2.29. Ah, Youth

“What did you take?” Lisa demanded. “Give it to me.”

He tugged the statuette out of its hiding place and into her snatching palm.

“You disobeyed me.” She backed him into a door and shoved it open. “I told you: stay. I said be a good boy.”

“You said you’d only be a few minutes.” He tried to free his arm; she pinned it back in place. “Where the hell did you go, Lisa? Why couldn’t you take me?”

“You do not question your mistress.” She pulled his sleeve back. “You obey her.”

The printed shackle beneath the fabric was encompassed and reinforced by her vise grip.

“I thought this would be enough to keep you good.” She marched him into a dimly lit sitting room and smushed him up against another wall—this one with a hunting-scene tapestry, at least, to soften the crush. “I see it was not. I’ve been lacking as your owner. I see now that it’s my responsibility to show you the penalty for disobedience.”

Her thumbs slid along his stomach and tucked into his sash. Her foot roughly shoved between his and drove his legs apart while the rest of her kept him pinned to the tapestry. His feet dangled and kicked on impulse as they left the ground. “Lisa—”

Her sweet wine-scented breath thickened. “Don’t try to fight me, Seth,” she rasped. “You’ve misbehaved. Misbehaving pets must accept the discipline they’ve earned.”

Was she turned on?

“Wait.” He scrabbled at her ironclad grip. “Meadowsweet.”

She froze.

“Desdemona al Vhesse is somewhere up on this level,” he said. “I reckon she’s following me. We should go. Teeswod-whatever.”

“Oh, shit.” The thunderous threat gusted away completely. Her entire posture changed. “Okay. Douse the fireworks. Let’s get back to the feasthall before that odious stickbug comes calling.”

Suddenly he was out of the darkened room, being tugged along by the hand.

Lisa’s sandals clacked urgently on the flagstones. “Were you seen, love?”

“There was a guard, but I Darknessed him,” Seth said. He hesitated, and admitted: “And al Vhesse ran into me. While I was recovering.”

Her steps faltered. “What happened? What did she say?”

If you tell her everything, she’ll try to stay here and cave in al Vhesse’s face, he told himself, and that was a far more responsible reason than the truth, which was that if Lisa was going to keep secrets from him, he felt owed his own. “Nothing, really. She introduced herself and tried to needle me and I gave her the stink-eye for a while.”

“Thank the Saints you escaped in time. And your Darkness? You used it without collapsing?”

“I did do a touch of collapsing, to be honest, but I stayed awake. Does that count?”

She beamed. “That’s fantastic progress for a second casting. Excellent job, Seth.”

“Am I…” His head spun with confusion “Hold on, Lisa. Am I actually in trouble, or not?”

“What?” She laughed, somewhat out of breath from their halfway jog. “No, love. Of course not.”

“What do you mean of course not?”

“You returned this little doodad when I told you to.” She opened a door at seeming random and tossed the statuette inside. “That’s all I require of you. Remember? And only lift when you’re very sure. Were you sure?”

“I was sure I wanted to,” Seth admitted. “Dunno if that counts.”

“Okay. You’re a quarter of the way in trouble. But were you caught?”

“Kind of, right?” He held up the hand she was holding. “And al Vhesse saw me.”

Lisa scoffed. “If I didn’t know any better, Seth, I’d think you wanted me mad.”

“No, no, I just—” The outrage and the anxiety were spinning his brain around as they drained, like a plug pulled from a filled tub. “I mean, Saints. I was mad at you.”

“I suppose you did give me a bit of a conniption when you ran off,” she said. “But you wouldn’t have done it if I’d been as brief as I’d promised. Sunshine told me what happened. That miserable little Lanzcap lickspittle. I’d love to break his nose for him, but the Legion would drown me in paperwork over it.”

She steered them on a different path than he’d taken, to a broad spiral staircase in the second-floor wing’s center. A guard stepped forward to halt them; he recognized the woman in the shimmering dress and shuffled back again to allow them passage.

“Now I had intended to sit on your face awhile, then drop the act and trade apologies,” Lisa said, hurrying down the staircase. “But we’ve put tragic pause to that. So I officially dismiss your indiscretion, if you can dismiss my marooning of you where that harelipped prick made sport of you.”

His heart grew lighter, even as he chastised himself for it. Why was it so goddamn hard to stay angry at Lisa al Ydris? “How about you stick close for the rest of the day,” he said. “And I won’t make you go running off after me.”

“I intend to run after you for the rest of your life, little fox.” Her smile shone from over her exquisite shoulder. “Don’t you remember what I told you in the carriage? I want you how you are.”

He was supposed to be suspicious of her and he was supposed to be seeking answers from her and he was supposed to do more, probably, but he forgot that along with everyone else in the sheer hammerblow of affection her words sank into his gut.

“And anyway,” Lisa added. “This is far better than last time. The Bastion isn’t a stormship full of pirates. Though you’re as like to meet a cutthroat.”

Later, he promised himself, as treacherous relief softened his brow. You’ll confront her later with all your questions and revelations. Later when you’re lying naked in each other’s arms, maybe, and she’s stroking your chest and her breath’s rustling your hair—

Before he had time to properly assemble his plan on a tactical level, they re-emerged from the stairwell to the brilliant balcony lights. A mechanical switch flipped somewhere in Lisa’s indestructible chassis and she went from a hurried powerwalk to an elegant glide. Seth stumbled into the transition but righted himself before any dignitary caught him.

“Ooh, doll.” Lisa drew him to the stainless steel railing and stood them between two spear-headed newel posts. “Look. They’re setting up the stage.”

A troupe of uniform-clad men and women were assembling with soldierly precision within the tambour domed bandshell opposite the balcony. Easy to mistake them for a phalanx or a firing line, if the cases they were unpacking hadn’t been full of fluted tonewood and shining brass.

“I know it was a near scandal last time you danced with your fond old aunt.” Lisa’s hip brushed his. “But if you’d give me the honor, I promise to behave this time.”

“Not too well, I hope,” he said, and followed her down the balcony balustrade and through the ring of pedestal tables, at which the dance-disinclined were finding their nametagged spots. Lisa’s children were conferencing in a knot at the thin end of the gathering throng.

“Hullo, Seth. Hullo, Mother. Welcome back to the killing floor.” Ofelia held up the hand of a young, tight-braided legionnaire with skin the rich deep gray of granite. “This is Lanzteniyant Indrika, and she’s asked me to dance.”

“Indrina,” the girl corrected, lips pursed.

“Right.” Ofelia snapped her fingers. “Changed your mind?”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Indrina said, and allowed Ofelia to lead her further into the crowd.

“That’s Seth and me in a moment,” Lisa said. “I just have to get myself one cup deeper. Mister il Gutierre?”

“It’s noon,” he said.

“It’s the Necropolis,” she said.

“Fair’s fair.” The loose loopiness of his Darkness was slipping away. A replacement might be in order. When in the Necropolis… “A white, I guess.”

She nodded approvingly, held up a be-right-back finger, and cut across the floor toward the terraced wineglasses.

“You don’t have to dance,” Tiago said to Riccana, who was rooted to the earth like one of her hometown’s clay pots. “Why don’t you find us our table? We’ll all be sitting together.”

Riccana looked more intent on studying her hands than the tables. “Which one’s ours?”

“One of the ring around the floor,” Tiago said. “It should have the al Ydris name on it.”

“I, uh…” Riccana’s eyes darted across the tables. “Maybe you could point it out.”

“Just look for the one that says al Ydris.”

“Tiago.” Riccana leaned forward with a furious whisper. “How many times do I have to tell you I can’t fucking read?”

“Oh, no.”

Oh, no. Here came the Lanzcapitan and his jackbooted jackals, like a cue in a shitty mummery.

“Tiago al Ydris, is your pastoral fantasy running into the potato-field reality?” Leonane al Proiet was as stuck-up as Seth recalled, and appreciably drunker. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure he’s got a—”

“Kindly save it for your mistress, Lanzcap,” Tiago snapped. “Maybe she’ll give you a scratch behind the ear.”

“You’re one to talk, pillowdark,” Al Proiet said, through his stiffening grin.

“And you’re one to throw pillowdark around,” Tiago said, “when we all know some Dockward doxy snuffed your wick for a chunk of your daddy’s money.”

“Ladies of negotiable affection have their time and place. But Teniyant al Ydris.” Al Proiet tsked. “At least I don’t try to wine and dine them at a state reception. I mean really.”

Riccana il Teremi had roared Shaheill’s defiance into the face of Enna-Belum. Now she bunched her hands into her borrowed dress and looked as though she wanted to disappear.

“Tiago,” Seth said. “I understand that this is some kind of political bullshit that I’m supposed to stiffen my upper lip about, but if this dickhead doesn’t shut up I’m gonna punch him in the mouth.”

The Lanzcapitan sneered. “I’m sure you’ll try. That’s about all you’re equipped for, little man.”

“Better a little man than a tall glass of tallywhacker,” Seth said. “This woman drove a lance into a blackfeather. She got torn open by it. Show some respect.”

“I will not waste courtesy on a Plainland popmite.” Al Proiet gave one of his last sniffs through an unbroken nose. “I would sooner salute their fleas than their faces, for at least they have the sense to know their place away from our Legion’s eyes.”

Seth’s teeth gritted so hard he thought he might fracture one.

Tiago al Ydris stepped swiftly past him. His arm slid from the brocaded sleeve of his Legion longcoat and swept it from him, hanging it like a halfcape from his shoulder. Beneath the broadcloth sat his stamped-leather scabbard, stark and utilitarian amid the green and gold. With a snap of disengaging brass he tugged it from his belt.

His stentorian voice cut through the chatter around them, as if he were standing atop his mother’s carriage and hailing the Verdugo. “Legionnaire Lanzcapitan Leonane al Proiet, you impugn the honor of my comrades.” He unwound a section of the tasseled cloth that decorated his sword’s pommel, and wrapped it between the crossguard and the scabbard’s ring, binding the blade into its sheath. “By the strong right arm of Saint Silas and the imprimatur of the Sorcerer General, and in the names of Riccana il Teremi, Seth il Gutierre, and my Exark, Verdugo Superior al Ydris, I require satisfaction with you, sir. Passat ad Atyarca.”

He underhanded the blade to the ground. It skidded on the polished marble, rolled over, and stopped at the cutter toe of Leonane’s sleek cavalry boot.

Lisa elbowed through the crowd with messenger haste. The generous glasses of wine looked like sleek snifters in her hands. “What’s Passat ad Atyarca mean?” Seth whispered, as she passed him his drink.

“A meeting of blades,” Lisa whispered. Her eyes flicked down to roost with everyone else’s, upon the grounded blade.

“Like… a duel?”

“Not like a duel.” She had made an impassive mask of her face. “A duel.”

The crowd’s attention was refracted so sharply onto them that Seth felt its solar sting. The band, for their part, continued their clockwork setup as though nothing were happening. That was infantry for you.

Lisa took the measure of the staring assembly with a careless toss of her head; her hair cut through the air like the stroke of a black pen. “Desdemona,” she said, to the smiling stiltwalker who observed from her balcony podium amid a cluster of hangers-on. “It appears your little Legion hound has finally caught the engine he was chasing. What shall we do about that?”

“My?” Al Vhesse’s smile only grew. “Why are you asking me? I’m no more a legionnaire than you are.”

“You’ll allow my son dispensation to act as he will on your protege?”

“In the typical masculine fashion?” Al Vhesse sought interest in the tips of her fingernails. “I don't see how it's my business. This is what I was talking about earlier, Larson. Know what must be your business and what's trying to distract you from your business. It behooves us to keep our noses as clean as we can in the court." This she directed to Larson a'Lauvey the lit Verdugo, who stood uncertainly beside her. "I find such things rather tasteless on the tongue, but she did rear the boy. Who am I to act in her place?”

“Indeed.” Lisa’s sandal squeaked as she pivoted to the young men. “His challenge is mine, Lanzcapitan al Proiet. I endorse it. Now I would like to dance with my consort, and my son’s weapon is in the way. Please take up the blade, or bow off.”

“If you seek satisfaction, I will supply a surfeit.” Leonane snatched Tiago’s saber from the ground. “And more besides. I return this sword and its attendant challenge Passat ad Haxan. Will you walk, sir, or do you counterstipulate?”

“I do not.” Tiago took his blade back and affixed it on his belt with all the calm of simple commerce. “What day will I call for you?”

“Tomorrow.” Leonane stormed into his watchful pack, whose chortling had silenced. “Settled quick is settled best.”

“Agreed,” Tiago said, and turned from his glaring foe with sharp finality.

“Ah, youth.” Lisa allowed a desultory smile onto her face. “None of this crack of dawn stuff, I hope. I’d rather like to watch the proceedings, and I intend a late night.”

She turned round to the musicians and raised her glass of red into the air. “Salut, legionnariya! Give us a brisk one!”

The conductor saluted, his silver baton taking the place of a saber. He tapped it twice upon his dais. The music surged into a syncopated quickstep that blew the last of the whispers away. Livelier entertainment had presented itself.

“A duel. Fuck me.” Seth faltered after Lisa as she strode them to the dance floor, polishing off half her glass in one bracing gulp. “Is that usual for Tiago?”

“Not at all.” Lisa plucked the glass from Seth’s hand, deposited it on an unoccupied table, and filled his palm with her own. “He’s never issued one.”

“It’s not to the death, is it?”

She shook her head. “Passat ad Haxan is to first blood, with the use of hexentatuae allowed.”

“You seem awful casual about it,” he said.

“Al Proiet is a straw dummy,” she said. “And Tiago is my son.”

“So I don’t have to worry?” Seth asked. “Cause I’m a wee bit worried”

“Tiago has never issued a challenge. He’s accepted six.”

“How many has he won?”

“Six,” she said, and dipped Seth low.