod. He knew the lords and ladies of Soros quite well, from his political upbringing and from similarly lavish parties.
Paral Mavagar was standing near the head table, but smiled to Farek in surprise and raised his glass of wine.
Almost on cue, a pubescent serving girl appeared before Farek and Silea to present them with a platter of drinks. They chose wines from the group of ten sparkling drinks and began to mill into the crowd. A few moments later, another guest arrived and the herald proclaimed their entry. Amongst those Farek recognized was Simi, though he didn’t know the incredibly handsome man with his arm around her.
Before he could get over to his sister, Farek was interrupted by Lord Thrane’s firm handshake and sarcastic smile. “Good evening, Lord Gallendris. I trust you’re here for amusement only?”
Silea blinked, but Farek answered smoothly. “Sadly, yes. It’s hard to find such good entertainment. I would hate to miss it all.”
“Then a toast to the future of Soros,” Thrane replied, offering a raised wineglass.
Farek matched it, as did Silea. They drank, and continued on their way. “What was that about?” Silea asked him, smirking.
“An old joke between acquaintances,” Farek replied. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Something stronger than wine, perhaps?” she asked. “Sorry, my nerves.”
Farek flashed her his radiant smile. “Nothing to be nervous about. I’ll be back in a moment.” While he was waiting to be served by the servants near a line of kegs and bottle racks, Farek noticed an old man sitting near Paral Mavagar’s throne. A middle-aged man attended the wizened senior, though Lord Mavagar Senior did very little that required attention. He sat there, staring at the crowd blankly, and occasionally took a drink from a wooden cup.
After Farek had gained drinks for himself and his companion, he approached the head table and said, “Good evening, Lord Mavagar.”
The old man didn’t reply except to lock eyes with Farek and raise a few fingers in a wave. Farek smiled and spoke more. He spotted Paral watching him in the corner of his eye, standing amidst a crowd of cohorts. “I’m glad to see you make an appearance sir,” Farek intoned. “I feared the worst, when I heard you were bedridden.” Paral’s father had no hair left on his head, and moles ridged a few lines around his nose and mouth.
“I can come observe—” The old man coughed weakly before continuing. His rough voice and disruptive heaving continued throughout. “…All the beautiful people once in a while, at least. This wasting keeps me exhausted though.”
“Ah, a fellow appreciator of beauty,” Farek replied. The wall behind the throne was adorned with immense statues of religious figures and other worldly creatures. “And I see your home reflects such exquisite taste.”
“Uh-huh,” Lord Mavagar grunted. His wrinkled fingers clutched a golden cup he did not drink from.
Farek shrugged. “But excuse me sir! You are tired and I have a beauty of my own to attend.” He wanted to speak with Simisar before the banquet began in earnest, so he quickly returned to Silea with her drink.
Simi appeared not a moment later, startling her brother’s left elbow with a touch, and smiled. “Farek, didn’t expect you to attend. And you look familiar… they said Lady Shandrell?”
“Call me Silea,” Farek’s companion said, her hands resting on his elbow.
“She’s cute,” Simi said, winking to Farek.
“Who’s your friend?” Farek asked.
The man standing next to Simi bowed his head. His wavy dark hair swayed, but didn’t brush against his smooth, well-kept beard as he lifted his head again. “I’m Dorean, son of Lord Tibeck,” he informed Farek, smiling.
Farek grinned to Simi and said, “He’s cute.” He got a dry look from the other man while his sister and his date laughed. “Are you enjoying the party, Simi?”
Simi bobbed her head delightedly. “Oh yes. I heard anyone who is too drunk by the end of this will be given accommodations to befit a lord or a lady, so I intend to check.” Dorean grinned awkwardly as Farek’s sister took an animated drink from her nearly-empty glass. Someone near their host’s table dangled a bell twice and the hubbub of conversation began to die down a little.
“Keep a close eye on her, Dorean. She can be a handful,” Farek said.
The hall was packed with close to two hundred people, but they all found seats easily enough and a reasonable respite of silence began, for Paral Mavagar to address his guests. The wealthy lord stood in front of a tall chair with a folded silk robe stylishly waving down his shoulders and back, and raised a new, full glass of wine. “I think we can determine the best dressed of the evening already. That award surely goes to Lord Gallendris and his companion! I am honoured by your attendance, sire.” A round of applause went up, and Farek waved the attention away, and raised his glass in thanks to Lord Mavagar’s compliment. Paral continued, “I would like to dedicate this evening’s festivities to a fruitful new Moon! Let’s toast to whatever pleasant tidings await us!”
With a din of clattering dishes, the meal began. And it was delicious. Silea and he spent as much time ogling their food as they did one another. At one point, an unexpected sarcastic comment about Simi’s arm-decoration got Farek laughing so hard he nearly lost his mouthful through his nose, and Silea giggled just as hard at his humoured conniptions. By the third course, Farek had eaten enough lobster and spiced broth to last him for days, but still Paral’s staff brought fourth deserts of cream and chocolate bark.
Farek slipped in a few questions about people at the party. When Lord Mavagar senior retired—during the second course—Farek tried to subtly learn the name of the nurse servant that remained in his service. He didn’t learn anything about that, but he did learn that Paral’s stunning white-skinned partner was a woman named Lirra of Starath. Farek had to wonder if normal invitations took into account the pleasantness of the guests’ appearances, for everyone at this party seemed to be gorgeous.
“You’re better looking, of course,” he told Silea, after asking about Lirra.
She smiled. “That’s enough of that,” she said, guffawing. She leaned her head against his shoulder. She’d been gradually leaning on him more and more, but not from alcohol she consumed. She held her liquor well, but made no attempts to withhold her want of him. By the time deserts had settled in everyone’s stomachs and the mingling of conversation took over the hall once more, she had kissed him twice. Farek had meant what he said—Silea was a beautiful woman, one of the most beautiful he’d ever been this close with.
As tempted as Farek was to find out more about Mavagar Senior’s nurse or Paral’s secrets, he knew he would be leaving here on Silea’s terms. And judging from his own mood, he wanted that to be sooner, not later. “Let’s speak with Lord Paral at least,” he told Silea, “before we go somewhere else.”
She grinned, and tilted her head back. “As long as it’s not for long.” With a sigh, she rose to her feet and walked with him to the head table.
Paral Mavagar’s narrow nose had a small drop of sweat—or water from their crustacean feast—on one side of it, resembling a mole, but his shortly trimmed brown beard gave him every extent of distinction that Farek remember in him. He smiled to his liege and said, “I can’t recall the last time you attended one of my parties. Almost a year, I’d say.”
“I am absolutely dreadful, aren’t I? I can’t recall why I’ve been so busy of late.” Farek turned to Silea. “This is my lovely comrade this evening—Silea. We wanted to express our gratitude for such an extravagant party.”
Paral took Silea’s hand and planted the briefest kiss on the back of it. “Please to meet you, my lady.” With a glance to his foreign princess, Paral said, “Forgive me love, but—” with a nod back to Silea, “—you’re gorgeous. I hope you two will attend more of my events in the future.”
“You can count on it,” Farek said. He leaned a little closer. “Is your father going to be alright? I was concerned to see him leave the meal early.”
“He grows weaker by the day,” Paral said. “The healers say he won’t survive the year’s end.”
“At least he is attended by a capable caretaker, that nurse I spotted.”
“Thank you, Farek,” Paral replied, taking Farek’s hand and revealing nothing. Lord Mavagar’s grip was sure and his smile unwavering.
“A very good evening to you both.” Farek concealed his scowl with a pleasant smile and took Silea’s hand.
The courtyard was clearly where the more aggressive drinkers had spilled—hoots and hollers echoed off the walls of the great hall as Farek watched at least one party-goer lose his liquor all over the talon-hand of the illustrious mosaic beast. Silea only laughed, and they ignored the heavier celebrations to move, shoulder-to-shoulder through empty moonlit streets.
Silea pinched Farek’s backside when they realized they were the only people in the massive market of Poru’s Square, and he retaliated by grabbing hers. She kissed him deeply, until they were short of breath, and still standing amidst the ghosts of merchants of thieves of bygone days. Silea’s bed was a far cozier place to share breath, and touch, and taste, and the passion that kept them awake for breathless, coalescing hours. They dozed off in the early hours of the morning, when the nighttime sky cast its ivory light through an arched window and across their smooth, soft skin, indistinguishable from the warm silk sheets around them.