that way. She wanted Her mouth tightening, she pushed such useless thoughts away. It no longer mattered what she wanted, nor had it for a long time. All that counted now was the obligation to be a staid and proper burgher's wife and to prepare her children to perform their familial duties as well. Lliira knew, the latter wasn't easy.
Oh, Tamlin had turned out fine, whatever his father thought. But Tal, his younger brother, needed both encouragement and guidance. Indeed, she had to oversee every move he made, not that she begrudged him the attention. At least he made an effort from time to time. Tazi didn't. She had the wit to learn manners, music, embroidery, and the other womanly arts which would help her make an advantageous match, or the secrets of accounting and trade which would enable her to take a hand in the Uskevren's commercial ventures. But all she cared about was venery, carousing with riffraff far below her station, playing pranks, and generally getting into trouble.
Well, not tonight, Shamur thought, regarding her grimly. Tonight you'll comport yourself like a demure, refined young maiden, no matter how it galls you. Perhaps intuiting the tenor of her thoughts, Tazi stuck out her tongue.
Beyond the entry was a high-ceilinged foyer, lit by magic and lavishly decorated with a miscellany of paintings, tapestries, and sculptures, including a towering marble equestrian statue in the middle of the terrazzo floor. The piece depicted Rauthauvyr the Raven, founder of Sembia, slaying a gorgon, a feat that, to the best of Shamur's knowledge, the legendary warrior had never accomplished in the flesh. About the pedestal milled a prime selection of the city's aristocracy, the drone of their conversation, the swish of their trailing garments, and the jangling of their abundant jewelry mingling with the harmonies of the glaur, zulkoon, and thelarr players performing in the clerestory.
A lackey thumped the butt of his staff on the floor and announced Shamur and Tazi, whereupon Dolera Milna Foxmantle bustled over to greet them. Still in a glum humor, Shamur had to exert a bit of willpower to stretch her lips into a welcoming smile.
Dolera was a beautiful woman in her forties whose heart-shaped face was, as always, a mask of pigment.
She used alabaster powder to whiten her skin, fucus to redden her lips, kohl to emphasize her eyes, and tincture of belladonna to enlarge her pupils. Tonight she wore a low-cut orange mocado gown that reeked of rose water.
'Shamur,' she cooed, 'how wonderful to see you. And little Thazienne as well. You've extracted her from the taverns and barracks at last, and made her look so pretty, too! Of course, some people don't care for that… disheveled look. They say it makes a girl look cheap, or like some clodhopping slattern from a barbarian clime. But I find it refreshing.'
Shamur didn't even have to glance at Tazi to sense her gathering herself for a furious outburst. She surreptitiously elbowed her daughter in the ribs.
'How kind of you to say so,' she replied to Dolera. 'How are you, dear? I assume you're still taking instruction in the dance from Maestro Rolando. I'm so looking forward to your first recital.'
Dolera's malicious smirk wilted a bit. 'Actually, I've taken a sabbatical from dancing to focus on my watercolors. Excuse me, won't you?' She moved away.
'As I understand it, Rolando terminated her lessons in disgust,' Shamur murmured to Tazi. 'He told her she had the grace of a three-legged sow.'
'So you asked about the humiliation to vex her,' Tazi said. 'But why wouldn't you let me retort with what I wanted to say?'
'Because it would likely have been some crude insult, delivered at the top of your lungs, and that isn't how the game is played. If Dolera shakes your composure, she wins.'
'It sounds like a stupid game to me,' Tazi began. Then the chamber music stumbled to a halt. The glaur player blew a fanfare.
A lanky figure strode onto the landing at the top of a flight of stairs and swept up his arms in a histrionic gesture of welcome. He was veiled from head to foot in a voluminous hood and robe of green velvet and cloth of gold, but from the flamboyance of his entrance, he could only be Andeth Ilchammar, the Hulorn, a ruler considered eccentric even by his friends and entirely insane by his detractors.
Shamur wondered why he'd chosen to appear in such a bizarre costume. For tendays, the gossips had been whispering that the merchant mayor, who was also a magician of sorts, aspired to transform himself into a titan or some other sort of superhuman creature. Perhaps his garments hid the stigmata of a failed or ongoing metamorphosis. Knowing Andeth, it was just as likely he'd simply succumbed to a childish urge to play dress- up.
'Good evening, my lords and ladies!' the Hulorn cried in his breathless tenor voice. 'I hope you're ready to be astonished and exalted, because I have a wonderful surprise for you. As many of you know, I employ agents to seek out the lost artistic treasures of antiquity, and over the years, they've made any number of glorious discoveries.' He waved his arm at an example, a carved ebony centaur rearing in an alcove. 'But recently, they uncovered the most important find of all. Visions of Chaos, a lost opera penned by Guerren Bloodquill!'
Andeth's guests exclaimed and murmured to one another in surprise and genuine interest. Those with a sincere passion for serious music-and over the years, Shamur had affected this passion so doggedly that in the end, it had, to a modest degree, become sincere-were naturally intrigued to learn of a new work by the genius who, three centuries after his disappearance, was still regarded as one of the greatest composers of all time. Those who merely feigned an interest in the arts to be fashionable recalled the sinister side of Guerren's reputation. According to legend, he'd also been a mystic much given to communing with the infernal powers. Some tales even held that he'd bartered his soul in exchange for his musical talent.
The Hulorn paused for a moment, basking in the sensation he'd created, then pressed on. 'I have, of course, decided to stage Guerren's work for our delectation. The finest singers and musicians in Selgaunt have been rehearsing in secret for tendays-'
'No!' someone cried. 'You mustn't do it!'
Like everyone else, Shamur turned in surprise, to see that a little man with a huge beak of a nose and a shaggy mane of graying hair had somehow slipped into the chamber. Bright scarlet puffing protruded from the slashes in his shabby fustian doublet, and gaudy paste jewelry adorned his chest. Shamur didn't know him, but she knew his type. He appeared to be a member of Selgaunt's sizable artistic community.
Two guards stationed in unobtrusive positions about the foyer sprang forward and grabbed the little man by the arms. 'Sorry, Your Grace,' one of the pair called to the Hulorn. 'I don't know how he got in.'
'Please,' the small man said, squirming impotently in their grasp. 'You have to listen-'
'Master Quyance,' Andeth sighed, 'we've already had this conversation.' He waved to the soldiers. 'Remove him.' They did, and, when Quyance continued to rave, they silenced him with a blow to the head. Shamur winced in sympathy, and Tazi muttered an obscenity.
'Please excuse the interruption,' Andeth said. 'The wretch is unbalanced and has been following me about for days. I thought the guards had finally managed to discourage him, but evidently not. Well, enough about him. Come with me. Guerren's masterpiece awaits us.'
The merchant mayor descended the stairs and led his guests deeper into the Palace of Beauty. As Shamur moved to follow, she realized she knew what was going to happen next. For the first time that night, her gaze would fall on Gundar, son of Dorin. Her old nemesis, for all that he didn't know it. The wealthy dwarf merchant would be wearing a russet taffeta doublet and a wide, opal-studded belt. He'd have golden chains dangling in his long, white beard.
She finished turning, and her premonition came true. Gundar was there, looking exactly as she'd imagined him. How could that be?
'I hate to admit it,' said Tazi, 'but this might be tolerable after all.'
'What?' Shamur asked distractedly. She struggled to dismiss that disquieting sense of foreknowledge. No doubt it was simply her mind playing tricks on her.
'If a demon-worshiper wrote the opera, perhaps the story will have slaughter, torture, and monsters raping virgins.'
'The important thing,' Shamur said coldly, 'will be to savor the beauty of the music, not to wallow in any moments of vulgar sensation the 'story' may happen to offer. There's Dolera. We'll go in and sit with her.'
'Why?'
