A chapter from Safana's life, this story is a bit more adult in theme.
.........
Safana gritted her teeth and gave the tweezers a tug, yanking the colourless hair mercilessly out by its root. She regarded it for a moment but tossed it away with a sigh. That particular hair showed its face two years ago now and steadfastly refused to die. Always there, always growing back in that same spot over her right temple, standing out like a beacon in the night against her dark chestnut locks. Grimly she reminded herself that there would be more before long, and every evening she scanned her hair like a watchman, searching for any signs of the enemy. But giving her reflection a practiced smile she reminded herself that she was still lovelier than the noblewomen in the city, so why worry?
A delicate knock sounded on the chamber door and her serving girl entered carrying an armful of silk. Before she could speak her foot found the gown's hem and she stumbled forwards with a little cry.
"By Sharess!" Safana exclaimed, whirling from the glass. "Is it torn?"
"N-no, m'lady," the girl sputtered, examining the dress.
M'lady indeed, Safana thought while rising to inspect the garment herself. Despite her best efforts she'd never managed to train the girl to address her in any way other than what one might expect for a overweight housewife. Where was the respect in this land? No bowing or scraping, just a quick bob and a folksy "yes, ma'am" from the rosy-cheeked child. By rights she should have sent her to the streets but somehow her hairdressing skills belied her clumsy manner. Safana knew the other women would gladly sink their claws into one another over her services and so she kept her out of spite.
"You are fortunate the dress is still whole, or you would be learning how Madame Lezule's dressmaking bills compare to your wages," Safana said, irritably wiping a small smudge from the fabric. "Now help me."
The girl flushed pink but helped her mistress into the gown. Examining her reflection in the long glass Safana's humour rose again. The pale, beaded silk flowed like water around her body, the colour accented by her tanned skin. Such a relief it was to finally discover a dressmaker in the city who understood the female form. But considering how pasty these women all were it was little surprise they chose to keep as much of their flesh as possible hidden behind cloth.
She seated herself at the dressing table and the girl began to perform the one task she excelled at. Safana watched her deft fingers plaiting and coiling as her mind ran again over her guest list.
"Has Lord Durganel arrived?" she asked somewhat anxiously.
"No, m'lady," the girl replied, her eyes on her task.
Safana sighed and proceeded to rim her eyes with kohl. He would be late. The one man she truly had an interest in developing a partnership with had quickly developed a reputation for putting ladies to shame with his fashionable lateness. His recent arrival in the city had caused an uproar amongst the higher classes, like a wolf leaping into a pen of willing sheep. Few recognised the young boy who'd left twenty years before to find his fortune after his parents' loss to plague, but the consensus was that he'd managed rather well. Remarkably handsome and with a charm that was rare in these lands he'd already found himself the darling of society.
Appealing though he was Safana ultimately cared little for his appearance or wit; handsome playthings were easy enough to acquire, but wealth as he was said to possess was rare. He knew well of his appeal though and played it for all it was worth. He was late only to put her off balance, trying to earn himself better terms. More the fool, Safana thought, smiling knowingly into her own eyes as the girl slipped a fresh white camellia into her hair.
.......
Sweeping out the door she paused to bring up her smile and tried to hide any traces of annoyance. Nothing must go wrong tonight. She spent every last possible coin on the affair, dealing in the end more on promises than currency. The finest bards, the most talented chefs, the most exquisite flower arrangers, all had been hired to entertain, impress, and, she hoped, intrigue. She knew it was more than she could hope to pay back but if she failed to reach a new deal it would all be meaningless, anyway.
She began to make her way to the stairs but her entrance was interrupted by the appearance of two women. The elder of the two clucked endlessly at the younger one, who pouted and scowled in return. Safana smiled and greeted them with politeness but a smirk crept out listening to their conversation; most mothers in that city would be chastising their daughters for wearing paint, not for putting it on incorrectly.
Watching the woman dabbing the girl's face with a handkerchief though somehow gave Safana a strange feeling. How old was that girl? Despite the paint and the lady's gown she fidgeted awkwardly under her mother's ministrations, and her soft face lacked any kind of angles. Safana shook off the thoughts with a toss of her head; the stress of the evening must be affecting her.
She made her required appearance at the top of the stairs, pausing just for a moment so that all might admire her gown. Though she tried to look blissfully nonchalant her eyes ran eagerly over the party below. The villa looked beautiful tonight. It was not large compared to those some possessed, but she had more understanding of true luxury than even the wealthiest in that place and she'd decorated in style and comfort.
Tonight the villa resembled a pasha's garden in Calimport, with the scent of numerous blooms wafting upwards in a rich perfume. Slow, pulsing music mingled with the murmurs and laughter of the guests and the delicate glow from multi-coloured glass lanterns created a warm light. Raising her head she descended the stairs and into a nobleman's waiting clutches.
"My dear Safana, your radiance turns these exotic blooms into common posies," he said, gallantly taking up her hand in a kiss.
"Lord Vollen, you flatter me," she replied, trying to smile while her eyes flitted around the room.
"Ah, your beauty does not need flattery. Any poetic thing that I could imagine would pale by result. You would make a rose smell foul. You are as a summer's day...hot, and sweet," the man continued, clearly impressed by his own labours.
Then spare yourself the effort of thinking of them, Safana thought, but she gave the man a demure nod in return. Was there any worse combination than these dull-eyed nobles and poetry? Their souls lacked the fire to understand such words of the heart.
"I had hoped, perhaps, that you had given some thought to my proposal?" he continued, the preliminaries thankfully over.
"Dear Vollen, the night is still young! It is too early to discuss business," she laughed. "There will be much time later to withdraw and speak of the finer points, yes?"
She smiled but the man frowned. Safana managed to pull away into the crowd, assuring him happily that they would speak later. In reality she had little interest in his partnership; something in that man's manner irritated her in a way she couldn't describe. Perhaps it was his feeble attempts at intellectualism or his absurd hats, but it mattered not. She supposed she shouldn't complain; Vollen was of one of the most respected families in the land and ties to him could be very beneficial to her interests. But she knew that he maintained other partnerships, and she'd heard rumours that his pinched-faced wife was growing increasingly concerned about where her husband spent his coin.
........
As she worked her way around the gay, vibrant party it occurred to her how familiar, yet alien this new world was. She'd been raised in a pampered luxury that was considered almost vulgar in the prim northern countries, her every want catered to by a clap of her hands. Never though did she think of its cost, not in the backs that broke to fulfil her petty wishes, but in her own freedom.
Marriage was the most important alliance either man or woman would ever make, and as a girl she dreamed of princes and merchant lords beating their way to her step, falling over themselves to impress her father with their wealth and passion. But when the time came she found his choice considerably less than inspiring. The man was elderly and dull, hardly the sort a young girl sees in her sleep.
But she never cried or cajoled her father as she'd always done to get her way. It was business, he said, and she understood. An alliance with him would bring much to the family coffers. And seeing her husband's bright eyes as he regarded her during their wedding feast she felt with certainty that she'd be able to rule her new home as easily as she had her old.
Home. A word that she rarely considered before she left it behind. Perhaps it was true that people only valued things when someone tried to wrench them from their grasp. Her eyes wandered away from the noble she bantered with and looked past the people to the room itself. She did love it in the quiet afternoons, reading on a chaise lounge while sunlight from the glass skylights warmed her like a lover's embrace. Though she'd spent years in the north it was rare that she didn't feel chilly away from sun or fire. She lightly caressed a bronze statue of two entwined lovers and her face fell, her smile turning cool as the metal under her touch. The puzzled noble called her name and she forced herself to snap back to the business at hand.
She heard a commotion in the foyer and looked up with sudden hope, but her face turned sour again when a few young nobles burst shouting and singing into the room, buoyed by drink and an apparent win at the gaming tables. She excused herself from the man and went to survey the scene with false disinterest. Why couldn't those fools go to the festhall instead of slopping wine over her fine woven rugs? Were they anyone else Safana would have the guards turn them out on the spot, but one of the young men was the son of an important guest and she couldn't risk angering him. The lack of control over her own home irritated her more than usual and she turned without a word. Hopefully his father would put him straight, she thought while trying to ignore the distinctive sound of shattering crystal.
......
The gilded clock on the mantle struck twice. Where was he? She began to think that Durganel had decided to shun her after all. Looking over the party that had grown more raucous Safana bit her lip and admitted to herself that all this had truly been for him. She should have known better. His business would be lucrative but it wasn't worth ignoring other potential partners as she'd been doing all evening.
Grimly though Safana realised that his behaviour was her own fault. In their previous meetings she felt that her smiles at him had been a little too real. There was something warmly familiar about him, and the keen man didn't fail to notice her interest. It was folly to show her hand so early in the game; it violated every last business principle. How could she ever expect to negotiate if she let that advantage slip? It was a mistake she didn't intent to make again.
Safana's mood turned even more sour when she saw a lady gliding up to her, languid as a cat. Soft blonde ringlets cascaded from a jewelled headband and she swayed her impossibly tiny waist with precision. Why these women found torturing their bodies into corsets desirable was never something she understood, but dutifully she smiled and took the woman's hands in hers.
"Safana darling, you cannot know what a relief it is to see you looking so well. Some of these gossips said that you would never recover from the tragedy, but I said that your race doesn't possess fire in your veins for nothing. You would persevere, I was certain."
"Thank you, Mrs Rose," Safana replied, catching a whiff of the woman's self-named perfume as she leaned in to kiss the air near her cheek. "I am very glad to have your support."
Support, indeed, she thought—like building a palace on a foundation of straw.
"I'm sure, but I hear mine isn't quite what you need," the woman said in a low purr, linking her arm with Safana's and leading her away. "Some dreadful women were saying that the bailiffs had paid you a visit the other day. Of course I didn't believe a word of it—I'm certain that Lord Caberwen would've arranged for you to receive your share of the investment in the unfortunate event of his death. Why, a mere glance at this wonderful affair tells me that you've done quite nicely from the sad circumstances. Although I did hear that his widow is putting their country estate on the market, can you believe? It's been in his family for five generations. But then I don't think she ever much cared for that drear old manor. By the by, have you heard that Mrs Cicely lost an absolute fortune in that dreadful Maztica speculation? I did warn her that the company wasn't sound, but she simply wouldn't hear a word—"
Safana stiffened at the woman's pointed ramblings. If she knew about Cicely's loss then she must know of others, as well.
"And did you hear that fat old Baron Meyland actually called Durganel out on a duel? I'm thankful our lord went easy on him, though I'm not sure of the Baroness' views on the subject," Mrs Rose laughed. "She is still fairly young, after all. I thought perhaps the gentleman might be in attendance tonight, but there are other parties, I suppose. Although Durganel did say that he was familiar with you from the south. Imagine that—knowing our exotic lady of mystery!"
Safana started. Durganel knew her? No one in this city knew her, and she would have remembered meeting him. The idea made a queer feeling rise in her stomach and she abruptly disentangled herself from the woman's clutches.
"Would you kindly excuse me?"
Mrs Rose raised an eyebrow. "Hm? Of course, my dear. The hostess' work is never done, I know. Although perhaps—you might see to your hair."
........
Safana regarded the woman's whisper with suspicion but a quick glance in a mirror didn't reassure. She slipped upstairs, dismissing her servant girl and attended to her locks herself. Away from the buzz of the party Safana's thoughts took their own course again. Her husband had retreated into his ledgers soon after their marriage, leaving her in the none-too-tender hands of his other wives who despised her presence. They ruled every aspect of her life, declaring what she could wear, who she could see, even what time she rose in the morning. Safana thought with spite that they even decreed when the old man could visit her chamber. Not that she minded; it was fun enough at first, but she quickly grew bored of his exertions.
She set down the hairbrush and stared at her reflection. The glass had a greenish light in the dim chamber, and the longer she stared the less her features made any sense. The wide almond eyes, the full lips, the fine small nose, they were still there but they no longer seemed to relate to one another. They twisted in her sight and for one horrible moment, she was ugly. She started, screwing her eyes up tight against the apparition. When she opened them her features seemed to realign, but they somehow kept that aspect of a plate that had been smashed and mended, never to be right again.
Why would these thoughts not leave her be? She wasn't a child under someone's thumb any longer. She left that behind. Eventually she could bear no more of her life in Calimport and slipped into the night, hiding aboard a ship heading far away. A dangerous move, but she had always been bold. Too bold, her father's other wives had said. But they were simply jealous that her mother had been his favoured wife, and Safana his most treasured daughter.
Father. Though it had been years since she left his face was clear as if he stood before her, and Safana winced as the pain of guilt crept over her again. It was her one regret in fleeing her husband—the shame it would bring on her father. In her younger years she spent many a boring caravan trip or sea voyage imagining herself finding a fortune somehow and returning home to his accolades. But she could never return home, even with all the gold in the Realms in her pockets. Even at her young age she knew that she could never come back; it was as much as her life was worth to return. She took a new name, the name of her favourite storybook heroine—Safana. It was a beautiful name, she thought, one that spoke of flowers and romance. Could she ever have been so naive?
She looked back into the glass with a sigh. The kohl had smudged and left unappealing circles under her eyes. Wiping them away she thought she would trade everything for a chance to crawl into bed and sleep till the sun was high. How many years now since she first left her home? She'd grown so weary of constantly moving from city to city, from bed to bed, dungeon to stinking dungeon hunting a fortune that never seemed to materialise. Although she'd saved coin enough at various points to live in a more comfortable fashion than the patrons of the seedy taverns and filthy streets where her business often took her she always longed for the luxury of her childhood. Worse still she felt a resentment within, a spiteful anger that it had been wrongly taken from her. It was true she abandoned it, but what choice did she have?
A sudden impulse took her and she went to the mantelpiece where a wooden panel popped aside at her light touch. She drew out a small, heavy wooden box and the first true smile of the night spread softly over her face as she regarded the contents.
The moon and stars. Her departed mother's necklace, the one thing she'd taken from her former life. Even in the dim light the large blue diamond sparkled softly, the surrounding opals and white diamonds that circled the jewel echoing its brilliance. The catty Mrs Rose did not even seem to guess that the diamonds Safana wore that night were paste; her creditors had made off with all her real stones. All except for this. Through the mud and the nights in dingy inns she'd kept it safe, kept it secret, rarely even wearing it lest someone recognise the family gem for what it was. She always thought she would part with her own soul sooner than the gem that once circled her mother's graceful neck, but now...
.......
Instinctively she clapped the box shut and replaced the panel hearing the light sound of the chamber door's click. She turned and the second true smile of the night appeared slowly on her face.
"I beg your pardon, but when I didn't see you downstairs I started to worry that someone else had gotten in ahead of me."
"Then you should be more prompt. A lady cannot be expected to be kept waiting forever," Safana murmured in reply to the nobleman who stepped into the room.
"I take it that means you were waiting?"
Lord Durganel gave her a crooked smile and helped himself to a glass of port from her bedside table. Safana flushed in irritation.
"Your offer was...a generous one, my lord. It was worthy of a small amount of extra consideration."
She turned her back on him, pretending to occupy herself with the bottles on her dressing table.
"Quite," he replied. "I'd rarely consider putting forth one like that, but you are an exceptional case."
She looked back at him. He sat down casually and gazed at her with that smile, but his eyes had the air of one sizing up a horse or other beast of burden.
"Still, you couldn't expect me to sign up to a long-term investment without seeing the goods first. You look alright in a dress but you're not exactly a fresh young thing, are you? I don't want to end up with mutton when I've paid for lamb. Show me."
Durganel laughed slightly at her obviously surpressed anger. His attractive face seemed to distort as Safana's did before the glass, becoming something ugly and common. Her first impulse was to slap him but she swallowed her irritation and slowly reached a hand up towards her laces.
"No, not here," he said, interrupting her. "Go change in the other room. I like to keep some of the mystery."
Safana fought hard against the urge to lash out at him; despite her triumph the game had no appeal tonight. She excused herself to her dressing chamber and traded her dress for a silken robe. In her mood she kept him waiting long as she could—she never could bear when these barbarians treated her like one of their common women. Eventually she slipped out, anticipating his eyes, but she stopped on the carpet. Durganel's chair was empty, the glass of port drained at the side. She looked around in confusion and a slight panic rose, but it burst entirely when her eyes rested on the mantle.
The panel was removed and placed open so she would be certain to see. Dashing forward she yanked open the box and her worst fears were realised. Inside was a note, and nothing more. She grabbed it up and read the rapid scrawl with a shaking hand.
"Well, well, my tricky little vixen. You can't imagine my surprise and pleasure when I arrived here to milk these poor sops and found you instead. You must be slowing down—it's a disappointment to see the mighty Safana masquerading as one of these ridiculous little pets. Don't wrack your brain trying to place me, we've never met. But I know you quite well. You may remember some years ago, a hapless fellow by the name of Termian Tandovar? He fell in love with you and got himself killed trying to earn coin for one of your little escapades. As you may guess, he was my brother. Now, I have little intention of trying to claim a moral high ground with you. Business is business—I understand, and I hardly could be called an angel myself. Is it worth mentioning the real Lord Durganel fell while wandering lost in some desert? Signet rings and a few family letters can take you far with the unimaginative; people always see what they want to see.
But my poor brother's hopeless face has ever haunted me, and I swore should we ever meet I would take his revenge. He told me of your necklace and as it seems to be the one thing in this world your cold heart places value on I decided to relieve you of its weight. How kind of you to finally show me its hiding place! Just in time too, as some of these nobles are becoming suspicious, and it is best if I moved on. I wouldn't bother trying to find me—I have enough dirt on you to get you hanged in four countries, and if anything unfortunate ever occurs I've seen to it that the proper authorities will be informed. I hope your little life here brings you continued bliss, although from what I've heard that isn't likely. All the better! Farewell, my dear, and thank you for that exquisite port.
--Berian Tandovar"
As Safana's eyes read the last line the paper burst into flames in her hands, vaporising into mist. She let out a piercing wail that penetrated the chamber door, making even the drunken guests downstairs look up in wonder for a moment before returning to their revelry.