Night Season (15 page)

Cynna felt herself nodding. Yes, those were her eyes in his face. Though he saw his eyes in her face, and wasn't that funny? Because they each had their own eyes, after all.

He heaved a great, meaningful, gusty sigh. "We've much to say to each other, but not, I suppose, all at once, or while standing out here in the cold. And my lord councilors wish to meet you."

One of the gnomes—not Bilbo—said something unintelligible, reminding Cynna of her charm. She closed her hand around it, and the whisper told her the gnome wanted Daniel to let their guests come inside and rest before some big meeting, and he could escort his daughter to her chambers.

Daniel glanced down at the gnome, nodded, and said something in the other language that the charm translated as polite agreement, then switched back to English. "Come, come inside. We will talk while we can, before you must… ha! It's hard, but you're here for more than the easing of my heart."

She was here because she'd been kidnapped. Reminded of several things, she took a step back and glanced around. Cullen stood beside her, his face as expressionless as she'd ever seen it. Usually he hid with smiles or words. Ruben was beside him, in a wooden wheelchair she hadn't noticed until that moment. One of the gray-dressed guards stood behind it. He was as large as Tash and the same color, but lacked the tusks.

"We would all appreciate a chance to rest and refresh ourselves before the meeting with your council," Ruben said. "But we will go to our rooms together. You have given us rooms near each other, as I asked?"

"But of course," said Bilbo. "We wishing for you all comforts. We—"

A laugh drifted out from the open door… followed by a woman. "Honored Councilor," she said in clear English in a voice like bells and fog, "their notion of comfort probably doesn't involve being dragged through a gate and thrown down into the snow to provide dinner for the dondredii."

"That," Bilbo said with some dignity, "was not being as we intending to happen."

"But they are here," she said indulgently as she floated down the steps. "Perhaps they will forgive, since your need is so great."

She was slightly less than Cynna's height and much more slender, her bones as delicate as a child's. Her skin was dusky, her eyes dark, her hair pure white. It was short in front and curled wildly around her face, but in back it bubbled below her hips like a frothy waterfall. She wore a long white dress, sleeveless, loose, and gathered at the waist by an embroidered sash the color of the sky at twilight. Her feet were bare, and she wore no underclothes___

which Cynna knew for certain because the dress was transparent.

Her face was exotic and beautiful and shaped like a cat's—wide at the eyes and cheeks, narrowing to a delicate, pointed chin. Her ears were long and pointed.

"I have long wished to meet a lupus," the elf-woman said, and she walked straight up to Cullen, stopping much too close. She put her hands on his chest and tilted her head to one side as she smiled into his eyes. "Hello."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cynna's chambers consisted of two rooms. The bedroom was tiny, more like a nest than a room, being mostly bed. A huge, thick mattress overflowing with a whole rainbow's worth of pillows and blankets covered almost all the floor.

The sitting room was bigger, but no less colorful. Ocher walls extruded themselves to form a bench that made a U out of one end of the room. The wall-bench was wide enough for a human tush, but less than a foot above the floor—a good height for a gnome, she supposed. It, too, was crowded with cushions in many colors. There were two straight wooden chairs built for a human-size person—one orange, one purple. No cushions. Both looked uncomfortable.

The whole place was uncomfortable, and it wasn't just the colors.

At the other end of the room was a round table a lot like the one in her hotel room back home, only with shorter legs and painted bright blue. Four fat floor cushions surrounded it. Between the table and one end of the bench was a cupboard painted green and yellow and black.

A short, dark-haired woman stood in front of the cupboard. Her name was Adrienne. She wore a knee-length yellow dress with gray trousers and a long gray vest; her hair was long and braided. She was about fifty years old and she was human—she'd told Cynna that when she announced she was Cynna's maid. She'd shown Cynna how to control the mage lights drifting around the ceiling with a couple words in the Common Tongue, repeated what Cynna had been told about the location of the common rooms, explained that the baths were underground—where she seemed to think she was going to wash Cynna personally.

Not going to happen. But a shampoo would be nice.

At the moment Adrienne was holding up a dress she'd taken from the cupboard. It was long, shiny, and dizzyingly bright—green and pink and gold playing tag all over a lipstick red background.

It made Cynna's head hurt. "You've got to be kidding."

"Dalnee horra fall nutty sieve matta play, noresh," the woman said. Or something like that. The charm whispered to Cynna, "This would be appropriate for meeting with the Council, madam."

"Can't you get me some pants? Something… plainer. Like what I'm wearing, only clean."

Adrienne looked pained and launched into a long explanation about colors and caste and stuff. Cynna tried to pay attention, but her mind wasn't cooperating.

He hadn't known
. That's what she kept thinking, over and over.
He hadn't known
.

Daniel Weaver had escorted them to their rooms, chatting amiably all the while about the problems with applying what he knew of science and engineering ("Not much," he'd said cheerfully, "but I was ever a history buff, and the older things work better here.") to innovations useful in Edge. Cynna hadn't really listened. She'd been thinking about that elf-woman and the way she'd put her hands on Cullen. Cynna had wanted to toss that frail, lovely body somewhere. Just pick her up and throw her.

That wasn't the reaction of a friend. Jealousy was stupid and pointless. It hurt. And it wouldn't go away.

Fortunately, the elf-woman had. After planting a kiss on Cullen's mouth, she'd murmured something too low for Cynna to hear and drifted off as absently as she'd arrived without speaking to any of the rest of them.

None of whom seemed to have noticed Cynna's reaction.
Please, God, don't let Cullen have noticed
. That's what she was thinking when her father followed her into her room. He'd asked about her mother, all excited and happy. Had Mary waited long before remarrying? Did Cynna get along with her stepfather, whoever that might be? Had Mary ever gone back to school the way she wanted to?

He'd been so eager, the questions tumbling out as if pent up all these years. "I'm sorry," he'd said, catching himself with a laugh. "I want to hear about you, too, my beautiful daughter… but Mary? She's well?"

So Cynna had told him. She had to, didn't she? His Mary had been dead for nearly twenty years… even longer in some ways, because Cynna didn't recognize her mom at all in the Mary he spoke of. She didn't tell him that. What good would it do? He didn't need to know the woman whose memory he'd cherished all these years had died as she'd lived. Drunk.

Had she just blurted it out, though? She'd wanted to be gentle. She'd tried, but he'd been so happy, and he'd left with his eyes wet and shocked…

"You will wear this, then, madam?" the charm whispered at Cynna.

She jerked her attention back to the matter at hand. Clothes. Really ugly clothes. "No, I won't." Someone scratched at the door. She turned away in relief. "Come in."

Cullen breezed in. "Ruben wants to… ah, what's that?"

He was looking at the red monstrosity in Adrienne's hand. "The dress they think I should wear. Not going to happen. Ah—Cullen, this is Adrienne. Adrienne, Cullen Seabourne."

He was revved, not relaxed, not wearing the look of a man who's just had a quickie with…
Shut up
, she told herself fiercely. That kind of thinking would make her crazy. Well, crazier.

Besides, elf-woman had drifted away after greeting Cullen and ignoring the rest of them.

"Hmm." Cullen studied the dress, moving around as if he needed to see it from every angle. "I see," he said, nodding mysteriously, and told Cynna "Go see Ruben. He wants to talk to you. I'll take care of this."

Lily could have helped with a wardrobe problem, but Cullen? Still, just thinking about Lily, picturing her reaction if she'd been told to wear that dress, made Cynna feel better for some reason. "I want pants."

"Trust me." Then he startled her. He brushed a kiss across her cheek. "Go."

The doors were the most ordinary thing about this place, being the right height and nicely rectangular. They didn't lock, though—didn't even latch. Either gnomes had no concept of privacy or they didn't want their guests indulging in it.

The hall was emphatically not normal. The floor tilted. So did the ceiling, which varied from a comfortable ten feet here to maybe six feet at its other end, where three stairs took it around a corner. Which was
not
a right angle. She took a deep breath, but that didn't help. The air felt oozy, as if the walls were breathing out oily vapors. Cynna gritted her teeth against the sensation.

They had this section of the Chancellery to themselves—eight little suites like Cynna's with a common room at one end of the hall and the bathroom—sans actual bathtubs—at the other. Presumably Steve and Ms. Wright would be moving into two of the suites eventually.

Ruben's door was a few feet down the hall from hers.

She knocked softly—a hard knock would open the door—and spoke her name. He told her to come in.

Ruben's room was laid out like hers, but the walls were purple and the floor was a mosaic of orange and yellow. His table was pale blue and held a bowl of fruit and nuts. His air felt oozy, too.

He was sitting on the wall-bench, propped up by pillows and with his splinted leg stretched out. The wooden wheelchair was an arm's length away. The scruffy look didn't suit Ruben the way it did Cullen, but beneath his whiskers his color looked good. If he was in pain, it didn't show. "You should see this dress they wanted me to wear. Ugliest thing I've ever seen."

"You refused it?"

That wasn't criticism. Ruben had had one of his feelings as they were disembarking from the barge. He wanted them to refuse to wear what they were offered at first. "It wasn't hard. That is one ugly dress." She moved restlessly around the room. "I wish we had windows, don't you?"

"My office in Mr. Hoover's namesake lacks windows. So does yours, as I recall. I'd ask you to sit," he added dryly, "but you might explode if you tried to be still, and then we'd have bits of burst Cynna all over. It wouldn't improve the color scheme… if we can call the random assault of color a scheme."

She managed a grin. "I wouldn't. Gan might."

"Are you all right, Cynna? The meeting wasn't too difficult?"

He'd surprised her, though maybe she should have expected this. Most of the time she was Agent Weaver. Now and then she was Cynna, and then it was okay to tell him things, if she wanted to. Personal things.

She did. "He didn't know about my mother."

"That she was dead, you mean?"

She nodded, though that was only part of what her father hadn't known. Why did it matter so much? Did she think he wouldn't have gotten himself lost if he'd
known
he was leaving her with a woman who'd die young?

"You told him. That was hard."

"It was like I'd hit him somewhere inside… he didn't stay after that. He said he'd be fine, he'd be all right, only he needed a little time to adjust to the news, but he meant he needed to be alone so he could cry. I took something away from him. Something important."

"Not you. You are not responsible for his pain."

Cynna knew that, but guilt was a familiar pit, one she'd long ago dug deep. One she'd learned to climb back out of. "I guess my mother took it from him. Or God, Or the disease that killed her."

"Did you tell him how she died?"

"He didn't ask. I guess he will, though." She took two quick steps, though there was nowhere to go. "I guess I'll have to tell him."

"Lies can be useful in our profession," Ruben said calmly, "but I think you don't want to use your father. Did you tell him about the baby?"

Cynna's mouth opened. Nothing came out. She felt her cheeks heating and decided she would sit down, after all. One of the hard chairs was right behind her, so she used it. "I guess you heard."

"Tash mentioned it. She assumed I already knew."

No privacy, no privacy at all on that damned barge
. "I only just found out myself, and I haven't told anyone. Except Cullen, that is, and he already knew. Everyone here seems to just know somehow. I thought… I should have told you."

"I'm sure you would have. Events have forced us along at a rapid pace. I take it Mr. Seabourne is the father?"

Cynna nodded, miserable. She felt like such an idiot. She wanted to tell him she'd been on the pill, that it hadn't happened because she was careless. She couldn't make herself speak.

Ruben waited another beat, giving her a chance to continue, than said crisply, "Tell me about the ugly dress."

He didn't call her Agent Weaver, but she heard the switch clearly—and with great relief, though she'd probably obsess over his reaction later. "They've got all these ideas about how color signifies caste and profession. Adrienne was explaining… ah, she's my maid. A human." She glanced around, then looked a question at him. He answered with a slight shake of his head, so she went on, "This room doesn't work so well for you, does it? Everything's too low. Makes it hard to transfer."

"My man is seeing about obtaining different furnishings as well as more appropriate clothing. I was offered a pale blue gown with an orange and green robe."

She grinned. He'd said "my man" like he'd had a personal manservant all his life. "I'd like to see that."

"You won't."

The door swung open. "It's boring here. Where's Cullen Seabourne? I want to go swimming."

Gan's fashion sense fit right in. She wore an electric blue robe over a snug little sheath striped in yellow and green and purple. No shoes, but she had added socks to the ensemble. "We can't swim now," Cynna said. "We have to meet with the council soon."

"
You
have to meet the stupid council. I don't."

"I do." Cullen sauntered through the doorway. He was looking very mild and peaceable, except for his eyes. Blue could burn. "I suspect you'd be bored, though, so you're right. No reason for you to go to the meeting. You trust us to make the right decisions, don't you? Or maybe it's the council you trust."

Gan glared at him. "I'm not stupid."

"Then don't say stupid things. Your life may not depend on recovering the medallion, but your testing does."

Emotions did a quick-march all over Gan's ugly, expressive little face. She wanted to argue so badly. She settled for kicking one of the pillows. "I'll go to the stupid meeting, but I don't have to be
here
." She stomped out the door, leaving it open.

Cynna grinned. "Guess she told you."

"I'm abashed. You'll get your pants."

"Good. What has you so pissed off?"

"Me?" His eyebrows lifted. "Why do you say that?"

"Pissed may not be the right word. Temper's a quick thing for you—it comes, it goes. This is different. Something got to you."

"Your maid," he said in that light, pleasant voice, "offered me sex."

McClosky had come up behind him. "That upsets you?" He was dry, amused. "I would have thought—"

Cullen spun to face him. "That I enjoy coerced sex? Because that's what it would have been. She didn't want me. She's afraid of me. Afraid, period, I believe, but specifically afraid of me. Did your servant offer you sex?"

A hint of color flushed McClosky's cheeks. A veil of anger darkened his eyes. "He may have hinted, but I didn't get angry with him for it. This is a different culture. We can't judge."

"Cullen isn't angry at the servant," Ruben said.

Cullen turned. "What about you, Cynna? Brooks? Any offers?"

Cynna frowned. She'd been pretty upset when Adrienne gave her little "I am your servant" speech. Had Adrienne's offer to provide service in the baths meant… uh, yeah. It had. "I didn't pick up on it. She wasn't obvious."

"Interesting," Ruben said. "Did your own servant make a similar offer, Mr. Seabourne?"

"He did. He wasn't afraid of me, so I didn't think anything of it."

Of course not. Cullen got offers like that all the time.

"My servant did, also," Ruben said, "albeit somewhat ambiguously, so I asked him to clarify. He confirmed that sexual services were among his duties. I didn't detect any upset or embarrassment on his part, but I lack Mr. Seabourne's sense of smell."

Cullen stood very still for a moment. "I overreact, you think."

"Anger on behalf of the helpless or the abused is always appropriate."

Cullen held Ruben's gaze a moment longer, then nodded. "But not always helpful. Yes. This gives us one more point to bring up when we meet with the council, however. You will allow me to deal with it."