TVisTV Book 4: Chapter 22 (RAW) (Patreon)

Chapter 22 - Baggage

"Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean." 

- Ryunosuke Satoro 

They enjoyed the hospitality of the Marquis that evening, or at least the notables of Seraphina’s party did, as the rest were seen to elsewhere with the efficiency expected of a noble Imperial household.

The hall in which they dined was built of black stone, its severity softened by red cloth hung gaily from the beams and pillars. Lamps, real lamps, burned behind thin screens, casting a warm glow across lacquered tables, polished cups, and the carefully arranged dishes before them. Chopsticks were used to eat thin slices of winter vegetables, river fish, and spiced meat, though, out of consideration for the “barbarians,” other cutlery had also been provided.

Seraphina found that consideration almost charming.

Music was played for their entertainment, this world’s equivalents of the zither, koto, and flute weaving together in pleasant, measured patterns. The musicians were skilled enough, and the pieces were graceful in the manner of court music, which was to say, it was structurally beautiful. However, for all of its beauty, it all had the feeling of a test of some sort. And soon enough, after one particularly pleasing piece, the Marquis took a sip of wine and turned his attention to Seraphina.

“Your Grace honors us with her presence,” he opened. His voice was cool, polite, and his face had been schooled to neutrality. “I wondered whether you might grace us with the gift of music. We have heard many things from Aranthia.”

There it was, the testing trap.

They wanted to see just how strongly the Goddess’s blessing lay upon her. She could, of course, perform far below what her true skill and voice allowed. That would be a challenge in itself, but more importantly than that, it would sting her pride. Seraphina could tolerate many things in the pursuit of advantage, but making herself intentionally mediocre before an audience was an ugly little sacrifice.

She raised her fan slightly, watching the Marquis over the painted bird. “Why certainly, my Lord Marquis. But the gift of song in exchange for such delightful hospitality would be a poor trade,” she replied. “I could not hope to equal it, but I am obliged to try.”

The young noblewoman added a small, musical laugh at the end. To his credit, Wen’s expression, not knowing if he was being mocked, did not change in the slightest, save for the faintest widening of his smile.

“I have such a man…” Seraphina paused, then corrected herself smoothly, “such a woman, who might be able to meet your expectations.”

She clapped her hands, and Haze caught her mistress’s eye and immediately stood, making her way to Seraphina’s side with a smile that was fixed in all the proper places.

“May I introduce Mistress Haze Finleigh,” Seraphina offered, all honeyed words and pleasant manners. “A Bard of some skill under my patronage. It is quite a delight to know that the lords of the Empire also share my appreciation for the arts.”

The Marquis inclined his head slightly; his little scheme had been defeated, but gracefully so in a manner that saved face. A good defeat, the sort one could almost learn to admire. 

“Ha! Excellent,” Wen replied, with something approaching genuine mirth. “It would be a joy to hear the music of our neighbors. And what delights might we hear from Bard Finleigh?”

Haze’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, though her face remained fixed in an expression of polite neutrality, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

“I have some skill with the Chordrelle, my lord,” the Bard said, offering a florid, sweeping bow. “Enough, at least, I hope, to pay for my own supper.”

“Excellent. Excellent,” their host approved.

“Well then, Your Grace, you will allow me to get my old friend.” 

And with that, Haze withdrew with another bow, sweeping enough to be theatrical but not so deep as to suggest actual humility, and went to retrieve her partner.

The hall watched her leave with polite interest. A few of the hall’s musicians exchanged glances, no doubt curious to see what sort of skill an Aranthian Bard under the patronage of a girl who arrived with a Unicorn in harness could command. Seraphina approved of their curiosity. Curiosity was, after all, the beginning of envy when properly watered.

In the brief quiet left by Haze’s departure, the Marquis turned his attention back to his guest. The Empire’s guest, really.

“I must confess, Your Grace,” the border lord began, lifting his cup with both hands, “your arrival has given my household much to speak of.”

“How fortunate for them,” Seraphina replied, a false smile hidden behind her fan. “The road can be rather dull without providing others with something to whisper about.”

The Marquis grinned at that, a little more openly this time. “In the Empire, we try not to call it whispering.”

“Of course not,” Seraphina rejoined. “In Aranthia, we call it by its other name, gossip.”

“Ah, but gossip sounds so… undisciplined.”

“It often is. That is its charm and delight, though, as you say, it can grow boorish at times,” commented Seraphina disdainfully.

Desdemona, seated nearby, hid a smile behind her cup and failed just enough for Seraphina to notice. Miriam, standing properly among the attendants, looked worried as she always did.

The Marquis took another sip of wine. “Then I wonder what the gossip in Aranthia says of the Empire.”

“That it is vast, old, proud, beautiful, and dangerous when bestirred,” replied the blonde girl lightly.

“That is a most charitable assessment,” Lord Wen remarked.

“I am a charitable woman.”

That earned the smallest cough from Desdemona, which Seraphina magnanimously chose to ignore.

“And what does the Empire say of Aranthia?” Seraphina asked.

Wen Ruyang set his cup down with care. “That it is brave, stubborn, talented in war, careless in manners, and often so direct that one wonders what passes for deception.”

“Directness,” Seraphina said. “Deception we hide in plain sight, my lord Marquis. That, however, in my experience at least, does not stop the dagger from striking one’s back when it is least expected.”

The Marquis’ lips curled up into a smile. “The seen dagger will often hide the unseen blade.”

It was almost pleasant, this sort of conversation. Two people smiling across a table while deciding where the soft places might be. Not crude enough to be hostile, but not warm enough to be friendly. 

“Your road through the Free Cities was uneventful, I trust?” he asked.

“Uneventful enough,” returned Seraphina with disinterest that was not entirely feigned.

“The border teaches watchfulness; like a farmer, we pray that the weather is good, but sometimes it is not,” explained the border lord.

Seraphina lowered her fan slightly and held his gaze for a moment before turning away. “I can only hope I can bring with me a little of the summer”

For a brief moment, the Marquis’s expression became heavier. Not much. Only enough to remind her that beneath the festivities, there was a fortress not far away that had failed at the one thing it had been made to do.

“Spring will improve the roads,” he diverted.

“Spring improves most things, and worsens others,” the young girl agreed.

“War, for instance. Spring is the season of war,” Wen put forward, his eyes resting on her for a moment, measuring whether the word had been chosen carelessly.

Seraphina gave him only a pleasant smile.

My father has probably slaughtered your relatives, hordes of your countrymen, burned many of your towns, and has feasted on the cries and screams of your womenfolk. How difficult a pill that must be to swallow, the young girl mused to herself.

“Yes,” he said at last. “War, for instance.”

But before the conversation could sharpen into difficult talk, Haze returned.

She carried the Chordrelle in its dark fitted case. Once she reached the open space prepared before the hall, she knelt and opened it. The instrument emerged into the lamplight, the strings ran in delicate, gleaming lines from bridge to pegbox as Haze settled the instrument against herself and began to tune.

The first few notes were small things. Testing notes. A pluck, a pause, a slight turn of a peg. Another note, lower this time, vibrating through the black-stone hall that hushed the nearest conversations.

Then Haze truly began to play.

Seraphina had expected her to choose something lively. Some clever little piece fit for showing nimble fingers and earning easy applause. Instead, Haze began softly, the Chordrelle’s voice clear and many-layered, bright in the upper strings and warm beneath.

It lacked the strict, measured restraint of the pieces played earlier. Less structure and more wandering in it, more of the road and the open sky. Then, almost without warning, the melody turned. A second line joined the first, then a third, Haze’s fingers moving with deceptive ease as she drew out a song that was both festive and strangely wistful. It turned the piece into something like a dance remembered from a summer long gone.

Then the hall slowed and quieted.

Even the Marquis’s servants slowed in their movements, their duties momentarily forgotten. One of the Imperial musicians lowered his eyes to Haze’s hands, watching the work of her fingers with the expression of a man discovering that even an insult could be beautiful when delivered thus.

Seraphina watched as well.

There was improvement there. Real improvement. The timing was cleaner now, the transitions smoother. Haze had always possessed talent, but talent left untended tended to curdle into vanity. Talent polished, however, became a treasure. Seraphina’s investment had paid off. It was fortunate she had not cut Haze loose too soon. 

How pleasant, she thought to herself, that my trust in people can sometimes be rewarded.

Now, the song rose brighter, the rhythm blooming at last into something that made people tap their feet. Haze did not sing, she let the Chordrelle speak for her, and the instrument did so. And when the final notes came, they fell away, one after another, until the last string trembled into silence.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the Marquis clapped once, and soon the entire hall followed.

Applause spread across the room, first measured, then warmer as permission turned to enthusiasm. Even the Imperial musicians offered their approval, though a few did so with the grave reluctance of men admitting a foreigner had shown them up.

Haze bowed low, her face properly modest, though Seraphina knew her well enough now to see the satisfaction hidden in her eyes.

“An excellent performance,” Marquis Wen declared. “Your patron has a fine eye for talent.”

Seraphina inclined her head. “I do try to find those of talent. Even mud, when polished properly, can truly shine,” she stated simply.

And if Haze’s mouth tightened for the smallest moment at that, for artists were often sensitive creatures. That was why sensible patrons fed them praise in measured portions and never allowed them to forget who had purchased the stage.

The Marquis, in a show of considerable honor, rose from his seat and personally poured the Bard a drink.

“For the gift of your music,” he declared.

“My thanks, my lord,” Haze accepted, lowering her head with proper grace.

Sitting back down at the head of the table, the Marquis turned once more to his guest of honor.

“Unfortunately, my remaining sons are not of a suitable age to be a match,” the Imperial noble began.

Nor would they be of sufficient station, Seraphina mused internally. My countrymen must have slaughtered your elder sons on the field.

“But I have a daughter who wishes to see the capital.”

There it was, then. The favor asked. The price for salt, bread, and safe passage, wrapped in a courtesy that could not be denied.

As if summoned by his words, a girl entered the hall with the careful grace of someone who had been taught it since birth. She was perhaps a year or two older than Seraphina, willowy in form, with long dark hair falling past her waist in a smooth sheet broken only by a pair of jade-and-gold pins shaped like unfurling leaves. Her robe was pale green over white, the sleeves long and soft, embroidered at the edges with little blue flowers. The girl had the sort of beauty that would have been on billboards and magazines in Seraphina’s old world: a perfect heart-shaped face, a delicate mouth, and eyes of the rarest violet that looked out beneath long, dark lashes.

She bowed first to her father, then to Seraphina, the movement smooth enough to suggest much practice and just stiff enough to suggest nerves.

“My daughter, Wen Meilin,” the Marquis said. “She has long wished to broaden her understanding of the world beyond my demesne."

Seraphina smiled behind her fan. “How admirable,” she replied. “A young lady should always cultivate herself. The world is so much larger than the house that guards her.”

“If Your Grace would not consider it too great an imposition,” he continued, the words chosen with care, “I would ask whether my daughter might be permitted to join your party to the capital.”

Wen Meilin kept her eyes lowered, though Seraphina saw the faint tightening of her fingers within her sleeves. 

So, the girl had not been entirely sure this would be asked aloud. Or perhaps she had known and merely disliked being traded after dinner for a song.

“My daughter has been educated in the rites and manners of the capital,” the Marquis continued. “She would not burden your household. She travels with two maids and a small guard only. I believe her presence may also prove useful to Your Grace, should you desire a companion familiar with Imperial custom.”

Seraphina considered him and his daughter over the edge of her fan.

Useful, was she? That much, at least, was probably true. A Marquis’s daughter would know the shape of the court better than Lianor Vey’s lessons could ever fully convey. Such knowledge had value. The problem, naturally, was that anything useful offered freely was never truly free.

“A gracious suggestion,” Seraphina replied. “But, the capital is not a gentle place for a young lady travelling without suitable company.”

“No,” Lord Wen Ruyang admitted. “It is not.”

Desdemona leaned slightly toward Seraphina, her eyes bright with interest. Miriam, standing behind and to the side, had become very still. Haze, traitorously, looked amused.

Seraphina let the silence stretch just long enough to remind the room that the favor had been asked of her. Then she closed the fan with a soft click.

“I would be honored to have Lady Wen Meilin join us,” she accepted. “A journey is always improved by cultivated company, and I would be most grateful for guidance from one so familiar with the customs of the Empire.”

The Marquis inclined his head, and though his expression remained composed, relief moved through the room all the same. Not obviously, of course, but clear in the faint loosening of his shoulders and the softer breath taken by the girl in green and white.

Wen Meilin bowed again, deeper this time. “You honor me, Lady Seraphina,” she said, her voice clear and soft. “I shall do my utmost not to disappoint your kindness.”

“I am sure you shall not,” Seraphina replied with a smile. “After all, we young ladies must help one another where we can.”

Desdemona made a tiny sound into her cup, which Seraphina pointedly ignored.

The Marquis lifted his wine once more. “Then I am in Your Grace’s debt.”

“A dangerous state for any man,” Seraphina replied lightly.

This time, Wen Ruyang laughed, a short, genuine thing that did not quite belong in the moment.

Meilin raised her eyes then, just briefly, and met Seraphina’s gaze. There were nerves, but beneath sat something sharper, a small bright needle of ambition or desperation that made the girl far more interesting.

Good. Pretty things were so much more useful when they had teeth, concluded Seraphina de Sariens.