The ducal Chalasse carriage was not one usually seen on the streets by the Théâtre Theselis. When Roland de Chalasse was seen enjoying outings, it was to the yards and the lists, for he was an active man and would have none forget it. Therefore, the other patrons and people on the street outside the theatre were already whispering at the sight of his coat of arms. Whispers that only increased when he stepped down from his carriage and offered his hand to help down his companion.
Odilia nó Dahlia ignored the murmuring people with all the grace expected from one of her House, her gloved hand resting lightly in his palm while the other touched her dark hair just once to ensure the jostling of the carriage had not knocked one of her hairpins askew.
“Not a hair out of place,” the Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace assured her as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, keeping her close to his side as they approached the steps up to the theatre, “As though you’d suffer anything less, little Dahlia.”
“I would hate to embarrass you with my dishevelment,” she said lightly, her free hand lifting her skirts a hairsbreadth to let her climb the stairs unhampered. Her ears caught the tiniest exhale of air through his nose and she suppressed a smirk at getting the fearsome Roland de Chalasse to laugh. With her hair swept up and the low back of her gown, the summer air was warm on her bared marque; all could see her for what she was and know her for her guild. The Duc de Chalasse was not the first and would certainly not be the last to contract a courtesan of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers for an evening’s entertainment in the City, but for him to choose her of all the other options on offer from all the other Houses? It was deliberate. And she knew that.
Odilia had spent the day leading up to this assignation closed in her room with her private chessboard. It was only too clear what her place was. King-side Bishop. Subtle, indirect, but close to the King and maneuverable. But the Duc…she had argued with herself about where he fit on the board. Queen-side Bishop? Close to the court but unaligned to anyone but himself? Knight, with his unpredictable movements and motivations? Rook, with his direct mentality and clear use of his power? She had puzzled over it for almost too long, her attendants needing to remind her when to start preparing, but somewhere between the final fitting of her gown and the rubbing of perfume into her skin she had decided that she would save her judgement as to what chess piece Roland de Chalasse represented until after the evening was done. She would be studying him as much as he was studying her, she was sure.
As she had studied her chessboard and considered the evening ahead of her, she had done her best to consider what he was looking to achieve from this. She did her best with what she knew about him and what she had learned from both Rosanna’s stories about her grandfather and Jocaste’s advice about her former patron. But the thing that kept running through her memory was Jocaste’s warning: He is a dangerous man. A powerful friend and a deadly enemy. He is a generous patron and he will ensure your evening is enjoyable. Do not let your guard down with him, ever.
Do not let him get inside your head. Be careful with him, Odilia.
Well, it was too late for that, wasn’t it?
This was what she knew about Roland de Chalasse: he was the Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace and the grandfather of her friend. He was a powerful man, with money and political weight, enough that Queen Anielle and her husband had been careful not to anger him without proper reason. He was among the elite of the elite, his family line tracing themselves directly back to the Angel Anael. Which made him an elitist, who prized family lines, blood, titles, money, and power over anything else. The fact that he would lower himself to be seen with a common-born girl from Rue Courcel, Servant of Namaah or no, was surprising.
Unless that was his intention: to bring her out to the highest echelons of society and prove that she was unfit to move among them, that she could not rise from the dust of the streets where she was born and that she was ill-suited for the King’s affections. That was what she held in her mind as they ascended the steps to the main doors of the theatre, that this was a test. She had always done well with tests. This elitist nobleman would not shake her.
Odilia’s head was high as he guided her into the entrance of the theatre, passing under the second gallery and descending into the yard before the stage, letting all who were already present see him enter with her on his arm. More whispers, more heads turning, and Odilia took the chance to survey the stage. Raised to be of a level with the first gallery and the noble boxes, it had been done up with artfully painted wood and plaster to match the theme of the evening’s performance. The support columns were covered in artful applique to make them seem like the great marble columns of the Hellene temples. The stage itself was bare of set pieces or furniture, the emphasis of the evening was to be on the poet’s voice in the recitation.
And then Roland was guiding her towards the young Eleanore de Mereliot, daughter of the current Lady of Marsilikos. A polite conversation, then he moved on to speak with a group of Caerdicci scholars that wore the crest and colours of the Tiberian ambassador. A tour of the yard, she acknowledged, letting him be seen with her. Very well, then let them also see her with him. She greeted a trio of merchants by name and thanked them for their continued supply contracts to Dahlia house. A couple of former Eglantine adepts smiled at her and kissed her cheeks as he escorted her past them to exchange brief hellos with the Count Niklos Shahrizai.
It was only when a theatre attendant approached to inform the Duc that His Grace’s customary box was prepared with refreshments for himself and his companion that Roland began steering her towards the noble boxes to the right of the stage. A flicker of movement caught her eye and her head turned to see two boys, one in his teen years and one not yet ten, hovering anxiously at the entrance. Another theatre attendant was attempting to usher them away, but the younger boy was looking so desperately at the stage, so longingly, that her hand slipped from Roland’s arm as she turned toward them.
“I’m sorry,” she heard the attendant saying as she approached, “But if you don’t have the money for seats, I can’t let you stay.”
“We can just stand back here,” the older boy said, “We won’t get in anyone’s way.”
“I’ll get in trouble,” the attendant said, “I really am sorry but you have to go.”
“Please,” the little boy said, looking up at Odilia as she came closer, “Please, I wanna see it. I want to hear the song.”
The attendant turned to look at her and flushed, “I apologize, my lady. I assure you-”
She ignored him and crouched down to look at the little boy, “Why do you want to hear the song so much?”
The boy looked at her with big, dark eyes and it was his older brother that answered, “Our mother was from Hellas, milady. She used to sing it to us in Hellene but the plague took her. I’m only an apothecary apprentice, I can’t afford-”
“Please, lady,” the little boy said, “Mitera can’t sing it again, I just want to hear it again.”
Odilia’s gloved hand reached slowly to touch his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb before she rose and instructed the attendant, “Find them seats in the gallery.”
“My lady,” he tried to argue, but she shook her head. Her hand went to her waist, reaching among the folds of her skirt for the coin-purse she had tucked there, but Roland’s hand extended first, handing the attendant two coins.
“Seats in the gallery,” he said, “As the lady said.”
The attendant bowed low to the Duc, a gesture the older brother copied a moment later, stiff and awkward. But the little boy beamed up at them, “Thank you! Thank you, lady!”
She smiled at him and felt the weight of Roland’s hand on her lower back as he stepped closer to her to murmur, “You have a soft heart, Odilia.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” She couldn’t afford a soft heart, a soft heart was an invitation for more trouble like the cloak, like the Judiciary, like him.
“You guard it well, even despite this little kindness, but under all of those defenses, you do have a soft heart.”
Her spine stiffened in direct contrast with his words, remembering her Dahlia composure as he led her back through the yard toward his private box. Her head turned toward him as she climbed the steps to the box level, saying quietly, “I understand what you’re doing, contracting me publically like this, letting people see me with someone like you.” It could be read as a gesture of support. That a Sovereign Duc like Roland de Chalasse would be willing to be seen with the King’s Dahlia meant that not all of the nobles thought her an upstart peasant. Perhaps.
“Oh do you?” He sounded amused at her shoulder as he showed her to his box and the waiting cushioned seats.
“And I do appreciate it,” she said as she sank onto the seat offered to her, accepting the chilled glass of crisp wine he handed her from the waiting tray, “but I’m not so naive as to think this means you approve of me either.”
He hummed as he took his own seat, saying lightly, “I’d be quite disappointed if you were.”
The poet appeared on the stage with a strum of his lyre, accompanied by two other musicians, one playing the aulos and the other shaking a chiming sistrum. The poet took a moment to look around the galleries of the theatre, taking in the audience gathered there to listen. And, with a great breath and a strum of his lyre, he began to sing.
“μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος…”
Sing, O Goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus…
The Song of Ilium was a great epic, too long to perform in one sitting for a people unaccustomed to the practice. Therefore, three hours and a third of the epic later, the poet bowed and left the stage. The next two thirds would be performed the day after next, and the last third a second day later. The last lines of the first third had left the audience with the images of the Trojan fires in the plain after the Hellene Gods had shown their might amongst themselves, the very forces of nature choosing sides in this grand epic.
And so much battle, so much death, so much unrest because of desire for one woman. That was what sat the heaviest in Odilia’s mind as the Sovereign Duc offered his hand to help her rise from her seat. What was it Jocaste was warning her of by having her come to see and hear this?
“Is something troubling you, little Dahlia?”
She summoned a smile to her face and looked up at him, “Not at all. This was my first time hearing a great Hellene recitation, I am still caught up in the beauty of the words.”
“Are you familiar with the Song of Ilium?”
“Not in the original Hellene,” she said as he escorted her down to the yard and towards the exit. “But I have read translations that I am finding hardly do the language justice.”
“Dahlia has ensured you have had a fine education,” he said absently as he steered her towards his waiting carriage.
“The Night Court will suffer no less from their adepts,” she said, gathering her skirts, “And Dahlia will ensure we shine even beyond the other flowers.”
His short laugh followed her up into the carriage as they settled themselves among the cushions, across from each other. And she watched the public face of Roland de Chalasse slip slightly now that they were closed together in his carriage. Just the two of them, looking at each other, without the ever-present weight of the rest of the City’s gaze.
“An enjoyable evening,” he said lightly, the courtesy not reaching his eyes, “You are a charming and pleasant companion, Dahlia.”
Her brows lifted slightly, “Better than you expected of a common girl from the streets?”
“It is only the truth of your birth.”
“Whatever the circumstances of my birth may be, I am the Second of the Dahlia House and that is what I have become.”
“And is that what you will tell the guild leaders of the Judiciary?”
The slightest tightening of her eyes and the tiniest twitch of her jaw and he smiled, continuing, “Come now, you did not think I had not heard about that, did you?”
“I would not insult you so,” she said, not even bothering to feign conversational lightness, knowing he would not appreciate so glib a manner now, “but I am curious as to what relevance that has to our evening.”
“Oh, everything.”
In her mind’s eye, she could see the chessboard, the same one she had been pouring over all day. King-side bishop facing Queen-side bishop. Equal in power in very different ways. They faced each other but were they on opposite sides of the board? Were they working against each other or in conjunction? What in Elua’s name did he want? Be damned Jocaste’s warnings about not letting him in her head, she’d let him in if only she could get into his as well.
“What was your purpose, then, Your Grace, in this assignation? To remind me of my place in the hierarchy of society? I am well aware of that.” The carriage jostled over the streets but her posture remained impeccable even as he lounged against the cushions of his side. Her eyes skimmed his body as she said, “To threaten the King’s affection for me with your own interest? Interest someone like you could not possibly have in one so low-born? To flaunt to the City that anyone can buy what the King wants? I was already shamed enough with the cloak last winter; do you seek to ruin me entirely? You will find me more resilient than that, sir.”
“I know.”
He said it so simply. He knew. Of course he knew. He had been playing this game for much longer than she, it was likely he knew everything about her by taking one look at her.
“All of those things, yes,” he agreed with a careless shrug, “and more. To remind these fools that you are not the threat they think you are.”
Her gloved hands tightened in her lap. She just wanted to be left alone. The nobles circling her like vultures were bad enough, the de Somerville’s attempt to frighten her was bad enough, the fact that the common merchants and guilds of the people – her people – were turning on her was bad enough. And Roland de Chalasse wanted to come in and show everyone they were right about her? That she didn’t deserve to be among them? That she wasn’t good enough? That she would never be welcome among them even with the King’s affection? The King’s affection that would only make her and him more enemies as he refused to let her go…
“But you could be.”
She refocused on him at that, her brows furrowing ever so slightly as she processed the way he was looking at her, the hunger and the temptation clear in his face as he said, “With the right friends on your side of the chessboard.”
It clicked into place. Time slowed for a moment as she realized what he was offering.
“Why?” It came out as a whisper as she looked at him, “What do you want from me?”
“What I have always wanted, and what I think you want too.” His eyes glittered in the half-shadow of his carriage as he said, “Influence.”
“Over the King?”
“Over the country.”
Lights, a most magical event only seen in the most northern areas of the world. Please accept this gift with Marco’s and my affections.