Montfaucon took his shot, and missed. As Conor cheered and Roverge swore, Falconet turned and saw Kel standing in the doorway. “Anjuman!” he cried, and Conor glanced over. “You weren’t at the Dial Chamber meeting.”
“He doesn’t have to be,” Conor said, and Kel realized that Conor was, though hiding it well, very drunk. His smile was slightly off kilter, and his hand, where he leaned upon his longbow, unsteady.
Falconet winked. “Where were you? Caravel?”
Kel shrugged. There was a chorus of whistles, and Montfaucon muttered, “Lucky bastard.” Kel wondered what they’d say if he told them he’d spent the afternoon not in the exercise of sybaritic pleasure but rather poisoning himself in a noodle shop with two criminals.
Of course, he didn’t. Instead, he hopped up to sit on one of the long tables where, as a child from the Orfelinat, he had first laid eyes on the nobility of the Hill, and told them he’d been at the Arena, learning new fight techniques.
This had the desired effect of distracting the group. Roverge, Falconet, and Montfaucon peppered him with questions, several of the answers to which he had to invent on the spot. They were all a little drunk, he realized, though none as much as Conor. The whole room stank of a sickening mixture of sweet liquors and jenever.
“What were we talking about before Anjuman got here? Ah, yes, the lovely Antonetta Alleyne,” said Roverge. “Whether she might consider a bit of bedsport with someone now it seems clear she’ll never trap Conor into marriage.”
The rage that boiled up in Kel’s throat threatened to choke him. “That was her mother’s plan,” he said flatly. “Not hers.”
“True enough,” Falconet said, taking the bow from Roverge, who had just missed a bottle of yellow cedratine by a hairbreadth and didn’t seem pleased about it. “Pity Ana hasn’t a brain in her head. She’d be a good match otherwise.”
“She doesn’t need brains,” said Montfaucon, leaning against the great fireplace. He’d set his bow aside for the moment. “She’s worth millions, and she’s ornamental enough.”
Roverge chuckled, and sketched a voluptuous female form with his hands. “If I married her, I’d keep her flat on her back, pumping out little Roverges, all swaddled in silk.”
Kel forced down the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to punch Roverge in the face. You used to play pirates with her, he wanted to say. She once chased you around with a sword until you burst into tears, after you insulted her mother.
Kel realized then that he had always framed the past as the time Antonetta changed: changed how she behaved, changed the way she treated him. But now, listening to Roverge and Montfaucon and Falconet, he thought: They were the ones who had changed. When Antonetta had suddenly curved, her new body all breasts and hips, it was as if she had become something else to them—something foreign and negligible, easy to mock. They had forgotten she was bright and clever. No, it was more than that. Her cleverness had become invisible to them. They could not see it.
At some point, alone, she had made the choice to turn that invisibility to her advantage. He thought of the way she had disarmed Conor in his room; it had been skillfully done, but it was not the sort of skill Charlon Roverge could see. In fact, Kel had to admit, he had not, until now, seen it himself.
“Then propose yourself as a match to House Alleyne,” Kel said to Charlon, through his teeth. “With all you have to offer, they could hardly say no.”
Conor’s lips twitched. Roverge, though, was oblivious to the sarcasm. “Can’t,” he said. “My bloody father promised me off at birth to a Gelstaadt merchant’s daughter. We’re just waiting for her to finish her education. In the meantime, I’m free to play.” He leered.
“Speaking of play,” said Montfaucon, “I hear Klothilde Sarany arrived last night. I thought she might enjoy a small and tasteful gathering at House Montfaucon.”
Roverge looked puzzled. “Who?”
“The Malgasi Ambassador,” said Falconet. “Do try to keep up, Charlon.”
“If you intend an amorous connection with her, I’m impressed,” said Conor. “She’s terrifying.”
Montfaucon grinned. “I like a few scars.” He blew a smoke ring. “You’re having dinner with her tomorrow night, Conor. You could bring up the matter of the party . . .”
“I am not inviting Klothilde Sarany to a party whose only guests are you and her,” said Conor. “She would be rightfully annoyed.”
“That’s why I’m inviting the rest of you,” said Montfaucon, gesturing expansively. “Come one, come all. Wine will flow, there will be beautiful dancers and less attractive but highly skilled musicians . . .”
Montfaucon was famous for his parties. They went wrong as often as they went right, but were always a spectacle. There had been the time every guest had received the gift of a basket of snakes （Antonetta had fainted and fallen behind one of the sofas） and the time Montfaucon had planned to arrive atop his balcony in a hot-air balloon that became entangled in the trees instead.
“She’s not here to attend your party, Montfaucon,” said Roverge, ungraciously. “She’s here to try to talk Conor into marrying the Princess, Elsabet—”
There was a crash. Falconet had let an arrow fly, shattering a bottle of samohan from Nyenschantz. Everyone ducked as glass flew in all directions. The floor was littered with shards, and some of the tapestries boasted long tears. Queen Lilibet was going to be furious.
Joss offered the bow to Conor, whose turn it was. Roverge, eyes glittering—he’d bet against Falconet making the hit—said, “Well, Conor. If this marriage business is still troubling you, you should talk to my father. He gives the best, most objective advice.”
“Charlon,” Kel said as Conor’s expression stiffened, “whatever happened with that upstart merchant that was troubling your family? The ink-makers?”
Roverge scowled. “We took them to court. They had the temerity to argue before the Justicia that ink and dye are quite separate things.”
“Aren’t they?” said Conor, taking aim with the bow.
“On the contrary, they are the same! And the judges saw it our way, of course.” With an ample bribe, Kel thought. “The Cabrols have left Castellane with their tails between their legs. They’ll be lucky if they can set up as shopkeepers in Durelo.” He spat. “I don’t think they’ll trouble anyone from now on. You’re welcome.”
He swept a bow just as Conor let his arrow fly. It hit the bottle of jenever, sending more glass flying and filling the room with the scent of juniper. Roverge, as always inattentive to the mood of his companions, clapped Conor on the shoulder. Montfaucon went to take the bow as Roverge continued chattering on about ink and dye and the destruction of the Cabrol family.
The table shifted; Falconet had seated himself beside Kel. He wore black velvet today, the silk pile enlivened with a luminous silver weave. Falconet was not like Conor or Montfaucon—he presented himself well but clearly lacked their fascination with clothes and fashion. Kel often wondered what it was that did interest Falconet. He seemed to regard all activities with the same casual amusement, but no real preference.