Chapter 6

CHAPTER

6

The velvet tunic was new enough that the collar itched Luca’s neck.

“Aleit,” said his employer of the moment, “we’re almost ready to go in. Stop messing around, love, you’ll smudge your dress.”

Aleit Martens was full of the nervy excitement of being thirteen and the centre of attention, and her eyes were wide as Ilse, Luca’s fellow swordguard, walked her solemnly across the Guildhall’s foyer and back again as though she were a much smaller child, Aleit’s satin shoes balanced on Ilse’s boots. At her mother’s words, Aleit released Ilse’s hands. Luca caught Ilse’s attempt to suppress a wince as the girl leapt energetically off Ilse’s feet and landed on the carpeted floor.

A small procession arranged itself in front of the large double doors leading into the Guildhall proper. In front came the Martens parents and their other two children: a young boy, sulkily well-scrubbed, and an older girl a few years past her own naming who looked superior and calm whenever she remembered not to look envious. Behind them was Aleit herself, brown hair hanging straight from two pins sparkling with glass flowers. She was muttering to herself under her breath, rehearsing her responses.

Bringing up the rear came Luca and Ilse, the ceremonial swordguard, both wearing the damn high-collared duellist’s tunics over equally new trousers. Luca wasn’t sure the maroon velvet was doing him any favours, given that he was probably pink with the midsummer heat. At least he was wearing clothes that weren’t ancient, and he’d be allowed to keep them afterwards.

The bright trill of a glockenspiel sounded, and the doors swung open to reveal a hall full of well-dressed people, all turning their heads with a smile.

Ilse caught Luca’s eye and mouthed, “ Houses, ” with a hint of an eye-roll.

Luca twitched his mouth in reply, and they stepped forward in Aleit’s wake.

Ilse was tall, with dark gold hair braided in sections, and couldn’t have been more than nineteen. This was her first proper job as a duellist on Tolliver’s books. And as far as she knew, she and Luca were in a similar situation: comfortably Houseless, able to look on this kind of high ritual as something belonging to a sphere of existence that was only relevant inasmuch as it provided employment and entertainment. Most people, Ilse had pointed out, managed to swear themselves into the service of a Guild with much less fuss than this. The gods only expected this kind of performance from those with the money to pay for it.

Luca wondered if he should throw in some gawking for the sake of it. It wouldn’t be hard. The Mason Guildhall had an intricate patterned floor in varying shades of marble, and the room was dominated by a huge glass-faced clock, hung between two soaring windows, showing off every whir of its shining cog entrails and the huge teardrop of quartz that acted as pendulum. Beneath the clock the Deputy Guildmaster stood on a wide, slightly raised stage.

Luca managed to catch the younger Martens brother’s eye as he took his place on one side of the stage, and he gave the boy a solemn wink. Luca had been nine at Persemaine’s naming ceremony, enduring his mother’s arm around his shoulder—as she tried, without much success, to stop him from fidgeting constantly—and gazing at Perse’s hair, which was newly cropped short to go with the new name. For a while Luca had assumed that everyone was given a fresh name at their naming, even those who weren’t also settling into a new set of pronouns. And though he couldn’t blame Perse for shedding Persemella, he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to come up with anything better than his own.

He didn’t remember being nervous at his own naming; he hadn’t taken it very seriously. He’d enjoyed the gifts, the attention, the sense of performance.

“Aleit Martens, blood daughter of Martens House,” said the Deputy Guildmaster. His voice flowed out across the hush of the hall. “Do you come here on your own feet, and offer your service with your own willing hands?”

“Y-yes,” said Aleit. “Yes, I do.”

Not a natural performer, this girl. Her excitement had given way to a voice that stumbled on the responses as she accepted the protection and rights of her House and swore herself into the service of Arri. The Head of Martens House stepped forward. Luca, remembering Matti’s business problems, had been keeping an ear out for the name Lysbette. But this was a man, old enough to be Aleit’s grandfather or great-uncle. He winked fondly at the girl as he handed her a lit candle—beautifully carved back and twisted to show the layers of coloured wax, like a split precious stone—welcoming her into the protection and service of their patron.

Luca kept a hand on his sword hilt, trying to channel his energy into an unobtrusive tapping of one fingertip against the leather-wrapped metal so that it didn’t manifest as an unprofessional shifting of his feet. He was older than nine, now. He could stand still if he really had to.

That thought triggered a memory, and the memory sent an entirely different kind of restlessness creeping through his body.

You took my money. This is what I want.

Matti hadn’t pushed any further since that day, nearly two weeks ago now. Luca kept catching Matti’s eyes on him, more intimate than the act of instruction would require. But Matti hadn’t said anything, and so despite being tempted to do some pushing himself, Luca had let it rest. He wondered if Matti had scared himself with that exhilarating thing that had tried to come into being between them, like two stones struck and sparking.

You took my money.

The extent of the arousal that spiralled through Luca whenever he thought about it was, frankly, baffling. It wasn’t just that he found Matti attractive. It was that the arousal was shaping itself around a thread of shame, despite Luca’s best rational efforts to tell himself there was nothing shameful in service jobs. Duelling is barely two steps up from acting, Perse had said once, knowing full well that Luca had spent a difficult few months in childhood, before he understood the implications, trying to talk their mother into letting him join a theatre company.

Luca couldn’t help the kernel of hot humiliation, the feeling less-than, that Perse’s words had managed to plant in his chest. He ignored it, but he couldn’t budge it.

And yet. Some kind of yearning had come free in him, unlocked by his anger and the moment when he’d realised he was trying to step up to the challenge in Matti’s voice. It felt like a game, and a heady one. Luca wanted to play, wanted more, and it was taking all his willpower not to snatch it.

He had to remember the sword, balanced on Matti’s fingers. Upsetting the balance they’d hammered out for themselves would be risky. Someone might end up bleeding.

At least the unmentioned spark added a certain spice to the sword lessons, which were progressing like a recalcitrant horse being guided down a wide path. Every two steps forward also involved a step to the side, as well as the occasional detour back to the point where Matti seemed to have not only forgotten all the techniques and habits that Luca had shown him, but to have somehow invented terrible new ones since the previous morning.

The basic forms were improving through sheer dint of repetition. But Luca felt like a limp rag at the end of each lesson, having wrung himself out trying to think of new ways to explain things that seemed obvious and clear. He was not at his best, in that room, throwing himself against someone else’s limitations and seemingly taking all the damage himself. He wanted to show hardworking, overscheduled, inhumanly responsible Matti that he was allowed to have fun, that he could unbend, he could laugh .

And he might have managed it easily if they were in any other situation but this. If they’d met at that drinking house with no agenda, if Luca could have bought a handsome man a drink, as he’d done on many other nights in his life, and sat next to him and sparkled and charmed and coaxed those dimples out, then leaned over and pressed his fingertips into them; whispered let’s leave now against Matti’s mouth.

It was just a wistful fantasy. Matti would still have been celebrating his engagement. And the disastrous foot they’d started off on was Luca’s own fault.

And that was the problem, Luca thought now, sweeping the crowd in the Mason Guildhall with unseeing eyes. Never before had Luca been in the position of suspecting that he liked someone else a lot more than they liked him. Nothing to do with desire —that was there, there was no missing it. But he didn’t think Matti had much of an opinion of him as a person, and that rankled. People liked Luca. It was one of the things he’d always relied upon.

Luca forced himself out of that depressing rumination. The ceremony was wrapping up. Aleit had blown out her candle and was smiling broadly now that her spoken part was over. The silence that settled was expectant.

Luca cleared his throat and stepped down to stand on the cleared piece of floor in front of the stage.

“I challenge the worthiness of Aleit Martens to take her place as a full member of the Masons Guild, under the patronage of Arri. Will anyone defend her claim?”

“I will,” said Ilse, and she drew her sword as she stepped forward in turn.

There was a sprinkling of polite applause. Luca snuck another sideways look at the Martens boy, who seemed to have perked up. Finally, his expression said, they were getting to the good bit.

Unlike serving as best man, there was no expectation that standing swordguard at a naming ceremony would involve any risk of serious combat. Perhaps it had, long ago, when the gods guarded their followers more jealously and the Guilds were closer to clans. When a duellist was the purposeful arm of the gods and the law, settling real disputes, standing up for real challenges where the fate of more than a marriage might hang in the balance.

These days most of the job was symbolic, although with a duel in formal style there was at least a guaranteed chance to show off.

Luca settled his shoulders, focused his attention, and attacked.

He went in for a daring overarm strike, slowing it down at the last instant when he wasn’t sure if Ilse had caught his signalling of the attack early enough to parry successfully. That won him an exasperated look down Ilse’s nose, and Luca grinned back at her. The next time, he didn’t slow down at all. After weeks of matching Matti’s beginner’s level, this was like a good clean stretch of a muscle. Luca hadn’t realised how easily he would become rusty, even doing his own exercises every day.

They weren’t expected to draw it out. After a few minutes Luca raised his eyebrows at Ilse and got an infinitesimal nod in return, and he made sure to over-rotate his body on the next stroke, leaving a clear opening. She stepped in and took advantage with enough speed that Luca heard an appreciative murmur, and then Luca was standing very still with Ilse’s blade beside his neck.

“Withdraw your challenge,” said Ilse.

“Withdrawn,” said Luca cheerfully.

“Arri smile!” called the Deputy Guildmaster, and his words were echoed back by the audience.

Luca withdrew with a bow. Ilse kissed her hand to Aleit, who was looking just as excited as her brother, and who nearly forgot to clasp her hand over her heart in acknowledgement. Now the applause was full and wholehearted. Everyone was probably looking forward to the food. Some kind of delicious smell had already begun to infiltrate the Guildhall, and Luca could see dishes being set up on long tables along the back wall.

Their role fulfilled, the swordguard exchanged a look and made their way by unspoken accord along the edge of the crowd to where the food was. Ilse was rapidly waylaid by a girl no taller than her waist, who had a stubborn and starry-eyed look as she gazed at Ilse’s sword. Female duellists were becoming more common but were still a minority. Ilse had treated Luca to a litany of complaints about the fact that they were still called best men if they stood up at a wedding, and still expected to defend against claims on the bride. If there even was a bride. Weddings of matched gender had been legal across Thesper for almost thirty years. Luca had always assumed that in the absence of any expected sword-challenge, the couple simply flipped a coin to decide who took a best man to the altar.

“Are you really a sword fighter? For work ?” Luca heard, before he unashamedly left Ilse to her tiny admirer and followed his nose.

He filled a plate with spiced fish and steamed bread, and then was held at bay from a bowl of what looked like whipped goat cheese with lacha syrup by an ancient man with a voice that creaked like warping floorboards. This man was very keen to tell Luca, with much waving of a serving spoon in illustration, that when he was a lad he’d attended a naming ceremony where the two members of the swordguard were notorious rivals, and the duel ended in the defender skewering the challenger between the ribs. The sentiment that Luca and Ilse’s more modern swordplay had been disappointingly tame in comparison was unspoken but strongly implied.

Luca watched flecks of cheese fly onto the floor as the man demonstrated the fatal blow in question. “Fascinating,” he said brightly.

“Oh, it was for a House under the Guild of Smiths, and everyone agreed that Buri wouldn’t mind a bit of blood at a naming.”

“Luca Piere, at your service,” said Luca, extending the hand not currently burdened by a plate. The old man looked at it, brow creasing. Luca sighed. “Do think of me if any member of your family has need of a sword.” He gave up on the cheese, snatched a few pieces of dried fruit, and escaped to a corner of the hall where small knots of people could provide him with shelter. He leaned against the wall, nudging the pommel of his sword into a more comfortable angle with one elbow.

“—compete with Jay House for quality, but a reputation hinges on courtesy and fair dealing as well.”

Luca looked over. A bearded man with black hair and good posture was listening to a shorter one, who had a broken nose and a marked cowlick that made him look boyish. They were smartly dressed and looked no different to the rest of the naming-day crowd, except that their heads were bent together and their bodies angled in a way that suggested a private conversation. Not too unusual. They could have been gossiping; that was what one did at these events. But the shorter man’s eyes darted in sharp arcs, as though he were wary of eavesdroppers.

Luca was careful to lower his own eyes to his plate before he could be caught watching. Dried apple, he made his expression say; how interesting . And dried cubes of a pale yellow fruit Luca didn’t recognise. He turned one of the cubes with his fingertip and kept his ears pricked.

“Hm. The Jays have no connections here, but you can’t be too careful,” the taller man said after a moment. “There are Guild offices down the corridor. We can speak more freely there.”

The two men, plates still in hand, slipped through a curtained doorway in the very corner of the hall and were gone.

This felt like a test. Luca looked down at the pattern beneath his feet, a wonder in green and white and yellow marble. He followed the spiral of it with his eyes, in polite acknowledgement of Arri, and then looked back up at the curtain. The gods didn’t give their gifts outright. They dropped opportunities into your path and it was up to you to seize them.

But was this an opportunity to behave himself, or an opportunity for action?

You want to believe the latter, a voice in him whispered. You want something to give to Matti Jay. You want him to owe you something, or at least for you to owe him less.

Another voice, softer and more thrilling, added: You want to lay a gift at his feet. You want to see if he will smile at you.

“Fuck it,” Luca decided under his breath.

Keeping his own plate of food for disguise, he ducked through the curtain. He crept along the corridor beyond, which was lined with portraits and boards with gilded lists of names, proclaiming various Guildmasters and prizes. He heard the two voices again, now coming from the other side of a half-open door.

“—business with Donna and Jenny.”

“It was a success,” said the voice of the taller man. “It’s just going to take longer than our hostess wanted.”

“Sim says she’s losing faith.” His companion had a nasal voice, as though suffering a summer cold. “She doesn’t trust us to finish them off.”

“She doesn’t trust anyone,” said the other. “That’s how she is. But she’ll get her fee eventually, as long as your lot keep the moths out and your mouths shut.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t speed things along further. Just a few words in the right ears about empty coffers—”

“No,” sharply. “The Jay family keeps secrets like watertight barrels. They could count the possible sources of a leak on one hand. It’s too much of a risk.”

“Like this wedding? All that nice, new Cooper gold poured into those selfsame coffers?”

A pause. “I told you that was a risk. At worst it’s a… setback.”

Luca looked down and found his knee jigging. A piece of dried apple was close to jolting its way off the plate; he put it in his mouth. He glanced up and down the corridor, but nobody else seemed inclined to leave the party.

“It could be enough to put them back on their feet,” argued Nasal.

“They were on their feet before.”

A shiver went down Luca’s spine at the gentle malice laid over those words like gleaming soap scum on a basin of water.

“True enough,” said the other. “True enough. Now. You have terms for me.”

“Six silver for heavy uniform serge, dropping to five after three years held exclusive. Blankets at materials cost if they’ll take it undyed and if they hold the uniform contract exclusive for ten.”

Nasal whistled. “It’ll draw blood, going lower than that. But we can take the hit, if it shuts them out. You’re sure that’s the final word? They won’t come back with a counteroffer?”

“Here. In writing.”

“I’ll pass it on.”

Luca considered creeping closer to the door and sneaking a peek through it. But there was a sound of movement, as though the two men were gathering themselves to leave, and even though the conversation didn’t sound like it was over, Luca was not up for his usual level of risk-taking. Not here, where he was lying low. He moved at once, thankful for the practiced silence of his feet, and slipped back into the Guildhall.

The crowd and the hot food had increased the hall’s temperature, and Luca’s velvet tunic now bordered on stifling. He tasted some of the unfamiliar fruit—it was wonderful, a burst of sweetness—and located Ilse’s blond head easily where she stood in a cluster of children. Children made good camouflage. Luca headed over to them with his free hand prominent on his sword hilt like a lure laid for fish.

What did he have, really? A conversation heard without context, opaque as steel. Hints. And no reason to give Matti this dubious and poorly wrapped gift of information, beyond the fact that Luca’s mouth ached whenever Matti’s nose crinkled and his lips feinted in the direction of smiling.

It was something to keep in his pocket, Luca decided. That would do for now.