The great door clanged shut behind them. For a moment inquisitors, guards, and prisoner stood blinking, adjusting to the sudden warmth and absence of wind. The brilliance of scores of crystal lamps bathed the vaulted hall. Statues lined the walls: members of the Lansis dynasty, proud, regal, dwarfing all members of Glass’s party, emperors side by side with those who never sat upon a throne. Between one statue and the next lay a niche, each hung with a crystal lamp and displaying a single object fashioned by artisans, some ugly, some exquisite, all of breathtaking value simply on the basis of the kind and weight of the materials from which they were made.
Servants came forward to take the inquisitors’ coats. Others went out to collect luggage while a butler, an older man with an impressive mane of white hair, established the credentials and business of the new arrivals. Inquisitors are seldom welcome at parties, even when the host is the Inquisition’s prime instigator.
From what Glass could catch of the low-voiced conversation between Brother Pelter and the butler it seemed that their arrival was expected and that contrary to decorum they were invited to join Sherzal’s gathering, immediately.
Glass knew that Sherzal’s parties typically lasted a week or more to allow for the uncertainties of travel, her guests often being far flung. She would accommodate a sizeable fraction of the empire’s nobility, providing scattered entertainments during the day with grand balls and banquets to crown each evening.
“We’re road-stained and tired,” Brother Dimeon grumbled. A big man with an unhealthy pallor and puffy flesh, the inquisitor had proved a poor traveller, clambering from the carriage at every pause to stretch his back. “I want a room, clean robes, and a rest.”
“I concur.” Agika nodded. Her hair was in disarray after dozing against Brother Seldom for the last two hours of their journey. She hid a yawn behind her hand.
The butler relented. “Leon and Noel will show you to your rooms, inquisitors.” He paused. “But the honourable Sherzal was insistent that your prisoner be brought before her on arrival.”
“I will present her,” Brother Pelter said. With a motion of his hand he invited the senior inquisitors to follow the servants to their rooms.
“I’ll come too,” Regol said, showing his smile. “They’ll expect a ring-fighter to look like a ruffian.” His black cape sparkled with melting ice fragments and he smelled of wet horse. Glass imagined him striding in among the bejewelled throng in Sherzal’s hall and found an echo of his smile on her lips. A glance in Brother Pelter’s direction wiped all humour from her mouth. The palace opulence might make it easier to forget why they were here, but the narrow malice on Pelter’s face allowed no doubt. He wanted to see her burn.
* * *
• • •
SHERZAL’S GUESTS WERE already gathering before their banquet. Scores of the Sis moved in loose groups between three huge reception chambers. In one a gallery held several musicians, and the gentle tones of harp, thinule, and flute drifted across the conversation. In another acrobats performed feats of balance and strength, largely ignored by the glittering crowd, and in the third dancers twirled, pulsing to the soft beat of drums.
The butler led Brother Pelter and Glass with deft surety, navigating the sea of silk and diamonds, gold and brocade. Sera followed with Melkir, their services wholly unnecessary but perhaps calculated to add an implication of guilt and danger in case any should miss the abbess’s chains.
Any crowd can be a lonely place but Glass knew that those who have experienced a hostile crowd would choose loneliness in an instant. In such a place there was always someone at your back. Hard glances, sharp comments, laughter behind hands. The Church abjured its flock to be humble but it was hard to hold high office and not grow accustomed to the respect it brought. Glass had worn that authority and approval like a cloak for many years. It had grown around her, slow and insidious, but now it had been stripped away in an instant. She felt diminished. Naked. An old woman paraded for show and mockery. She kept her head high, but her body lied, a last defence against the humiliation Sherzal must have planned for her.
However, of all their party, it was Regol, following the two guards, who claimed the most attention. Glass was grateful to have the focus taken from her. It seemed that more of the Sis frequented the Caltess than anyone might suspect. But then again few families rose to such heights without having at least a little taste for blood. Recognition, greetings, and invitations rang out where the ring-fighter passed, though none would mistake them for friendship: he was a novelty, and winning his company would reflect well on the lord or lady who drew him to their circle.
“Regol!” A young woman’s voice, raised in pleased surprise. “How fashionably late you are!” Glass glanced over her shoulder to see a tall young woman in flowing green satin insinuate herself into the hunska’s path. “I came to protect your virtue in such company. Surely only the Durnsea has more sharks.”
“But none with such white and even smiles.” Regol made a half-bow while slipping to the side to pass her, a fighter’s move, and left her in his wake.
Terra Mensis. Glass knew the family, though the girl had been eleven the last time she laid eyes upon her. Glass had hoped for the child’s sake that she would grow into her nose.
“Abbess Glass?” A large figure loomed out of the crowd and Glass turned to find herself facing a great lord robed in imperial red with the snow-lion trim that only the head of a Sis household might wear before the emperor.
“Lord Jotsis.” Glass inclined her head. She should have expected the Mensis to be near the Jotsis in such a gathering. Carvon Jotsis she knew of old. A good man, honest, bold, lacking in the subtleties his forebears possessed. Unfortunately it was those subtleties which court life required if a house was to flourish.
“It pains me to see you in such circumstances, abbess.” Carvon bowed his leonine head. Brother Pelter hovered in the background, the irritation on his face not quite brave enough to escape as words of reprimand.
“Holy Mother.” From around the broadness of Carvon Jotsis came Arabella Jotsis, hair a cloud of golden curls, a vision in blue silk and taffeta, neckline plunging, waist tight, presenting a softer aspect to the hard warrior’s body beneath. The girl dropped into the lowest obeisance of the novice, one offered only when at greatest fault or to an archon, high priest, or statue of the Ancestor. Her skirts billowed then pooled around her. All around conversation fell away, Sis heads turning.
“Get up, Ara.” Glass found her eyes misting. “Whatever are you doing here?”
Ara looked up, her own eyes bright with tears. But it was Lord Jotsis who answered. “Forgive my niece, abbess. My brother removed her from Sweet Mercy after the recent unpleasantness. Temporarily, I’m sure. I thought it too soon for a return to society, especially here, but the girl insisted and my brother has never managed to stand up to his women.” Carvon coughed and glanced across the crowd, looking for his own formidable wife, no doubt. “Still, it sends a message, no?”
Glass nodded, and smiled as Ara rose beside her. The message sent—that the Jotsis fear no one—was rather undermined by the fact that many knew Sherzal’s interest in Ara had evaporated on discovering that Nona filled the Chosen One’s shoes still better, and then that Zole met all requirements. Perhaps the true message was one of peace rather than defiance, and by sending both Carvon’s brother had demonstrated some of that necessary subtlety the lord himself lacked.