“Lord Jotsis.” Glass inclined her head. She should have expected the Mensis to be near the Jotsis in such a gathering. Carvon Jotsis she knew of old. A good man, honest, bold, lacking in the subtleties his forebears possessed. Unfortunately it was those subtleties which court life required if a house was to flourish.
“It pains me to see you in such circumstances, abbess.” Carvon bowed his leonine head. Brother Pelter hovered in the background, the irritation on his face not quite brave enough to escape as words of reprimand.
“Holy Mother.” From around the broadness of Carvon Jotsis came Arabella Jotsis, hair a cloud of golden curls, a vision in blue silk and taffeta, neckline plunging, waist tight, presenting a softer aspect to the hard warrior’s body beneath. The girl dropped into the lowest obeisance of the novice, one offered only when at greatest fault or to an archon, high priest, or statue of the Ancestor. Her skirts billowed then pooled around her. All around conversation fell away, Sis heads turning.
“Get up, Ara.” Glass found her eyes misting. “Whatever are you doing here?”
Ara looked up, her own eyes bright with tears. But it was Lord Jotsis who answered. “Forgive my niece, abbess. My brother removed her from Sweet Mercy after the recent unpleasantness. Temporarily, I’m sure. I thought it too soon for a return to society, especially here, but the girl insisted and my brother has never managed to stand up to his women.” Carvon coughed and glanced across the crowd, looking for his own formidable wife, no doubt. “Still, it sends a message, no?”
Glass nodded, and smiled as Ara rose beside her. The message sent—that the Jotsis fear no one—was rather undermined by the fact that many knew Sherzal’s interest in Ara had evaporated on discovering that Nona filled the Chosen One’s shoes still better, and then that Zole met all requirements. Perhaps the true message was one of peace rather than defiance, and by sending both Carvon’s brother had demonstrated some of that necessary subtlety the lord himself lacked.
“Glass.” Brother Pelter found his voice, staring pointedly at Sera and Melkir.
Glass ignored him. “Ara?”
“I came to be of service, Abbess Glass,” Ara said. Although her maids had made her beyond pretty with all the arts of powders and rouge there was still something in those blue eyes that promised a world of hurt to any who crossed her. “You have only to ask. And I am not alone.” She motioned with her gaze, pointing out Darla who towered above her father, the renowned General Rathon, newly promoted and surely just one more victory from his lordship.
Glass found herself oddly touched that the two novices had contrived to have their family connections move them to her destination as soon as they had discovered it. The delays encountered while Pelter hunted her judges had allowed Darla and Ara to overtake her along the more direct roads.
“Heretic.” A vicious whisper, close at hand.
A glance found the source, decked in diamonds and lace. Joeli Namsis. Her whisper spread, giving licence to tongues held still in the moment. “Abbess Glass?” A malicious smile. “Were chains all you could find to wear that would get you past the door to so grand a home?” This girl wasn’t seventeen yet but she could pass as a woman of twenty-one among the gathered heiresses. “And I had heard that you were supposed to be good at these games of empire.”
“Glass!” Pelter again.
The abbess turned away from Joeli, nodded to Lord Jotsis, and pushed on before Melkir’s hand quite found her elbow.
The butler pressed forward, employing some personal magic to forge a path through the assembled aristocracy without causing offence. Ahead the throng thickened as cattle will around a feeding trough, the conversations joining and swelling, each voice raising itself by degrees in order to be heard. Like a marjal water-worker the butler parted the vivid sea before them and, revealed at its midst, Sherzal, in flowing black.
“Abbess Glass!” Her already-wide smile widened. “Have you brought my daughter to me?”
“Novice Zole’s whereabouts are unknown to me.” Glass studied the woman. Sherzal looked younger than the thirty-nine years recorded against her name. Nobody would call her beautiful—perhaps striking would be closer to the truth. Undeniably, the energies that animated her created a personal magnetism about the emperor’s sister.
“A disappointment.” Sherzal managed to hide the alleged disappointment from her face. “And you come to us in chains?” All eyes save Sherzal’s fell to Glass’s wrists. “Are we to have a trial? How exciting.”
Glass raised her wrists, palms turning upwards, and drew the crowd’s gaze back to her face. “A trial without inquisitors would be impossible, I’m afraid. And it would be remiss of me not to note that Brother Pelter is here illegally, along with Brothers Seldom and Dimeon, and Sister Agika. They have entered a royal palace without permission and must remove themselves immediately to await punishment in the Tower of Inquiry.”
Two vertical lines appeared momentarily between Sherzal’s brows. “No matter. Their transgression is forgiven.”
Glass kept herself erect despite the weight of the crowd’s regard. “Forgiveness is admirable in one so blessed with position, but the fact remains that without invitation none of them can be beneath your roof. As law-breakers they lack the authority to hold me and these chains, however silver, become the tools of the abductor.”
“I invite them,” Sherzal snapped, the violence beneath her skin suddenly manifest. “All of them, welcome guests. We shall have our trial at midnight.”
A man pushed by Glass, his robes lordly but a faint rankness swirling in their wake. “The trial will be something to settle stomachs after the banquet and before the dancing.” Lord Thuran Tacsis reached Sherzal’s side. He bowed low. “My apologies, honourable Sherzal, for returning in haste and disarray,
