Darkness Descending

Sabrinos back didn’t pain him; he bowed himself almost double. He’d been coming to Dosso for many years, not least because the jeweler thought of things like that.

“Have a seat, if you like,” Dosso said. “Or you can go round the corner and drink a glass of wine, if you’d rather do that. Don’t drink two, or I’ll be done before you finish the second unless you really pour it down.”

“I’ll stay, by your leave,” Sabrino answered. “The company is apt to be better here than any I’d find in that tavern.” He perched on one of the wooden stools in front of the counter, almost as if he were at a bar.

Dosso snipped gold from the ring opposite the prongs that held the stone, then reshaped it in Fronesia’s size, using a blowtorch to heat the ends and weld them together. After he’d finished shaping the metal and it had cooled, he held up the ring. “I defy you to tell me where the join is, my lord Count.”

Sabrino looked at the gold circlet. He ran his finger around it, touch often being more sensitive than sight in such matters. “I’d like to catch you out, but I can’t do it.”

“Now for the prongs.” Dosso held out his hand. Sabrino gave him back the ring. Dosso set it down so that it lay on top of the gold he’d snipped. He used a thin gold wire to touch first the good prong, then the extra gold, and last one of the two damaged prongs. As he did that, he muttered to himself.

The little chant didn’t sound like Algarvian. After a moment, Sabrino realized it wasn’t: it was classical Kaunian, with some of the words turned into nonsense syllables from who could say how many generations of rote repetition. A chill ran through the dragonflier.

But those endless repetitions had made the charm extremely effective, even if some of the words were ground into meaninglessness. As Sabrino watched, the damaged prong reshaped itself. Dosso slid the emerald into place between what were now two good prongs. As he repeated his ritual, the third one grew out and embraced the stone. With a grunt of satisfaction, Dosso handed Sabrino the restored ring. “I hope it pleases your lady.”

“I’m sure it will. She’s fond of baubles.” Sabrino paid the jeweler and went off well pleased with himself.

When he let himself in, Fronesia greeted him with a hug and a kiss that told without words how long it had been since they’d seen each other. Then she asked the question he’d known she would: “And what have you brought me?”

“Oh, a little something,” he said, his voice light, and slipped the ring onto her finger.

Fronesia stared at him. The emerald was of an even deeper green than her eyes. Part of that stare was simple admiration; part of it was a calculated assessment of how much the piece was worth. “It’s lovely. It’s splendid,” she whispered, both sides of her character evidently satisfied.

“You’re lovely,” he said. “You’re splendid.” He meant it. Her hair glinted in the lamplight like molten copper. Her nose had a little bend in it, just enough to make it interesting; her mouth was wide and generous. Her short tunic displayed perfectly turned legs. She was within a couple of years either way of thirty. That gave him more than a twenty-year head start on her, a truth he would sooner have forgotten. “I hoped you’d like it.”

“I do, very much.” One of her carefully plucked eyebrows rose. “And what did you bring your wife?”

“Oh, this and that,” he said casually. The countess knew about Fronesia, of course, but hadn’t asked Sabrino what he’d got her. Maybe that was the restraint of noble blood. On the other hand, maybe she just didn’t want to know.

“Have you seen her yet?” Fronesia asked.

That took it further and faster than she usually went. “Aye, I have,” he replied. “It is good form, you know.” Algarvian nobles ran on form hardly less than their Valmieran or Jelgavan counterparts.

Fronesia sighed. Form was harder on mistresses than it was on wives. Sabrino found that fair: mistresses were supposed to be having more fun than wives. Nobles married for money or for family alliances far more often than for love. If they wanted love--or, sometimes, even a physical approximation of it--they looked elsewhere.

Sabrino asked, “And what have you been doing while I’ve been . . . away?” Trying not to get myself killed didn’t sound right, even if it was what he meant.

“Oh, this and that,” Fronesia answered--casually. She wasn’t a pretty fool. Sabrino wouldn’t have been interested in her had she been. Well, I wouldn’t have been interested in her for long, he thought. He wasn’t blind to a pretty face or a pleasing figure: far from it. But gaining his interest was one thing. Holding it was another.