“And Varcoo-Vercoo-”
“Vercoule.”
“Vercoule's the biggest?”
Cateline smiled. “I certainly think so.” Then, somewhat more seriously, “Here, in Davillon, he's the greatest. In other cities, he probably stands as the patron of only a single guild, or a bloodline-just as, for instance…” She cast about for a moment. “As Banin is the patron of two or three of Davillon's noble houses, but elsewhere, he might be the patron of a great guild, or even an entire city.”
The girl nodded slowly as though she understood, though Sister Cateline doubted that was the case. The nun had just begun to turn away, when-
“Can I ask one more question?”
Cateline repressed a sigh. “One more. Then you need to eat your supper.”
“If Davillon has so many gods, how come not one of them got off his butt and saved my mommy and daddy?!”
Sister Cateline actually fell back a step, hand raised to her lips. A whisper of astonishment swept through the other children, but here and there, the nun was certain she heard a mutter of angry agreement from among the worst of the hard-luck cases.
Well, it was positively past time to nip this in the bud!
“Young lady, that is not an appropriate way to speak of the gods!”
“When they explain themselves to me, I'll apologize.”
The nun had the girl by the wrist and was dragging her out the door before the second round of shocked gasps-and supportive murmurs-had finished making the rounds of the hall. “We're going to have to teach you some manners and respect, child!”
“Stop calling me child!” the girl spat, not even bothering to try to pull away as she was hauled off to gods-knew-where. “My name is Adrienne.”
Adrienne did not, as it happened, learn either manners or respect from Sister Cateline, or any of the other nuns either. Despite the chains, the locks, the heavy doors, and the fact that she frankly had nowhere better to go, she was gone from the convent after only a few days-before the welts of her lashing had even fully faded.
Sister Cateline wasn't truly sorry to see her go. That one, she was certain, would have been nothing but trouble.
CHAPTER TWO
Now:
It was, all of it, enormous. The Doumerge property was enormous, the manor at its center was enormous, and the ballroom deep within that house was-no surprise, by now-enormous.
And the chaos within, slipping further out of control by the minute, was rapidly becoming enormous as well.
A cluster of musicians sat upon a raised platform off in one corner, isolated from everyone they were hired to entertain. Furiously they played, lobbing their music into the crowd like arrows, reproducing some of the most popular tunes currently making the rounds of courts and noble soirees throughout Galice. Their outfits-the musicians, that is, not the pieces of music, though those too were arguably gussied up and overdressed-were lavish fabrics in a hypnotic mishmash of garish colors. Tunics and vests hung haphazardly; wigs sat askance atop sweaty heads; abused fingers ached in protest. For five hours they'd played, with never more than a few minutes between songs, and the torment didn't promise an end anytime soon.
For all that their music accomplished, they might well not have bothered. The ballroom, packed so full that dancing required advanced planning and possibly tactical diagrams, hovered at a volume just shy of tectonic movement. Every voice was a bellow, each and every speaker struggling to be heard over every other. The music, to them, was nothing more than extraneous noise, an obstacle to be shouted over.
The table was long, and laden with a quantity of food not merely sufficient to choke a large elephant, but also to bury its remains. Every variety of animal, it seemed, could be found at some spot along that buffet, smothered in sauce or breading or dressing or gods alone knew what. Beef, venison, fowl of every possible variety, at least a dozen types of fish, eggs of both fish and fowl, escargot, every vegetable known to man-it was all here, and no matter how much the guests ate, a criminal amount of food would go to waste. The smell alone was heavy enough to satiate a smaller appetite without a single bite.
The house had been well prepared, in expectation of the night's revelry. Paintings and tapestries hung high on the walls, well beyond reach of drunken fingers or spilled foods. Most were pastoral or mythic scenes, but several depicted the golden pyramid of Geurron, patron deity of the d'Orreille line, and a scant few boasted the sun-and-crown of Vercoule, Davillon's High Patron.
Fires blazed happily in numerous hearths, determined to enjoy the soiree. Various herbs and scents were sprinkled upon the logs, filling the room with a bizarre combination of odors that spun around the guests before rising to cluster at the ceiling's arches and buttresses. The carpets, lush and thick, had been brushed in expectation of the guests' arrival. Servants, immaculately groomed, stood at attention or bustled about the rooms, preparing this, refilling that, and basically playing the part of so many trained hounds, always running and fetching.
And in the center of the maelstrom, buffeted on all sides by the constant eddies and swirls of humanity, stood an unlikely pair. Despite the press of partygoers and the constant blank smiles, polite waves, and spouted small talk, they exuded an aura of calm, a globe of peace that extended a scant few feet from them.
“I must say, my dear baron,” the woman was commenting haughtily, “you've really outdone yourself. I can't recall when I've last attended festivities so elegant.” Her expression managed to add Other than those I've planned myself, without the slightest aid from her tongue.
The gentleman bowed in gratitude, his face partially hidden behind a loosely clutched kerchief held dangling from long, spidery fingers. “The duchess,” he said, his voice thin and watery, “is too kind.”
“She is, isn't she?” the woman replied.
Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon, Voice of Vercoule, landholder and ruler over all territories claimed by the duchy, province, and city of Davillon, was just shy of six feet, and broad of shoulders, hips, and features. Her hair, black-going-gray, was piled high above her head in a mountain of curls that failed utterly to soften a face grown taut with age. She wore rich purples and reds and blues, as well as a golden sun-and-crown brooch, and her face was powdered to within a shade of newly fallen snow.
Her host, by contrast, was a short, bony, shadow of a weasel of a man. Charles Doumerge, the Baron d'Orreille, looked perennially ill. His skin was near gray even without the benefits of powder, and his limp, straw-colored hair was thinning faster than a slug in a salt-shaker. Not even his finest outfit, of blues and browns, made him look any less the walking corpse.
Doumerge leaned in, his rodent's nose cutting through the intervening air like a prow. The duchess managed (barely) to refrain from pulling away.
“I'm grateful,” Doumerge told her, his voice as low as the surrounding cacophony would allow, “that I've guests here with the appropriate-shall we say, refinement? — to appreciate my efforts.” He furtively glanced around, as though ensuring he wouldn't be overheard, then, simpering, continued, “The truth is, I don't believe that everyone here is quite suited to this sort of thing. If I may be brutally honest with you, Your Grace, I'd not have chosen to invite, say”-he cast about quickly for a safe target-“the Marquis De Brielles. The fellow simply doesn't have what it takes to survive in our particular arena, you see? But, well, poor Francis has had such a difficult time of it of late, it would have been boorish not to offer him the opportunity to escape his problems. Still, I doubt that he's properly able to-”