Post by Kit on Jan 18, 2012 21:02:29 GMT 10
Title: Cat's cradle -- part 3
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sandry is unimpressed by Emelan's court. She is even less satisfied with Briar Moss.
The Duke had never been fond of balls. Sandry knew this, but the bold, harsh lines of the Citadel’s Great Hall, barely softened by candlelight and the finery of its inhabitants, was still shocking. Berenene had tea parties grander than this.
You, Sandry thought to herself, hands twisting the folds of her rose coloured skirts, are a snob.
Berenene, she knew, expected Sandry to be in the thick of things.
Her cousins were not a demonstrative lot; Franzen stood by his tiny, sharp-faced wife, his whole body tensed as Gospard spoke to their father. The older brother had shoulders almost as broad as her uncle’s, and his features were amiable enough, but Berenene had once told Sandry that he had tried to drown his younger brother off Bit Island. Made it look like an accident, as is only proper. Sandry’s thoughts took on her cousin’s easy, teasing inflections as she went over an old memory. And no one would believe Franzen over him—not when he is so much the younger brother, and with a face like that.
Franzen’s unfortunate face was fixed on the Duke, who did not quite smile. A muscle twitched in Franzen’s jaw, his wife—Virena, Sandry recalled—curling her hand beneath his arm in a calming gesture. Vedris, face impassive in the flickering light, seemed immune to it all.
Vedris, bowing to them all, left the room.
Berenene, Sandry thought, has misplaced her schemes.
“I didn’t think you’d be the sort to lurk, viymese.”
The voice was low, sardonic, and familiar even in an unexpected tongue. Turning, Sandry looked up into the face of the smiling Trader she had seen at Market Square—resplendent, now, in oranges and coppers that caught what there was in the room and warmed it about herself. She spoke Narmonese like a local.
Sandry sniffed. “Mage duties instead of trading ones, Daja Kisubo?”
“I like you,” said the other woman, easily slipping back into Kurchali. “You obviously do your reading. Tris would appreciate that, too. She’s lurking by the library. Much more true to type.”
“I am not,” Sandry said, stiffly. “Lurking. I am observing.”
“A termite hill. Collapsing.”
Sandry tried not to smile. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Now, see here.” Daja’s back stiffened, and Sandry swallowed a squeak of surprise as Franzen, unaccompanied and apparently very quiet on his feet, stepped between them. “You should not be bothering my cousin, Trader.”
Daja sighed. “See, that’s a mistake people make, my lord,” she said slowly, sounding for all the world like that her fool of a foster brother—all wicked drawl. “Thinking I care about such things. Unless the lady is bothered. Are you bothered, Sandrilene?”
Her cousin, Sandry noticed, looked apoplectic. And there was a deep, warm amusement in Daja’s widened eyes that made it hard for the other girl not to grin. No one ever teased like this at home.
“Not by you, viymese,” she said, demure. “You speak Narmornese beautifully, by the way.”
“Thank you—”
“—Trangshi filth. Enough of this.”
Sandry did gasp. The whole room, previously thick with other voices, seemed to pause for breath. Franzen’s words echoed against glasses, and seemed to trickle into the spaces between the Duke’s guests, cold and uncomfortable and sly. Daja’s hands tightened around her staff.
The Countess faced her cousin. “You,” she said, “Have been abominably rude. I am ashamed of you.”
Franzen flushed. “You’ve hardly spent enough time with us for a right to shame,” he said, voice clipped. “Coming here, after all these years, after his Grace my father has been so ill.” He shook his head. “Very devout of you, I’m sure.”
“You dare--”
“Ah, what’s this, Yer Lordship.” Another new voice, even more unwelcome. Sandry glowered as Briar Moss stepped into their small, embarrassing huddle, his hand resting briefly on Daja’s arm as he passed through. “Talking as if anyone else is any different?” Briar grinned at them all, teeth very white, his green eyes sparkling in his flushed, dark face. “When it comes to Duke Vedris, you’re all carrion crows.”
“I do not,” Sandry whispered, “Need your help.”
“Good,” Briar snapped. “Because I ain’t giving it to you. Just standing with my sister, here, against your idiot relative.”
Daja smiled wanly. “I could have managed, you know.”
“Oh, I know, Daj.” Briar said, smiling. “I was just bored.”
Franzen glared at the sibling-mages. “Even you could be whipped,” he said.
“You could try, Franzen fer Toren.” Sandry stepped in front of them, hands clasped and letting her cousin’s seams bite, just a little.
***
“That went well.”
Briar Moss smiled, looking up at the cloud-streaked sky, Summersea’s buildings a deep blue grey in the night. Daja snorted.
Sandry, flushed, glared at them both. “I don’t know that anything could be well from all that,” she said.
“What, you mean you don’t usually get thrown out of your own parties?” Briar smiled. “That’s boring.”
The Duke had not condescended to come down to the gathering again, but Erdogun, ever the faithful steward, had noticed the commotion and encouraged its end. With emphasis.
“I was not thrown out,” Sandry said. “I chose to follow you.”
Briar bowed. “The honour shall keep me awake all night.”
Winds stirred, making Sandry shiver and look around for their source, pulling a wrap about her shoulders.
A short, red-haired woman walked up to them, breathless and glowering. “You,” she said, “Are an ass.”
Briar sighed. “Duchess,” he said. “Meet Tris. She’s the reason I’m not scared of you.” .
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sandry is unimpressed by Emelan's court. She is even less satisfied with Briar Moss.
The Duke had never been fond of balls. Sandry knew this, but the bold, harsh lines of the Citadel’s Great Hall, barely softened by candlelight and the finery of its inhabitants, was still shocking. Berenene had tea parties grander than this.
You, Sandry thought to herself, hands twisting the folds of her rose coloured skirts, are a snob.
Berenene, she knew, expected Sandry to be in the thick of things.
Her cousins were not a demonstrative lot; Franzen stood by his tiny, sharp-faced wife, his whole body tensed as Gospard spoke to their father. The older brother had shoulders almost as broad as her uncle’s, and his features were amiable enough, but Berenene had once told Sandry that he had tried to drown his younger brother off Bit Island. Made it look like an accident, as is only proper. Sandry’s thoughts took on her cousin’s easy, teasing inflections as she went over an old memory. And no one would believe Franzen over him—not when he is so much the younger brother, and with a face like that.
Franzen’s unfortunate face was fixed on the Duke, who did not quite smile. A muscle twitched in Franzen’s jaw, his wife—Virena, Sandry recalled—curling her hand beneath his arm in a calming gesture. Vedris, face impassive in the flickering light, seemed immune to it all.
Vedris, bowing to them all, left the room.
Berenene, Sandry thought, has misplaced her schemes.
“I didn’t think you’d be the sort to lurk, viymese.”
The voice was low, sardonic, and familiar even in an unexpected tongue. Turning, Sandry looked up into the face of the smiling Trader she had seen at Market Square—resplendent, now, in oranges and coppers that caught what there was in the room and warmed it about herself. She spoke Narmonese like a local.
Sandry sniffed. “Mage duties instead of trading ones, Daja Kisubo?”
“I like you,” said the other woman, easily slipping back into Kurchali. “You obviously do your reading. Tris would appreciate that, too. She’s lurking by the library. Much more true to type.”
“I am not,” Sandry said, stiffly. “Lurking. I am observing.”
“A termite hill. Collapsing.”
Sandry tried not to smile. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Now, see here.” Daja’s back stiffened, and Sandry swallowed a squeak of surprise as Franzen, unaccompanied and apparently very quiet on his feet, stepped between them. “You should not be bothering my cousin, Trader.”
Daja sighed. “See, that’s a mistake people make, my lord,” she said slowly, sounding for all the world like that her fool of a foster brother—all wicked drawl. “Thinking I care about such things. Unless the lady is bothered. Are you bothered, Sandrilene?”
Her cousin, Sandry noticed, looked apoplectic. And there was a deep, warm amusement in Daja’s widened eyes that made it hard for the other girl not to grin. No one ever teased like this at home.
“Not by you, viymese,” she said, demure. “You speak Narmornese beautifully, by the way.”
“Thank you—”
“—Trangshi filth. Enough of this.”
Sandry did gasp. The whole room, previously thick with other voices, seemed to pause for breath. Franzen’s words echoed against glasses, and seemed to trickle into the spaces between the Duke’s guests, cold and uncomfortable and sly. Daja’s hands tightened around her staff.
The Countess faced her cousin. “You,” she said, “Have been abominably rude. I am ashamed of you.”
Franzen flushed. “You’ve hardly spent enough time with us for a right to shame,” he said, voice clipped. “Coming here, after all these years, after his Grace my father has been so ill.” He shook his head. “Very devout of you, I’m sure.”
“You dare--”
“Ah, what’s this, Yer Lordship.” Another new voice, even more unwelcome. Sandry glowered as Briar Moss stepped into their small, embarrassing huddle, his hand resting briefly on Daja’s arm as he passed through. “Talking as if anyone else is any different?” Briar grinned at them all, teeth very white, his green eyes sparkling in his flushed, dark face. “When it comes to Duke Vedris, you’re all carrion crows.”
“I do not,” Sandry whispered, “Need your help.”
“Good,” Briar snapped. “Because I ain’t giving it to you. Just standing with my sister, here, against your idiot relative.”
Daja smiled wanly. “I could have managed, you know.”
“Oh, I know, Daj.” Briar said, smiling. “I was just bored.”
Franzen glared at the sibling-mages. “Even you could be whipped,” he said.
“You could try, Franzen fer Toren.” Sandry stepped in front of them, hands clasped and letting her cousin’s seams bite, just a little.
***
“That went well.”
Briar Moss smiled, looking up at the cloud-streaked sky, Summersea’s buildings a deep blue grey in the night. Daja snorted.
Sandry, flushed, glared at them both. “I don’t know that anything could be well from all that,” she said.
“What, you mean you don’t usually get thrown out of your own parties?” Briar smiled. “That’s boring.”
The Duke had not condescended to come down to the gathering again, but Erdogun, ever the faithful steward, had noticed the commotion and encouraged its end. With emphasis.
“I was not thrown out,” Sandry said. “I chose to follow you.”
Briar bowed. “The honour shall keep me awake all night.”
Winds stirred, making Sandry shiver and look around for their source, pulling a wrap about her shoulders.
A short, red-haired woman walked up to them, breathless and glowering. “You,” she said, “Are an ass.”
Briar sighed. “Duchess,” he said. “Meet Tris. She’s the reason I’m not scared of you.” .