26

SARINE

Sacre-Lin Chapel

Maw District, New Sarresant

And so, my sons and daughters,” her uncle said from the pulpit, “remember the example of the Oracle next time one of your fellows has slighted you. Remember the power to be had in the virtue of forgiveness. If in her wisdom the Oracle could find it in herself to let the Nameless flee from the blood on his hands, how can we fail to do the same when our neighbors do us wrong?

“Carry her example with you in the days to come. Be mindful of the strength she found there, how even the Exarch bent knee before her on that day. For there are times when the only path to virtue is to lay down the iron sword of justice, to right oneself by taking up the burdens of love and mercy.”

His words hung in the air as the congregation stood and began their shuffle out the main doors of the chapel. A good turnout this morning. Sarine watched from above as the last few parishioners lingered in the pews, seeking some private word with their priest. She made guesses as to what they might be wanting. The thick-looking brute of a man had blood on his hands, some crime to which he wished to confess and be washed clean. The gray-haired old woman sought company and a few words of encouragement. The filthy urchin staring up at her wanted … She frowned. The boy was staring at her, a blank look as he met her eyes. Strange for a child such as that to attend a sermon, clad in mud, dust, and tattered rags. Had the boy come to try his hand at picking pockets or palming coins from the collection plate? She hadn’t noticed him during the lesson, but he was there now, plain as day.

Before she could puzzle it out any further, the boy held up a hand toward her, clutching a rolled-up parchment sealed in wax.

She climbed down from her loft and found him still watching her, proffering his delivery in dirt-covered fingers with a blank look in his eyes. He made no move toward her as she approached, only maintained his empty stare.

“Is that for me?” she asked.

The boy gave a slow nod.

She reached for it, and he let go as soon as it touched her fingers.

“Do I owe—?” she started, but the boy spun around and ran, nearly trampling his way through the main door.

“Is everything all right?” her uncle called down to her, the commotion drawing the eyes of the other parishioners who’d lingered in the chapel.

“I’m fine,” she replied, looking down at the rolled parchment the strange messenger had delivered. An ordinary letter by any account, save for the A impressed into the seal. Reyne d’Agarre. She wasted no time thumbing the wax.

S,

Sincerest apologies for the late notice. I’ll be hosting friends tonight and hope to count you among them.

Number 6 on the Street of the Ironworks, Southgate.

—RdA

She’d known the letter’s contents even before the seal had slipped loose, though she hadn’t thought the invitation would be for tonight. Her mind raced. Could she actually attend his salon? And what a strange choice of courier. The urchins she’d known during her time on the street would have snatched away whatever coin d’Agarre had offered and then delivered his letter straight into the nearest pile of refuse.

“Another missive from your admirer?” her uncle asked, walking toward her as the last of the parishioners headed toward the exit.

“Uncle, he’s hardly an admirer. He’s, well …” Her mind worked trying to find a suitable description.

“He’s in desperate need of a courier service,” her uncle harrumphed.

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “He is. Were all of his letters delivered like that?”

“Just so. If he means to avoid drawing attention, he’s doing a poor job of it. Last time his boy handed me a parchment in the middle of a sermon.”

She gave a soft laugh even as it occurred to her that avoiding notice was precisely the opposite of what d’Agarre was doing. Did he send urchins into Southgate? Or the Gardens? Here in the Maw it might be mistaken for an oddity; in the upper echelons of the city, such an invitation was tantamount to a disturbance of the peace. It was deliberate, she was sure. A symbol, but of what? Commitment to the poor, perhaps. Or mastery over them.

“He’s the one responsible for my dresses,” she said absently as she weighed the letter in her hands and its contents in her mind. “But not the marques; that was Lord Revellion.”

“Sarine, you know you have powerful gifts,” her uncle said. “The sort that attract powerful people. Just remember who you are. You aren’t beholden to any interest other than your own.”

She looked up at him. “Thank you, uncle.”

“I worry for you, child, that’s all.”

“I know. I’ll be—”

“M’lady?”

She turned to the main door and stifled a laugh. Revellion’s coachman, the very man who’d refused to even set foot in the district before, now looking like a fish in a bucket as he stepped into the chapel. She’d finally relented and told Lord Revellion he could send missives to her here at the Sacre-Lin, and this sight was repayment aplenty for her trust.

“Can I help you, my son?” her uncle asked.

“A message for m’lady from his lordship, Father. The Lord Donatien Revellion, that is, son of the marquis.”

Oh, a silver mark for his timing. She noted the coachman was somewhat more pliable since her trip to the palace. An effect of seeing her done up in d’Agarre’s finery, perhaps? Or the tattoos on her hands? She supposed an invitation from Lord Revellion settled the matter of whether she would attend d’Agarre’s salon.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Lord Revellion wishes the pleasure of my company this evening?”

He shook his head. “Beg pardon, m’lady, but his lordship wishes to see you as soon as you can. He instructed me to wait here until sundown if I had to, provided you were willing to see him.”

She smiled. Time enough for both, then, and thank the Gods for that.

“Ah, Sarine, again you dazzle me,” Lord Revellion said as she descended the coach.

He met her in the small yard between the iron gate and the door of his family’s townhouse, offering an arm as she stepped down onto the grass. She’d chosen another simple dress, cut in a soft blue trimmed with white, with a gold chain set with moonstones and matching pearl earrings. Suitable for a midday rendezvous and an evening at a salon both, so she hoped.

“My lord,” she said. “Thank you once again for your invitation.”

He slid her arm through his. “I had thought to take a walk through the Gardens, though I daresay the ladies of the district would be set ablaze with envy if we did.”

“It’s a hot enough day, my lord. A few fires would not be amiss.”

His eyes glimmered. “So be it.”

They walked down a polished cobblestone street abuzz with midday foot traffic, horses and coaches both. One could hardly go half a league in the Gardens without crossing through a well-groomed stretch of park or greenbelt, and it was toward such a green they made way. More than one head turned to watch as the Revellion coach sped off, leaving the young lord and his mysterious companion out on promenade. She could all but hear their minds racing, hear the whispers planting the seeds of the latest scandal. But she was with Lord Revellion, and the Nameless could take their gossip for the wasted breath it was.

“Now,” Revellion said, “you must tell me how you’ve come to possess not one but two dresses fit to start riots among the ladies of the court.”

She felt a rising flush. “A … A patron, my lord.”

He frowned, but nodded as they made way up the broad street. “I suppose that’s only fair. You are a rare specimen. It stands to reason there would be others.”

“Oh no,” she said. “Nothing like that. Only someone interested in my gifts.”

He looked relieved. “Well, you are exceptional there, too, my lady. Fullbinders sanctioned to practice freely by royal marque command their price, especially in wartime. I hope you’re being paid commensurate with your worth.”

Again she blushed.

“I see you’ve set aside the cane,” she said.

“And not a moment too soon.” He took her hand as they moved aside for a passing carriage. “The docteur assures me I’ll be fit and ready to ride before the season’s out.”

“To ride?” she began, then remembered. “Ah yes, your deployment with the army.”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “I’m to take command of a cavalry brigade to the south. A prestigious assignment for a newly graduated officer. Father pulled more than a few strings.”

The thought caught in her throat as they arrived at the smooth stone walkway leading onto the greenbelt. She’d barely grazed the surface of Lord Revellion’s world, and suddenly her tenuous hold here seemed in jeopardy.

Still, by some miracle she kept her composure.

“He must be proud of you,” she said.

“Oh yes. I have rarely done aught that would displease his grace the Marquis de Revellion. Would that I had your courage, Sarine.”

“My courage? I’m an artist, my lord. You’re the soldier.”

“Give yourself due credit,” he said as they walked beneath the shade of a copse of trees overlooking the grass. “You live where you please, free to pursue your dreams. You charge headlong into a mêlée with some wild native beast and save dozens of lives.”

“You make me sound like a song come to life. I’ve never tried to do more than survive, and if I have gifts, shouldn’t I use them to help others in need?”

“Yes, of course, but how many would do the same?” Lord Revellion’s eyes were bright with passion, focused on her as if they had the walkway to themselves. “You gave no thought to the danger, or of the petty injustice my peers would visit on you for trespassing, or for wielding magic you were born to, as if you needed the permission of the crown. On the green you saw a need, and you acted. That’s courage.”

“What about you, my lord? You stood your ground when the beast attacked. If I am some brave heroine, you’re at least as much a hero.”

“You’d make a song of me, then?” he asked.

“Hah! I’m no singer.”

“Naturally you’d include your own role, of course. Except I think I’ve heard this one before: the son of the marquis and the roguish heroine. I’m certain they still sing it in some playhouses somewhere in the city.”

“You’ll have to take me to hear it played, before you head off to the south.”

The reminder soured the moment, and he came to a halt. “Sarine,” he began.

“Donatien,” she replied, cutting him short. “I understand.”

He winced. “That’s just it. Understanding. I thought I understood the arc of my life, too, before the night of the masquerade.”

“And now? Have I so disrupted the course of your future, my lord?” For all the roil in her stomach wanted it to be true, she didn’t dare embrace the possibility. Lords did not abdicate their titles for orphan girls from the Maw, no matter her idle fantasies.

“Now … now, you have given me a future. Without you I would be dead. Every breath I take is a gift from the Gods, and I won’t waste it pursuing empty designs on my father’s behalf.”

“Don’t I owe you the same, my lord?” she said. “Without you, I’d still be scratching the days on the walls of a cell.”

He took her arm, and they walked farther down the spiraling pathway through the park. “Just as well we came into each other’s lives then.”

“Truly though,” she pressed. “What would you do to change your future? I cannot imagine you running off to live in the Maw.”

“I wouldn’t last a day, is that it?”

She smiled, waiting for him to continue.

“All right, no, I couldn’t run away so easily. But why did my family become nobility in the first place? Long ago, some ancestor of mine was chosen to lead, to better the lives of our people. And what have we done with that trust? Anymore our noble families struggle only to preserve their position. People are starving, Sarine, starving while we feast. It is shameful.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“And the war,” he continued, “there must be more to our people’s lives than starving, dying for the ambitions of a few nobles. Word in the papers is there have been entire villages sacked, burned, and torched in the latest campaign, and thousands of refugees headed to the city, no matter we can hardly feed our citizens without them. So much suffering, for the pride of so few. Thousands die because we are too prideful to negotiate a peace.”

“You think it could be brought to an end?”

“Yes, if the people were empowered to govern their own interests.”

She eyed him askance, sweeping a look up and down the green to be certain none were close enough to hear. “That sounds like talk of égalité,” she said quietly. “Men have been hanged for less.”

He grit his teeth. “I cannot change what I was born to, but I can use my station to change the fate of others.”

“Like me.”

“Yes. Like you.” He walked a few more paces before he spoke again in a quiet voice. “Sarine, you’ve shown me the need for moving beyond comforts to action. There are those within this city who feel the same. I’ve tried to make contact with them since I awoke after the night of the masquerade.”

She maintained a tight grip on his arm as they walked. This was dangerous talk; she knew it as well as he did.

“Well, they’ve responded.” He took a deep breath. “A letter this morning, from the hand of a street child covered in dirt and dust. Tell me, if I invited you to attend a salon with me, to hear them out, to hear what they would plan, would you come with me?”

“Reyne d’Agarre,” she whispered.

Revellion’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know him?”

“Well enough to have received an invitation myself.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I met d’Agarre in the Market, and he came to the chapel. He’s responsible for my dresses. He gifted them to me so I’d have something suitable to wear into society.”

Revellion frowned. “I see,” he said in a tone that suggested anything but.

“It’s all right. As I said before, he’s a patron at best. It’s nothing like …” She trailed off, heat going to her cheeks as she realized what she’d been about to say.

“Nothing like …?” Revellion asked, a trace of mirth creeping back into his eyes.

She looked down. “Your pardon, my lord. I meant only—”

He cut her short with a gentle arm around the small of her back, drawing her into a long kiss beneath the shade of the trees on either side of the path.

“Ah,” she managed. “Yes. That.”

He smiled. “Sarine, would you honor me with your company at d’Agarre’s salon this evening?”

She must have nodded, judging from the look of relief and satisfaction on Donatien’s face. In her mind she weighed whether she was ready to step across the divide between idle conversation and accepting an invitation that marked the beginning of somewhat more. But there was curiosity, too, and on the walk back through the green, Lord Revellion’s proffered arm seemed to draw her closer than it had before.