Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!
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Chapter Seven: Dance With A Shadow
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His feet moved him along a restless path after he left the Keep as he pondered where to go. Ives needed to wander a while, delving into memories of his past as he began to awaken his inner Bard. There had been a hundred times where he would have preferred a party to the thought of stability and a warm bed - lust instead of love, and the rush of romance instead of the steadiness of devotion. It was strange how foreign the notion felt now, adoring Artana as he did, to attend such a party. Maybe that was why he'd decided to try and find one, to see if he could enjoy it without the intent of stealing away a night with a pretty little book of which he'd never get to know more than the cover.
The Garden district always had a party, the sound of music and the aroma of wine seeming to hover over it on a crisp fall night such as this. After a long, meandering walk over canals and through the warm, flickering glow of street lamps, Ives paused a moment, trying to decide which party should be graced with his presence. On a whim, he picked a passerby - a tall man with blond hair and a cockade of bright feathers on his hat - and followed him until he led them both to an open gate with lights and flowers and laughter.
Ives began to mingle, taking in the sights and sounds as he moved through the crowd. He quickly found a number of former acquaintances and was pulled into several conversations - and had to demur as many polite refusals to the offers for more - before ending up under a tree of lavender-colored flowers where some people had gathered around a game of dice that had, apparently, reached high stakes. Not in money, no, but in other things: truths, lies, dares, and taunts. A common enough pastime for Orlesian nobles who had outgrown their teens but had not yet acquired the responsibility of their own houses or Court titles yet. He recognized many of them - had, in fact, read the covers of their pretty little books, as it were - and appreciated an opportunity to gather information that would be useful to the Durantes later, whether old Bernard agreed or not.
One he did not know had just relinquished the dice to a rather pretty lady with hair tinted pink in the new style of the youngest members of Celene's Court of Ladies. The man, tall and lean with hair dark as Ives' own, laughed at the comment the woman said as she took his place, and ran a practiced finger down what was exposed of her back before stepping away, a motion which placed him close to Ives. With a chuckle, the man observed, "Ah, I did not expect to see you in a place such as this, ser." He signaled a passing waiter. "You have not been in such a gathering for many years, I understand."
The blood chilled in Ives' veins as that familiar lilt reached his ears, but it wouldn't do to let the man win such an admittedly minor round of the Game between them. "I don't know if I'd say many years," Ives returned, eyes remaining one place whilst ears focused on another, taking in as many angles as he possibly could without jumbling the information he gleaned from any of them. Only once he'd finished reading the lip motions of a whispering noble (when would they learn that when they whisper, they more clearly enunciate the words, and thus more carefully move their lips?) did he give his company a proper glance, half-hoping his ears had mistaken the identification. "And yet I'm afraid that even in those indulgences I've had here and again, I've never been properly introduced to you before. Strange, I never forget a face."
"Oh, we've met in passing," the man said as he took a glass of wine from the tray presented to him. The light behind him outlined the contour of his face, throwing the details of his features into shadow, but the profile and single visible eye of midnight blue were more than enough to confirm the identity. Martin. "It is true that we are not well-acquainted. You mostly worked with the Empress when officially part of the Court, no? I had other patrons." He winked that deep blue eye at a woman who happened to be passing by, eliciting a blown kiss and giggle from her. "Different circles." He looked away from Ives, towards the building that housed the guests of the party who had separated into couples and sought both a private place and something softer than the ground. "Though if rumor is true, we share something else in common besides music." He sipped his wine and leaned back, deeper into the shadows, which obscured his face even further.
Everything about this man was dangerous, and Martin obviously knew more than what he simply put to words. The profile, the mannerisms... A memory of the tingling that had been induced in his arm with a mere touch drove Ives to caution as he engaged the man in the Game. "Oh? Hmm… A penchant for fragrances? Appreciation of art? A fondness for a full moon hanging romantically in the sky? Perhaps it can be a part of this formal introduction we've yet to have."
"We both have a particular woman on our minds tonight, I think." The woman to whom he'd given the dice suddenly laughed and clapped her hands as she won a toss. The man smiled. "And neither of us can be with her. It is difficult to share such beauty, no?" The words were spoken quietly, on the cusp of hearing, and still Martin would not face Ives directly. "Even more difficult to protect them, at times. Strong, beautiful, and stubborn. It is a challenge to aid them when they think they can best protect themselves."
Ives' lip twitched ever so slightly, his smile a little difficult to maintain in the face of such an inappropriate and uncomfortable mention of Artana. Recovery was swift nonetheless, and he chuckled softly. "Ah, well, I think these days she is the one who protects me. I never was so intimidating, you know. Ah, lala, you wouldn't know it! I forgot, you see? We're such fast friends it slips my mind we haven't met."
"Your woman, she protects many, it is true. You, ser, seem to have followed a different path than protection." Martin took a sip from the glass again, and the woman who he'd given the dice to came up and demanded his attention, whispering into his ear and then looking at him with an expectant smile. He chuckled and handed her his wine. "I will be with you shortly, Baronne." He nodded towards a more secluded area of the yard where a seat for two sat drenched in moonlight, yet another example of how often the Game of Politics and the Game of Amour intertwined. "Wait for me there, ma chére."
She took his earlobe between her teeth before relinquishing him, then took a sip of his wine and flounced away, arranging herself on the love seat without taking her eyes off of him.
"Forgive the interruption, ser, but our conversation is almost done. It is, after all, mere chance that we encountered each other here." The peculiar emphasis on the word here was plain only to one trained as a bard. "However, I feel compelled to give you the same advice that I gave you upon our last meeting: protect her. And I do not speak of your amber-eyed beauty." For the first time he looked directly at Ives, and the lantern light caught on two mismatched eyes, one of midnight blue and the other of forest green. "Though to protect the one is to protect the other, I assure you. Should my angel fall, you and yours will soon follow. All of yours, to compensate for the loss of all of mine." He grinned and pushed forward. "Well, the message I had for the Baronne's husband is delivered, so my business here is done. Pray to your Maker that we do not meet again, ser. Perhaps he will even answer such a prayer, no?"
With those words, he turned from Ives and walked away - and also away from the baroness, heading towards the house itself. Ives couldn't help it - he glanced towards the flower-draped, wrought-backed banc d'amour and the similarly decorated woman with the pink hair, and felt a chill in his blood.
Though in much the same position she'd been in when she'd first sat down, her head had tilted back, leaving her eyes to stare up at the moon. He didn't need to get closer to recognize the glazed look in her eyes or confirm that her chest no longer rose and fell. The glass had dropped to the ground from her lifeless fingers, the last bit of wine soaking into the soil beneath the grass.
When Ives quickly turned his head to seek her killer, he found nothing - as if the man had vanished into the shadows.
.~^~.
"Ah, home, sweet home," Ives said, suppressing a wince. The sun did dance a little too brightly in his eyes considering how ungodly an hour this was after going out to play so late last night, but that wasn't the main contributing factor to the dull ache pulsing in his head. Such a beautiful home, he thought, a sad note belying the shattered sense of nostalgia. Yet it is no longer mine.
It was the only proper home in the Arts district, which in itself was the only district in Val Royeaux with wealth enough to rival the Garden district near the Palace. The entire property was fenced and gated, the sprawling estate's grand wall and green grounds almost out of place in an otherwise condensed living area of tightly packed buildings with apartments above their respective shops and cafés. This home clearly predated the rest, and neither the beautifully polished white limestone estate nor its smaller auxiliary home of brown brick at the back showed signs of giving in to the city around them. It may well have been called a Palace if it were just a few stories taller, and there were few homes in the city that could rival its size. Court nobility who could hold their tongue enough to gild their jealousy regarded it as one of the most beautiful homes in all the city.
The Estate and the Durantes themselves represented a moment captured in time; an Orlais that not only defined chivalric ideals but also abided by them. Just as the estate nestled in the middle of the district that resonated with all in Val Royeaux, so too the Durantes were held in quiet esteem by the people of the city.
As long as they never have to meet old Bernard, at least... Sadly, Ives knew that was a thought best shared only between brothers, given the nature of their father.
"I'm glad to be here, personally. Thank you for coming with us, Isabeau," Jean said as they passed through the great iron gates that opened onto the gravel path. They paused to take in the smooth lines and graceful curves of the buildings where the twins had been raised. Them, and many, many before them - a history that stretched all the way to the man who had built these magnificent structures, the first man to bear the name Durante. "Would you like to meet my children?"
"I may have already promised her such an introduction, but I'm not so sure it's a good idea, Jean. We've a shadow today, I can feel it," Ives cautioned, even as he shared a glance with Isabeau confirming it to be a mutual sensation.
"I'm not leaving without seeing them." Jean insisted. "Let our shadow come, I would love to greet him." Ives' eyes shifted swiftly to see if his brother had made a gesture to fit those words. It was a sad day indeed when such a kindhearted man instinctively rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. "I have quite the reception planned."
As his eyes jumped back to Isabeau, he saw the end of a wince across her face. She'd removed it quickly enough, but he bet that she felt the same: how must Martin have hurt the gentle man to goad such a reaction out of him? They both knew that Jean was capable of killing, naturally - after all, he was a warrior. Yet... it was generally uncharacteristic of him to act in such a way, enough that an empathetic creature such as Isabeau would most certainly know it took a special kind of barb for such a backlash. "It would be better for everyone, I think, if the shadow remained just that," she said quietly.
When they entered the estates they were greeted by smiling servants and forced to put on cheerful faces which did not reflect the sober mood within. The walls were decorated with rather chaste art that Ives had clearly not chosen himself, the frescoes on the ceiling likewise of a largely religious theme. There was gilding at almost every opportunity given the family's trade in the silver and gold mines of Orlais, yet it never passed into excess. Artisans had crafted this house with love and devotion, which was no surprise - the Durantes were notorious for paying well for true beauty, and for finding it in men and women who would work for barter.
Ives paused to admire a table whose base was an ornately carved tree trunk. As Jean inquired as to the whereabouts of the children, the bard smiled and recalled the beautiful story of the elven carpenter man who had worked for the Durantes while Ives himself was a child. That table, two of the benches outside, and repairs to the grand mantelpiece were all the cost of two true, pure golden rings of finer design than the elf could have managed under any other employer in Val Royeaux - even, perhaps, in all of Orlais. From what Ives understood, the elf and his wife had kept them hidden for fear they'd be stolen. The wife had stayed on for three years at the house as a servant before they took their savings and moved away.
Hopefully to a place where they might be able to proudly wear those fine symbols for the rest of their days without fear of bandits... or nobles.
"I was not informed of a visit from you today, boy," a smooth voice said from the stairs at the far end of the room.
I'd say speak of the demon, Ives thought, the smile from the warm memories twitching only slightly before he set it back in place, but it would be an insult to demons everywhere. "Ah, Bernard, lala, we've an invitation from the young Mademoiselle Jennine. A standing invitation." Oh, how his experiences over the years had taught him the ways to inflame the man he had once called Father. Any mannerism not strictly upstanding and noble, including flippant phrases like Ives' trademark lala, always inspired a twitch on Bernard's face. Fanning his ire by blatantly ignoring the man's highly esteemed title of Marquis was disrespectful enough without also reminding him that any 'subordinate' - in this case, his granddaughter Jennine - had any ability to circumvent his authority.
Ives was certain he would have been disowned years before he was formally struck from the papers of inheritance had it not been for his brilliance as a Court Bard. The twins' choice to join the Grey Wardens over Bernard's objections had been the final straw to estrange them. Still, Bernard knew he would become a villain in the eyes of the children, who adored their father, if he put his foot down and countermanded that standing invitation, and so it stood intact. Clearly he didn't need to be loved by his 'subordinates,' but he did need them to respect his authority, or he'd wind up bequeathing the title to a distant cousin - and lose the estates and title to a lesser branch of the Durantes.
And Ives knewBernard would never stand for that.
Predictably, Bernard began to puff up in indignation, though any objections he might have had halted when Isabeau cleared her throat delicately. In an instant he transformed from unpleasant curmudgeon to a man who understood the value of good manners. "Ah, forgive my rudeness, Madame, for I did not see you there." He strode into the room fully, ignoring Ives on his way to Isabeau to bow in a proper, if not overly enthusiastic, fashion. "Marquis Bernard Durante, at your service, Madame. If I could have the pleasure of your name?"
Isabeau inclined her head and presented her hand to Bernard in a gesture which would not have been out of place in Court. Her carriage cultivated the impression of a particular type of Orlesian nobility, complete with the carefully disinterested look Players of a certain skill in the Game cultivated to indicate a willingness to be engaged. "Comtess Isabeau de Brienne, Marquis Durante. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."
Comtess... Well, that answered a lot. He'd had his suspicions, and had gathered as much information as he'd been able to in his relatively short time with Isabeau, but he was impressed: to be a Comtess, and regarded as such, was notable enough, but to be a Warden as well? That in itself was enough to tell him she was better at the Game than she let on. Traditionally, Wardens were not supposed to have any political ties or influences whatsoever - among other reasons, the Order's neutrality was crucial to the tolerance of known blood mages and criminals within their ranks. Such unsavory individuals were half of the reason they even had recruits in times of peace. It might not have been glamorous, but an empty Keep wouldn't hold a darkspawn swarm at bay.
As the Game dictated, Bernard took Isabeau's hand and fluttered a kiss in the air above it before letting it go. "The day is brightened by your presence." Though they were words Ives might have uttered with a salacious grin, Bernard's delivery was pure rote and dictated by the Game, though a light of curiosity did come to his eyes as he straightened from his bow and released her hand.
"I am here to make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Jennine, Marquis Durante. I apologize for the lack of notice, but once I heard of the charming young lady and her brother, I wished to meet them myself." She issued a charming smile at Bernard. "I understand that the interruption of your day is quite unforgivable. Would you accept a gift from my estates to make up for the inconvenience? A bottle of Montfort Red liqueur, perhaps?"
"There is no imposition," Jean dismissed, taking a step forward. He was no friend of Bernard's, and certainly did not consider himself a son of the man. Ives knew what he was thinking: Why waste such a fine gift on such a wretch of a man? The superiority of Montfort Red was legend enough without their personal knowledge of the liqueur, and it graced only the finest of wine cellars across Orlais – including, apparently, that of Comtess Isabeau. After all, in their youth they had vacationed every winter at the Montfort estate associated with the lineage of the very first Marquis, Henri Durante. Granted, the fetching blond fellow whose portrait hung above the grand mantel had not been so grand himself in his early years, not enough to even have a surname. A man of legend, Henri de Montfort's legacy was not well reflected by the man who currently held the title, a fact which had grated the twins since their mother had been ousted from the main estate in favor of Bernard's mistress. Though they'd mourned their mother, neither had mourned the passing of her usurper.
Ignoring the son of his body entirely, Bernard smiled at Isabeau. "That is overly generous, Mademoiselle. I need no apology from such a fine lady as yourself. However, I worry at the timing of your visit. At this moment, the children are with their Dancing Master to learn this season's menuet." He hesitated, though he pointedly did not look at Jean or Ives. "As you are here already, I will not turn you away, but please forgive our inability to greet you as your station merits. Perhaps once you are finished with meeting Jennine, you could join me for a drink?"
Before either brother could react to such an offer, Isabeau smiled and demurred politely with a shake of her head. "Alas, my duties do take much of my time. I appreciate the invitation, however, and insist upon sending along the liqueur. I would wish no ill will between us or our Houses."
Bernard's smile broadened before retreating behind a polite mask once more, a look of smug satisfaction with which Ives was all too familiar. "If you insist, I will not stand in your way." His bow was a trifle deeper than tradition dictated this time around, and Isabeau's curtsey was studiously correct in response. "I must attend to my own duties, then. I bid you good day, Comtess." As they both rose, he inclined his head to her one final time and swept from the room - again ignoring the two men who shared his blue eyes and the stamp of the Durante features, but little else.
"Ah, lala, but I hope his heart decides it's had its fill of his ... hem, fine, upstanding generosity," Ives said with the most restraint one could fit into a single sentence. "Soon, with any luck."
"Ives," Jean scolded, an admonition which forced Ives to admit that his twin possessed a kinder heart than he could claim, almost to a fault. His brother seemed incapable of true hatred, even when two men in his life were trying their hardest to provoke such a reaction from the gentle man.
"You're right. We should go to the ballroom and see who this esteemed instructor is that is so well trusted to teach our precious almost-adults something as extraordinarily important as a rendition of the menuet. I'm sure you dance it yourself, hmm, Your Ladyship?" With a twinkle in his eyes, Ives held his hand to her and took the first step towards the ballroom.
"Better than you do, lout," she answered with aplomb, though she took his hand with grace. "From what I have seen, I would expect your brother to be the better partner in a dance, personally. You seem a bit too concerned with your own skills to enhance those of another." Her mouth twitched, however, and she looked back at Jean with a smile. "You said Jennine was close to her first Court presentation. The granddaughter of a Marquis needs to be absolutely flawless in her first Court dance. Hopefully she takes after you in regards to attention to detail."
"I would hope more so," Jean said, a dose of red in his cheeks that simply begged for explanation.
Well, at the least, it begged for teasing. "He wasn't quite so successful in his ballroom debut. Thankfully, he more than made up for it in his sportsman's duel. I trust Jennine will be more than capable of far outperforming him in both. Of course, I'm more concerned with my own skills..." There was a smirk on his face that could be heard in his words, and the sound of soft music from an enchanted, windless music box had finally started tickling at their ears. They had trained to its tune for years, and with good reason - it was an antique from an era where enchanted objects were a truly exorbitant rarity.
Isabeau released Ives' hand and spun into a graceful turn that made her dress flare beautifully, ending the turn next to Jean so she could put her hand lightly on his arm. "I was tutored in the art of dancing before ever I touched a weapon, so I have an unfair advantage. I assure you, there is no shame in receiving tutelage from a Dancing Master before the first presentation to the Court, particularly for one with Jennine's social status. The first impression with the Empress is, so I have heard, the most important. Please don't let that lout tease her about being instructed in such a situation. I'm not sure I trust his ability to refrain." The sound of the music grew steadily louder as they moved down the hallway. "I'm sure Jennine will be a credit to you and her mother."
Whether or not she intended to say more, her words were circumvented as the music came to an end and a voice echoed in the hallway, a voice whose lilt and timbre was instantly identifiable and made all of them stiffen in recognition.
"Ah, your steps are light as a feather, Mademoiselle Jennine, but your plié requires a bit more depth for when you are presented to the Empress and the Court. Observe."
Ives was not alone as he quickened his steps to the entrance of the ballroom. The doors had been left open to allow the air wafting in from the gardens through the open patio doors opposite to cool the occupants of the room as they danced, which allowed them to enter the room without worrying about a pause to open the door.
They still came to halt at the entrance, Ives reaching back to stop Jean out of instinct so as not to alarm the children overly much. Bernard, in particular, was quite sensitive to anxiety in his father and older siblings. His entry into the world had been abrupt and early, a circumstance which seemed to have lingering effects on his development. He had grown up more cautious and with less exuberance than his brother and sister. He was the first one they saw, twirling in place with his hands held out and eyes closed, grinning happily even though the music had died.
Their eyes were next drawn to where Jennine had lowered herself into a deep curtsey across from the equally deep bow of her brother Jules, while around them circled a man who moved with a sinuous grace that could have been acquired through long years of dancing - or from other, more sinister habits. As the three in the doorway watched, Martin drew to a halt and clapped his hands together. "Excellent. That was a far superior effort. You've made excellent progress during our lessons."
Ives squeezed Jean's arm again to hold him still, stepping forward to take the front position of the three. Isabeau had time and time again evidenced needing protection from this murderous monster, and Jean ... Well, Ives needed to protect his brother, too - if not for the children, he would probably already have tried to attack and, most likely, wound up being in over his head.
Bernard had stopped spinning by this point and came to a halt, weaving slightly in place as the room apparently didn't stop with him. He pointed at the music box and said, "Again!"
Martin laughed and swept him off his feet before any of the other adults could react. "But of course! Only the best for the Durante children, no?"
"But I want this dance!" Ives protested colourfully, stepping forward into the ballroom. "Bernard, my handsome fellow, you've grown! And who is your friend, hm?" It was up to him to command the tone in the room, to keep the children and Isabeau from panicking and Jean from attacking. No doubt Jennine and Jules had already seen Jean's tension when they first turned at the cue of Ives' voice. Hopefully he'd replaced the taut jaw and clenched fist, but with the impressionable, slightly... touched Bernard in the arms of a murderous rogue such as Martin, he had to focus on righting that wrong first.
"Mai- Mait- Martin!" Bernard said brightly, and Martin chuckled.
Settling the boy against his torso, Martin walked to the music box - and away from Ives. "Am I to presume, young master, that one of these men is your noble father?" He leaned down so that Bernard could reach the music box, and the boy lowered and raised the lid so that he could restart the song.
"Papa! Uncle Ives!" Jennine began to rush to Jean, but the pointed sound of a cleared throat from behind slowed her steps.
"Grace and dignity, Mademoiselle, in all things," Martin said with a trace of admonition in his voice as the strain of music began to fill the room again. The lighting in the room shifted with the movement of the curtains around the doors leading outside, and for a moment, only his blue eye was visible. "Recall what I said about your deportment in the Court."
Taking a breath, Jennine nodded and then settled into a graceful plié, much like the one she had been in when they entered the room. "Noble Father," she said in an even tone. "I am most pleased to see you."
Ives persisted towards Bernard, wanting the boy as far away from Martin as possible. At least Jean had the benefit of a natural smile when his children were approaching him with excitement and in good health.
"In the Empress' Court, in the position you hope for, I think you will find that a ... a lack of personality and excitement within reason will not excite the Empress, either." Jean was all too happy to uproot the man's teachings in a fell swoop, Ives could tell in the reduced tension of his posture as he gladly leaned the slight bit to give his blossoming young woman a hug. "You want to be a member of her personal guard... nothing less."
Ives looked away so that he wouldn't smirk or snicker when he saw Jean turn a hidden glare on Martin. It was admirable how he was containing himself, but there was still a priority to address. "Give us a hug, and then let us have that dance."
Martin whirled in place with perfect balance and presented the giggling boy to Ives. "Ah, but of course you may dance with the young lord. I am but the Dancing Master, not his clearly beloved uncle, after all."
As Ives reached out to take Bernard from the man, he locked gazes with Martin. It was a shock to meet those eyes squarely for the first time with no shadows between them. In that instant, Ives realized Martin had discarded a veil constantly held in place, and he saw a man so focused, so obsessed, that he would only allow interference when it suited him. Something slumbered deep within, and if it were roused...
Luckily for little Bernard, the beast remained asleep for the nonce. Ives quickly pulled the small boy into his arms, fighting the intense chill that ran down his spine as he averted his gaze from the mismatched eyes with an effort. His smile again in place, he returned to the others, moving with the beat of the music. "There we are!" He began to dance to the music with the little boy, partially to keep the boy happy, but mostly to get away from Martin. "Ah, lala, such a pity we must cut this lesson short, but we were already running late! This discussion can at least wait until a nice civilized meal, no? Jules, Jennine, why don't you go check with Housekeeper Nana about lunch? It should be ready now, and they're just awaiting the word to set the table."
"I'll go!" Jennine said. "It will be fun to have lunch with you, Papa." Before pulling away from him, she leaned forward and the tiniest bit upwards and kissed her father's cheek, the height she had inherited from her father more very much in evidence even though she had not yet reached her fourteenth birthday. As she sailed gracefully from the room, she offered a charming smile and tip of her head to Isabeau.
"Can Maitre Martin join us, Papa?" Jules ventured, still trying to figure out why his father was so withdrawn.
"Oh, Monsieur Jules, I am most flattered for the invitation, but that would hardly be proper." It was an odd twist of Jean's earlier comment, a little sting with little power, but his next act carried more than a little weight as he quickly moved across the floor and seized Isabeau's hand, bowing to her in the proper fashion. "Still, it is my duty to instruct the proper behavior. A pity the Mademoiselle has departed, but surely Monsieur Jules would appreciate a final demonstration before we end the lesson entirely?"
Jules appeared confused as he looked back and forth between the 'Dancing Master' and his father, and Martin took advantage of the lack of refusal to rise and sweep Isabeau into a position that was just this side of proper. The stance, however, did not match that of the rather tame menuet which Martin had likely been instructing them, but rather the dance reserved only for adults. "Then observe, Monsieur Jules, the dance which is the pinnacle of all Court dances: the waltz."
They began to move to the music, both partners reflecting an ease and grace with the motions which spoke of the mastery of years of training. Their shoes softly scuffed the wooden floor in time with the faint strains of the music were the only sounds in the room beyond the box, and their eyes never strayed from the other's, save when the dance dictated Martin twirl Isabeau in a graceful arc.
Jules watched, fascinated, and Ives knew why. Etiquette dictated that 'Maitre Martin' would have been restrained from teaching the far more intimate waltz to Jules or his sister until they were older. It was a dance restricted to those who were of marriageable age, and even by the standards of the Orlesian Court, none of Jean's children were quite old enough. The two boys saw only what Martin intended them to see: a masterful example of one of the most beautiful dances in Orlais, a dance perfectly within Maitre Martin's duties to perform despite his rather presumptuous choice of a partner.
Ives, of course, saw far more than that. He had noticed Isabeau's balled up fist when Martin approached her, and the darting glance she'd sent the children as she'd allowed her hand to be taken. A master of the waltz himself, he recognized the stiffness in her shoulders and the way her neck was locked with tension. Though her feet moved easily through the dance, her face was carefully blank, a mask as thorough as those worn to many of the Balls at the Court. To any but a Bard, Isabeau appeared to be enjoying the interlude, but those cues alerted him to her profound unhappiness. More subtle still, however, was the odd acquiescence he saw in Isabeau as she looked up into Martin's eyes. She wasn't happy, but Ives also suspected that, given the chance, she would not struggle against her captor. And that, he did not understand.
It would have been impossible for him to transfer Bernard to Jules more quickly, but it still didn't feel like it had been quickly enough. "Hup, here we are! Jules, my handsome, manly nephew, can you tout this very grown little brother of yours downstairs for lunch? I'm sure you'll see many a waltz in your day. No need to dally on this little show for attention." He winked, patting Jules' shoulder to usher him along. It didn't aid the boy's confusion, but Ives knew Jules was clever enough that he shouldn't be - and wasn't - surprised at the occasional odd behaviour from his Bardic Uncle Ives.
WIth only a nod to acknowledge his uncle's request, Jules turned and moved to the exit, but their escape was hindered when Bernard suddenly burst out, "Papa! Hug!" and began to squirm energetically against his brother's grip. "Let me down! Papa!"
Ives watched Jean tear his eyes away from Martin and hurry to his sons, forcing a smile on his face for the sake of Bernard. He was holding his arms out to his youngest, no doubt aware that if he ignored the request, he'd do far more damage than even his usual absence could ever cause. Embracing Bernard in firm hug, he began to talk animatedly even while still moving towards the door in a quickstep. "You are as fine a dancer as I have seen," he told his youngest, encouraging the boy's giggling with a bit of judicious tickling.
Ives figured there was no doubt that he would need to explain Jean's tense, controlled posture and distracted appeasement of Bernard to the observant young Jules, but at the moment, there were more important matters at hand. He began to move towards the dancing couple, trying to look relaxed for Bernard's sake still even as he closed the distance between himself and his quarry.
Even as Jean ensured that the supposed students left the room with decorous speed, Martin continued to waltz with Isabeau as if he had not a care in the world, each arc and sweep taking them closer to the door facing the gardens. Just before the door shut behind Jules the couple vanished through the curtains fluttering in the wind – and Ives broke into a run after them.
He emerged onto the raised patio which overlooked the gardens and found Martin indulging in a rather thorough kiss with an Isabeau whose struggles appeared weaker than Ives would have expected. Even as Ives watched, the man slipped something into the bodice of her dress, then let his hand linger to explore it for the bare instant left to him before Ives interrupted. The intrusion on Isabeau was insulting, and though the bard was sure she'd had her fill of strange men touching her, with Martin so close there wasn't any other way to break in between them save to wedge between the two, his back brushing along Isabeau while his front suffered the same with Martin. No matter the slither up his spine, he kept his posture smooth.
"Ah, ah, ah, this is a chaste ballroom. We have a room upstairs for debauchery, I can promise you that. It's by invitation only, though, my friend." His hand slipped to his side, closing around the hilt of his dagger. "I suggest you abide by house rules and wait for that invitation to come before making any daring assumptions, hm?"
Isabeau's presence fell away, but Martin did not back down, despite the fact that only inches separated them, and thus Ives kept his attention focused ahead. Those odd mismatched eyes met his and narrowed, the beast in their depths which had before been quiescent while relinquishing Bernard now fully awake and enraged after being separated from his chosen prey. Martin reached out and wrapped his hand around Ives' own, shoving the half-drawn dagger back into the sheath with a surprisingly forceful grip. "And I suggest you do not involve yourself in something which does not concern you."
The bard found himself shoved violently aside just as Jean emerged from the ballroom, face red with anger, and charged Martin, not even bothering to draw his sword as he swung at the man, letting his fury and momentum carry him forward. Oblivious to anyone but his target, Jean roared, "Foul, cowardly heathen, stand here and pay reparation!" When he reached Martin, he punched with all his might, aiming for the man's face.
With a merry laugh - as if a moment earlier he had not been in a rage to equal the warrior's own - Martin halted the larger man's blow with his hand, diverting it with surprising strength. "Ah, my dear friend Jean. You have such charming children, no?" Abuptly he lashed out and hooked Jean's right knee with his ankle, causing him to stagger. As Ives finally regained his balance and took a step towards the struggle, Martin changed tactics and disengaged from the enraged Jean with a swift backstep. Leaping without looking onto the railing of the raised patio, he balanced perfectly for a moment, looking at the still-stunned Isabeau. "Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow, my angel."
And then he fell back, dropping straight down from the height to land on the ground almost soundlessly. Jean righted himself and ran to the railing an instant too late, infuriated to see his chance slip away. "I will find you! I swear it!" His voice was practically a roar as he leaned over the balcony, a warrior's resonance very much different than a bard's.
"I look forward to it, my friend!" Martin gave a final mock salute to the heavily panting man above him and then slipped away, ducking into the underbrush that dotted the estates and quickly disappearing from sight.
Ives reached his brother's side, hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his now useless dagger, and shifted restlessly on his feet as he debated pursuit before discarding the idea. A sideways glance showed Jean in the midst of a glorious umbrage the likes of which he had not seen in years, and he hesitated to engage his twin while the warrior was still in its grasp. After all, a glance to his reddened fist on the stone railing seemed to indicate that punch he'd been cheated from throwing was still itching beneath the surface.
With a frustrated shake of his head, he turned to Isabeau. When he reached her side he put an arm around her shoulders. "Are you all right, ma chérie?"
Maker knew he wasn't - seeing Martin around the children had shaken him, particularly since the invasion into their lives had been accomplished with such ease. The encounter itself had also left an impression on Ives. The more he thought on it, the more he realized that he had drawn a line in the conflict, giving Martin a point to press against until he found the amount required to break it. By coming between Martin and his prey, by offering the threat of his own weapon while doing so, the Game had been shifted beyond its original parameters, even if Ives had not actually engaged the man in combat. Would Ives have used his dagger only for intimidation, or would he have gone through with the kill if given the opportunity, despite his own personal preference to leave his opponents alive? Would he-
Abruptly hands pushed him away, and he glanced at Isabeau, startled by her sudden rejection of him. Her eyes were wide and staring, and he realized that she still wasn't seeing Ives Durante standing next to her. Putting a gentle smile on his face, he spread his arms slowly. "Chérie, I don't bite quite that hard. At least not in the wrong places... Ah, lala. It is only me, the same silly lout I have been since the day we met."
A shudder wracked her body, but the words, the manner, the tone: they accomplished the task. Her breathing slowed as her eyes focused on him, and he broadened his smile when the spark of true recognition returned. "Ives! I- I'm sorry." She bit her lip, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears as she looked at Jean, the guilt plain on her face.
It was an unfortunate moment to shift her focus. "Can you not restrain yourself for even a moment?" Jean scolded, and Ives knew full well he was catching a projection of the warrior's feeling of helplessness. He couldn't blame the man, either.
"True, true. I apologize, Isabeau. I'll refrain from such brazen inappropriateness... there are children about, and that does require a more restrained personality. But I wonder if I should stay..." There were reasons far more than he would give, but it was best that he slip away while Isabeau was still unaware he'd drawn the little box from her bodice, or before she might realize he was starting to hatch a plan. "The children are never on their best behavior with me around. Perhaps with the knowledge you have forgiven me, I could be on my way to tend to a few errands?"
That seemed to help her regain a bit of strength, and she smiled at him. Stepping closer so she could speak in a lower tone, she said, "I can never stay mad at you for long, lout. Before you go, though... do you think Jean would mind if- I mean, the children don't know about Martin, even if they have their suspicions now. Do you think I should warn them? I'm sure he'll try again - he knows how vulnerable children are once they have placed their trust - and no guards can keep him out." She shivered as her hand went to her neck. "He can be... very charming when he needs to be, and very good at allaying concerns once he has found a way in. It is the least I can do for poor Jean." The guilt had returned, and she glanced at Jean once more.
"Oh, chérie, how you always know precisely what to say," Ives said cheerfully, the duplicity to his words subtle even for a Court Bard. She had no reason to suspect him of saying such a thing because she had put even more worry in his mind, and he preferred it that way. The implication that Martin would not leave the matter well enough alone now that his position had been exposed, that he would try to get to the children again... Masking a shudder, Ives smiled at her. The less she knew of his ... intended personal involvement with Martin, the happier she might stand to be in life. "Yes, I think you might. The older children do know a good bit about the Game, yet so does old Bernard - and Martin was still able to be appointed Dancing Master. Forewarned is forearmed, however, and both of the older children would be better able to withstand future attempts of manipulation if you spoke with them. Tools that might serve you well, oui?"
She nodded, once more considering Jean. "Will he be all right?"
Ives glanced to Jean as well. They shared a lingering moment wherein nothing was said, but enough had been conveyed that Jean moved back into the ballroom. It was a feat to keep the frown off of Ives' face. Would Jean be all right? That was a loaded question. He hadn't been all right for four years, since the death of his wife and near loss of his son. Artana had become the closest thing in his life to all right, and Ives knew full well he himself had stolen half of that to a terse concession. The children were his only hope of all right in the future, but to escape the life the other Bernard - the father neither of the twins ever referred to as such - had been molding for them, he'd had to give up all but the rarest of connections with them.
Jean Durante was, in fact, not all right. "I am positive of it, mon floraison." Turning a bright smile to his dear friend, he leaned forward to plant a delicate kiss on the tip-top of her forehead. "Watch him with the children. I'm sure you'll see it yourself."
Though apparently she didn't fully believe his declaration, she nodded and entered the ballroom, face determined. At least this way, they would be able to tend to the children while Ives tended to... other matters.
Martin's Game had long been in motion, but the next move would determine whether or not Ives could slip a few extra cards up his own sleeve to make sure the man would lose.
If nothing else, maybe he would ensure Martin wouldn't gain the ultimate victory.
