The Grass King’s Concubine (10 page)

It was not proper for a woman, single or married, to visit an unrelated man at his lodgings. Yet, almost without realizing, Aude found she was set on that course. Was this love? She did not know. She knew only that her lieutenant was distressed, and she longed to comfort him. And there could be little danger in it, outside the risks she already ran by leaving her townhouse, her place in the Silver City. Her body had been bartered away by her uncle for a title. But until her betrothed chose to claim her, it was still hers to do with as she wished. And she wished…She did not know how to say it, only that she felt closer to her disapproving lieutenant than to anyone else in her life. He listened to her. He saw her as she was now, not as the child she had been. Before she had time to grow anxious, she told her uncle and Ketty that she had another of the headaches that had plagued her since they moved to the Silver City, that she intended to retire early, and was under no circumstances to be disturbed. Her uncle shook his head and spoke of doctors, but she gave him a thin smile and promised to be well for the dull party arranged for the next night. That was the simplest part. Her hands shook as she stripped off her night robe and buttoned herself into her Brass City clothes. At the servants’ dinner hour, she hurried stocking-footed down the front stairs and let herself out through the library window. The key to her chamber was in her pocket along with a small purse. The streets were beginning to bustle with evening excitements, but no one attended to her as she ran to the top of the stairway. The guard at its head gave her a sharp look. She kept her head down and her eyes riveted on his boot tops, “Mistress kept me late with mending.”

“Hurry, then.”

The injunction was unnecessary. The farther from the Silver City she was, the safer she would feel. It was easy to hasten down the steps; the main trudge had been over an
hour or so earlier. At the foot, she wrapped the shawl more tightly before addressing the guard. “Master gave me a note for Lieutenant Favre.”

“Barracks.” He did not even glance her way as she thanked him.

She did not go to the barracks; she headed for the district close to the Northeast Gate, where there was a dense tangle of inns and cabarets. At one of the cleanest, she bespoke a chamber, a meal and wine for two, and a stable boy to carry her note. The landlady made no commotion over her lack of bags: She offered sound silver, and nothing else mattered. The chamber was plain, but it did not smell too bad, and the linen seemed almost salubrious. She had not paused to consider the possibility of vermin. Well, she would worry about that later. The landlady lit the small fire and poured wine, but Aude did not touch it. She paced the room, twisting her fingers.

Someone knocked. She started, said, “Enter,” heard her voice shake. He stood an instant in the doorway, blinking at the candlelight. She should curtsy, or offer him wine. She hesitated, caught in the center of the room.

He entered and shut the door. His expression was thoughtful. He said, “This is irregular.”

“Yes.” She stared at her hands.

“If you’ve decided to run away, I probably shouldn’t help you.”

“No, I…” What? She realized that he was at as great a loss as she. She needed to reach out. She had faced a hundred far more elaborate social situations. She inhaled, said, “Some wine?”

“You seem to need it rather more.” And then, “In a place like this, the ale is probably better.”

She had not thought of that. She looked up to find him watching her. “Would you prefer ale?”

“Yes. You’d do better to drink it, too, unless you want a hangover.”

He might be married or engaged or have a girl somewhere in the city. She had not considered the matter. It
could not be too late to extricate herself. She might send for ale, she might put more questions to him about the pamphlets and the protesters. She swallowed, put out a hand.

He took it. “You’re cold.”

“I…I think that I’m frightened.”

“Ah.” His fingers over hers were warm. “Mademoiselle.”

“My name…”

“I know it: Aude Pèlerin des Puiz.”

She asked, “What do I call you?”

“Jehan.”

Jehan Favre. It was the name from that first letter, all those years ago. She had never quite found a way to ask about that. Now she shuffled her feet, and asked, “Was it…? You were the one who wrote before. About Colonel Saverell.” Remembering that letter, she felt herself blush at her own childish words and ideas.

“Yes.”

“You were a subaltern then.”

“I got promoted.”

It would be all right. Perhaps it would be all right. Lifting her free hand, she laid it carefully against his cheek. She said, cheeks hot, “The bravest officer.” And then, standing on her toes, she kissed his mouth.

Later, she asked, “Why did you?”

He raised himself on an elbow. “Why did you?”

“That’s not an answer.” But she could not stare him down. “I…You talk to me. Like I’m real. Like I’m
me
.”

She watched him think about that. She liked lying beside him. It felt safe. He had been confident and kind and not at all perfunctory—she had liked that, too. She knew almost nothing about him. After a few moments, he lay down again and said, “I don’t have that much of a reason. I just…I get into situations. That’s all.”

She did not have to ask what that meant. This was not an incident to be approved of on any level. “Do you mind?”

“Sometimes.” He looked at her and, abruptly, smiled. “Not just now.”

It was three mornings after that that Aude awoke to a sour haze ghosting from the end of her gardens. She had dreamed yet again of the shining place and the face that sought her. Her head was heavy. “What’s happening?” she demanded.

Ketty looked uncomfortable, “There’s trouble, down below the cliff. I don’t know why.” She handed Aude her chocolate and added, “You’d best stay home today.” Her uncle had gone out before dawn, without leaving a note. At noon, a footman brought the newspapers to her in the library. Men of the Eschappé movement had set several warehouses alight. Incited, proclaimed the editorials of the Silver City, by foreign agitators sent by economic rivals. It was not imaginable that the inhabitants of the Brass City might have any other cause for discontent.

The men she had seen had called for bread. Three mornings before in the inn, Jehan, dressing swiftly in the chill predawn, had frowned as he buttoned his jacket, muttering something about inverse duty.

“What do you mean?”

“Protecting those with the power from those who have none.” He closed his collar with a snap. “Safeguarding your whims, Madamemoiselle.”

He had not liked her overmuch in that moment, for all that he had kissed her farewell. He was down there, now, in the smoldering fog. The stairway was shut; no one could ascend or descend until the fires were put out and the arsonists arrested. For four days, she paced her own corridors and pestered her uncle for news, while the newspapers reported further protests. The writers thought little of the troops of the Brass City: “Street sweepings and petty gentry, lacking resolve and discipline.” They had failed to prevent trouble from starting and now they took too long to halt it. A detachment of the Regent’s Own Dragoons was
to be dispatched to expedite matters. The dragoons, said the editors, would not be afraid of a handful of agitators armed with stones. Her uncle, looking serious, said that the editors talked a lot of sense. Aude remembered the empty-faced women and children, the scrawny men on the streets below and shivered.

For four days the stairway was closed, and the household had to do without its scullery maid and laundry maid and skivvies. Aude overheard the housemaids grumbling about the extra work. The resident staff considered certain categories of tasks beneath their dignity. On the fifth day, the stairs reopened, and the house reeked of scrubbing soap.

Someone had left a note for Aude on her writing desk. It read, “I am confined to barracks on a disciplinary matter. Do not come down to the Brass City.” It was signed J. Favre. She folded the note up small and placed it in her linen drawer. She did not know what to do, and yet she felt she must do something. Her family lacked military connections. And then, she was still two years from her majority. No one would heed her. If she spoke to her uncle, he would be bound to ask difficult questions. She pressed her forehead to the library window and tried to think of something clever she could do. Jehan might be court-martialed. He might be sent away, and she would never know. She could not bear it. For two days more, the Brass City lay under its acrid shroud. Over and over, her feet led her to the head of the cliff stairway, and halted. Even if she descended, even if she went to the barracks, no one was likely to listen to her or to explain. It was probable she would not even be admitted. Each time, she returned home, frustrated and unsure. Her uncle once again threatened her with a doctor, and this time she ran from the room and locked herself in her bedchamber.

On the third day, her husband-to-be came to call. It was the first time since his initial visit, almost a year before. He bowed to her and took her hand to kiss it. His fingers were soft and clammy. Aude had to work to hide her revulsion.
He had brought her flowers, too, big gaudy things that clashed with the décor of the room and did nothing for her complexion. “Good news,” he said, lounging in a chair. “The priest at the New Temple has named an auspicious day for our marriage.” He beamed at Aude. “Two months from now. I’m eager for it.” The look he gave her was meant, perhaps, to be appreciative. To Aude, it felt as if small insects crawled all over her skin.

Alone in bed that night she faced her truth. She did not want to marry that man and spend her life in the hollow world of the Silver City. She wanted freedom, choice, to be Colonel Saverell and explore the world. If she stayed here, if she went through with her marriage, the shining place and all her desires would remain no more than a dream. She felt the ordered walls and fences and streets of the Silver City rise up around her, all exactly alike, all cold and conformable. There was more comfort in the acrid lingering memory of the Brass City below.

She wanted to escape. She wanted Jehan.

She went to her desk and began to write a long note.

The Book

T
HE SEASONS CAME, AND PASSED, and turned again. Outside the Stone House, the mud dried out and caked and blew away, coating the landscape in brownish gray. It drifted under the door and spread over the flagstones, so that the twins’ scurryings were picked out in shades of dust. “Nice,” said Julana, sitting back on her haunches on the tabletop. “Marcellan would like that. He likes marks on surfaces.”

“He likes marks he can read,” said Yelena.

“We can read these. Look, we went here, and there, and there.”

“We always do that,” said Yelena.

“But now others can see.”

“If they came in, they could. We don’t want them to come here.” Dust in her fur made Yelena sour.

“They do sometimes,” said Julana, happily. “That woman did.”

“She didn’t come back.”

“She will.” Had she been in human shape, Julana would have hugged herself. They had embarked upon a scheme; she liked it when they had a scheme. “She only just left.”