“Not against your own doctor,” Kel pointed out. “Anyway, you know perfectly well what would have happened. Gasquet would have run to the Queen. The Queen would have raised a fuss. And you hate fuss. I was protecting you against fuss.”
Conor, clearly hiding a smile, said, “And I expect you to do the same at the meeting. No one fusses like the Charter Families.” He pushed a heavily ringed hand through his hair. “All right. Into the den of overdressed lions we go.”
They left the Castel Mitat together, Conor humming a popular song about unrequited love. It was a bright, blustery day, the wind tossing the tops of the cypress and pine trees that dotted the Hill, the sky clear enough to see the mountains of Detmarch ranged in razor-sharp formation to the north. To the west, cliffs fell away toward the ocean, its roar audible even at a distance. And to the east, the Star Tower rose from the ramparts of the walls surrounding Marivent.
As they neared the tower, Kel ran through a quick check: slim blades at his wrists, under the sleeves of his plain gray tunic. A dagger at his hip, hilt tucked through his belt, concealed by the fall of his jacket. He had dressed plainly, in dark gray and green, intending to be ignored.
Kel could hear the sound of voices as they passed through the tower gates—guarded on either side by Castelguards—and into the Dial Chamber, where the sound rose to a din.
The Dial Chamber was a circular marble room whose domed roof rose to a central oculus; meetings were generally held at midday, when the chamber was most directly illuminated by the sun. When it rained, a glass dome was placed over the oculus, though rain in Castellane was rare.
The mosaic floor had been designed—in tesserae of blue, gold, black, and scarlet—to resemble a sundial. A great ironwood chair had been placed at the location of each hour’s tiled numeral—Roverge at six, Montfaucon at four, Aurelian at twelve. The chairs themselves belonged to the House they represented, and their backs were carved accordingly: Trees adorned the chair belonging to House Raspail, who held the timber Charter; a bunch of grapes for Uzec; a silk moth for Alleyne; the sun and its rays for Aurelian.
Circling the interior of the dome, words in Callatian, the language of the Empire, had been picked out in gold tiles: ALL THAT IS GOOD COMES FROM THE GODS. ALL THAT IS EVIL COMES FROM MEN.
Kel had always felt that this commentary seemed pointed, considering what tended to go on in the Dial Chamber. He wondered if the Charter Families thought the same, or if they even noticed it. They were not the sort of people who spent much time looking up.
The buzz of voices died down as Conor entered the room, followed by Kel. Faces turned toward him as he stalked to the Sun Chair like the pages of a book turning; Kel tried to read their expressions. Conor had attended numerous Dial Chamber meetings, but had never presided over one. Lady Alleyne, resplendent in pink silk, looked pleased, as did Antonetta, sitting beside her on a low stool; every Charter holder was allowed to bring one companion to meetings of the Twelve. Joss Falconet looked encouraging. Benedict Roverge, who had brought Charlon with him, was glowering. Cazalet, who held the Charter in banking, was smooth-faced and unreadable. And Montfaucon, in raspberry brocade edged by pale-green lace, seemed amused by the whole thing.
As Conor took his place in the Sun Chair, he nodded at Mayesh Bensimon, who was seated on the low stool beside him. This still put their heads on the same level, as Mayesh was ridiculously tall. If Kel had expected him to shrink with age, he had been disappointed. As far as he could tell, Mayesh had not changed since Kel had arrived at the Palace. He had seemed old to Kel then, and was still old, but though his gray hair had gone white, no new wrinkles or ridges had appeared on his face. The state medallion around his neck gleaming like a star, Mayesh sat straight-backed, gazing flatly at the Charter holders from beneath brindled eyebrows.
There was nowhere for Kel to sit, which he had expected. He took his place beside the Sun Chair as Conor sprawled in it, deliberately loose-limbed, as if to say: Nothing about this meeting seems terribly urgent.
“Greetings, Monseigneur,” said Lady Alleyne, smiling at Conor. She had been very beautiful when young, and was still handsome, her voluptuous curves poured into her tight gown. The upper circles of her breasts spilled from the square neck of her bodice, only barely restrained by a thin layer of white netting. “Alas, we have already lost one member. Gremont is asleep.”
This was true. Mathieu Gremont, holder of the Charter for coffee and tea, was ninety-five, and already snoring quietly in his carved chair. Conor, flashing a smile at Lady Alleyne, said, “Hardly a good advertisement for the strength of his merchandise.”
There was a low ripple of laughter. Kel caught the eye of Falconet, who looked tired and a bit rumpled. Well, he had been up until nearly dawn, drinking with Montfaucon and Roverge atop the West Tower. He winked at Kel.
Ambrose Uzec, whose Charter was wine, looked at Gremont darkly. “It is time for Gremont to pass the Charter on, surely. He has a son—”
“His son Artal is in Taprobana, meeting with the owners of tea estates,” said Lady Alleyne. Her shoes, as well as her dress, matched her daughter’s: white heels, sprigged with pink silk rosettes. Kel wondered if it bothered Antonetta that her mother so clearly saw her as a miniature version of herself. He knew Antonetta would never show it, if it did. “Important work, surely.”
Kel exchanged a look with Conor. Artal Gremont had been sent away amid a swirl of scandal when they had been fourteen years old. Neither of them had ever managed to find out what it was he’d done to be effectively exiled; even Montfaucon did not seem to know.
“Gremont’s business is his own,” said Lord Gasquet, looking irritable. He, too, was not a young man, and showed no signs of turning his Charter over to one of his gaggle of sons, daughters, or grandchildren. Charter holders always thought they were immortal, Mayesh had said once, and tended to die without making any provisions as to who might inherit their places on the Council. Infighting would then ensue, usually settled by House Aurelian. Only the King or Queen had the power to grant Charters and strip them away.
“I believe,” Montfaucon said, ruffling the lace cuffs that spilled over his wrists like pale-green seafoam, “that we were discussing Roverge’s latest troubles, were we not?”
“There is no need to make it sound as if I am beset by troubles, Lupin,” growled Roverge. Charlon, beside him, nodded sagely. His eyes were only half open; he was clearly suffering a brutal headache from the jenever he’d drunk the night before. His father turned to Conor. “It is a question of tithes, which I seek to put before you, Monseigneur.”
Kel’s mind began to drift as Conor considered the matter of whether merchants selling colored paper should tithe a percent of their proceeds to the Roverge House, or to House Raspail. Trade was the blood that ran through the veins of Castellane. Every one of the Charter Families had caravans on the roads and ships on the seas, laden down with precious cargo. Their control of specific goods was the source of their wealth and power. House Raspail, for instance, had the Charter for timber, so no bit of wood or paper, nor the smallest carved flute, changed hands without them getting a share of the profit.
That did not mean, however, that it was objectively interesting to anyone else. Kel could not stop his mind returning to the Ragpicker King. In Kel’s memory, the Ragpicker King’s voice was soft as the nap on velvet.