Masks

  Chapter Twenty One

  Mark opened the case, and to his surprise it really was a sword. Specifically, it was a small, light town sword, the sort of thing a gentleman would wear as part of his formal attire but could provide quick defense if he needed it. It wouldn’t last through heavy fighting, but it wasn’t meant to. It was more than dressy enough for anything short of royal court. Feather had engraved it with his name on the hand guard in an artful script with enough sharp corners to be masculine even though it had many flourishes.

  Every nuance—from the freshly-painted design of black and blue diamonds edged in silver and gold on the scabbard to the engraving and the item itself—spoke to him. Unfortunately he didn’t know very much of Feather’s language yet. He didn’t have to in order to read the warning, and the invitation. Come play, but be on your guard.

  An ally? Was it because she liked him, wanted something from him or from the colonel, because she knew about his connections and had a purpose for or against them ... but he couldn’t let himself puzzle about that too much. Usually there was more than one reason why a jester did anything, and those reasons blurred over time. Only time could reveal her true purpose, not just to him but to herself.

  He had to read the gazette and learn about what mattered to the islanders. He had to start practicing his fencing again, and he had to stretch to maintain his flexibility, and write lyrics for the inevitable next event, and create calling cards. He needed more clothes.

  I need to design a mask I can bear to wear or find a mask maker who can fit me.

  He also needed to do something more than respond to Gutter’s letter. Much as he wanted to simply react to whatever nudges Gutter might apply, he couldn’t afford to hand over that much control.

  Am I really considering playing Gutter as an equal?

  The only thing that would keep him from being utterly crushed by that greatest of lord jesters would be whatever love might exist between them. As strained as Mark’s feelings had been toward Gutter, he was sure Gutter’s own feelings would not only be taxed but masked.

  Trudy knocked. “A message for you, l’jeste.”

  “Thank you, Miss Trudy.” He opened the door and accepted the strange envelope. It had no seal, and it was made from a scrap of paper. He shut the door before he opened the envelope.

  Meet me at the Barway Shore near Gullet Creek in two hours.

  The handwriting seemed feminine, but it wasn’t Feather’s. It could be anyone with any purpose, including an assassination attempt, though it seemed a bit early for that sort of thing.

  I should be afraid.

  He wasn’t, though. The message excited him. He had to know.

  He hunted out Trudy. “Who delivered this?”

  “A young man, l’jeste.” Her usual warm gaze flattened.

  “Any young man in particular?”

  She looked away. “L’jeste—”

  “Please, I’m just Mark.”

  She sighed. “During the war, we didn’t have enough messengers, so we sent messages about with whoever dared take ‘em. He’s one. He’ll never tell who sent it, and if you go after him I promise you the colonel would never forgive it. It’s the island way. You hurt a message boy, you hang slow from the Sufferin’ Tree. Messengers, they take their chances but a message boy is special, like a first-born son.”

  Like messengers used to be in that possibly mythical past when messengers were always treated with respect and no one would dare impede them, back when jesters wore bells to warn nobles when they were near and priests stained their skin with red ink. “I can’t even ask him who sent the message, or send one back with him?”

  “No, l’jeste. They don’t do that.”

  It should have discouraged him, but it only made him more curious. “Baron Evan is probably taking a nap. If he needs me, tell him I’m following his orders by learning to ride so I won’t need the carriage so much.” He went to his room long enough to strap on his rapier and pistol. He doubted he’d need them. If it was a trap, he’d either escape immediately or fall to overwhelming surprise and numbers. His gut clenched into a hard knot and his hands shook.

  The fear didn’t deter him. If anything it fed his desire. The attack near the docks—he didn’t want that again, just as he didn’t ever want Bainswell’s hands around his throat. But he would prove to himself that no matter how great the danger, he would do the right thing. Though he felt ill and he stilled smelled the blood as fresh as if it pooled at his feet at this very moment, he was eager. More than eager. This time he trusted himself. He hoped he would discover that he’d been justified in that trust.

  By not dying.

  Mark pulled on gloves, grabbed his hat and purse, and dashed for the stables.

  Philip had chosen a good horse for him. The young mare, Bindart, took an eager interest in everything. She listened to Mark when he checked her from dashing toward the next new and interesting thing, and she seemed fearless. No flashy bird, no rustling vine nor snake in the road would deter her from her explorations, though the snake certainly gave her pause. She skipped back a little at that one, and then decided to try and sniff it but Mark held her back.

  He stopped at a cartographer’s business and inquired after a map of the island and the city. Despite Mark’s recent bonding to one of the most respected men in all the islands, the man hedged and tried to imply he would have to make a copy especially for him. Finally, though, he agreed to sell a rough map with most of the main streets and landmarks on it for two ar. Maybe he thought Mark could afford it. It had room for embellishment and it showed the beach he had to find, so Mark agreed and planned to improve it later on his own. No doubt the colonel had much better ones, but to ask for one would have led to questions, and Mark didn’t want to disturb his nap.

  Bindart had been waiting patiently for him, but she was eager to explore some more. It made him smile. Not only did she spare him from faking a light limp everywhere, but she was good company in her own quiet way.

  The map led him through a modest neighborhood with sturdy plastered walls, decent windows and thatch roofs in good repair. They thatched with palm fronds, and though the effect was rougher and darker than mainland straw, they looked just as sturdy and dry. Children and dogs shadowed him. Bindart wasn’t afraid of dogs just as she wasn’t afraid of anything, and even touched noses with a huge brute who had to weigh two hundred pounds. The dog was one of the sailorly-breed, all black and long-haired and seemingly impervious to the heat despite his heavy coat. Only a glint of eye showed through. His pink tongue hung out in a way that seemed friendly and kind. The dog eventually let them pass and went back to hiding beneath a large shrub.

  The road opened to a pass between two large properties. A line of manor houses with broad properties stretched along a long, curved beach with a short point at one end. If the bracing wind was a regular visitor, it would be easy for large sailing ships to approach but almost impossible for them to leave. Mark looked for signs of anyone, but there wasn’t even a footprint on the sand. He’d hoped as much. He was very early.

  He walked Bindart on the wet sand for a while, and then through the short, choppy surf to cool her feet a little, hoping that would be all right for her. She seemed to enjoy it. He dismounted and led her to a shady place, and sat in the sand. He took off his hat. This place was so peaceful. Out of sight of the manor houses, he felt alone and at ease. He sang softly with the wind, and drank in the air that tasted not at all of oil or humanity but living fishes and flowers and salt and spices.

  Bindart stole his hat. He fetched it from her without too much trouble. She gave him an almost human, coy look and tucked her head for petting. Mark obliged, unable to resist a growing fondness for her.

  She warned him by pricking her ears forward, her gaze intent and curious. He saw nothing on the beach until Bindart’s head jerked under his hands. She snuffled the wind, but couldn’t taste the scent of a young woman in a servant’s white dress and scarf walking in their direction. An island
messenger? It would make prudent sense to send a messenger to a secretive meeting in order to relocate into even greater privacy, though Trudy had implied that they were usually young men.

  As precious as first sons.

  Mark led Bindart, who happily was too polite to dash ahead of him, toward the young woman. He didn’t trust that she might not be a lure for an assassin, or an assassin herself. After all, she wore a dagger with a long, sleek line that could travel entirely through someone slender like him. His heart quickened as he approached. At a safe range he called to her. “I’m here.”

  She finally acknowledged him and hurried over. He recognized her rich hair and fair face.

  Winsome?

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” She halted a few steps away, not at all out of breath. “I had to speak to you in private.”

  “Will we be noticed?” He gestured toward one of the manor houses.

  “Perhaps by the servants, but they won’t realize who I am.” She started walking again, toward the waves. Mark fell into pace beside her. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m on the mend.”

  She nodded. “I—has anyone spoken to you of a conspiracy?”

  He couldn’t let himself assume anything about her, though his instincts demanded that he trust her. “There are conspiracies everywhere. I haven’t noticed anything special. Is there one in particular that you wanted to warn me about?”

  She bowed her head. “Yesterday, a young woman was shot. They thought she was me.”

  That brought Mark up short. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Her voice was quite refined, but an island lilt bled through and her eyes tightened against the heavy gloss of unshed tears. “It’s getting worse. I need help. I need the colonel’s help, but I can’t approach him. Our families have had little contact, and he ...” She chewed her lip briefly.

  “Yes. He never goes out. I’m going to change that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I only want him to pursue ... things.”

  Mark started to walk again, hoping the motion would help her words flow. “I know it’s hard for you to trust me. I’m a stranger.”

  “Yes.” She seemed to clutch at the reason.

  “And from Cathret.”

  “I trust the colonel’s bond. He wouldn’t take a chance on you if he thought it would risk our freedom.” Again, she seemed to welcome the reason, which meant it wasn’t the real reason behind her hesitation. He guessed it was Juggler, though it seemed unlikely that he would do anything against the islands, considering how hard he had fought to keep them free. He certainly wouldn’t try to assassinate his master’s daughter.

  I don’t know him well enough to trust that, and he might be under orders.

  But her father? No. That doesn’t feel right. It’s something else.

  “We have a constitution,” she said brightly. “Have you heard?”

  “I have. I find it curious that so much of what’s different about life here seems to revolve around ancient, often forgotten niceties. I wonder if I might not be wearing bells in a year.” The idea made him chuckle.

  “Bells?”

  He shook his head. “I’m guessing the problem with having a constitution combined with elections is that there’s no real sense of authority. A document can be changed. That’s a good, and a bad thing when a nation is so new. And with no stable leader ... forgive me, but there’s a chance I’ve missed it. No one’s mentioned—do you have a—what will that person be called again?”

  “President. No, we have no president yet.” She took a few shaky breaths before she continued. “The last island finally signed the constitution only six months ago. We’ve set our election dates. The votes will occur over the course of a week, and we estimate that they will require a month to properly count, confirm and record. The nominants will be announced in a week, and I’m hoping the colonel will be one of them because ....”

  Her hesitation gave his mind time to whirl. He might be jester to a man who in essence would be king to a small but very important kingdom. His heart bounded in panic. Bindart picked up on his fear. She must have sensed it through the reins. He tried to soothe her by stroking her neck. It helped her, but not him at all. Could the colonel feel his heart racing?

  “The wrong president could unmake us.” She stared at Mark as if she hoped to see into his mind. “Our constitution will be a sham, we’ll lose our Church, and our way of life. We fought so hard. I’m not sure I can make you understand how important it is for the colonel to try.”

  He knew without asking that she’d been in the thick of the fight somehow, and not as a nurse. Shipboard, or land? He looked for signs of lack of grace in her stride, of scars, and saw none except those written into her eyes. Her voice had broken, but those eyes were fierce and wild like that of a lioness, ready to claw apart any threat that might cage her.

  She would be perfect for the colonel. How could that man have not done anything toward an engagement, and for both their sakes? He would have a strong wife, and she would have a partner to help her achieve what a daughter could not achieve alone.

  She glared at him. “I know this doesn’t matter to you.”

  “Actually, I love everything I’ve seen about the islands. That may seem strange considering my initial welcome, but even that—if you’ll allow me to confess something in confidence, it might help you understand.” An innocent little revelation would show how well he could trust her based on how quickly it returned to him, if at all. And if it did get around, maybe someone would be able to tell him something more about his father’s fate.

  “Of course.” She was still a wreck but dutifully attended him.

  “My mother died in my arms, a victim of murder—”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “—and the Church’s response was to settle my family’s accounts as quickly as possible.” She’d expressed her sympathy with real compassion, though that sympathy was softened, no doubt by what she’d experienced during the war. That compassion combined with her intimacy with death soothed him, and Bindart walked close and more easily alongside him. “Everyone was good to me, but I was alone in my grief, and alone in my anger. As far as I could tell they gave up any hope of finding her killer. Her death may have even been arranged, and justice cheated to pay someone’s salary. I don’t know. It was just so passionless. Just another tragedy to be borne and not made a fuss over, because fusses are dirty and dangerous and unseemly and childish. But here, I see you’re moved by my loss and you don’t even know me. You’re heartbroken because a young woman died in your place. You’re crushed between hope and fear for your country, fighting hard for your dreams and against your nightmares. I wish I was born here. My mother was famously kind and fair and respected. Yet no one shed a tear in my presence, and no one swore to find justice in her name. Except me. I’m still looking, hopelessly. I’m worn out, and the tracks have faded. And like a typical Cathretan I waste time trying to behave and be a good person when I want to cause trouble and make demands and force them to tell me what happened. But unlike a Cathretan I refuse to let it fade into the past entirely. I intend to behave more like an islander, and fight for what I believe in.”

  He let her walk in silence as long as she needed to. They made their way near the waves. She let them wash over her shoes and wet her skirts. The sand spackled the hems and the white linen shoes with pale brown.

  “Please, urge the colonel to campaign,” Winsome said at last. “If he shows no interest, there are many who would still vote for him, but some will not out of respect for his privacy, and he won’t win. He must win. He is the one we can all trust.”

  He wondered under what circumstances the young lady was shot. He wondered what danger Winsome knew of that made her so sure that the islands would fall back into mainland control. She had to have more than a fearful inclination. He didn’t think the person he saw was inclined to act with this not-quite-desperation for fear of vague threa
ts. “Will you tell me who you think is the greatest threat to our freedom?”

  Winsome closed up like a nightflower come morning. “I couldn’t say.” She turned away and walked up the beach. Mark started to follow her, and she stopped. “I’d rather go on alone, thank you.”

  “But—”

  “Please.” She went on alone, leaving him there in the sweet wind. An especially long wave washed over his boots. Mark hipped up onto Bindart and rode in a direction that kept Winsome in sight. Once in town he guessed her route and made his way toward the hill, listening for a scream, a shot, anything that might suggest that her would-be-killer might try again.

  Brave girl.

  He didn’t want to go home, not yet. He had too much to consider, and he had a few questions to ask of a trusted friend.

  He turned toward the docks when it seemed unlikely he’d find Winsome again even if she did get into trouble. On the way he stopped by a stationary merchant, an ink shop, and found a nice quill point that held the ink quite well.

  And wine. They’d need wine, and bread, and fruit ....

  He left Bindart with a public stablemaster, and knocked on Grant’s door laden with packages. He hoped Grant was there.

  Heavy steps came to the door, and it opened slowly. Grant peered out, sleep heavy in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, I woke you. I’ll come back another time.”

  “It’s good. Just had a nap.” The warm, sensual scent of his bed wafted out the door. “Can I help you with something, l’jeste?”

  “May I come in?” Mark held the basket with the food a little higher.

  “Sure.” Grant stifled a yawn and stretched as he went in, leaving the door ajar. Joints cracked with strength. As much as Mark admired Winsome, she couldn’t make his belly go soft and make the rest of him tighten, and flush his skin with heat the way Grant could so unconsciously.

  Mark started setting up the table, dropping packages on the chair and floor as he went. “I found some decent wine. I hope it won’t upset your stomach or give you a headache. It’s much stronger than you’re used to, and it’s heavy.”

  “You don’t have to be so nice to me,” Grant said.

  Mark slowed his progress. “If this is uncomfortable for you, just say so and I’ll help you with your letters this one more time and go. I know it’s difficult to refuse, but I give you permission to do just that, if you think you need permission.” It hurt but he couldn’t force a friendship.

  “Refuse? What’d I forget?”

  “Well, I thought we, that you wouldn’t mind being friends. And friends, well, they visit each other and—”

  “Oh. Oh! Oh, yeah, sure. I just thought, you know. You were pretty drunk the other night and everyone’s a friend when you’re drunk and all. And—letters. Yeah. I’ve been practicing but I think I messed up and—yeah. Here.” He let out a soft, endearing laugh under his breath and started to help set the table. “I’ll get the cups.”

  Mark relaxed. It seemed his heart would forever be fragile around the big man. “How has fishing been?”

  He shrugged. “It’s work. I do all right. I’ve got my regulars and yesterday I got this really nice swordfish that Manny sold for me to someone on the hill. I spent some of it on Judith and some got me winnings in cards and I still have a whole ar and a mess of little coin. Thinking about getting some gloves.”

  He probably meant work gloves, Mark realized before he could open his mouth to make a recommendation. “You know the colonel likes you. You’re more than welcome to come over to the house, if you don’t mind the long walk.”

  “I’ve never been. Not sure I could find it.”

  “We’re at the end of the Black Shore Road where the wind is just terrible. It’s beautiful there, though. Wild. Miss Trudy told me that the whole manor shakes when there’s a storm, and once during a storm the ocean came up high over the rocks and broke a window.”

  “A storm knocked down this whole place once,” Grant told him. “Nothing left. Just a pile of sticks.” He threw his arms open briefly before he settled by the table with cups and a corkscrew. “My boat? Belonged to a fisher who lost his life to that storm. My old boat, my dad’s old boat, no one ever found it. It’s probably at the bottom of the bay. Pieces of all kinds of stuff that used to be at the bottom of the bay came up on shore that day. A big chunk of ship with a cannon in it washed up, but my boat sank.” He grinned and shook his head. “The sea.” He pulled the cork. “The sea,” he said again, softly, like a lovelorn fool with no hope of requite.

  “Tell me again why don’t you like sailing?”

  “What? I got a sail. I’m not in some little rowboat, you know. I have a nice rig.”

  “I meant—I’d heard you had an offer to sail on a trader.”

  “Oh. That.” He drew a knife to cut the pineapple up. Mark took it from him to clean it off first. Grant didn’t seem to mind. “I just don’t like it.”

  “Fair enough.” Mark sliced up the pineapple himself. Strange how quickly he’d grown accustomed to such exotic fruit. At Hevether they always had a multitude of delicious and sometimes bizarre fruits every morning. Miss Trudy had mentioned that most of it came from the garden, using the same emphasis that he’d heard when he’d been bonded and implying it was separate from the small sheltered courtyard where they kept a few spindly citrus trees. It made him want to see this garden sometime soon.

  “It’s just ....” Grant popped the cork with effortless power. “I was on the gun deck. With the cannons, you know. During the war.”

  Mark could guess at the brutal conditions, but he couldn’t pretend to understand the source of the darkness in Grant’s voice. “I’m sorry.”

  “Can’t bear to be belowdecks anywhere. It’s funny, you know. I saw all kinds of things at the land battles. Men got killed by cannon all the time. And shot. Little holes that won’t stop bleeding for money or mercy. People getting chopped up. Chopped up people dying slow, dragging parts that shouldn’t be dragging. Broken faces are the worst, teeth everywhere but how they belong.”

  Mark wished he could take the man’s hand and hold it, let him know somehow that he was here now, and safe, that he wasn’t alone—something to comfort him.

  Grant didn’t seem to need comfort. He spoke of it with less emotion than he’d expressed about the mysterious sea. “Anyways,” Grant continued, “there’s something worse about being trapped below, and slipping in blood and oil and water all mixed, and the stench and the smoke and splinters, and the dark, and the noise making you deaf but not deaf enough to stopper the screaming—I have a horror of belowdecks even though it’s not war no more.” He poured the wine.

  “Let’s toast to lasting peace,” Mark suggested.

  “Lasting peace.” They touched cups and drank. Mark watched Grant’s expression while the first rush of fragrant richness unfolded into memories of summer—not just grapes but pears and currants and the flavors from perfumed fruits that didn’t exist except in good wine. At first Grant just set the cup down, but then he cocked his head sideways like he was listening, and then he smiled. “That’s good stuff.”

  “Thank you. My mother taught me about wine. Often people make do with something that’s almost as good as a glass they had once that unveiled a kind of garden in their minds. I think that’s how people develop preferences for a particular grape. One glass that gives you a perfect moment makes you crave the echoes of that moment. But there are many gardens to explore, and it’s fun to discover them and appreciate them for what they are, instead of trying to recreate them, or putting up with a wasteland never knowing that gardens exist. If that makes sense.”

  “I guess, yeah. I get what you mean about the garden. I didn’t know wine had, you know.”

  “Actually flavors that vary from vinegar and oak.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “There’s good vinegar too, you know. At Pickwelling the head cook had a passion for vinegars. That and good oil. He insisted that you couldn’t cook any
thing worthwhile without using oils and vinegars good enough that you could enjoy them on their own. He used to drink half a glass of vinegar every morning. Tried to get me to do it for my health, but I couldn’t bear it. But I had a sip now and then, especially in wintertime. I used to crave it during very warm weather. I’d feel thirsty and nothing but the vinegar would help.”

  “I get that!” He nearly reared up from his chair in his enthusiasm. “That thirsty feeling? It’s weird. I never actually drank vinegar, though.”

  “Wine’s better, but sometimes nothing but vinegar will do.” Mark took another sip of wine. “Before we get too carried away with wine, let’s practice some letters.”

  “You know, I saw a letter G on a sign the other day. It’s stupid of me, but it made me happy. I read it. I read a letter G without you telling me that’s what it was.”

  “You have every reason to be proud. I believe that your practice, and your ability to translate that practice to what you see outside these lessons, will allow you to read not just individual letters, but writing. I think by this time next year you’ll be reading the gazette and writing messages to me when you want me to meet you at a pub somewhere so we can drink rum and have some good pit-baked pork.”

  “Ah, that was good pork that night.”

  “Yes, it truly was.”

  “What else you got there in that basket?”

  “Ham, hard-boiled eggs, some sort of mustard sauce, limes, orange marmalade pastries ....”

  Mark slunk in well after midnight. He hadn’t meant to be gone so long. He forced himself to march upstairs, around the bend and down the hall that led to the colonel’s suite. Though it was dark, he knew his way better than he expected after living at Hevether so short a time.

  Mark made his way down the servant’s hall to the colonel’s suite and stood in front of the door, unwilling to knock, equally unwilling to walk away and hide in his room until morning. Finally he forced himself to raise his hand and relieve the worry and anger that no doubt had the colonel in fits. When no answer came, he knocked again more loudly, determined to go in and knock on the bedroom door if he had to.

  Hurried steps approached and the door whipped open. The colonel looked wild even in the darkness with little more than a silhouette against the starlight to reveal his emotions. Mark didn’t flinch back. It surprised him a little when no slap struck his face.

  The colonel’s posture tightened and cooled. “Where have you been?”

  “I ....” He’d meant to use the excuse that he’d been out practicing riding, but the colonel deserved better. “I received a private message. I went to investigate.”

  “Trudy told me as much, but she didn’t know where you’d gone, and she told me you didn’t know who sent it.” The anger in his voice made Mark tremble in anticipation. It was unbearable, expecting punishment to come at any moment and having it withheld ... he would rather have it over with in a flash, as sometimes happened in Pickwelling, than to wait for something more considered, and likely far more painful and lasting.

  Mark doubted that the threat of lasting scars would prevent the colonel from striping his back.

  And of course it would be too unseemly for the colonel to do it himself. He’d make Philip do it. It would all be very soldierly and demeaning and torture like Mark had never known.

  “I demand an answer.”

  Mark stopped his tongue, though he wanted to point out that he hadn’t exactly been asked a question. “In three days I’d like to host a party for you. At that time it might be a good idea to make public your interest in the presidency.”

  The force of the attack caught him off guard, as did the lack of tooth in it as the colonel slammed him into the hall wall beside the bath door with his hand twisted up in Mark’s waistcoat. The colonel wasn’t exactly in control of himself, but he clearly didn’t mean to hurt Mark. At least not yet. “I will not. And if I’m nominated, I will withdraw, and if they elect me in spite of everything I will yield to whoever ranks beneath me.” The colonel loomed close, his breath rich with wine. “You have manipulated me at every turn. You even pretended ... you have very skilled hands, and a keen mind, and I have no doubt that you have been truthful with me, at least as truthful as someone like you can be. But I will not be your plaything, and you will not ride me, not in my bed, and not up a social mountain where you can have your revenge against Gutter, or suit his purposes, or whatever it is you want. And you will never, ever ask Trudy or anyone in this household to lie for you again.”

  The roughness of that voice and his strength, so potent and so carefully held in check, excited Mark beyond any passion he thought he owned. It wouldn’t take much to incite the colonel to more violence. Even a beating would be better than lingering here in an agony of need, but it wasn’t worth it. He wished it was. He wished that they weren’t bonded, and that he could struggle for something that would either beat him back to his senses or lavish him with rich sensations he’d only dreamt of.

  Mark forced himself to do nothing, to wait and to let the man he longed for slip away. When the grip eased, Mark spoke softly and deferentially. “It was Winsome I spoke with. Until she told me, I didn’t even know that nominations were pending. And I agree with her. If you truly fear for the islands and our freedom, you must at least consider protecting the constitution with your strength and the faith people have in you.”

  The colonel let go and his shoulders sagged. “You knew from the beginning that I might have a chance. That’s why, the largest reason why, you accepted my offer. It’s why you manipulated me into making an offer to you. Admit it.”

  “I can’t admit it because it’s not true. I know it seems incredible to you, but all I know of the islands is what my father told me and what I overheard by chance at parties. Lord Argenwain hates gazettes. He relies on Gutter and gossip to keep him apace of meaningful events. And I had no interest in island politics. Why should I? I wasn’t allowed to be a part of the world. And I’m sorry to say but the islands didn’t really matter to anyone I knew. They’re a source of spice and sugar and expensive fruits. Lord Argenwain’s friends care more about whether the Hasle Royals will invite His Royal Majesty King Michael to stay in Saphir for the holiest of days again than they do about island politics. The only place it would matter is in the king’s court. Honestly I’d be terrified if you were made president. I don’t have enough experience or strength or intelligence or anything that would help me. I, personally, could sink these islands and I don’t want to be responsible for that. But I will take on that responsibility if I must.”

  “That’s very generous of you.” The colonel walked into his bedroom.

  Mark followed him. “So you will leave the islands to the whim of politics because ... you’re afraid? You think you’re unworthy? You—”

  “Yes. All of it. I’m not fit to be president in any way. They would run roughshod all over me. As would you. I would be helpless. I’d have no choice but to follow your advice at every turn. That isn’t leadership. I’d be a doll propped up in a chair and fed tea that stains my teeth but can’t sustain me.”

  Mark tried not to be distracted by that show of poetry. “You are a leader. You led in war.”

  “That was war.”

  “This too is war.”

  “My answer will not change.”

  When waiting in silence hurt too much, Mark moved toward the hall.

  “It’s all an act, isn’t it.”

  Mark paused. “What?”

  “You hated your duties. You learned how to act, how to please men, even seduce them but ....”

  Let him believe what he wants. He’ll believe it anyway.

  Mark started to leave, but stopped. He couldn’t let it stand. He couldn’t allow a man he respected so much all but call him a whore and have the silence give credence to the lie. “The only reason you accuse me of that is so that you can pretend you’ll never love again. You want to cram your soul back into the puzzle scroll where your father locked you up and
be a husband and father. You might even find contentment like that. I hope you do. I hope you love again, man or woman, it doesn’t matter. But don’t you accuse me of deceit when the only person deceiving you is yourself.”

  “Stop confusing the question and answer me. Are you? Or do you despise that which you pretend to be?”

  Do you want me to prove it to you?

  Again, he couldn’t expose himself to a violent rejection that might get him thrown out of the household he’d bound himself to, or yield to a passion that the colonel would later regret. The colonel still believed, after all, that his soul was in danger of destruction because of his bend. For all Mark knew it might be, though that wasn’t the greatest threat to the colonel’s soul. “I am. I have been in the presence of some of the world’s most beautiful and seductive women, and I have to fake my blush every time.”

  “Do you feel anything for anyone?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Who?”

  Mark walked away.

  The colonel followed him into the hall. “Who?”

  “Have me flogged or leave me alone.” Mark rushed through the gallery, shut his reception room door, locked it, and braced against it. Loneliness ate at his insides and raked out his heart. The colonel shouldn’t have had to ask. Whether the colonel guessed Grant, or himself, or both, it was clear that Mark could have neither, none or anyone.

  For a brief flash Mark thought about purchasing an entertainer. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that he couldn’t ask around for a reputable one without exposing his lord and master to gossip and maybe even ridicule.

  Someone like Grant could pay for a bit for pleasure without a thought or a single repercussion, while someone like Mark ... he wondered how Gutter managed to find comfort. Maybe he didn’t, but more likely he took the time to make discreet and intelligent young women fall so much in love with him that they’d rather die than reveal the secret of their affair. He traveled so much, he could slip away into someone’s arms for a month and no one would wonder where he was. They would always guess he had important, secret business to attend to, and his mail would await him at Pickwelling when he finally came home. He might even have children. Dozens. Dozens of happy families and wealthy mistresses that lived in manors who wore costly gowns and had smiles that hid a thousand mysteries.

  Mark stripped, washed in cold water and went to bed, but didn’t sleep for a long time. When he woke several more debut gifts waited.

  Juggler had sent him a beautiful dagger. Unlike the sword, it didn’t seem at all like a friendly gesture. Though it had no note, no inscription, and not a hint anywhere in or on the case or scabbard, the beautiful steel spoke to him. It said, plunge me into your own heart, or into mine, I don’t care which.

  Mark and the colonel ate dinner in silence, both picking at their food though the melon soup, bread with its exquisite crisp and delicate crust, and fish with deep pink meat, all tasted delicious. Every time Norbert came in, his clothes smelled of something sweet and chocolate, promising a wonderful dessert.

  Mark set his fork aside. “This is ridiculous.”

  The colonel didn’t say anything. He pushed flakes of buttery fish meat around his plate.

  “Winsome knows something. She won’t tell me but she might tell you. We have to arrange a socially acceptable meeting.”

  The colonel glanced up, then back down. He speared a tiny bit of meat and chewed on it excessively before he swallowed and spoke. “You have my permission to make such an arrangement. I’m sure you won’t require my assistance for something so simple.”

  You really don’t want to play this game with me.

  Mark welcomed his temper, fanned it, then banked it carefully so he could relish it and employ it to its full extent. “I like her immensely.” No response. That made it easier. “I can’t imagine her as someone’s wife. She’s more than just another brave islander. She’s an embodiment of freedom, and most marriages would destroy that.” Mark paused so that the fatal blow would hit as deeply as possible. “She’s more like a lieutenant.”

  The colonel flinched and Mark wished he could apologize. But just as fencing practice required a student to feel a good, solid hit and sometimes involved nasty injuries, the colonel needed this lesson.

  He also needed a push off of a cliff, and Mark had just the cliff in mind. Unlike most of his ideas this one had been growing in bits and pieces from the moment he’d met Winsome on the beach. It completed itself as the colonel drained his glass of blush wine and stood. “Tell Norbert I’ll have dessert later in my room,” the colonel said.

  “I have an idea that I think will suit everyone in regard to meeting with Winsome,” Mark told him.

  The colonel didn’t deign to respond. It gave Mark courage to write the letter later that evening.

  Dear Winsome,

  Please excuse my boldness, especially since it is so out of my lord and master’s character, but I must act quickly for the reasons we discussed earlier. The colonel and I would like to know when we may call upon you and your father to make arrangements for a formal courtship. Before you run too far away with your feelings in one direction or another, I hope you will consider the many conveniences this arrangement would afford to both households. Perhaps in time the courtship might afford you other, gentler comforts, but on that score I can’t promise anything. On the one side I fear that the idea of a courtship from this quarter will leave you cold, while the other side, though sure that the colonel is of a passionate nature, is aware that he has boxed up that nature in his war chest and things are quite dusty and rusty in there. I pray you are not offended. I can only promise you that the colonel will not be insincere, and that he will remain on a proper course until you guide him in whatever direction your heart desires.

  With great admiration, I am your devoted messenger.

  Before he could lose his nerve, he folded it up and went to the study where the colonel sat paging through old birding books. “I need your seal.”

  “It’s in my office.”

  He almost leapt with joy. Fuck you, and thank you, my lord and master. I love your cold and rusty, dusty heart.

  “That’s the way, lord jester,” Philip enthused as Mark backed Bindart into the shed. She’d resisted trusting him at first, but finally she relented. There was something magical about instructing her and having her yield though she was far stronger and larger and had a mind of her own. Mark gave her leave to exit. “Now give her a good pat,” Philip told him.

  Mark stroked her neck and murmured to her. “Good girl.”

  Bindart swung her head to the side, ears flattening briefly. At first he feared he’d offended her, but then he noticed a rider approaching at a trot.

  Juggler.

  “I have to get back to the house.” Mark swung off of Bindart and handed Philip her reins. “Thank you for the riding lesson.” He hurried to Hevether Hall’s side entrance. Philip looked confused until he noticed the rider as well, and went to meet the approaching jester to take his horse.

  Mark rushed around until he found the colonel going through papers in his cramped and dark office near the base of the stairs. Why the colonel put up with such conditions was beyond Mark’s comprehension. “Juggler is here. I’m guessing that he’s responding to our letter on Baron Kilderkin’s behalf.”

  “Good.” The colonel continued fussing with figures. They looked like ship manifests.

  Normally Mark would be beside himself with curiosity, but this was not the time for such. “There’s something you should know. I—”

  “I would prefer if you handled it.”

  In some ways it would make things so much easier. Much as Mark would enjoy watching the colonel plummet to his doom with taciturn detachment, it wasn’t fair to Winsome. Besides, he’d had his fun. Now they had to be serious, both of them, and fully engaged. “Fine. But don’t expect me to fuck her on your wedding night.” Mark strode out.

  The old chair scraped over the stone floor with a grindin
g screech. “Come back here. Now!”

  Mark thought about forcing him to chase after him, but he stopped and turned and walked sedately back to the office doorway. “Juggler will be at the door at any moment.”

  “What have you done?”

  “I have made the necessary arrangements. You will court Winsome. She will—”

  “I’ll what?”

  “—give you whatever information she has in regard to Perida’s political weaknesses. And if you’re nice she might even let you kiss her hand.”

  The colonel turned pink, and then flushed red before he paled. In the distance the front door slid open.

  “That will be Juggler.” Mark bowed and took his leave. He’d expected a bit more rage, or more of a protest. Maybe this would work out better than he’d hoped.

  Mark trotted down the stairs just as Trudy hurried up. “Oh. L’jeste.” She curtseyed. “May I fetch something?”

  “I doubt he’ll be staying long, but maybe you can trouble Norbert for some juice and maybe those little sandwiches he makes. I would love to have some even if Juggler doesn’t stay.”

  Trudy curtseyed again and kept going upstairs. He wondered if she was afraid.

  Mark finished his journey down the stairs and bowed to Juggler. “It’s good to see you.”

  Juggler had a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. “No mask today, Lark?”

  He hadn’t even thought about putting one on every morning like many jesters did. He didn’t regret it. “Would you like to sit in the salon?”

  Juggler made a show of looking around a bit at the paired columns and vast emptiness that teed on even more unused space with scarcely an urn to decorate it. “I’ve never been in Hevether Keep. It’s ... interesting.” He focused back on Mark’s face, his expression probing and well-concealed behind his paint. “By all means.”

  Mark hadn’t heard it called a keep before. It fit better than calling it a hall or a manor.

  Mark was still in the process of arranging what had formerly been a echoing forty foot by forty foot room with no clear purpose into a proper salon. He could have easily spent a fortune just on games and musical instruments, but he felt uncomfortable dropping such a sum without being acquainted with the colonel’s means, so he borrowed a little from the lean conservatory and equally lean gaming room. The fact that the colonel hadn’t protested any of his expenses so far didn’t really mean much. Too many lords lost their family fortunes simply by not paying attention to what sometimes seemed to them a limitless coffer.

  Mark had rearranged the furniture and borrowed a cabinet from storage for liquors, but it still looked painfully bereft of comfort.

  Juggler perused the room, walking slowly, his languorous gaze giving away neither disdain nor approval. “I have to admit the letter was quite a surprise to everyone in the household, except the lady. She seemed pleased.”

  “I’m glad that the letter wasn’t unwelcome.”

  “Where is—”

  “The colonel is very shy.”

  Juggler barked a startled laugh. He quickly reined it in.

  “At least when it comes to this matter,” Mark added.

  Juggler drew a letter from his waistcoat. Mark accepted it without glancing at the seal. He’d have time to look it over later.

  “What does Baron Kilderkin think of it?” Mark asked.

  Juggler took a deliberate pace closer. Warning prickled over Mark’s skin. “I’m very fond of my Lady Kilderkin.” Juggler spoke softly and low. “This had better not be a game. Playing with young ladies may be a casual sport on the mainland, but here, a young woman’s tears could easily inspire a duel.”

  Juggler had just said the wrong thing, and he had no idea. Or perhaps he did. Maybe Juggler guessed correctly that Mark found duels repulsive and barbaric, and wanted to see if the new jester was shy of them, even afraid. Or maybe Mark was missing something, his mind fogged by memories of a beautiful young man’s pitiful death in the snow. Mark hated to admit it, but Lark would have been much better at this. “The colonel’s intentions are honest and pure, though no one can guarantee the outcome.”

  “I’m not concerned about the colonel.”

  “You object to me in some way?”

  Juggler took another pace forward. “The letter was in your hand, with your signature.”

  “Yes.”

  “I would have expected a young lady to have doubts when approached in such a manner without a prior basis for expectation, unless she recognized a subterfuge.”

  Mark’s breath caught. Juggler knew about the meeting, and he opposed Winsome. Mark eased it in less than a blink, but Juggler noticed.

  “You’re charming,” Juggler said, taking one more pace so that he stood at a pretty angle only a half pace from Mark’s shoulder. “And handsome, in a dolly sort of way. I didn’t notice any flirtation but you seemed excessively inattentive toward her at dinner the other night, which I’ve known men to employ in order to increase—”

  “No.” Mark realized what he thought. He couldn’t let on any sign of relief. “I’m not making a play for her, Juggler. Please. I’m in complete earnest. I have to admit that she charmed me, and I’m flattered to think that some of my feelings might have been answered, but it’s my hope that she and the colonel find happiness together. If you like, as an assurance, I will make myself unavailable as chaperone should they decide to meet.”

  Juggler’s gaze measured Mark’s face. He eased back a half pace and seemed reassured, though it could have easily been a ploy. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “If her father approves, then I’d like to set a date to discuss terms, unless the family prefers a more informal courtship.”

  “I would think that the colonel would prefer a formal courtship himself.”

  “He will yield to the lady’s preferences on all matters.”

  Juggler let out an impatient noise deep in his throat. “We will eagerly await the colonel’s response.” Juggler bowed.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I apologize. I have other matters to attend to today.”

  Mark walked him to the door, where Philip waited by. “You’re welcome any time.” He would have to be, if this courtship manifested. Mark wasn’t entirely sorry for it. Though the strange jester intimidated him at times, Mark admired Juggler more than he wanted to.

  “Thank you.” Juggler gave Mark a long look before he turned and left.

  Philip followed the jester out. Mark shut the door behind them. He drew the letter out and was tempted to open it, but it was addressed to the colonel and he was already in enough trouble.

  The seal was a ring twined with flowers. It had to be Winsome’s, though it suited her even less than her name, at least from what he’d seen of her so far. Mark carried the letter upstairs. He almost ran into the colonel, who stood skulking in the hallway like an eavesdropping servant rather than a master of his own household. Unlike a servant he remained there, his back braced against the wall at the banister’s end. Mark offered him the letter. The colonel snatched it from his hands and bore it away into his office. He shut the door and locked it.

  Mark lingered, waiting for a sound—cursing, pottery shattering, books slamming shut. Nothing. He’d just begun to retreat when a knock at the door below summoned him to the stairs again.

  Trudy had also begun an approach. “I’ll get the door. Thank you, Miss Trudy.” She curtseyed and Mark opened the door. “Oh. You must be Mr. Leorliss. Please come in.”

  The young, noble-faced man with strong Hasle features didn’t disappoint his heritage when he betrayed a thick, purring accent with his first words. “Yes. How did you know?” He stripped off his feathered straw hat hastily.

  “The monogram on your case, and your name. Besides, I haven’t invited anyone else of your profession. I’m hoping you will suit my needs.” Mr. Leorliss looked very dashing in his pale blue and dove gray, and his eyes shone with inexperience and a trace of awe. Perfect. Mark almost asked if he wanted to shed his
waistcoat, but just in time remembered he was no longer a servant required to take visitors’ coats when needed. “Please follow me.” He led the young invitation master to the breakfast nook. “Did you walk all the way here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Next time I need you I’ll send a carriage, assuming everything works out.”

  “Excuse me, but may I ask who recommended me?” Mr. Leorliss blushed, but Mark doubted that it was from any attraction. If anything he seemed uneasy.

  “No one. I walked by your window and I liked your work.” Or rather, Lark had. That cold and lonely mind had noticed everything that might be of use later. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for three hundred invitations in two days. What I have in mind will be public, to be posted about town. I’ll take care of the personal invitations. Make yourself comfortable and set up any materials you’d like to present. I’ll be right back.”

  Mark went out the side way through the servant’s hall when he heard the too-calm but loud bellow. “Lark!”

  The colonel’s voice made him tingle and his toes curled. They really had to stop inciting each other like this before something gave way under the strain. He listened for the footsteps and backtracked toward the front of the house just as the colonel charged—not entirely calmly—down the stairs. He was about to call out again when he noticed Mark.

  Mark braced as the colonel approached like a potent gust of wind. The power exhilarated him. “This,” the colonel said, stopping short of striking Mark in the face with Winsome’s letter, “is beyond cruel.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Not her, you. You can’t toy with people like this. I won’t have it. I forbid it. Do you understand me?” The papers flashed near Mark’s face again. He was a quick reader, but not quick enough to catch more than a couple of meaningless words. The colonel held the pages too far behind his leg for Mark to read any more.

  Too late? Mark tried to compose an answer that wasn’t flip.

  “I will have an answer.” The colonel’s eyes blazed with darkness.

  “I understand you. You’re the one who doesn’t understand. If she’s sincere then at least try. And if it’s all business then you have nothing to worry about.”

  “What about her reputation? If nothing comes of this she’ll have been jilted yet again.”

  Mark hadn’t considered that Winsome might have been jilted. It seemed incomprehensible that someone so fine would be pursued only to be abandoned. “I’ll make it right. Don’t worry.”

  “You have everything in hand, do you?”

  His heartbeat lifted. He couldn’t tell if it was the colonel’s heart or his own temper starting to rise. “This is what comes of piling all your responsibilities on me.”

  “So you’re punishing me?” The colonel loomed closer. “And using an innocent young woman as your weapon.”

  “I’m trying—never mind what I’m trying. I have business to attend to. Can we please discuss this at another time?”

  “More business like what you’ve already arranged?” the colonel growled.

  “Do you have better plans?” Mark took him by the arm and drew him to the main sitting room so that their voices wouldn’t echo through the whole house. It surprised him a little that the colonel came along. He could have easily resisted. Mark shut the door. “Did you expect, with one look at me, that I could solve all your problems without inconveniencing you?”

  “This is quite a lot more than inconvenience.” The colonel kept crowding him. “There must be another way.”

  “Then inform me of this way. The presidency looms. Who would you have as president if not yourself?”

  “Anyone but myself.”

  The stupidity behind that statement flabbergasted him. For a moment he couldn’t even respond with a ha.

  “Do you truly believe someone of your inexperience and my temperament would improve this nation’s chances of survival? You’re just a boy.”

  Mark flinched, and to his shame he had to fight tears. It was such a petty, silly slight. He couldn’t account for why it hurt so badly. “And they’re all corrupt, dirty old men, and Feather is a just a dress, and you’re just a broken-hearted soldier. We’re all merely something, but we all have power.”

  “I mustn’t be given any power.”

  A shiver won past the hurt, dulling it. Would they talk about it at last? “Why anyone other than you? True, you have faults. Brutal honesty, self-denial, humility, pride, generosity, and overwhelming concern for everyone but yourself. All to a fault. Those happen to be the faults of some of the greatest men that have ever lived, including His Royal Majesty King Michael, who, had he not engaged in war to keep the islands, would likely still be admired here as much as he is on the mainland.”

  “You would change your mind if you knew me.” The colonel walked to a window and looked out. His heart beat slowly, painfully. Mark could feel it because it beat exactly as his did. “I want war.”

  Mark’s heart quickened against the colonel’s powerful, slow pain. “No, you don’t. You want a fight that you understand, something pure—”

  “There’s nothing pure about a battlefield.” The colonel set Winsome’s letter on a small side table.

  “I came from a hard fight not too long ago,” Mark reminded him. “And I don’t want it back. Except ...” The colonel turned aside a little, but not far enough to really look at Mark. “I think you know what I mean. There’s something important that comes from being overwhelmed and near death and understanding how short and fragile life really is. I’m living in that dark ... brightness. I want to do everything and anything, to risk it all. Not just because of the excitement in it. Not just because I want to succeed, or to fight for what I believe in. Because I have to know what I am. And because there’s nothing better that we can hope for than to put ourselves between the good in this world and the things that want to tear it down.” At least, there’s nothing better for us, he thought. Neither of us have a chance at love. “We bonded in part because you knew you wouldn’t change your mind in ten days or ten years. You trusted me. Please, trust me.”

  “Then trust me when I say I should not have the presidency.”

  Mark had to let the moment pass. If he brought up what the morbai, or whatever it was, had said, then the colonel would never go forward toward the elections. “Maybe not alone. But you won’t be alone. You can lead in accordance with the common man’s wishes rather than your own. You can employ a council of governors to help you make decisions. And you’ll have me. You may even earn yourself a wife and family who will also guide you. I have put all this within your reach. You only have to stretch and take hold of it. Even if you don’t succeed, you know better than I that if you don’t even try, we’ll lose everything. But if you try, even if you don’t succeed, we may still win a little.”

  The colonel gripped the window sill in his hands, his arms spread as if he were hanging from chains, or ready to take flight. “This is the last thing you will do without consulting me.”

  “If you want me to be different from other jesters, you have to help me. You have to guide me. You have to do your part. Please. At least talk to me.”

  The colonel squeezed the sill hard, and then relaxed and let his arms slip down. His heart had quickened with Mark’s. “I’ve wanted nothing but to talk to you since that day we walked on the rocks. You haven’t been home.”

  Mark decided not to remind him that they had silent meals and many hours at opposite ends of the house. “Meet me at the breakfast nook and help me go over designs for the announcements. We’re having a party. At that party, I hope you will announce your willingness to accept a nomination, if it’s your honor to be nominated for the presidency.”

  “And if I will not?” The colonel turned and leaned against the wall beside the window, wreathed in shadow beside the hot, tropical sunlight slicing into the room.

  “Then we’d better have another plan in place, because at this party, everyone will be expecting a gra
nd surprise.”

  The colonel scowled, but Mark thought he detected a little bemusement lighting his eyes. That bemusement faded as he rifled through the pages. “The lady also sent me a page, without explanation, in code.” He offered Mark the page.

  Mark’s heart skipped. “I’ll be right back with the translation.”