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Clare made a dismissive noise. “I find several people, of late, enjoy telling me which experiences I can look forward to. Frequently, they seem to be wrong.” She turned to Madame Aria. “For instance, it seems highly unlikely I’ll be begging to sing in the Lowtown’s winter festival, despite my choice of master.”
She made the dig pointedly, a deliberate show of hubris intended to nettle. She was determined they should all think her walking blindly into the countess’s trap. It would make her victory all the sweeter, for its unexpectedness.
“Give it time,” Madame Aria said.
A brief lull descended on the table before Lady Meraland said, her voice thick with false sweetness, “We are all so relieved you were able to attend this evening. The most ghastly rumors are circling that you were brutally assaulted earlier today outside the mages’ stables.”
So considerate of you to broach the subject with such delicacy. She widened her eyes. “Assaulted? Is that really what they’re saying?”
“It is.”
Clare laughed. “How dreadfully inaccurate the rumor mills are, then.”
Estrella took up the thread of the conversation, refusing to let it die so easily. “I also heard it said it was over a horse, of all things. Kialla N’Marani.” She turned to Numair. “But I suppose that would be untrue as well? You never loan out your horses.”
“All rumors have some truth,” Numair answered flippantly.
The Musicale House’s staff poured into the courtyard at that moment, bearing trays laden with the evening’s dinner and putting a temporary hush on the conversation. The plate set before Clare smelled divine—and contained nothing she could eat. Even if she’d been willing to risk an entire meal shortly before she was to sing, the contents were entirely unsuitable to be consumed prior to a vocal performance.
A thick-cut slice of pork tenderloin in an aromatic wine-and-cream sauce. Thin rounds of potatoes lightly spiced and covered in melted cheese. It was completed with a selection of summer vegetables only a nature mage could have coaxed to grow at this time of year, and these had been lightly breaded and fried to a crisp perfection.
In short, everything a person should avoid if they wanted to sing well. She pretended not to notice, moving things around on her plate to give a show of eating, and could tell which members of the other tables were the singers by who was doing the same. The meal passed with nothing more of substance in the conversation, little barbs traded back and forth disguised as pleasantries, until the servers returned to remove the plates from the tables.
Their own had just been cleared when Lady Meraland said, “I am curious, Miss Brighton, if you would answer a personal question for me.” She didn’t wait for a response. “I cannot help but wonder what it’s like to live under the same roof as the Butcher and the Barbarian.”
There was an edge of something more than malice beneath the question. There was an edge of genuine…well, curiosity was too innocent a word for it, but it was along the same lines. It made Clare wonder how much time Verol and Marquin actually spent at court. If they spent any of that time at all interacting in a social capacity, or if they were shadows lurking in every room, more living myths than people.
Given the rapt attention with which the table waited for her to respond, she knew any response she gave would spread like wildfire through a dry forest.
“Well,” she said, pretending to consider the question with great seriousness, “so far I’ve found the meat selection is incomparable, and having heavy objects lifted is never much of a concern.”
The women stared at her. Numair broke out laughing. “You’re funny,” he said through the laughter. But what he meant was, “Nicely done.”
She was saved from further conversation when a smooth, practiced voice rolled over the courtyard. “I welcome you all, this evening, to the Musicale House. For those of you here for the first time, I am Aurelius Mellifis?—”
Clare bent her head toward Numair, murmuring, “If that’s his real name, I’ll forfeit the competition.”
He snorted, causing Estrella to throw Clare a withering look, and whispered, “His real name is Howard Carver. He owns the other thirty percent.”
Meanwhile, “Aurelius Mellifis” had continued introducing himself.
“—master of this house and host of the Artists Challenge.” He stood in front of the fountain spire in a suit of expensive cut and more expensive indigo coloring, his blond hair slicked back against his scalp. He held an ostentatiously ornamented walking stick clasped in one hand in a manner suggesting he longed to twirl it about. The other hand held a time-glass, which he placed in front of the fountain with a grand flourish.
“We have a unique challenge for our artists tonight, something truly special. If I could please have all the artists stand, that everyone might see our competitors and the tables of their patronage.”
Clare stood, sliding her chair back silently on the marble floor, and gauged her competition. Nine tables other than her own, nine other artists, the contestants split near even on gender. Four of the group were obviously inexperienced at being in the public eye. They fidgeted, or smiled awkwardly, attempting to look at anything other than an actual person. Three were overly confident, bearings haughty, looking slightly bored at the whole affair. Just two other than Clare knew how to properly bear up under the scrutiny. The trick was to pretend you were not under scrutiny. They and Clare stood as if the entire room stood with them; as if they were merely participants in a thing in which everyone present was also a participant. They kept their attention on the announcer, and they neither smiled nor disdained.
“The rules of tonight’s challenge are simple: no instruments are allowed, but that does not mean the performance need be a cappella, so long as the artists use nothing outside the fountain area. Each artist will have five minutes to set their stage, and the artist whose song is both the most musically diverse and entertaining to the crowd will be deemed tonight’s winner.”
Silence of a particular quality greeted this announcement, that kind born of a lack of comprehension, in which everyone was aware they ought to understand the brilliance of the setup, but no one did. Aurelius looked at Countess Duval, and there was something of anticipated irritation in his face that Clare suspected she knew the source of: he’d deemed the challenge too difficult, but the countess had insisted.
There was a careful line to tread when running an establishment like this. People could, as Clare well knew, find endless enjoyment in watching people fail spectacularly. But only so long as some others succeeded. Watching nine singers fail in a row would grow tiresome. Aurelius was clearly concerned about the effect of such a failure on his business, while Countess Duval had been more interested in Clare’s public humiliation. Since the latter owned the majority stake in the business, she’d forced the issue.
“While we typically choose our first artist at random, tonight we have a special treat for you all. You have perhaps heard by now of the black diamond Songweaver who so delighted the audience at the Rival Theater just earlier this week.
“If Miss Clare Brighton would come forward, I am certain her performance tonight will delight you all no less.” There was a threat buried under those words as his gaze landed on her, and she saw that, since he could not hold Countess Duval accountable, she was to be personally made responsible for anything his business might suffer as a result of this night.
She stood and walked confidently to the fountain.
