TWENTY-TWO
LADY SILVER’S quarters were on another floor of the palace, and Shane was perilously close to lost by the time he got there. The page took him up two flights, then down another one, apparently to save time, but then they plunged into a labyrinth of corridors, some of them clearly older, the walls covered in threadbare tapestries when they were covered at all. A sign of disfavor? Shane wondered.
Is Lady Silver disliked? Or does it have something to do with her people—perhaps they are at loggerheads with high-ranked members of the court?
The Bishop would probably know, but it was the Bishop’s job to know. Shane just stood around and listened and looked menacing. Still he made a mental note to ask her, when they finally returned to Archenhold.
It finally occurred to him, as they turned down yet another corridor, just who Lady Silver reminded him of: Judith. Strange, enigmatic Judith, oddest of the seven surviving paladins, yet no less loved for all that. Something about the way that both of them moved, just a hairsbreadth too considered, as if, though fluent, human body language was not their native tongue.
Which, for Lady Silver, it wasn’t. For Judith, the explanation was doubtless deeper, but Judith never ever talked about her past, and no one was cruel enough or fool enough to dig for it. It didn’t matter. She’d saved his life any number of times, and he’d saved hers, often enough that neither of them bothered keeping score.
When she’d left after Piper’s revelation of the Saint’s death, Shane hadn’t been surprised, or even particularly worried. It was like her to simply go, with neither explanations nor farewells. Whatever she was looking for, he hoped that she found it. If she did, she’d probably turn up again at the temple as if no time had passed, and look vaguely surprised that anyone had missed her.
He was startled out of his woolgathering when the page stopped at a door, rapped sharply three times, then opened it without waiting. Shane went in.
This suite of rooms was substantially larger than the one that Marguerite had secured, though the ceilings were lower. Bookshelves lined the walls of the main room, while a small brazier provided heat and a strong, pungent scent that reminded Shane vaguely of creosote. A large oak desk dominated the room, covered in papers, but a long side table held a forest of glassware that Shane recognized,
surprised, as distillation equipment.
“Ah, Lorrrd Shane,” said Lady Silver, straightening from where she bent over the equipment. She nodded to the page, who retreated from the room. “A pleasurrre to see you again.”
“And you, madam,” said Shane, bowing slightly. “Though I fear that I am not actually a lord.
Merely a knight.”
“Serrr Shane, then.” She smiled, canines just visible, and came toward him. “I must beg yourrr pardon,” she said. “I was rrrude earlierr, when you deliverrred your message. It was interrresting, you see, and I have learrrned not to appearr too interrested in things in this place.” She lifted a blunt-clawed hand and gestured toward the walls and ceiling, as if encompassing the entire Court of Smoke.
“I can well believe it,” said Shane. “I took no offense.”
“Good, good.” Another toothy smile. “I am a diplomatic guest herrre, and thus am allowed a cerrrtain leeway, but I do not fool myself that I am immune to all that goes on arrround me.” Her ears, Shane noted, were eased slightly back as she spoke.
“That seems wise,” he offered. “I know that I’m missing most of the undercurrents here, and I don’t have diplomatic relations riding on what I do.”
“Exactly.” Silver nodded to him, her ears coming forward again.
It occurred to Shane, somewhat belatedly, that relations between the White Rat and the city of Morstone might actually be affected by what he did here. But that is Marguerite and Beartongue’s concern, not mine.
“One moment,” Lady Silver said, turning off the heat under a flask. “Let me just finish up herrre…”
Shane glanced at the distillation equipment again with interest. It looked very much like the sort found in his friend Grace’s workshop. “Forgive my curiosity, but is this for perfume-making?”
Lady Silver’s eyebrow patches shot up. “It is, indeed.”
“My current employer is selling perfumes. If you are interested in them, I am sure I could arrange an introduction.”
Lady Silver laughed softly. “I apprrreciate the spirrrit of the offerrr, but alas, most human scents do not appeal to me. And I fearrr the rreverrrse is also trrrue.” She took a slip of paper from a drawer and dipped the very edge in the contents of the flask. “Forrr example…”
Shane took the proffered sample and took a sniff that nearly staggered him. His eyes started to water. The cynocephalic laughed again. “You see? I have learrrned to tolerrrate the scents that humans wearrr, of necessity, but I do not see these imprrroving my status at Courrrt.”
“No,” said Shane weakly. The smell had been an unholy mating of fermented manure and burnt hair, with a pungent and startling overtone of pumpkin. He wondered what Grace would think of it.
Probably wonder how she was doing it. I suspect they’d have a lot to talk about.
“I make them forrr my own amusement,” his hostess said. “Some I ship back home. Therre arrre
ingrredients found herrre that do not exist in my homeland.” She made a sweeping gesture. “At any rrrate, you did not come to discuss smells, I think.”
Lady Silver waved him to a chair and sat down at the oak desk, tapping a note on the table before her. Shane guessed that it was the one from Beartongue, although he could not read the words at this distance without his glasses. “The good Bishop asks about the death of gods. A most fascinating topic.”
Shane inclined his head, wondering if he was about to be plunged into the depths of applied theology. You don’t have to understand it, you just have to remember it so that you can repeat it to Beartongue and Piper.
“My people’s gods die rrregularly. It surrrprised me to learrn that yourrs do not.”
Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “They do? How? Of what?”
Lady Silver laughed. “Of old age, I suppose you would say. The yearrrs are our gods. Each one is borrrn on the spring equinox and stands between us and the calamities of the seasons. Each one lives long enough to see theirr successorrr borrrn, and then passes away.”
It took him a moment to get his head around this. “The year? As a god? You mean, your god was born a few months ago, and you pray to them?”
Lady Silver nodded. “My people mark the calendar differently than yours. We dwell now in the house of Sixth Rising, and next will be Seventh Rising. Then Eighth Waiting, and so forth, on until Twelfth Sleeping, after which a new cycle will begin with First Waking. Twelve year-gods to a cycle, twelve cycles to a Great Year, and so on.” She flicked her ears. “Sixth Rising is not quite old enough to say what kind of god He will be yet.”
Shane rubbed the bridge of his nose. The notion of worshipping something only a few months old seemed bizarre, but it would be rude to say so. And unwise to insult a god, in any event. “Huh,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“And your people’s method of keeping gods about, on and on, seems equally peculiar to me,” said Silver. “Though we have our ancestors, and the great beasts, who live on and on. We invoke them sometimes as well, in need. But for the little things, the day-to-day things, we call upon the year-gods.” She laughed again. “I would be embarrassed to constantly plague my ancestors with requests, calling upon them when I misplace my keys or crack a claw. And to call upon a great beast for such a thing would be most unwise.”