Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(91)

“Why not?” asked someone else.

Comonot’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Because what if it makes sense?”

The gathered Porphyrians laughed at his marvelous joke. Comonot blinked owlishly at them, and I suspected he hadn’t been joking at all.

Our hostess, the Honorable Phyllida Malou Melaye, had quietly joined the circle of listeners. She raised her bulldog chin and spoke up: “It is generally in Porphyry’s interest for the Old Ard to be quelled. They’re bent on taking back the Southlands, where half our fortune is tied. However, as much as we’d like to support you, Ardmagar, you must acknowledge that we risk retribution if we help you and you lose. The Old Ard would not overlook it; they might even punish us before they take the south.”

Comonot bowed cordially. “I hear and respect your caution, Madam Speaker.”

“You must balance Porphyry’s risk with adequate compensation,” she said, refilling her wineglass at the fountain. “We have a panoply of ideologies here, but there’s one we all agree on: flexibility is always possible, for the right price.”

“I expected that,” said Comonot. “I am prepared to negotiate for—”

Kiggs elbowed the Ardmagar, which caused the old saar to slop some wine onto the floor. Servants appeared as if out of nowhere to mop up; Comonot scowled as Kiggs whispered urgently in his ear. “I wasn’t going to blurt it all out here,” Comonot grumbled back. “Give me some credit, Prince.”

Speaker Melaye raised her glass. “We will negotiate in committee over the coming days. Let us enjoy our dinner. Business makes a bitter sauce.”

Comonot wordlessly raised his glass to her in turn and downed what remained of his wine.





After dinner, all the guests retired to a large terrace on the southern side of the house, where two bright braziers burned. House Malou’s resident artist, the poet Sherdil, gave a recitation while everyone drank fig wine and eagerly awaited the moonrise.

My Porphyrian was not quite equal to the metrics and metaphors of poetry. I was concentrating so hard that I jumped when Kiggs touched my shoulder. “Oh, excuse me,” he whispered, lightly amused. “You’re enjoying this.”

I shrugged. “Poetry is difficult.”

“So that’s a yes.” He smiled. “Don’t pretend; I know you. You go haring after ‘difficult’ at every opportunity. But I don’t like to interrupt if you’re engrossed.”

An unaccountable bubble of lightness rose in me. “If it were music, you wouldn’t stand a chance, but I don’t mind missing this.”

Still, he hesitated; I took his arm encouragingly. We had the same intuition at once and looked around for Comonot, but the Ardmagar was pleasantly engaged with a glass at the far end of the terrace. We avoided his eye, ducking around merry guests and glazed pots bristling with ornamental grasses, climbing the terrace toward the silent house.

The corridors were cool and empty. Kiggs led me to a triangular garden, an irregular space left over by a new addition to the house. The air was drunk with lemon and jasmine; translucent windows glowed warmly with lamplight from indoors. The moon hovered below the roofline, but an oracular aura shone where it would soon rise. We sat upon a cool stone bench, leaving a gap wide enough for fat Propriety to squeeze between us.

Propriety. If Goreddis made allegorical statues, she’d be the first we’d carve.

“You didn’t tell me Comonot had gone to the front,” I said, adjusting the skirt of my tunic. “I pictured him moping around the castle all this time, driving Glisselda mad.”

“Oh, he still managed that, even from a distance,” said Kiggs, sitting cross-legged like a child. His sparse beard made a humane frame for his smile. “We couldn’t tell you over the thnik, but he left shortly after you did. No more directing his war from afar. Now that he’s seen what’s really going on out there, he’s at great pains to stop it. He agrees with Eskar that if he can find a way to get to the Kerama, the war at large will cease while succession is settled properly. He might still lose the succession argument—or combat, or whatever it comes down to—but the dragon civil war would be over.”

“What about this new ideology?” I asked. “Will it drive them to keep fighting?”

Kiggs shook his head and sighed. “These are exactly the questions that keep me up at night. Comonot believes dragon law and custom will prevail. If we don’t trust him, we’ve no one left to trust, but I can’t pretend there’s no risk.”

Kiggs reached down the front of his doublet with one hand and drew out a bronze thnik in the shape of a St. Clare medallion. “Selda turns sixteen tomorrow,” he said, weighing the device in his hand. “I am likely to be tied up with Comonot and the Assembly all day. It’s after midnight back home, but surely it’s better to wake her in the early hours of her birthday than in the early hours of the day after.”

“Much better,” I said, smiling ruefully at his conscientiousness.

He flipped the switch and we waited. No one answered. Kiggs gave it a minute, a furrow deepening between his brows. “That laggardly page boy is supposed to sleep in the study, under the desk.”

“Maybe his stressful post has driven him to drink,” I joked morosely.

Kiggs frowned, unamused. “I’ll have to try again tomorrow, I suppose.”