Self-made, of course, in that way that galdori always are. He grew up in a country estate near Fen Kierden, to a family of no great political consequence; before Brunnhold, he had never been to Vienda, and his father – a widower with no other heirs – expected him to return to the east of Anaxas and manage the estate. Blackthorn, or so the whispers said, forsook all that for a life in Vienda. He married up, they said, a Clément daughter, a prominent socialite – when his father died, he invested –
That was the story, in any case, and that was all that could be gleaned from the relevant contacts. Fortune was what the birds sang; happenstance. Blackthorn had risen through good galdor cleverness and happenstance, and had married well. Blackthorn had been in the right place at the right time.
But Serro’s men and women did not believe in happenstance.
At any rate, aside from the opportunity that had just fallen into Firebrand’s lap. Even that was unusual. Blackthorn, courting the favor of upstart merchants with a sensational performance from a wick? It meant two things: he was secure in his position – much more secure than he should have been – and he wanted to cause a stir. Blackthorn had friends in high places, and it was more than worth investigating.
Approval came to Firebrand quickly in the form of a note, delivered only the night before Blackthorn’s party. He’d have found it in an agreed-upon drop, tucked away by an unseen hand near another nondescript public house in the dives.
Firebrand –
You’ll need to move fast. Slip away however you can. As soon as you can, look for the first window on the right side of the east-facing wall, in the shade of the apple tree. We have ensured that it is unlocked and unguarded.
Don’t tarry. Office on the second floor. Get out before the party is over.
– Feather
Practically,” purred Ms. Blackthorn, “a caoja.”
“Indeed.” Ms. Rousseau shivered. Even in her high-collared dress, she could feel the night’s chill; the breeze was still warm, having lost the bracing cold of the early parts of the year, but the evenings still felt like spring. “Veronica,” she said, half-laughing, “can this really have been Sebastian’s idea?”
Ms. Blackthorn laughed, taking a sip of champagne. Her perceptive field was a warm blush against the other woman’s, a playful caprise. “Come, Francine!” She touched Ms. Rousseau’s shoulder lightly. Her face was very flushed underneath her freckles. “They will be speaking of it for years.”
“But how will they be speaking of it?”
“It matters only,” Veronica replied, with the slightest hint of a slur, “that they speak of it.”
It was a true Roalis evening, despite the faint chill. The crickets had roused from winter’s sleep, and they were singing loudly in the bushes and the grass. A gentle wind rustled the branches of the budding trees. An auspicious night, they had said – providence, perhaps, as Aodh Elzo might have put it – with both Benea and Osa full and bright in the sky, with only a few quickly-moving clouds to block the moonlight.
Moonlight sang silver in the whispering leaves, limned the silhouette of Blackthorn’s fine, Uptown house. It glinted in the flutes of champagne glasses and in the silver of heavy-laden trays carted to and fro by harried servants.
Lanterns had been lit all along the winding paths round the garden, but they were dim and warm, and shadows clung thick wherever one looked. They were deepening, now, after sunset, with the moons in the sky. Still, the party showed no signs of being over. How could it? Blackthorn’s choice of entertainment was on everybody’s lips, from Uptown investors to visiting businessmen from Mugroba and Hox and everywhere along the Vein.
He had hired a tsat – and such a wild-looking one! Everyone was positively dying to know what he would play, and how he would play it, and what would happen once he had.
Mr. Cavendish wasn’t sure how he felt about it; he had said so many times to Margaret Winthrop, and each time with a bit more vehemence. He had heard the wick speak once tonight, and the rasp of his voice, and that common accent – well, he couldn’t imagine how the man sounded when he sang. He had said so, and Ms. Winthrop had laughed, and Mr. Cavendish had felt rather pleased with himself. Still, it was embarrassing, wasn’t it?
Mr. Blackthorn was a buzz of nervous energy, a small, round man with bright red whiskers, bustling here and there. He had been sharp with his staff, sharp with the wild-haired tsat musician, and a little sharp, even, with some of his guests. Was it any wonder? Even the visiting merchants from Mugroba, resplendent in their pale silks – and who knew what those liberal-minded people thought – even they were watching and waiting, expectant.
And so, as the night drew on and the music started, there was an expectant lull. Whispers rippled through the gathered galdori.