Episode Eight:
A City Without Chocolate

Malinda Lo

 

All across the City, from the seamiest shadows of the river-wet docks to the elegant terraces of the Hill’s grandest mansions, apple blossoms in great white cascades are blooming. Snowy petals blushed with palest pink drift across the cobblestones of the Middle City, shedding their sweet fragrance in a promise of imminent summer. In a blink, it seems, the chill of early spring has turned into soft golden warmth, but the residents of the City have not appeared to notice. Instead of throwing off the last dregs of winter and turning their faces up to the sky and the sun, they huddle indoors, grouchy and dispirited, complaining about the lack of that most invigorating drink, chocolate.

For almost a month now—since shortly after the Duchess Tremontaine’s infamous ball to which the Kinwiinik chocolate Traders wore their jewel-toned feathers (which became instantly fashionable, even as the ball itself ended in a fiasco of epic proportions)—the stores of chocolate in the City have been dwindling. According to those in the know (most assume the news traveled from the Kinwiinik Traders to the Middle City chocolate-house owners to their increasingly irritable patrons), a long-awaited shipment was sunk in a storm, the ship lost at sea and the sailors, tragically, drowned. A new shipment is expected (the chocolate-house owners hasten to assure their patrons), but due to variable weather across the North Sea, no one knows precisely when it will arrive.

For Jeremiah Clarkson, owner of Clarkson’s, the Middle City’s finest chocolate emporium, this uncertainty has led to drastic measures. At first, he raised the price of chocolate, which had the desired effect for a brief period of time: fewer patrons paid more, which meant his income stream remained level and his supplies did not decline as quickly. But as the shortage dragged into a second week, and then a third, Clarkson resorted to watering down his chocolate and hoping that his patrons would not notice. Unfortunately, they did, and he was forced to reveal the truth of the matter: There was no more chocolate in the City for him to buy.

On this fine day, as Clarkson gazed gloomily into his empty stockroom before opening shop, he wondered for the first time how long he could manage to keep his business afloat. He would have to close if he couldn’t find a substitute for chocolate. He had heard that the nobles on the Hill had begun to drink something called vanilla cream instead of chocolate, but vanilla was so expensive he would have to find a cheaper substitute before he could sell it to his patrons. He had also heard that some intrepid University students had fermented a new brew made of crushed nuts, which they called amandyne and which they claimed recreated the flavor and stimulating effect of chocolate. The idea intrigued him. Clarkson resolved to take a trip to the University area, where he was friendly with one of the few chocolate shop owners—chocolate being a luxury to most students—to try some of this amandyne himself.

* * *

The Duchess Tremontaine lifted the porcelain cup from its saucer and took a particularly satisfying sip of bitter chocolate. It was the finest in the City, kept under lock and key by the cook, and was flavored with Kinwiinik spices that the duchess had personally requested from the Balam family. The cup was a beauty, too: one from a set of twelve given to Diane by her husband, each hand-painted with a different blooming rose. This one Diane especially loved because the thorns in the pink rose’s stem were rendered with such exquisite detail it seemed as if one could easily prick a finger when touching the cup itself.

The duchess set the cup back into its matching saucer, relishing the lingering taste of chocolate on her tongue, and glanced out the window. She always enjoyed the view from her private retreat at the highest point of Tremontaine House. Diane’s writing desk was situated so that she could look out the windows as she handled her private correspondence, providing her with a lofty vantage point suitable to her station and matched to her ambition. It was in this room that she had conceived of the plan that would finally engineer the outcome she desperately needed: The Balams would have their tariff relaxed, and she would receive her cut of their increased profit, thus mitigating the disaster of the Everfair. Her previous efforts with her husband and with Gregory, Lord Davenant, had not resulted in immediate success, but she was certain that this time would be different. None had ever dared to do what she had orchestrated, but she was not one to allow tradition to dictate her desires.

It was quite simple, in the end. The City loved chocolate, but the Balams controlled the entire supply. Diane had suggested that the Balams send their most trusted envoy to the private residence of the Dragon Chancellor with a message, dictated secretly by the duchess to appeal to Gregory’s ego. First, the Balams’ latest chocolate shipment had been tragically lost at sea; second, the Balams viewed this as an opportunity to renegotiate the terms of their trade with the City, in preparation for the imminent arrival of the next shipment. Diane had suspected that Gregory would be initially flummoxed by such a request—these things simply were not done—but if he wanted to keep his title of Dragon Chancellor, he would be highly motivated to make sure the City (and all the persnickety nobles on the Hill) continued to get their chocolate. In order to further persuade him, the temporary (albeit false) chocolate shortage would quickly demonstrate how much the City needed the Kinwiinik’s goods, not to mention their goodwill. If the City wanted to continue to enjoy chocolate, the Council simply had to acquiesce to the Balams’ entirely rational demands and address the tariff.

Initially, Ahchuleb of the Balams had been hesitant to do as she suggested, but Diane had a hunch that his wife—who had so elegantly put the Duke of Karleigh in his place after his insulting behavior at the Swan Ball—had seen the wisdom of Diane’s new plan. It had the added benefit of making the duchess and the Balams equal partners in this task, rather than keeping them beholden to Diane’s secret machinations. Yes, the duchess mused, equality—or at least the appearance of such, because she was certain that no envoy of theirs would have a chance of succeeding without her coaching—made a solid foundation for future profit.

Now she only needed to update the Balams on the latest developments. She picked up the pen and squared off the thin sheet of paper that she had ordered her swordsman, now also her personal agent, Reynald, to purchase for her from one of the Middle City stationers. It was not the thick, embossed stationery the duchess was accustomed to using for Tremontaine business, but that was deliberate. She began to write.

 

Dear Sir and Madam,

You may have already heard of the growing panic among those on the Hill regarding the recent decline in availability of that most precious of commodities, your own very fine chocolate. The shortage has traveled from the Middle City chocolate shops, whose sad owners I trust you are not finding too importunate, up the Hill, and into the drawing rooms of many of my noble friends, taking the matter from one of minor inconvenience to other mortals, to a perfect crisis among the City’s nobility.

The Dragon Chancellor, as I predicted, has not shared your envoy’s request with the other Councilors. I am certain this is because he is on the verge of presenting your request to the Council of Lords as his own idea. Given the deprivation that all the Councilors have been enduring of late, I believe they will be quite ready to follow the Dragon Chancellor’s direction, especially once rumors that I have leaked to the Merchants’ Confederation come to light. Neither the Council of Lords nor the Dragon Chancellor will wish to be unmasked as weaklings at your mercy (though they are), and I am certain your goods will shortly be welcomed back into the City under much more generous terms than in the past.

I thank you for your partnership in this endeavor, and I trust that my efforts to increase the popularity of vanilla have recompensed you at least a small amount for the short-term sacrifice you are making in chocolate profits.

I remain,

Your friend, who wishes you nothing but well.

 

Diane read over the letter several times before folding and sealing it with a plain wax stamp. Satisfied, she rang for the servant and asked her to send up Reynald.

The chocolate in her cup had gone cool while she wrote, but she drank the last few drops of it anyway. She enjoyed the slightly sandy texture on her tongue and thought of how far those tiny grains had traveled. She had been intrigued by the hints of distant lands that the Balam family had brought with them to her ball last month. Those feathers they had worn suggested birds of some size, with plumage of such brilliant colors. Several of the duchess’s friends had asked her if she knew how to acquire similar feathers for their summer hats, but Diane did not wish to trouble the Balams with such frivolous demands—at least, not while she and they were engaged in these particular business matters. Perhaps later, when this was all resolved and the Balams’ chocolate stores were once more opened to the City merchants, then Diane would acquire for herself a number of Kinwiinik feathers and wear them to great acclaim, perhaps at the theater.

The door opened, and the swordsman entered. “My lady,” Reynald said, bowing.

Diane picked up the sealed letter and held it out to him. “Have this delivered to the Trader Ahchuleb of the Balams in the Kinwiinik compound. Discreetly, mind you.”

“Of course, madam.” He crossed the room and took the letter from her, moving silently as a cat on the soft rug.

After he left, Diane moved to the window seat and opened the glass to the warm early summer air. Below, the Tremontaine gardens looked pristine, lush with newly budded foliage and swelling roses in pink and peach and crimson. The gardener had done an excellent job of maintaining the grounds, given the cost-cutting measures the duchess had implemented. Then again, labor was cheap, and there had been just the right amount of rain this year. The river was especially pretty today, the water sparkling beneath the warm sunlight. Diane watched a ship float decorously out of sight toward the merchants’ docks. She couldn’t make out the details of the flag, but it was not a Balam ship. All their ships, as agreed, were docked in port, awaiting her order to unload. Everything was proceeding according to plan, although she regretted that she had been forced to take this action. It would have been so much simpler if Lord Davenant had acquiesced to her wishes. It was a pity. He was a charming man, and she’d had quite a lovely time with him after the ball. Besides Davenant’s own talents, there was a certain novelty in being with a man other than her husband. For one thing, he was so much more eager than Tremontaine these days. Diane had not realized how much she missed that. Now that the Hill was so desperate for chocolate, Davenant would soon see how foolish he had been to deny Diane. And once he gave her what she wanted, she would be perfectly willing to give him what he wanted.

A fair trade, the duchess thought, especially when his desires lined up so neatly with her own.

* * *

Gregory, Lord Davenant, set down his cup of vanilla cream and pinched the bridge of his nose as the headache that had throbbed behind his eyes all morning swelled. He had drunk his last cup of chocolate the previous afternoon, and it had been comprised of the leavings at the bottom of the chocolate tin.

Across from him, his wife rattled her cup in its saucer and pleaded, “Are you sure you can’t speak to those Traders, Gregory? I’m certain they must have some chocolate hidden away that we could buy from them directly.”

He raised his bleary gaze to hers and said, “You shouldn’t worry yourself about this, Isabella.”

“But what am I to do this afternoon when my friends arrive? Am I to serve this vanilla cream?” She gestured to her cup, which contained the sweet, milky drink that someone on the Hill—she couldn’t remember who—had concocted out of desperation when their chocolate had run out. “It does nothing for conversation; it puts one to sleep!”

“Then serve some wine,” he snapped, pushing his seat back.

“A lady never drinks wine in the afternoon,” she said frostily.

He sighed. When had his wife become so insufferable? He couldn’t remember, but he blamed it on the chocolate shortage. Or, more accurately, he blamed it on the Duchess Tremontaine. Ever since their amorous evening after her ball, his appreciation of his own wife had plummeted. He was certain the chocolate shortage was making things worse, though. She disliked the vanilla cream, fine; he disliked it too. But she was the one who invited her friends over to “take chocolate,” even when there was none, so she should be the one to determine what to serve them.

“Well?” she prompted him. “What are you going to do about this chocolate shortage? You are the Dragon Chancellor, after all, and if even you cannot get me some chocolate, no one can. It makes us look like poverty-stricken wretches to not have any chocolate to serve. Have you tried Tremontaine? They must know how to get some. They know those Traders.”

Indeed they do, he thought bitterly. He said to his wife, “Tremontaine is of no use. He’s obsessed with the University and has no interest in trade. He barely even manages to attend any Council meetings.”

“I mean his wife,” Isabella said pertly. “We all know the duke is useless when it comes to business. The duchess is the one to ask. In fact, perhaps I should pay her a call—I want some of those feathers the Kinwiinik wore. They would be perfect with my gown this afternoon. Yes, I’ll—”

“No, no,” Gregory said hastily. The last thing he wanted was for the duchess to spend any time alone with his wife. “I’ll go. You’re right—it is my duty. I cannot allow the Davenant reputation to be tarnished by a lack of chocolate.”

Isabella clapped her hands like a little girl. “Thank you, my dear. I know you can find me chocolate. If you could bring some home before the ladies arrive this afternoon I would be ever so grateful.”

He gave her a thin smile. “Of course, Isabella. I will do my best.”

 

If there was one advantage to the chocolate shortage, it was that few of Rafe’s fellow students were alert enough to attend his oral examination. When Rafe—with Micah, Joshua, and Thaddeus in tow—arrived at Badrick Hall after gulping down a cup of disgusting amandyne, the seats were nearly empty. Typically, oral examinations were attended by a good number of fellow students, eager both to cheer on the scholar being examined and to be among the first to witness any spectacular intellectual mistakes. Legend had it that in the early days of the University, exams sometimes went on for as long as twenty-four hours, and at least one young scholar had failed to survive, felled by a deadly combination of lack of sleep and excessive use of stimulants.

But those days were long past. The University was now a civilized place, and many newly minted Fellows or Masters were launched into their careers by an exemplary performance during their oral exam. Rafe had long imagined that he would be one of those scholars, holding forth brilliantly on his theories of experimental natural philosophy, but the reality of the situation that confronted him was far less satisfying. Normally, oral exams were planned well in advance—a month or more, which left plenty of time to draw an audience—but Rafe had been given notice of his exam scarcely a week ago. Additionally, because of the short notice, only Badrick Hall had been available. It was one of the smallest and most out-of-the-way lecture halls at the University, with centuries-old benches that creaked when students so much as breathed on them and windows of dark stained glass depicting the eerie hunting of a horned figure whose long hair looped nooselike around his neck. The windows might have been of interest to some students in the School of History, but to Rafe all they did was block out most of the daylight, turning the interior into a gloomy pit of shadows that seemed to reflect the murky circumstances under which he had been granted the exam.

“At least there’s no trouble finding a seat,” Joshua said, his voice straining under false cheer.

“Is it usually crowded?” Micah asked.

“Well, it depends,” Joshua said diplomatically.

“On what?” Micah asked.

“Oh, you know, various variables,” Joshua said. “Look, there’s Matthew—shall we go? Best of luck, Rafe, we’ll be cheering for you!” Joshua clapped Rafe on the shoulder, nearly sending him sprawling on the steep, narrow stairs that led down past the tiered benches of the lecture hall.

Thaddeus, who seemed half asleep on his feet—a consequence of his chocolate-less state—mumbled something unintelligible and followed Joshua toward their classmate Matthew, who had claimed a seat in the center of the hall.

“You’d better sit with them,” Rafe said to Micah. “I have to go down there.” He pointed toward the front, where a long table was set on a low dais.

Micah looked worried. “Will you be all right?”

Rafe forced a smile. “Of course! And when I’m finished we’ll go out for some tomato pie to celebrate.” The thought of tomato pie seemed to cheer up Micah, but it made Rafe’s stomach squeeze ominously—and not because of hunger. He wasn’t sure if that amandyne had entirely agreed with him. As Micah turned along the row to join their friends, Rafe headed down the stairs. Facing the long oak table was a single, hard chair that was clearly meant for the examinee. The setting bore more than a passing resemblance to the Court of Honor as depicted in sketches sold at the market after a swordsman was called to answer for a questionable kill. As Rafe took his seat with his back to the audience, he felt distinctly as if he were about to be judged for a crime. And indeed, there was honor at stake here: the honor of Rafe’s intellectual convictions, dueling with hundreds of years of received wisdom that he was convinced was nothing more than myth papered over with empty scholarly words.

Two of Rafe’s three examiners were already seated at the oak table facing him: ruddy-faced Chauncey, whose bald pate gleamed despite the dim light; and gray-haired Featherstone, whose yellow-sleeved robe bore the unmistakable traces of egg yolk spilled down the front. The third examiner arrived shortly after Rafe took his seat. Rafe heard the man’s labored breathing as he descended the stairs, a cane thumping alongside him. As the elderly man slid with a grunt into the empty chair at the table, Rafe recognized him. It was Doctor Archibald Lyttle, who had given a series of lectures on eclipses of the moon during Rafe’s first year at the University. Lyttle’s theories had been widely dismissed as the fancies of a man nearing senility, and he had retired shortly afterward. Apparently he had come out of retirement, at least temporarily.

“Now that we are all here, we can begin,” Chauncey said, shuffling his papers in front of him. “This is the oral examination for Rafe Fenton, who wishes to be considered a Master of Natural Science. Doctor Theodorick de Bertel, who was originally scheduled to take part in this examination, has been taken ill. Normally we would await his recovery, but the University board has insisted that we find a replacement, and we are grateful to Doctor Lyttle for stepping in.”

Chauncey’s explanation made Rafe suspicious. It was all a little too facile, and Rafe wondered if the Duke Tremontaine had had something to do with this. Will had been unusually ebullient when they had last parted, assuring Rafe with a curious degree of certainty that the exam would go very well. At the time, Rafe had allowed himself to believe that Will simply was confident in Rafe’s intellect, but now a worm of doubt began to worry its way into Rafe’s already queasy belly.

Chauncey squinted through the Badrick Hall gloom at Rafe. “Do you, Rafe Fenton, hereby declare your fitness to be examined as to your knowledge of the natural philosophy, so that you may represent the University as a Master of your field?”

Here was his chance to call Lyttle’s presence into question, but Rafe couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had waited too long, struggled against too many obstacles—his parents, who never supported his scholarly pursuits; de Bertel and all those other pompous magisters who comforted themselves with lies; even the Duchess Tremontaine, who took every opportunity to insult him. No, whether Will had orchestrated this committee or not, this was Rafe’s one chance to attain his Mastership. Once this was behind him, the way would be open for him to found his school. He sat up straighter in the hard-backed chair and replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Very well. We shall begin with a general overview,” said Chauncey. “Please explain the intellectual history of the natural sciences, beginning with the earliest theories put forth at this University, and proceeding through their various and sundry arguments, rebuttals, and the like, to our present-day status.”

Rafe knew the answer to this question inside out; it was simply a basic reiteration of the standard scholarship from Rastin through Chickering. He launched into his response with no hesitation, ignoring the growing discomfort in his stomach. He shouldn’t have drunk that amandyne Joshua had thrust upon him; it was certainly no substitute for chocolate. He didn’t feel any more awake; he only felt increasingly ill.

The follow-up questions posed by the committee were suspiciously simple, though toward midmorning Chauncey did begin to veer into disputed territory. He asked Rafe to explain the central thesis of Chesney’s Observations on the Nature of Heaviness and Lightness and the influence of the work on current theories. This led to a lengthy exegesis on the part of Lyttle about the orbit of the moon, which had nothing to do with anything but allowed him to espouse his ridiculous theory of eclipses yet again.

As Lyttle prattled on, a clammy sweat broke out on Rafe’s back that he was certain was due to the amandyne rather than the exam. What was in that drink, anyway? He had purchased it near the University square at Olivey’s Chocolate House, which had run out of chocolate two days ago. There had been a sour edge to the drink that reminded him slightly of the way the Balams had served their chocolate at the banquet for Kaab, but the Balam chocolate (the thought of it alone shot a pang of yearning straight through him, despite his upset stomach) had not had this effect.

“Fenton, what is your opinion on this?” Chauncey barked.

Rafe blinked; he had fallen into a sweaty stupor as Lyttle and Chauncey argued over some notion about tides. He was forced to say, “I’m sorry, sir, can you repeat the question?”

Chauncey looked grim. “What is your opinion of Chickering’s theory that the earth is not fixed in place?”

Rafe felt excessively hot all over, and he had to resist the urge to clutch his stomach. This question could surely end his academic dreams if he didn’t answer it correctly. Chauncey was probably the only magister in the College of Natural Science to secretly support Rafe’s view of experimental science, but would he support Rafe in public? You tend to ruin things for yourself, Joshua had told him. Rafe took a deep breath and swallowed the acidic dregs of amandyne that had risen ominously in his throat, determined for once not to ruin things.

* * *

Jeremiah Clarkson arrived at Olivey’s Chocolate House to find a sign had been tacked over the front door. It read:

 

now serving amandyne!

better than chocolate

 

Inside, the usually bustling chocolate house was nearly empty; only a few University students were slouched over books by the front window, cups of chalky liquid at their elbows. Duncan Olivey himself presided gloomily over the bar at the rear of the shop, where on happier days he would have been serving hot chocolate mixed with cream and sugar to eager patrons. Today the chocolate pots were empty, and the shop had a sour smell.

Clarkson walked through the quiet room toward the bar. “Duncan, what’s this amandyne business?” he asked.

Duncan, who had stopped drinking the amandyne himself because it disagreed with his stomach, said, “Have you come here to steal what tiny bit of business I have left?”

“Is it that bad?”

“You made your chocolate last two days longer than I did.”

Clarkson sighed. “Well, at least you’ve got this stuff here.” He gestured to the pitcher of amandyne on the bar. “Can I try it?”

Duncan poured a small sample into a cup and slid it over. Clarkson raised the liquid to his nose and took a sniff. He realized that the sour odor that permeated Olivey’s establishment came from this amandyne. Clarkson took a reluctant sip. The drink’s color resembled milk, but it tasted nothing like it. It was faintly nutty, lukewarm, and had been sweetened with honey. It had the same slightly grainy texture as chocolate, but that was where the comparison ended.

“What do you think?” Duncan asked.

“Well, it’s not very good, is it?” Clarkson said.

Duncan sighed. “It’s the best I can do. The stuff is horrible.” He eyed the University students, who were paying no attention to the two older men at the rear of the shop. “And between you and me, it makes people sick if they drink too much. I don’t think it’s going to save us.”

Clarkson set down the cup of amandyne and frowned. “I was hoping this might be an option.”

Duncan leaned closer to Clarkson and said in a low voice, “I’ve heard that this whole chocolate shortage is a lie.”

“What?”

“Someone—I can’t say who—informed me that the Kinwiinik have plenty in stock, but aren’t selling it to our dealers.”

“Why not? This is a disaster!”

“Hill politics,” Duncan said cryptically.

“Who told you this?” Clarkson pressed. Duncan was a friend, but he also had a tendency to dramatize.

“If you want the information, you’ll support our petition to the Dragon Chancellor,” Duncan said. “The Council’s hiding something. We want him to tell us the truth about the chocolate supply.”

Clarkson had been a member of the Merchants’ Confederation ever since he opened his chocolate house a dozen years ago, but he had never involved himself in the Confederation’s backroom dealings with the Council. Perhaps now was the time. He extended his hand to Duncan. “All right, I’m in. Now tell me what’s going on.”

Duncan leaned forward and muttered, “The Confederation has a contact who saw a Kinwiinik warehouse that’s completely full of chocolate.”

* * *

Accounting had never been one of Kaab’s favorite aspects of a life in the Traders’ service, but checking shipping records was less arduous when accomplished outside in the courtyard beneath a blue sky. The steady burbling of the waterfall accompanied by the occasional twittering of the green-and-yellow-feathered birds that had alighted in the gum trees made the courtyard especially beautiful at this time of year. If Kaab closed her eyes while the sun warmed her dark hair, she could easily believe that she had been transported back home. She had done that often when she first arrived in the City, but as the weeks passed, she had grown to develop a surprising fondness for this backwater trading post . . . and the people who lived here.

Her thoughts flew to Tess (as they did more and more lately), ink brush in hand as she bent over her work, a few stray locks of fiery hair curling down her neck. It was only a couple of days since Kaab had last called on Tess, but it already felt like too long. The memory of her last visit brought a smile to Kaab’s lips and a warm flush to her skin. She would return to Riverside today, Kaab decided, and she would bring Tess a special gift.

“Ixkaab, the next statement?” Uncle Chuleb said.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Kaab said, wrenching herself back to the present. Her uncle had spread out the most recent shipping manifests on the reed mat, and it was Kaab’s task to read the appropriate quantities out loud so he could note them down in the accounting book, where he would total everything they had in stock. Currently they were dealing with an excess of supply due to their agreement with the Duchess Tremontaine. They had learned that morning that some Local merchants suspected the Balam were holding back chocolate, which meant that Kaab’s next duty would be to make sure the warehouse was secure against theft and gossip. Their warehouse manager was a loyal Kinwiinik and would not betray any Balam secrets, but that didn’t mean other workers, particularly the Xanamwiinik hired on locally, might not talk. And there was a lot of chocolate to hide.

A servant emerged from the arcade near the front of the house and crossed the sun-drenched courtyard, bearing a plain white letter that he presented, with a bow, to Chuleb. He glanced at it absently and then again more sharply. “Who brought this?” he asked the servant.

“A boy, sir, likely hired on the street by someone else.”

“Is he still here?”

“We paid him and he left, sir. Should I send someone after him?”

“No, that’s all right.” Uncle Chuleb set his brush down upon the tray at his elbow and unsealed the letter. Kaab watched as he scanned the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“What is it, Uncle?” she asked.

He handed it to her without explanation, and while she began to read the fine handwriting, he asked the servant to find Aunt Saabim. There was no signature at the end of the letter, but clearly it was from the Duchess Tremontaine.

Aunt Saabim arrived shortly, walking a bit more slowly now that she was approaching the middle of her pregnancy. “What is it, my love?” she asked with concern. Uncle Chuleb acquired a stool for her, and she sat down beside Kaab near the accounting books.

Kaab handed the letter to her aunt. “News from the Hill,” Kaab explained.

After reading, Saabim said, “The duchess is a bold woman. If this letter had fallen into the wrong hands . . .”

Kaab nodded. “She is quite confident that it would not.”

Aunt Saabim scrutinized the letter again. “The way she drops in the revelation that she is behind the rumors circulating among the merchants is artful. That was certainly not in our original agreement.”

“The woman is a serpent,” Uncle Chuleb declared. “Why are we trusting her?”

Aunt Saabim said thoughtfully, “She is making a statement to us. She is telling us that the matter is under her control. That the City is under her control. She is trying to show that she has the upper hand.”

Kaab said nothing, but she privately thought it showed the duchess’s weakness: a need to be perceived as powerful. In truth, the upper hand belonged to the Balam. They controlled the chocolate; the duchess did not. And their generosity in the past in agreeing to pay the tariff had been a display of their strength as well as a gesture of goodwill to the City, one of their newest trading ports. The most recent news from home, though, made it advisable for them to increase their profits. The duchess’s plan, if it worked, would benefit the Balam in more ways than one.

“She had better deliver on her promises soon, because we’re losing money every day we keep our goods locked up,” Chuleb said. “Thanks be to Chaacmul that at least we can sell a little more vanilla during this charade.”

“Do you believe she’ll manage to get the tariff adjustments through?” Kaab asked. “She seems quite cocky in that letter, especially considering the debacle at her ball.”

“The ball fell apart, but it wasn’t her fault,” Aunt Saabim pointed out.

“No, it was the fault of that stinking calabash of a man, Kar . . . Kar . . . whatever his name was,” Uncle Chuleb muttered.

“The Duke of Karleigh,” Kaab said, smothering a grin.

“What does your friend Rafe think?” Aunt Saabim asked. “He must know her better now that he is working for the duke.”

Kaab thought back to the last time she had seen Rafe. He had been frantically preparing for his examination and hadn’t seemed to have much time or inclination to consider the duchess. “I know he does not like her, but his dislike stems from . . . personal reasons.” Kaab had never told her aunt and uncle about Rafe’s affair with the Duke Tremontaine because she wasn’t the kind of person to gossip, and it didn’t seem particularly relevant. “Rafe probably has little opinion of her at all. He’s not so attuned to, well, women in general.”

Aunt Saabim smiled a sly smile that made Kaab wonder if she already knew about Rafe and the duke. Her aunt said, “But you are, my little bee?”

Kaab reddened. “No more than any Balam who has dedicated her life to the service of the family.”

Uncle Chuleb snorted but did not mention her affair in Tultenco.

Aunt Saabim said, “I can see that you have many unspoken thoughts about the duchess. Why do you question her ability to deliver on her promise?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe she can do it. It’s that there’s something about her that I can’t quite understand. It’s as if she wears a shell around her all the time, hiding something beneath.”

“She’s hiding the crumbling Tremontaine fortune,” Uncle Chuleb said. “And doing quite well, I might add.”

“Yes, but it’s more than that. She’s hiding something personal, something that is dangerous to herself and possibly to Tremontaine.” Kaab hadn’t yet told her aunt and uncle about Ben Hawke’s death, but now she explained that at the ball she had glimpsed a locket on the duchess’s wrist—a locket that had likely been the cause of a man’s death.

“How do you know this man Ben?” Aunt Saabim asked. “What are you getting yourself involved in?”

“It’s nothing, Auntie,” Kaab assured her hastily. “Vincent Applethorpe knew him.” Her aunt and uncle had approved of her training with Applethorpe because it expanded the repertoire of skills she might use in the service.

“How is Applethorpe involved in this?” The tone of Aunt Saabim’s voice suggested that she was aware that Kaab was not telling the whole truth.

“Applethorpe is the designated protector of Tess Hocking, a woman in Riverside. Ben used to be her protector, so Applethorpe is naturally concerned with how Ben died.”

“And who is Tess Hocking?” Aunt Saabim pressed.

“She is . . . an artist,” Kaab hedged. Aunt Saabim looked suspicious and opened her mouth to ask yet another question. Rather than allow herself to be cornered into revealing Tess’s counterfeiting skills, which would open the door to the issue of why Kaab had developed this acquaintance with a forger, Kaab blurted out, “I am in love with her!”

Aunt Saabim raised a hand to her heart and her eyes to the sky. “Ixchel help us—it has happened again!”

“It’s not like that. It’s different this time,” Kaab insisted, feeling her face grow warm.

Uncle Chuleb broke into a rolling laugh. “This time! This time!”

Aunt Saabim shook her head at Kaab, but she was smiling. “Now it all begins to make sense—this sword-fighting business and your trips to Riverside—they’re all for this woman? Tell me more about this artist who has stolen your heart, little bee.”

Somehow when Aunt Saabim spoke of these things it made Kaab feel like an inexperienced child rather than the grown woman she was. “Tess is very talented,” Kaab said stiffly.

“Talented!” Uncle Chuleb chortled.

Kaab gave him a dark look, which only sent him into a fresh spasm.

Aunt Saabim patted him on the thigh. “There, there, my love, we mustn’t tease our little bee so much. We are embarrassing her.”

Kaab turned her attention back to the shipping manifests, lining up their edges as neatly as Tess would arrange a stack of fine paper on her desk. “Shall we get back to work?” Kaab said.

Uncle Chuleb choked down another guffaw but obliged her by picking up his brush.

Aunt Saabim set the letter from the Duchess Tremontaine on the reed mat. “All right, Ixkaab, we will stop pestering you about this young woman. But have we concluded our discussion about the duchess?”

“As much as I don’t want to trust her, I think we should continue with the plan,” Uncle Chuleb said. “We’ll know soon enough if she is able to fulfill her promises to us.”

“Agreed,” Kaab said.

“Perhaps that piece of jewelry you saw, the locket she wore at the ball, is tied up with the Tremontaine fortune, little bee,” Aunt Saabim mused. “She may have been pawning her jewels to pay a debt, as her financial situation is insecure, and that man Ben charged her more interest than she could afford.”

Kaab did not tell her aunt that Ben had not been a pawnbroker, or that she had spent the past few weeks combing the City in search of his former clients in an altogether different business, hoping to find something that linked him to Tremontaine. Nor did she tell her aunt that all she had found were dead ends. Ben had entered the bedrooms of a few select noblemen’s houses on the Hill, but none of them had anything to do with the duchess. Kaab had concluded that the next logical step was to abandon her investigation into Ben’s life and to begin looking into the woman who wore the locket that may have caused his death.

Kaab did not reveal any of these plans to her aunt and uncle. Instead she said demurely, “You are probably right, Aunt Saabim. It’s always about money.”

 

The duchess was delightfully absorbed in a novel chronicling the scandalous adventures of a particularly devious lady of high fashion when there was a knock at her door. Diane closed her novel over a finger to mark her place and called, “Enter!”

Once again, it was the swordsman, Reynald. He bowed to her and held out a sealed note. “My lady, a message for you from Lord Davenant.”

She set down her novel, took the note, and glanced at the seal—it was plain, not the Davenant crest. “Since you have delivered this yourself rather than passing it on to Tilson, I gather you have some further information for me?”

Reynald nodded. “When I was at Davenant House, an embassage arrived from the Merchants’ Confederation. They delivered a petition to the Dragon Chancellor, demanding a full report on the chocolate shortage. Apparently, the merchants believe that the Council is lying about it. They say they have knowledge of the matter from a chocolate dealer.”

“Do they indeed?” she said coolly. “How did Lord Davenant respond?”

“He kept me waiting for this, while he dictated notes to the other chancellors, madam.” The swordsman sounded impatient at being forced into the role of courier.

“I see.” Diane ran her fingers over the fine, thick paper on which Lord Davenant had doubtless written yet another declaration of his passion for her. She looked at Reynald, who was, like Lord Davenant, a man—and thus in possession of an ego that required tending. “I would like to know which dealer is behind these rumors. Can you find that out for me?”

Had he been a peacock he would have spread his feathers in pride. “Of course, madam,” Reynald said instantly. “I will return to the Kinwiinik district and discover him.”

“Good.” She knew that he would not find anyone, but it would keep him occupied. He might even discover something she didn’t already know.

“Would you like me to silence this person, madam?” he asked eagerly.

“I simply wish to know his identity. Can you not ascertain that from a living man?” she said. Reynald had become far too bloodthirsty lately; she couldn’t allow him to develop the habit of assuming she wished him to murder everyone.

“Of course, my lady,” he said quickly.

“Then go.”

“Yes, my lady.”

After Reynald departed, Diane unsealed the note. She had written to Davenant just that morning, and she had not expected a response so soon. His handwriting was hasty, sprawling across the thick paper, and his signature was messier than usual—owing, no doubt, to his distress over the merchants’ petition. She read the brief message with a smile curling the corner of her lips. He begged to see her. He was unable to contain his longing for her. What a dear.

She folded the note and placed it in the back of her novel. She would respond, but she had left the heroine, Lady Genevieve, in quite a prickly situation at the theater, and she wished to know how it would turn out. By the end of the chapter, Lady Genevieve had taken control of the situation expertly (as Diane expected), and Diane had decided upon a course of action. She pulled a piece of Tremontaine-crested stationery from her desk and picked up a pen.

My dear Gregory, she wrote, and licked the quill with the tip of her tongue.

 

The Inkpot, generally a crowded and convivial gathering place for University students in search of cheap beer, decent tomato pie, and the kind of whisky so raw it tastes nearly combustible, was less lively than usual on this early summer afternoon, but not because the students had taken to the outdoors. When Rafe and his fellow students arrived at the Inkpot after his excruciating six-hour oral examination, they found a room full of sleepy scholars getting sleepier as they drank beers to chase away the lingering, indigestion-inducing taste of amandyne.

“The stuff is disgusting,” said one young student who looked rather pale and sweaty, as if he had developed a winter fever.

“I’ve heard there’s something better over at Kettlesworth Hall,” said another.

“You mean in the Alchemy department?”

“Yes, you smoke it.”

One student left in search of this latest mythical chocolate substitute, another slumped over in a snore, and Rafe started in on his third beer in a quarter of an hour, bought by his fellow College of Natural Science classmates who trickled in to congratulate him on becoming a Master.

“I nearly thought he was a goner when he started in on Chickering,” said Joshua.

“Good on you for standing up for experimentation!” said one student, shaking Rafe’s hand vigorously.

“How in the Seven Hells did you get Lyttle out of retirement?” asked another.

“Good thing you did—can you imagine de Bertel’s objections?”

A round of laughter followed, while Micah said in his high-pitched voice, “Does this mean you’re finished with the University?”

“I think so,” Rafe said, still a bit stunned by the course of the day’s events. He was a Master now! Why didn’t he feel more triumphant? In fact, why did he feel as if he were about to walk off a plank into shark-infested waters?

“What will you do?” Micah sounded anxious.

Rafe shoved the panic-inducing thoughts aside. “Currently my only plan is to get roaring drunk,” he said.

The door to the Inkpot flew open, and Thaddeus appeared, his eyes overly bright. “It’s here!” he cried loudly, drawing the gaze of every patron in the Inkpot. “The white coat! Ah, there it is, such a creature!”

Joshua stood up. “Thaddeus, what in the Seven Hells is wrong with you?”

Thaddeus spotted their group gathered around the wooden table in the front window and broke into a beatific smile. “It is glorious!” he declared, and lurched across the floor toward them.

Rafe nearly fainted when he saw the man who had been hidden behind Thaddeus in the doorway.

“Will,” he said, almost to himself. Then, pushing his chair back hastily and standing on unsteady feet, he cried, “My lord! What are you doing here?”

The Duke Tremontaine glanced around the dingy, low-ceilinged establishment, favored haunt of many a University scholar, until his blue eyes alighted on the young man swaying beside a slight boy and a table full of remnants of tomato pie. “Rafe!” William called, and made his way through the tavern.

“What are you doing here?” Rafe hissed again in shock.

“I have heard that this is where newly minted Masters celebrate their success,” Will said, smiling.

Rafe gaped at him for a moment. “You heard—how did you know?”

“The University informed me, of course,” Will said. “May I join you?”

Behind them, Thaddeus cried, “The beard! It’s so lovely.”

Rafe winced. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

“I wish to absorb the atmosphere of intellectual curiosity,” Will said warmly. “Let me buy you a beer, eh?”

“What is wrong with Thaddeus?” Micah was asking.

Joshua answered, “I don’t know. He’s seeing something that isn’t there.”

Rafe glanced from the duke, who was dressed far too splendidly for the Inkpot, to his inebriated classmates, to Micah. He had the distinct feeling that this could be a disaster, but the fact that Will had come to the Inkpot on his own was . . . well, Rafe’s heart was beating a bit faster than usual. He pulled a chair away from an empty table and set it beside his own. “Please,” Rafe said.

The duke insisted on buying a round of beers for everyone. Rafe was thus forced to introduce him, officially, to his friends, who all (except Micah) gaped at the duke as if he wore an exotic Kinwiinik feather headdress. Rafe tried to avoid remembering the fact that Joshua and Thaddeus had heard the duke many times before, due to the cramped nature of their rooms.

Micah told him brightly, “I was at your house for the ball.”

Will gave the slight boy a puzzled look. “You were?”

Rafe said quickly, “Micah here is a brilliant mathematician. You know that theory I was telling you about? Micah is helping me develop it. Micah, tell the duke about the artificial numbers.”

“Oh, do you want to hear about them?” Micah said eagerly.

“Indeed I do,” the duke replied.

Micah launched into an explanation, and Rafe hoped that Will would forget what Micah had said about the ball. Meanwhile, beside him Thaddeus continued to stare dreamily at something that no one else could see. Rafe whispered to Joshua, “What happened to him?”

“He went to see Clarence,” Joshua said, eyeing the Duke Tremontaine nervously.

“Of Alchemy?”

“Yes.”

Thaddeus suddenly turned to them and said, “You are both talking about me; I know it! And you don’t understand—the leaf we smoked is a miracle—I see things now so clearly that I have never seen before!”

“What do you see, Thaddeus?” Rafe asked.

“It’s beautiful,” Thaddeus gushed. “Look over there—perhaps you will be able to see it—you are more open-minded than the rest of them.”

Rafe decided to humor him. “I only see some other University students.”

“He’s a wily creature,” Thaddeus said. “The coat on him—white as snow, fine as—as a lady’s face powder!”

“And how are you familiar with ladies’ face powder?” Joshua asked.

Thaddeus paid no attention to Joshua, continuing to describe the creature in rapturous tones so piercing that everyone at the table, including Micah and William, turned to stare.

“Er, is your friend quite all right?” Will asked Rafe.

“Pay no attention to him,” Rafe said. “Did Micah tell you about the star charts?”

“Yes, it’s all extremely exciting,” Will responded enthusiastically.

Micah was studying Thaddeus, who was gesticulating wildly and declaring that no one believed him. “Thaddeus, tell me again—this thing you’re seeing has white fur and a beard?” Micah questioned.

“Yes, yes! Can you see it? And the coat is so wonderful!”

“Like snow and powder, I remember,” Micah said. “But tell me what else is it wearing?”

“Wearing? It’s not wearing clothes.”

“But the coat?”

Thaddeus blinked slowly, his gaze shifting to Micah’s curious face. “Aha!” Thaddeus exclaimed. “No, no, this isn’t a human being. You really can’t see it at all, can you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Micah said.

Thaddeus looked disappointed. He turned to Rafe. “Can you see it?”

Rafe grimaced. “Thaddeus, I think you might need to go home and sleep this off.”

“Sleep! No! Oh, look—it’s coming closer.” Thaddeus scooted his chair back and his eyes followed the invisible creature as it apparently crossed the Inkpot. As Joshua buried his face in his hands, Thaddeus reached one hand out as if to stroke something in midair.

“Oh for the Land’s sake, will you stop that?” Rafe snapped, hoping that Will didn’t think all his friends were insane.

Thaddeus did not respond, but continued to stroke the invisible creature.

“What is it?” Will asked.

“It appears to be approximately five feet tall, with a white coat and a beard, and it’s not a human being so I assume it’s an animal,” Micah said helpfully.

Joshua, face still hidden behind his hands, said flatly, “Haven’t you guessed yet? It’s a unicorn. He’s seeing unicorns.”

Rafe burst into laughter, barely managing to avoid choking on his beer. “What was in that pipe he smoked?” he asked.

“You’ll have to ask Clarence,” Joshua said.

Micah’s eyebrows were furrowed. “But there are no such things as unicorns. I know that because I’ve heard of them, but my aunt told me that they are only stories.” Suddenly Micah’s eyes brightened, and he tugged on Thaddeus’s sleeve. “Thaddeus, perhaps you’re mistaken. Perhaps you’re seeing a goat! A white goat. I think that in some cases goats were mistaken for unicorns.”

Thaddeus slowly turned to look at Micah, blinking as if he were coming out of a daze. “A goat?” he mused. He glanced back at the invisible creature, which seemed to be situated in approximately the same location as the Duke Tremontaine. “I . . . are you a goat?”

Everyone at the table except for Thaddeus and Micah froze in horror.

Will blinked. “I’m sorry, young man. Are you addressing me?”

Thaddeus’s face had begun to turn an unhealthy shade of green, and as William looked at him with concern, Thaddeus pressed his hands over his stomach. “I’m—I’m not feeling —” He jumped up and bolted from the table, clutching his belly. He barely made it outside before he doubled over in the doorway, throwing up in the street.

“Er, well, shall I buy another round?” said the duke delicately.

Rafe winced.

 

The Kinwiinik warehouses were nestled between the docks and the Middle City in the Traders’ district, a long but easy downhill walk from Tremontaine House. Reynald was aware of about half a dozen warehouses, but he wasn’t about to knock on their front doors and ask for information. He would get the lay of the land first, watching for who went where.

He decided to start at the largest warehouse, one of several managed by the Balam family. He found a convenient vantage point across the street in a shady square where children were playing around a water pump. The pump also provided cover in the form of a crowd, because it brought many Kinwiinik to the area seeking both water and community gossip. Reynald settled into a corner beneath a gum tree that peeked over the wall of a family compound and pretended to fall asleep.

He had been watching for some time before he saw a figure he recognized approach the warehouse and enter. It was the Kinwiinik girl who had fought off all those men in Riverside and then shown up at the duchess’s ball with her family. Definitely a person of interest. The girl left the warehouse an hour or so later carrying a leather bag over one shoulder, and Reynald followed. She proceeded down the street and around the corner, where she disappeared—damn her—right into the Balam compound. He was about to find another place to wait when he saw someone he knew slipping into an alley across the street.

Reynald approached the alley, hand on his sword. “Aldwin?” he said in a low voice.

A beat of silence, and then the Galing house swordsman stepped out of the shadows. “What are you doing here, Reynald?”

Reynald spat on the cobblestones. “None of your business. What are you doing here?”

Aldwin gave him a dark look. “I’d wager I’m doing the same thing you’re doing.”

Aldwin was a good swordsman, but word had it that the Crescent Chancellor had been ordering him to take on other tasks recently, the kind of tasks that Reynald was so very skilled at. “As a matter of swordsman’s courtesy,” Reynald said, “I’ll tell if you’ll tell.”

Aldwin shifted on his feet and gave a short laugh. “Very well. I’ll play, but you first.”

Reynald gestured toward the Balam compound. “I’m following that girl.”

Aldwin nodded. “I’ve been following her too.”

“Why?”

“She was poking around my lord’s house, asking after a whore who used to visit him.”

Reynald could almost feel the pieces clicking into place. “Which whore? Galing had a number of them.”

Aldwin gave him a cruel grin. “He did. This one died recently. Name of Ben.”

Reynald’s teeth clenched. “This Kinwiinik girl’s been sniffing around about Ben?”

“I think so. Talked to Titus about it too—you know, Karleigh’s swordsman. The Kinwiinik girl was also at their place looking for Ben.”

Reynald glanced over his shoulder at the Balam compound. No movement there, and if she had left, he was certain that Aldwin would have noticed. “Mind if I join you?” Reynald asked, stepping into the alley.

“If I mind, will that stop you?”

Reynald bared his teeth at the other swordsman.

Aldwin grunted. “Didn’t think so. Just don’t get in my way.”

The two swordsmen leaned against opposite walls in the alley, adjusted their weapons and their expressions, and prepared to wait for Ixkaab Balam to appear.

 

The window of Tess’s Riverside studio was open to the warm, sunny day, and as Kaab approached the building she caught a glimpse of Tess inside, her face turned down to her work. She was worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and as a curl of red hair fell over her eyes, she brushed it back with impatient, ink-stained fingers. It had been over a month since they had first kissed, and in the weeks since then Kaab had learned exactly how much she enjoyed kissing the spark-eyed, red-haired beauty. She had been in no rush to turn their kisses into anything more, because Tess had clearly been mourning Ben’s death, but given the state in which she had last left Tess—rather breathlessly, she recalled with a grin—Kaab was certain that the moment for more had arrived. And Kaab, who prided herself on many things, but most especially her attentiveness to feminine desires, was determined to do this the right way.

“Tess!” Kaab called from beneath the window.

Tess looked up in surprise, then leaned out the window with a smile lighting up her face. “Kaab! I didn’t expect you today.”

“I’ve brought you something,” Kaab called, gesturing to a large leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

“I’ll be right there.”

A few moments later the front door opened to reveal Tess in a simple blue dress with a white smock, the sleeves pushed up to reveal her dimpled wrists. Her coppery hair was coming loose from its knot, and her face was a bit flushed as she asked, “What have you brought me, Kaab?”

“A special gift from my homeland. May I come inside and prepare it for you?”

“Is it chocolate?” Tess asked with a sly grin. “I’ve heard it’s in high demand these days.”

Kaab raised a finger to her lips conspiratorially. “I know nothing about such a demand, but it would be best if we not discuss it in public.”

Tess laughed and opened the door wider, gesturing up the stairs. “Come inside.”

Kaab enjoyed the whiff of scent she caught as she passed Tess in the entryway: sweet roses combined with the sharper smell of ink. At the top of the stairs, Kaab noticed that the door to Vincent Applethorpe’s rooms was cracked open. “Where is your protector today?” Kaab asked, proceeding into the large room that Tess used as her studio. She deposited her bag onto a wooden chair with legs carved like those of a lion.

“He wouldn’t tell me, but he’s been out all morning,” Tess said. She went to her worktable, which was covered with neat stacks of paper and fabric, bottles of ink and brushes lined up at the ready. “Let me clear some space for you.”

“What are you working on?” Kaab asked.

“Oh, I couldn’t say,” Tess replied with a wink. “But if you have another job for me, do let me know.”

“Not at the moment, but it’s always a possibility.”

“Then you’re not here on business?”

“No,” Kaab said, and Tess met her eyes briefly and blushed. “I hope I’m not interrupting an important task?”

“Depends on what you’re interrupting me for,” Tess said.

Kaab wanted to kiss her right away, but she restrained herself for the moment and opened the bag on the chair. “I wanted to bring you the drink of the gods.”

Tess came closer and watched curiously as Kaab laid out the tools of her trade. Two elegant, tall wooden vessels, decorated with painted and carved rims that depicted the task ahead of her. A wide, shallow bowl similarly decorated. A long, wooden instrument with several turning wheels, like a series of carved flowers stacked upon each other.

“What is that?” Tess asked, leaning over the table to touch the wheels of the instrument.

“It’s a molinillo—I’m not sure what you would call it in your language. It will beat the liquid into a foam.” Kaab demonstrated by picking up the molinillo and holding it vertically between her palms, spinning it to cause the wheels to turn.

“I guess you could call it a whisk, but I’ve never seen a whisk like that.”

Kaab also removed several brown-paper packages, a tiny jar of honey, and a grater. “This is the chocolate,” Kaab said, unwrapping one of the packages to reveal a circular tablet the color of dark earth.

“This is what everyone is so upset about up on the Hill?” Tess asked.

“Yes.” Kaab broke off a small piece to release the aroma. “It smells of home,” Kaab said, handing it to Tess, who held it up to her nose.

“Mmm,” Tess said appreciatively. “That does smell amazing. Do you eat it?”

Kaab took the piece back, laughing. “No, no. It is a drink. There are many ways to prepare it, but today I will make it for you in a special way to honor the goddess Ixcacao and to invite blessings into your home.”

The preparation of chocolate in this manner was a performance that required finesse and concentration, intended to show off both the vigor of the woman who made it and the vitality of the chocolate itself. It was much more involved than the preparation the Balams had served to their Local guests at the banquet to welcome Kaab to the City, and it required a number of specific and rare ingredients that Kaab had secretly taken from her uncle’s private stores. The dried, dark red petals of the hand flower, for sweetness, which she would supplement for Tess’s Xanamwiinik palate with a bit of honey. Long, thin cylinders of the pepper flower for a spicy bite. Tiny black seeds scraped from the interior of a vanilla bean for their luscious scent and rich flavor. And to bring the light, airy foam that was the true expression of chocolate’s spirit, white powder ground from ritually prepared pataxte seeds.

“This is pataxte; it comes from the seeds of the balam tree, the jaguar tree,” Kaab said, opening the last small brown package.

“Is that the same balam as your family name?” Tess asked.

“Yes. The pataxte is specially significant to my family. It is a symbol of our spirit and strength, like the jaguar it is named for. You cannot prepare chocolate in this way without it.”

“I am honored that you are doing this for me,” Tess said, and placed her hand on Kaab’s.

Kaab’s heart seemed to stop. She had not anticipated that Tess would understand—not entirely—the significance of what she was doing. But the sincerity in Tess’s voice made Kaab realize how much she had missed the simple, straightforward connection she shared with women of her homeland. They would have known as soon as she arrived with these ingredients that Kaab intended to show them a special honor. The fact that Tess had somehow understood despite her foreignness made Kaab lean toward her and kiss her, and the softness of Tess’s mouth was a promise of what was to come.

“First,” Kaab said, taking a breath, “we need hot water.”

“Hot water,” Tess repeated, as if dazed. “Of course.”

Tess’s kitchen boasted a giant hearth as tall as a man; it must have once served the entire building that Tess’s rooms were carved out of but now was only tended by Tess and, sometimes, Vincent Applethorpe. Tess made quick work of building up the fire and setting a kettle of water to heat up, while Kaab grated chocolate into one of the tall vessels, adding the hand flower, the pepper flower, the pataxte, vanilla, and honey. When the water was steaming, she poured it over the mixture and then, to Tess’s astonishment, poured the contents of the vessel from shoulder height into the second vessel, which she had set on the floor.

“How did you not spill that?” Tess asked, as Kaab switched the vessels to repeat the procedure.

“I learned how to do this as a child,” Kaab said with a laugh. “I haven’t spilled it since I was seven.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“To mix the ingredients together, and also to add air.” Kaab poured the chocolate between the two vessels several more times until a layer of bubbles began to rise on top. “Chocolate is the drink of the gods, so to make it worthy of them and to invite the blessing of Ixcacao, it is important to make it light as air,” Kaab explained. “It is like drinking clouds when it is finished.” She moved the chocolate vessel from the floor and set it back on the worktable, picking up the molinillo. She held it vertically in the vessel and began to spin the handle between the palms of her hands. The multiple wheels whirred through the rich liquid, soon bringing a froth to the surface.

“May I try?” Tess asked.

“If you wish. Stand here.”

Tess took Kaab’s place before the chocolate vessel and picked up the molinillo. “Like this?” Tess asked, beginning to whir the instrument between her hands.

Kaab moved behind Tess and slid her arms around her, adjusting Tess’s hands around the molinillo so that her palms were pressed flat together. “Like this,” Kaab said in Tess’s ear, and moved her hands back and forth along with Tess’s. The feel of Tess’s body in her arms was extremely distracting, and as they spun the molinillo awkwardly, the foam began to dissipate.

“I’m not good at this.” Tess made a frustrated sound.

“You must put your whole energy into it.” Kaab helped her to spin the handle faster. The friction between their hands warmed them, and Kaab pressed herself closer to Tess, inhaling the scent of her skin mingled with the rich fragrance of chocolate, pepper flower, and vanilla.

Tess stopped spinning the molinillo. “I—this isn’t working.” She sounded flustered. She turned in Kaab’s arms, and the molinillo fell against the side of the vessel. Her face was inches from Kaab’s, her mouth parted. “Do you think we should—”

Kaab was tempted to abandon the chocolate preparation altogether, but certain experiences were only better when prolonged. She placed her hands on Tess’s shapely hips, giving her a light caress, and stepped back. “Not yet, Tess. Let me finish the chocolate.”

Tess looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

“A woman’s worth, in my land, is judged by the quality of her chocolate. I feel that it would do you a dishonor to present you with anything less than the finest of Ixcacao’s treasure.”

Tess took a breath and tucked a flaming curl behind her ear. “Then you should show me how to do it.”

Kaab took the molinillo again. As she spun it, bubbles began to rise, frothing up on the surface of the liquid in a pale brown foam. When there was a good amount of foam, she spooned it into the wide, shallow bowl to reserve it, then continued spinning the molinillo. “My people joke that the molinillo is like a man’s cock,” Kaab said.

Tess had moved to the side and was leaning against the worktable, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. She caught Kaab’s sarcastic tone and rolled her eyes. “Some people see male anatomy in a twig on the street.”

Kaab laughed. “It’s true. Men do seem fond of their twigs, don’t they?”

“And the foam, I can guess, is . . .”

“Let’s not think too closely on that. You know what I think? No man, regardless of the size of his twig, would require the amount of effort that preparing this chocolate foam requires.” She spun the molinillo repeatedly and rhythmically, whipping it through the liquid as she spoke. “They would not last. They would be spent long before enough foam had been raised.” She spooned off another dollop of light brown bubbles into the shallow dish. “It is women who require such dedication,” Kaab concluded.

Tess’s cheeks turned pink. “When is this drink going to be ready?”

“Very soon.” Kaab had accumulated a cloudlike pile of chocolate foam in the bowl, and the liquid in the vessel was dark and rich. “Do you have two cups?”

Tess went to the kitchen and returned with two porcelain chocolate cups, one decorated with a bluebird and the other with a white dove. “They were gifts from a client,” Tess explained. “I have a whole set. I didn’t ask where he got them.”

“Perfect,” Kaab said. They were different from the cups the Kinwiinik normally used to serve chocolate, but the birds were lovely, the eyes done in bright specks of white and gold. First she poured chocolate from the vessel into each of the cups, and then she spooned a thick crown of foam on top, floating it on the liquid. She handed one of the cups to Tess and said, “May the blessings of Ixcacao bring life to your household.”

“In honor of the gods,” Tess said solemnly, and raised the cup to her lips and tasted the chocolate foam.

Kaab did the same and judged that she had done a passable job at raising the foam. It was bitter but not overly so, and the texture light as air. Her mother would be pleased, though her cousin Ixmaas might tease her about a certain distraction nearby that had caused the foam to be slightly softer than it should be.

“Do you like it?” Kaab asked, and was surprised to discover she was anxious that Tess might not like it at all.

“It’s . . . so unusual,” Tess said, and licked a bit of foam from her upper lip. “I thought it would be sweeter.”

“The people on the Hill drink it with much more sugar—and cream. But that’s not the way we drink it.”

Tess took another sip. “It has a very intense flavor, very rich. It tastes of . . . someplace far away. A beautiful place. How amazing that this has flowers in it.”

Kaab felt a sweet tug at her heart. “It tastes of my home.”

Tess stepped closer. “Do you miss your home?”

“Sometimes, yes. Less now than when I first arrived.”

“So there are some things you like here?”

Kaab put down her chocolate. “There are some things I like here,” Kaab agreed.

“Anything in particular?” Tess prompted, not innocently at all.

Kaab circled her hands around Tess’s waist, drawing her near. “Yes. I like the weather now that it’s warmer.”

Tess pretended exasperation and put her hand on Kaab’s shoulder as if to push her away. “Well, if it’s the weather you like, perhaps you’d rather go outside for a walk.”

Kaab pulled her closer. “Are you sure that walking is what you’d like to do?”

“I do like walking,” Tess said breathlessly. She set down her chocolate cup, too.

“So do I, but that is not what I had in mind.”

“Oh, good.”

They kissed standing next to the chocolate vessel, and Kaab discovered there was a distinct advantage to serving someone a cup of chocolate a moment before, because it made Tess’s mouth taste especially delicious. A warm breeze from the window ruffled Tess’s hair, causing the red curls to tickle Kaab’s face. She wanted to unbind those locks and run her fingers through their luxurious texture, but as she raised her hands to do so a movement caught Kaab’s eye, and she realized that she and Tess were standing directly in front of the window.

“Let me close the curtains,” Kaab said, and briefly pulled away from Tess.

A whistle went up from across the street and someone called out Tess’s name.

Tess went to the window, poked her head out, and shouted, “I’m closed for the day! Come back tomorrow!”

“I don’t think you’re closed!” came the voice.

Tess’s face was indignant as she turned back to Kaab. “Sorry.”

Kaab laughed. “It’s all right. Where were we?”

Tess reached for her and placed her hands on her waist decisively, as if they were beginning a dance. “Here.”

In due course they moved from the studio into Tess’s bedroom, where the curtains were already drawn, and lace by lace Kaab helped Tess out of her stays, until the fullness of Tess’s figure emerged beneath Kaab’s hands, all soft curves and rose-scented skin. Kaab did not understand why Xanamwiinik women confined themselves beneath such tight lacings and so many petticoats, unless it was to present themselves as gifts to their lovers, a thought that did not displease her as she finally unbound Tess’s hair. The curls were silken, the color as marvelous as sunset over the South Sea on a hot summer evening, and as they tumbled across the pillow, over Tess’s round, freckled shoulders, over the lush weight of her breasts, Kaab felt as fortunate as one of Ixchel’s handmaidens.

As Tess lay back on her bed, she was reminded of the molinillo whirring between Kaab’s hands, the look of concentration on Kaab’s face as she worked at a task that she loved, the foam rising in the chocolate just as heat rose on Tess’s own skin. She was light as air beneath Kaab’s fingers, as if somehow Kaab had turned her into the drink of the gods, decadent and rich, and Kaab was a thirsty woman.

 

Diane received Gregory, Lord Davenant, in the back parlor that looked out over the gardens, which had the advantage of being located near a private stairway that led up to her sitting room. He looked flushed and eager when he arrived, but he quite properly waited for the servants to leave them before he did more than express the appropriate formalities. Unfortunately, there were a lot of servants, and they showed no signs of leaving.

Diane had seated herself upon a low-backed rose chair that allowed her to arrange her dove-colored skirts to her best advantage. She was surprised to feel her cheeks warm slightly with anticipation as Davenant bent over her extended hand.

“My lady, your beauty is unparalleled this afternoon,” he said.

Diane gave him a perfect, public smile. “You flatter me, Lord Davenant. I am so sorry that my husband is not at home at present. I hope you will accept my company as a poor substitute.”

His color deepened as he sat across from her, attempting to appear at ease but utterly failing. Shadows beneath his eyes demonstrated either a restless night or a lack of chocolate; Diane was quite certain it was the latter.

“I am honored to be in your company at any time,” Davenant said.

The footman set out a tray of vanilla cream, and Diane began to pour small cups for the two of them. “How is Lady Davenant today?” she asked as she handed him a cup.

He flinched but expertly turned it to a shrug. “She is well and sends her regards.”

She sipped once at her cream before setting the cup down. “So refreshing,” she murmured. It might have been improved with a liberal dash of brandy, but she preferred to keep her wits about her in the company of the Dragon Chancellor.

Finally the footman closed the door behind himself, leaving her alone with Lord Davenant, who wasted no time in breaking through their forced niceties. “That vanilla cream is fit only for a baby before bedtime. A woman as . . . accomplished . . . as yourself deserves something much more complex in flavor,” he said.

She enjoyed his compliments more than she thought she would. Davenant really was rather charming. “Do you mean . . . chocolate?” she asked coyly.

A flash of irritation went across his face, but that was as Diane intended.

“I had hoped we would be able to put business aside,” he said.

She allowed the expression on her face to cool. “My dear Lord Davenant, you should know better than many that business comes before pleasure.”

“Is that so?” he said, giving her a measuring look that quite thrilled the duchess. Here was a man who was taking her seriously. “Very well,” he said. “A score of the Merchants’ Confederation members have petitioned for a detailed report on the chocolate shortage. They are suggesting that it has been purposely orchestrated.”

“Are they? How shocking.”

Gregory stared at her intently. “Is it? Shocking?”

“Of course,” Diane said demurely. “If the shortage has been purposeful, that makes the Kinwiinik rather devious, don’t you think? And I thought they were so kind, especially after what the Duke of Karleigh said to them.”

“Indeed,” Gregory murmured. He was still studying her, as if he could will from her an admission that she had played a part in this game, but she was a more skilled player than he.

“I am flattered that you would share this information with me, my lord,” Diane said. “I wonder, what will you do about this petition? It would not do for the public to believe that the Council is unable to control these foreign Traders.”

He gave a short laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d wager you had something to do with it yourself.”

“Fortunately you’re not a betting man, my lord,” she said silkily.

Gregory smiled a bit coldly. “Let me share another piece of information with you, my lady. The Kinwiinik have sent an envoy to me to demand that I eliminate their tariff. They say it has nothing to do with the lost shipment, but the timing seems quite suspicious to me.”

“My goodness!” Diane exclaimed. “What a tangle. If you might permit me to make a suggestion?”

He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, giving her a rather pointed smile. “By all means, my lady,” he said.

There was something quite thrilling about him in this moment, Diane thought; he was all teeth. “My lord, I am no expert in these matters of trade, but I feel that I do know a bit about the Kinwiinik after they graced my home with their presence. I believe that your suspicion might be correct, but obviously you must not allow anyone else to know. Perhaps if you go to the Council and suggest, on your own, relaxing or eliminating the tariff? I know all of the lords hold you in high esteem and would likely follow your command.”

“If I give in to the Kinwiinik’s demands, that will set a dangerous precedent,” Davenant said, his face reddening. “The Council—along with the Dragon Chancellor—sets the tariff rates. I cannot cede to them, or the merchants will demand their own concessions.”

“If no one on the Council knows of the Kinwiinik’s request, no one will believe you’ve ceded to anyone. You will only be strengthening the relationship between the Kinwiinik and the City.”

“Their demand is extortion,” he snapped.

“My, my, such strong words. It would be so much simpler if you followed my advice, Gregory.” She said his name softly, and she saw him twitch as she said it. He was like a fish on a line. One more tug, and he would do as she wished.

He moved more swiftly than she had expected and was suddenly kneeling before her, his hands gripping hers. “Diane, please, can we set this matter aside? I only want to please you in one way, now.”

She pulled her hands away from him, but gently, and allowed her fingertips to caress his cheek. His eyes were not as blue as her husband’s, but they were filled with much more passion. She trailed a thumb over his trembling lips, but before he could do more than lean closer to her, she had escaped his grasp and gone to stand beside the mantel. He was startled—bewildered by her sudden movement—and still kneeling as if in prayer before the seat she had vacated.

“If you want to please me, then you will agree to do something about the tariffs on chocolate,” she said evenly. “Are you not the Dragon Chancellor? Is this not in your power? The entire Council trusts your decisions in these matters and will surely follow your lead. You need not share with anyone the course you followed to arrive at your decision. And the entire City will owe you their thanks for bringing an end to their chocolate deprivation—even if they don’t know precisely what the favorable winds were that caused the Kinwiinik fleet to reach our harbor with fresh shipments.” He rose to his feet, turning to face her. She couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or angry at her—perhaps a little of both. She added, “They may not know, but I will. And I will thank you.”

He spread his hands. His face bore a strange combination of frustration and submission. “You leave me no choice.”

A flush of triumph filled the duchess, but she did not allow it to show. “You’ve always had a choice, Gregory. I’m so pleased that you have made the right one.”

He came across the room, eager for her, but she said, “First, send word to the Balams to indicate that you will consider their request. You can send word to the Council later, summoning them to an important voting session, when you return home.”

He halted and then smiled faintly. “Business before pleasure.”

“Pleasure after business,” she corrected him. “Now, come with me.”

Diane led him out of the room and opened the panel in the wall that revealed the steep, narrow staircase to her private sitting room. He followed her without question, and she removed paper and pen and ink from her desk. He sat where she told him to sit, and he wrote what she told him to write. He sealed the brief note with his signet ring, and then she handed it to the servant outside her door. It would be taken by messenger to the Balam compound immediately.

She locked the door behind her and turned to face Lord Davenant. He was still seated at her desk, watching her and waiting. She enjoyed the expression on his face immensely. She crossed the room, and he rose to his feet, but did not approach. He has learned, she observed. When she stood before him, she reached up with her small, delicate hands and began to untie the complicated knot of his cravat, the ruby ring on her right hand flashing bright as blood against the creamy linen and lace. She pulled the stock free, a long, narrow flag of surrender, and let it flutter to the floor. Beneath the taut skin of his throat, he swallowed. She slid her fingers up and over his neck, reaching up to cup the back of his head, drawing his face down to hers. He was a tall man, though not so tall as her husband.

The thought of William caused a sharp, sudden pain in her, as if someone had jabbed her with a needle. She banished the thought with a quick, vicious efficiency. She did not succumb to common jealousy, but she was no man’s fool, and she would not stand for William’s lies.

Lord Gregory Davenant did not lie to her. She could read him as easily as the novel she had left on her desk. He really was a charming man, she thought, and opened her mouth.

 

Evening has descended in soft rose light across the City, brushing the ancient gray towers of the University with the warmth of a maiden’s first blush. From inside his chocolate shop, Duncan Olivey watches the light change, feeling a weary sense of satisfaction over the day’s events. The petition has been delivered, and already his source has sent a response: The chocolate ships have been sighted. They are due to arrive any day now. I knew it, he thinks. He resolves to discard the remaining amandyne in his possession immediately.

Down the street from Olivey’s, a motley group stumbles out of the Inkpot, supporting one another with swaying shoulders, talking and laughing as the effects of the amandyne wear off in the wake of too much beer. Three of them follow more slowly: the young Rafe Fenton, now Master Fenton of Natural Science; the Duke Tremontaine, his hand on Rafe’s back; and Micah, who chatters excitedly about the problems she has noticed with a set of star charts she recently acquired.

Rafe feels the effects of the many beers he has drunk over the course of the afternoon, but the watered-down brew sold at the Inkpot is not strong enough to muffle the disquieting combination of triumph and panic that has overtaken him since completing his examination. Now he is a Master, a title he has yearned for all his life, and all he can think about is how impossibly frightening it is to be facing the next step in his dream. Now he must act—now he must start his school—and he does not have the faintest idea how he is going to do this.

The Duke Tremontaine takes Rafe’s hand and squeezes it, and says in his ear, “What is bothering you? Can I help?”

Up on the Hill at the duke’s home, his wife is walking in their gardens. She enjoys the drama of sunset over the river, and the evening breeze is a pleasant balm on her face. She has spent a diverting afternoon with Gregory, Lord Davenant, and she hasn’t felt so young in years. She leans over the marble balustrade and pulls a stem of pink roses toward her, inhaling their perfume as the petals caress her small, pert nose. In this flattering light, she is pretty as she was at sixteen, supple-skinned and sweet as a bride on her wedding night.

The long shadow of a man with a sword on the gravel path to her left jolts her out of her reverie, and her fingers close abruptly over the rose’s thorns. She hisses in pain and turns to face her swordsman. “Well? What did you discover?” she asks, forgoing any niceties. The blood wells up on her fingertip; the cut stings unpleasantly.

“My lady, I haven’t figured out yet how the merchants heard that gossip about the warehouses, but I found something that I am sure you would like to know.”

She raises her fingertip to her mouth and sucks at the tiny wound. “These theatrics don’t become you, Reynald. Tell me what you found.”

He accepts her rebuke silently. “My lady, the Kinwiinik Trader girl who was at your ball—the Balam girl—she has been trying to discover who killed Ben Hawke.”

The duchess stands very still in the twilight. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, madam. She has been making inquiries about Ben at various houses on the Hill. I also followed her into Riverside and discovered that she is the lover of the woman Ben was protecting, Tess. She painted that illustration that Ben had when he came here. I believe that is why the Kinwiinik girl is seeking Ben’s killer. For the sake of Tess.”

The duchess licks a trace of blood from her lips. Her finger still smarts from the bite of the thorn. “She must not discover the identity of his killer,” the duchess says.

“No, my lady.”

The sun has disappeared over the horizon, and the sky is rapidly blackening, punctuated by countless glittering stars. Reynald is but a shadow among shadows. Tremontaine House looms above them both, its windows lighted like great golden eyes in the night. The duchess turns her back to Reynald and the house on the hill. Her heart races; her blood rushes; she hears a whistling in her ears that has nothing to do with the breeze on her face.

She says to her swordsman, “I trust you know what to do.”