Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(89)

I’d been to the baths several times now, thrice on my own. I still went at Old-Timers’ Hour; my bravery had limits. When the old people stared, at least I could pretend it was due to poor eyesight.

I left my clothes in a cubbyhole (not neglecting to tip the attendant), walked underneath a cold torrent rushing from a decorative dolphin’s mouth (an excruciating procedure that Naia had insisted was crucial for sanitation), and climbed into the warm communal pool. Oldsters—of every gender Porphyry had to offer—lined the perimeter, seated upon a long underwater bench; their heads bobbed at the surface like cheerful cabbages. Some nodded at me in recognition. Some stared, but they seemed more agog at my ghostly pale body than at the scales shingling my middle.

“Do the people down south live in caves?” an old man had once asked loudly, unconcerned with whether I might understand what he was saying. “Like those spidery crickets, you know. You can almost see through her.”

No one had ever commented on the scales, to my immeasurable relief. Today, however, a finger ran across my back, right along the line where my human skin gave way to dragon. The flesh there was often red and angry, as if it resented the sharp scales pushing through, and the unexpected touch hurt. I flinched, biting back a cry, and the toothless granny to my right grinned up at me, her eyes two crescents of mischief.

She mumbled something I had no hope of understanding. The woman on her other side, her body jiggling with giggles, spoke loudly and slowly: “Lend her your silver teeth, you stingy foreigner. You have too many, and she has none of her own.”

I couldn’t help it: I laughed, and the whole pool laughed with me. Naia had said that awe of an ityasaari would clash with bemusement at a foreigner. It looked like the two had finally resolved into plain amusement.

But the most surprising thing was that I really didn’t mind. These scales, my visible emblem of shame, which had so terrified Rodya, which I had hidden, suppressed, and even once tried to pry off with a knife—how was I now able to laugh about them with strangers? Something had changed in me. I was such a long way from where I had started.

After I dried myself, I changed into the nicest outfit I owned, a lapis-blue tunic embroidered with red and gold flowers and chips of mirror, its skirt longer and fuller than the usual, falling in crisp pleats past my knees. I had bought it at a harborside shop, thinking I might someday have to go into company and disliking the sort of filmy sleeveless gowns the highborn ladies wore.

Comonot had said evening, but I had no address for House Malou. I left my bath box with the attendant (overnight, for a more generous tip) and wandered along to the library, pausing halfway up the hill to admire the orange and lilac of the setting sun.

House Malou (the librarians informed me, eyeing my new tunic with interest) was four streets from Camba’s, not hidden behind shops but unabashedly occupying an entire block. I found it easily. Its blue door had a shiny brass knocker shaped like an acanthus leaf. I worried the doorman wouldn’t let me in, but apparently he’d been warned to expect me. He led me into a high-ceilinged atrium, newer and fancier than Camba’s; mosaics of sea horses, octopuses, and mer-dogs covered the ceiling, glass and gilt tiles catching the light. There was a murmur of water and of voices from deeper inside the house. The fountain’s statue was of a man balancing what looked like a pink cathedral on his head. A closer look revealed a miniature city, complete with temples and markets, carved of rosy coral. The allegorical name on the base of the statue was a word I didn’t know.

“Duty,” said a familiar baritone, startling me so I almost put a foot in the pool. Kiggs made a move to catch my elbow, but I regained my balance on my own.

“You have good Porphyrian,” I said.

He smiled self-effacingly. “I asked the doorman.”

He’d cleaned up and changed into his crimson dress doublet; his hair was still damp from the bath. I was pleased to note that he’d kept the beard, and then surprised that I was pleased. He noticed me staring and ran a self-conscious hand down his face. “I’m told the Agogoi take you more seriously if you have a beard,” he said.

“I’ll have to try that,” I said.

His mouth twitched as he held in a laugh. I remembered why I liked this prince.

“Comonot’s in the dining room with our hosts,” said Kiggs, ushering me forth. “In a dining room, more accurately. I’ve found three so far; there may be more.”

“This is just dinner?” I asked, following him up the corridor. “No politics?”

“Oh, it’s all politics,” said Kiggs, his eyes keen. “The kind Comonot sometimes unwittingly excels at, wherein he meets everyone and charms them with his, uh, charm. We should keep an eye on him.”

We passed through the depths of the house, glimpsing a vast domed chamber, a private bath like an artificial lake, a library, and two formal gardens before arriving at an open courtyard paved in five colors of tessellated marble. Couches lined the perimeter; a fountain of wine burbled in the center amid tables of towering delicacies. Nearly a hundred people milled around, helping themselves to food and wine, lounging languidly on couches, eating and laughing.

“It’s an egalitarian gathering,” Kiggs whispered delightedly in my ear. “There’s no hierarchy of seating; we may eat or sit where we like. I want to try this in Goredd.”

I didn’t wish to contradict his enthusiasm; maybe he didn’t see all the servants maneuvering through the cracks and crannies of the crowd, refilling glasses and removing empty platters. Maybe I saw them only because I’d been staying harborside. Two of Abdo’s aunties were servants in the great houses.