Ara fell dramatically onto the nearest couch. “No. We discovered her hidden weakness. She’s allergic to being adored.”
“No matter. In any case, I have a guest of my own to share!” Terra’s pout gave way to a mischievous smile, any disappointment forgotten. Nona found herself liking the young woman. “You brought your warrior—behold mine!” She leaned across to ring a silver bell on a small stand beside her chair and looked towards the main doors.
“Do they have to do battle?” Ara grinned, following Terra’s gaze.
Nona shifted in the comfort of her chair, wondering that Terra considered her a warrior. She didn’t seem to realize that Ara could probably defeat any man in her house guard without breaking a sweat.
It’s hard to see old friends with new eyes.
What would you know? You don’t have any friends. Nona tried to force Keot down onto her back but abandoned the effort as the doors began to open.
A tall, darkly handsome man walked in. The black sweep of his hair reached past a starched white collar. His jacket, deepest purple and embroidered with silver wire in the bold designs favoured by Verity’s gentry, must have cost a year’s salary for the average city worker.
“I know him!” Ara sat up, suddenly interested.
“You should, he’s one of the empire’s finest ring-fighters!” Terra clapped her hands, excited.
Nona stared at Ara and her friend. They were discussing the man as if he wasn’t there. She looked back, apologetic, seeing his face properly for the first time. “Regol?”
“Indeed.” Regol sketched a bow. “At your service, Nona the Nun.” She recognized the sardonic smile and the dark humour in his eyes even if she didn’t recognize the finery he wore now.
“You’ve met?” Terra clapped again. “Where? You must tell me!”
“The last time I saw little Nona she was on her back, surrendering to me,” Regol said.
Terra frowned. “Surely novices aren’t allowed to do that sort of thing?” She grinned again, all curiosity. “What have you been up to, Nona?”
“He’d kicked me in the chest then elbowed me in the head.” Nona remembered that it had hurt, a lot. “I reckoned I should let him win and save my strength for someone I really didn’t like.”
“A big ginger gerant.” Regol nodded. “And technically you did win that fight against Denam.”
“Denam?” Terra looked shocked. “That man’s a monster. Nona couldn’t have . . .”
“You were what? Twelve at the time?” Regol shook his head. “Denam never quite lived that down . . .”
“I don’t believe—” Terra started towards her feet.
Ara set a hand to her cousin’s leg. “It’s true. But Denam lost by disqualification. He tried to attack Nona outside the ring.”
Regol came and took the chair beside Nona, uninvited. “From what I hear you could have killed both of us that day if you’d wanted to.”
Terra stared at him. Regol nodded. “Magic.” He mouthed the word silently and nodded again.
Terra began to tell Ara about Regol’s victories in the Caltess. Nona leaned back, letting it wash over her. She found herself watching Regol, who in turn kept his gaze on Terra, smiling that smile of his. Nona shook her head. It seemed she and Ara weren’t the only ones with magic at their disposal: Regol appeared able to fascinate the other two just by sitting there, and she’d found herself being drawn into it too, letting her gaze wander the length of him. Perhaps he had a touch of the marjal empathy that Markus had once spoken of.
In time lunch was served and the four of them went through to a dining room that was even longer, wider, and taller than the Sweet Mercy refectory where fifty novices ate their meals. In the centre stood a long, polished table down which Nona had a sudden urge to slide, sending a dozen candlesticks flying. She suppressed the urge and took a seat opposite Regol at one end. Terra and Ara sat to either side of him. Watching them, Nona realized that Terra must be a good few years older than Ara and herself, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, of an age with Regol. A spike of jealousy drove its way into her: Terra, living her grand life beneath her father’s golden roof, producing Regol as a novelty for the entertainment of her friend.
If you killed her you could take her house and claim the male.
Shut up, Keot.
Nona turned her attention to the bowl of soup that had been set before her. A delicious aroma rose from the orangey liquid. She had no idea what the ingredients might be. Several silver spoons were arranged around the place setting. She took the nearest, a fluted affair, and applied it gingerly to the liquid. The bowl itself was finest porcelain, eggshell-thin and delicately painted with lilacs. Nona took each spoonful in mortal fear that she might somehow damage the bowl.
“Nona? What do you think?”
“What?” Nona looked up, suddenly worried she had been slurping. “Yes?”
Regol, who had asked the question, gave her a puzzled look.
If you want to breed with him you should just tell him so.
“I don’t—” I don’t want to breed with him and if you don’t shut up I will force you into my little finger and CUT IT OFF! “Sorry . . .”
“Is the soup disagreeing with you?” Terra looked concerned.
“Something was,” Nona said. Then, seeing Terra’s distress, “No, not the soup, it’s lovely. What’s in it?”
Terra brightened. “Do you know, I’ve never thought to ask. I can summon the cook. It’s persimmon and something, I expect. Everyone is eating persimmons these days. I had one with codfish at Dora Reesis’s the other day! I’ll have Edris get the cook—”
“No need! It’s lovely.” Nona bent her head and took another spoon, consuming it as silently as a Sister of Discretion.
What’s a persimmon?
I have no idea. And shut up.
Keot slid down the back of her neck, curling towards her stomach, presumably to investigate in person.
The meal moved from soup to fish, four servants required so that the plates could be simultaneously swept away and replaced. Ara and Terra chattered about this or that lady of the Sis, though Terra’s knowledge of who wore what dress and which colour was in favour at court seemed to wear down even Ara’s tolerance for such detail. At last Ara swept the blonde sheath of her hair over one shoulder and turned those blue eyes of hers on Regol. “Have you beaten any other novices senseless lately?”
“No.” Regol shook his head sorrowfully. “That’s a treat reserved for apprentices. I get to dance with Gretcha now, and she punches hard!”
“Yours is a dangerous profession, sir.” Ara pushed her plate back.
“It has its advantages.” Regol mopped his plate with a hunk of bread, his manners those of the Caltess. “Free lunches, for example.”
“Where else have you dined?” Ara arched an eyebrow. She looked much older than her fifteen years, Nona thought.
“It’s where I will dine that interests me most.” A degree of genuine excitement broke through Regol’s habitual mask. “Sherzal herself has requested the pleasure of my company at her palace!”
Nona sat up at that, almost toppling the exquisite glass they’d brought her water in. “Sherzal!”
Ara half-raised her hand, a placatory gesture. “Ring-fighters are popular guests at many high tables. Raymel Tacsis made the whole business fashionable and it’s a trend that seems to have outlived him.”
Terra’s smile had a touch of nerves about it. “I hear Sherzal takes all manner of pleasure in the company of ring-fighters. Keep your guard up, Regol.”
“Always, lady.” He nodded. “Around Gretcha especially, but hardly less so in the homes of the rich and powerful. Present company excepted of course.”
They all laughed at that, though probably for four different reasons.
“And when, pray tell, is Sherzal to have the pleasure of your company, Regol?” Ara asked, every bit the Sis.