A Candle to Light Your Honour

Kitty Ryan, 2003

Chapter Five: Finding the Mould
1016, The Interchangeable Royal (Long Live the Princess!), Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen
Two years after a wedding--a day after a chapter

"You'll be having, Master Valden?"

Valden Chandler smiled tiredly at the barman of the Interchangeable, brown curls falling into his eyes. Slowly, he nodded. "A pint, if it's no trouble, Henery."

The barman rolled his eyes. "You, man, are too damn polite." Muttering, he took down a pint-glass from the shelf behind him, the yellow, almost-oily lamplight from all around making a dazzling reflection on his bald head. The other people at the bar took no notice of the man's apparent disdain, except to smile affectionately at Valden. They were all well used to Henery Maltster and his quirks.

Valden chuckled; taking his glass after it was filled. "Someone has to be, I suppose."

Henery shrugged. "'Tis true enough, that. Your Namorn trip's gone well, then."

A slow, pleased flush came over the younger man's round face, and he took a pull at his drink, enjoying the tendrils of warmth spreading through his body. "Aye," he said. "Aigri Island certainly seems to want Ninver trade, now. How'd you guess?"

"Well, you're here, idiot. If you'd come back this morning and things were…messy, that witch of a Uraelle wouldn't be letting you near my fine establishment, and nor would that sharp little wife of yours, neither. You just haven't got the look of a hunted man."

"You're a malicious gossip," Valden muttered, but he quirked a smile. "I see you've changed your sign."

The barman grinned, knowingly. "Oh yes. Marietta, bless her, is so close to coming of age that there's no point in waiting, to my mind. You know what I say, Valden-lad, speed--"

"--'Is the essence of competition'." Valden rolled his eyes as he recited along with the old man, while inwardly wondering what sort of a mind Henery really had, in naming his inn after all the Capchenite royalty, as they lived and died.

In one of the dark corners of the room, a man lounged against the worn, brown leather of one of Henery's armchairs. He was very tall, and quite old--the bony knobs of his shoulders clearly defined from underneath a perfectly tailored shirt of a dark, vaguely lilac-tinted grey. That shirt, unusual amongst the whites and dark blues and greens favoured by Ninver men, set him apart, as did the wide-legged, flowing trousers he had on, clinched at the waist by a wide strip of dark red fabric that looked more like a lady's sash than a belt. The man managed to compensate this outlandish appearance by having an air of absolute familiarity. He belonged in that chair, watching the customers' comings and goings through tobacco smoke, with empty glasses littering the floor around his feet. Everyone always said that Fedwren Rightwork had to be the most local man they had ever met.

And he was looking at Valden now, blue eyes bloodshot and half-open. "Welcome to your home, O weary traveller."

Several people groaned. Valden just looked amused, and walked slowly over to the fabric merchant, drink in hand. "What are you quoting now, Fedwren?"

"Nothing you'd know, sh… so I won't bother answering." Fedwren tried to open his eyes wider, so he could look sardonic--but couldn't quite manage it. "A lot's been happening, round aboutsh, while you've been gone," he said, only slurring every odd word.

"Such as?"

Fedwren grinned blearily, and raised an empty glass in a toast. "An absolute deluge of things!"

This time, Valden did groan. "You, man,are drunk."

"Yesh. Yesh, I am. How obsh…how observant of you. But I'm a lucky barshtard, with a pretty girl to court, and, my boy, you know what? I'll tell you what. I, am in the know."

Valden had to hide his face, and then bite his hand, to stop himself from laughing. "What sort of know?"

Fedwren glared. "The know, Chandler. The know. I've got all the threads, and all the linksh…I got shavvy."

"I'm sorry? I couldn't quite catch that. Savvy, you said?"

"Course I did! Shavvy. 'Shavvy locale'. I'm in the know bout all shorts. Trade in Thariosh. The weight of brocade. Lish Cartwell's phenomen…phenom…bloody wonderful taste in men. And Darra, of coursh."

"What about Darra?" Valden took the glass out of Fedwren's hand, and stared fixedly at him, suddenly looking extremely angry. "What about my wife?"

Fedwren giggled. "Yesh. She ish your wife. Your poor, high-and-mighty, barren wife."

Valden dropped the glass. It splintered as it hit the floor, and Henery Maltster cursed him, demanding payment. He was ignored. "How dare you. You've no right to speak of--"

"--I'm jusht shpeaking truth, you. Don't get sho outraged. I am jusht shaying, like, that your little Darra'sh been married to you for a conshi… a good long time now. Almosht three yearsh? Yesh, almosht three yearsh, and she hashn't had any kind of 'happy event' yet, while her Gretchen-friend'sh had young mashter Aymery and twinsh on the way, the healers'sh been saying. Thish is shad for you, yesh? You'd be an exchellent father, I can tell, but…nothing for three whole yearsh?" Fedwren raised both his eyebrows at Valden, looking deeply sympathetic. "Musht be shomething wrong, there. You know, on the inshide. Either that or she's been ushing that mother of hersh to shtop having children, o'coursh."

The old man reached out a trembling hand, and picked up Valden's half-finished pint. "You be looking a bit shtunned Valden. Can I have your drink? I need a drink. Yesh? Good lad. Now, what was I talking aboutsh? Darra, thatsh it. Well, everyone knowsh she isn't the mosht motherly short. Never been much good with the littlesh. Sho, shtands to reashon that she might jusht take…precautions, or shomething. Wouldn't matter to her that they're illegal. No, no. Not to her, who thinksh she's Ninver's outstanding moral sh-citizen--"

"--shut your mouth!" Valden stood up so abruptly that he shoved the table forward, to effectively wind Fedwren. "This is slander!"

Fedwren wheezed, eyes bulging, and then laughed, breathlessly. He laughed with his head thrown back and tears spilling down his flushed face. "And your wife ish the biggesht bitch in all Capchen. It'sh a lucky thing she ish taking shomething, becaush any child of hersh wouldn't lasht very long. Unlesh, of coursh, I've got it wrong and you repulsh her sho much that she'sh neglecting her wifely duties, ey, you poor, pathetic shod?"

Valden stared at him, sickened, and then turned away. He threw a handful of coins at Henery, who glared, truly indignant, and wondered aloud about the lack of a bargain.

"What's the world coming to?" Henery demanded, as Valden slammed the door behind him.

Fedwren sat in his hair, putting his head in his hands. He was crying in earnest, now.

"Bloody Chandlers!"

Residence of Valden and Darra Chandler, Illian Way, Ninver, Capchen
Aymery was such a wonderful little mite, Gretchen had said. No trouble--all smiles and perfect, gentlemanly behavior.

As Darra tried to loosen the toddler's determined grip on her ear, she vowed never to trust one word that came from Gretchen's mouth ever again.

"You're enjoying this, boy," she muttered, trying to find a way of freeing herself without tearing off her earlobe or breaking his insufferable, but probably very expensive, fingers. "I can tell."

Aymery just howled.

"You were asleep when your mother brought you here." Darra, her lips pinched white and eyes wild, sat heavily down on her sofa, holding fast to what she had to call her nephew. "Why couldn't you just stay that way? Then I would have two ears all to myself, and you wouldn't be in danger of getting screamed at by your aunt, who can be much louder than you, mister."

She didn't shake him. She had enough self-control not to shake him. She held him desperately, stiffening as Aymery quieted and she felt a warm, rapidly spreading, and most of all damp sensation down the back of her neck.

They were both silent for a while.

Then: "Do you know how much this dress cost?"

Aymery gazed tearfully over his aunt's shoulder, at the unfamiliar, spartan living room, and fixed Darra with a brown-eyed look, which told her, very clearly, that he didn't care a jot.

She had enough self-control not to shake him.

Just.

I am never doing this again, Darra thought, angrily. Gretchen can beg, bleeding and naked, but I will never be forced to look after her brat, Stormlord be my witness…oh, Gods. He's doing it again.

Aymery, boneless in her arms, had let go of her ear--but he was staring intently at the fire, and a fuzzy, distorted image of Gretchen at her most insipid and fluffy was staring back at him from the flames.

"No!" she said, loudly, giving the child a light rap on the shoulder. "No magic in here, boy. Being precocious doesn't suit you." Darra knew that the words were probably meaningless to the eighteen-month old, but how was he supposed to learn anything of language if he was only spoken to in that stupid, repetitive 'there's a good boy, yes you are' way of his mother's? Anyway, the physical interaction should be easy enough for him to get.

It was. The mirage vanished, but now he was screaming. Again. And some of Valden's books, which Darra had told him to put away the night before, were now flying crazily through the air. At the low height, yes, but they were very definitely not in their original, stationary positions on the coffee table.

Darra's head slumped forward, monentarily, and then she screamed.

She stood, opened her mouth, and screamed--hair falling from pins already loosened by earlier struggles, the back of her grey dress stained dark and wet against her skin, glasses on the floor, face matching Aymery's in its shade of brilliant, impossible redness, and let loose.

"You stupid, stupid, evil, wicked, disgusting, gods-cursed thing! I hate you, and you know it, you hear? I loathe you. I--"

"--Darra!"

Valden was standing in the doorway.

Then he was moving, face pale and unreadable, snatching Aymery out of his wife's arms and soothing him, rocking him: making the screams change into cries, and the cries into whimpers, and then the whimpers into sleep.

Darra fell back onto the sofa, and started to shake. "Val--"

"--Don't say a word."

Darra stared at Valden, his movements slow and gentle as usual as he handled Aymery, but his face filling with an emotion she had never seen in him before. "You're angry," she breathed, voice wondering.

Valden closed his eyes. "He's only a baby, Darra."

"He's been running me ragged." Darra's tone was still soft, and slightly thick, but her eyes were firey.

"But…to scream at him, like that? You could have deafened him, for all we know, and he's helpless."

"You weren't here all day," said Darra, mutinous. "Valden Chandler, you have no idea at all! I could have been so much worse. I was being restrained. I didn't even hit him, and what I wanted to do was stick his horrible head in the sink with the pump working full blast!"

Valden bit his lip, eyebrows drawing together, face flushing. Still, when he spoke, his voice was calm, but Darra that his teeth had drawn blood. Her eyes widened.

"It was still…inexcusable," he said.

"Well, what can I do about it, O Principled One?" she demanded, even though one part of her was looking at her husband's face and quailing. "Appologise? It's not like he's going to understand. Again, he deserved worse than he got, and you weren't here to judge anything. You were at that stupid pub--"

"--Where people are talking!" Valden was shouting now, so loud that Darra flinched away from him, and Aymery was startled awake. Realising this, Valden looked immediately guilty and soothed the child for a moment, then looked back up at his wife, eyes upset.

Like a kicked puppy, Darra thought, surprised. "People are talking about what?"

"Talking about whom, Darra," Valden's voice had finally cracked. "People are talking about you. I've had Fedwren Rightwork talking at me for half an hour, saying that you…" he swallowed. "Saying that you're barren. That you're making yourself barren, because…I don't know why. I can't believe it." He stared at Darra, intently, reaching out one nervous hand. "You do know," he asked, looking devastated, "that taking those sorts of measures are illegal?"

Darra stared.

"Don't you?"

The hurt was incredible. Darra hadn't expected it, and now felt utterly helpless as she was filled with sharp, deep pain. Pain with claws, with hooks, dug into her, easily cutting through the weak resistance of her body. That anyone should say such a thing. That Valden would believe it… she could do two things, she realised. Cry, or get angry. Angrier. Darra nearly laughed at the impossibility of the first option.

"Of course I do, you lackwit!" The woman lifted her chin, and glared. Quickly, she forced her hair back from her face again, working so hard at it that she broke four pins. "Perhaps it has escaped your attention that my mother runs an apothecary? I wouldn't touch those sorts of drugs with a fifteen-foot pole, and you know it. At least," she sniffed, tone like ice, "you should."

Valden looked mildly chastened, but still concerned. "Do you hate children?"

"I hate the child you're holding, Valden," she snapped. "He's spoilt and impossible and the whole world--including you, and don't you dare say otherwise--seems to think he can walk on water. The fact that he can barely sit upright without help is conveniently forgotten most of the time. My own child would not be Aymery Johannes. It would know its place. I would make sure it knew that from the onset, and that would mean I'd have no reason to hate them. Just because I am the only one with any sense in this family doesn't mean that I'm incapable being a good mother!"

"Darra, I was just--"

Darra stood up, and walked out of the room, shoulders stiff. "Don't say another word, Val. Don't say another word."

"What, pray, is the meaning of all this?"

Uraelle was at the door before Valden and Darra finished their silent breakfast the next morning. She was glaring. It seemed that Henery's clientele had come home with information, as well as their hangovers.

By the time Darra had escorted her elderly cousin to the best chair in the living room, she'd been slapped twice, pinched once, and given looks that would melt some of the weaker metals.

"I am not very angry with you, girl," said Uraelle, against all evidence to the contrary.

Darra said nothing. She looked at the wall, keeping her face blank. A red welt was beginning to form on her arm.

"I am, however…most displeased. I will not have any member of this family the centre of gossip. Let alone anything so vulgar as the sort you have gotten yourself involved with."

Darra matched her glare. "My behavior has been beyond reproach, cousin Uraelle."

"Be quiet, child. Shutting up makes everyone else shut up. You need to learn that. But…we can deal with this."

"Deal with what?"

"Deal with your reputation!" Uraelle's voice was harsh and excited. Her eyes gleamed. Darra had a suspicion that the woman hadn't had this much fun in years. "You will just need to keep quiet, and work—"

"—I always work!"

"Not that sort of work, you little innocent. I'd start by buying yourself a fertility charm."

Darra's face twisted in revulsion. "Uraelle!"

"It's your own fault I have to be candid. You've given people cause to be malicious, and this is your prize. Live with it."

"Why do people care?" Darra couldn't keep her voice even. It was all too humiliating for words.

Uraelle laughed. "You're just as bad, my girl. We all are. What else is there to care about, save everyone else's business?"

Darra left her house that day with whispers following her. Whispers and looks; smirks and pitying smiles. Darra tried to walk carelessly through it all, but by the time she left the Chandlery in the evening, her face was pinched, and her shoulders were hunched forward. Defensive.

Fedwren Rightwork nursed he biggest headache he had ever had, and watched.

Then, he laughed, almost running to Lise's door with a bunch of roses.

It took him a long time to persuade her to let him in, but, eventually, he managed it.