"Between the dire-cats and last night," Xaphira said between bites, "I feel like I was stuffed into a box that was kicked down the garden steps. Now I remember why I don't run with the old crowds anymore. I can't keep up with them."
"Well, I hope your prowling around was worth it," Hetta said, sipping at a porcelain cup of steaming Amnian tea. The elder dame of the house didn't sound the least bit reproachful, merely concerned.
"It was," Xaphira said, smearing some butter and peach compote onto a thick slice of bread. "Quill might know someone who can tell me more about Junce. I'm supposed to meet with him again tonight to find out for certain."
Marga sighed, wishing she were in another part of the house. She didn't want to hear of Xaphira's plans for tracking down the assassin who worked for Grozier. She blamed her brother and his cronies for Evester's death almost as much as she blamed Evester himself. It was bad enough that they had been trying to start a war-especially for the sole purpose of profiting from it-but the tangle of deceit, murder, and greed that Grozier, Evester, and Denrick Pharaboldi had woven in trying to get their business alliance established went beyond making her sick. It horrified her that her own children would have to live with their father's treacherous legacy.
"Well, you be careful," Ladara Matrell said, sitting next to Hetta. "That Junce Roundface is a dangerous character. The way he almost-" the woman couldn't finish, and she swallowed hard as she reached out and squeezed Hetta's hand. "Even the thought of him roaming around out there frightens me," Ladara said, wide-eyed, in a near whisper.
"Calm yourself," Hetta said, giving her daughter-in-law a level look. "Xaphira has hired some very reliable House guards to replace the fools who let Dregaul and Evester lead them astray. We'll be perfectly safe once we return to the city tomorrow evening."
"Did you say Roundface?" Nimra Skolotti said from where she was sitting at the far end of the table, gazing across the room without really looking at anything. She could not see, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing, it seemed. Her daughter Mirolyn sat beside her, looking as surprised as everyone else that the aged woman had spoken.
Xaphira held a bite of food halfway to her mouth. "Yes," she said, a worried look on her face. "Do you know of him?"
"I'm not sure," Nimra replied, bringing her hand up to rub at her brow, which was furrowed in thought. "It seems familiar somehow, but I can't recall."
Beside her, Mirolyn looked at the rest of the group gathered at the table and shrugged. Despite her lost sight, Nimra still seemed sharp in conversations, and if the elderly woman could shed some light on the mysterious assassin who had been plaguing the family, it would be a great boon. Marga knew she wasn't the only one who realized that. Everyone at the table was watching the woman with intent expressions, too. When Nimra shrugged and said nothing further, everyone resumed eating.
Marga continued to watch Nimra for a moment longer. She felt sorry for the old woman, for she could imagine all too keenly the pain of losing a child. Thinking of trying to cope with the deaths of Obiron and Quindy made a lump form in the woman's throat. She tried to banish such notions, but it was difficult.
"I do hope Vambran is well," Ladara commented, breaking the silence. "It's all so terribly unfortunate that they were ordered away while this unpleasant business of war is still unresolved. And so soon after-" the woman paused, suddenly aware of what she was about to say. She sniffed once, her lip trembling, her eyes rimming red with the beginnings of tears. "I'm sorry," Ladara said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin while another silent pall settled over the table. "I still miss them so much, whatever their faults."
"It's all right to speak of it," Hetta said, trying to smile disarmingly at her whole family. "We can't pretend they're still here. We must accept it and move on."
There was a moment or two longer of uncomfortable silence.
Finally, Hetta turned back to Emriana and asked, "Have you spoken to Vambran since he left? Any mention of how he and Kovrim are doing?"
Emriana shook her head, fingering the opal pendant that hung around her neck. "I thought about it, but I know he's busy, and I haven't wanted to disturb him. I might contact him this afternoon."
Hetta sniffed. "Well, if I know Kovrim, he's likely as not leaning over the railing of that ship right now." Then, in a more serious tone, the elder matriarch added, "Waukeen, keep them safe. Cimbar is no place to spend the summer, and this summer is liable to be particularly unsettling, if Grozier gets his war."
Marga started at the mention of her brother, but she didn't say anything. She hoped no one noticed her reaction, and she very carefully scanned the room to see. No one was even looking at her.
"And you know that's exactly why Lavant sent them there," Emriana said sullenly. "To get them out of the temple so he could do whatever he does."
That uncomfortable silence threatened to return, but Hetta clicked her tongue. "Enough of this morbid talk. Whatever Grozier is cooking up, it isn't happening right here, away from Arrabar. Or even in Arrabar, for that matter. Sammardach is in two nights. I intend to make certain House Matrell celebrates suitably when we return."
At mention of the impending holy day, almost everyone's face brightened.
"Oh, are we going to attend the ball at the Generon this year?" Emriana asked excitedly, sitting forward in her chair. "I want to see the fountain of dancing coins again!"
"Well, certainly we are," Hetta replied. "And we must discuss what you'll be wearing, child."
As the conversation turned to thoughts of festivals and clothing, Marga excused herself and stood up from the table. She noted that only Xaphira was not eagerly joining in the conversation, and she could guess why. The mercenary's last visit to the palace about twelve years before had not been a pleasant one.
The discussion of subterfuge and impending war, the threats to family, all of those were making Marga struggle to breathe. She felt stifled, as though the warm, humid air were crushing her. She had to get out of there.
Slipping away, she practically ran to her chambers and shut the door behind her. Stumbling across the room, she stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked a portion of the garden where her children normally played. She could see the two figures in the morning sun, huddled together around something obscured from her view. She choked on a sob, watching them.
"Hello, Marga," came a voice from the shadows, back inside the room.
Marga didn't turn around, though her back stiffened at the sound of her brother's words. "What are you doing here?" she asked tiredly. "Someone will spot you."
"Not unless you tell them I'm here," Grozier replied coldly, the warning in his tone more than a hint. "I came to see how my favorite sister was faring," he added more cheerfully.
"Stop it," the woman said, still not facing Grozier. "What do you want?" she demanded.
"Fine," her brother answered. "What news?"
Marga sighed, hating herself for what he was making her do. "We're returning to the city tomorrow night."
Grozier grunted. "That's not news. Tell me something I can use."
"There's nothing more to tell," she answered harshly. "Emriana and Xaphira ran into some beasts in the woods this morning while out riding. Everyone is worried about Vambran and Kovrim. What more do you want?" She felt tears welling in her eyes, tears of anger and shame.