Darkness Descending

Sabrino looked at the gold circlet. He ran his finger around it, touch often being more sensitive than sight in such matters. “I’d like to catch you out, but I can’t do it.”

“Now for the prongs.” Dosso held out his hand. Sabrino gave him back the ring. Dosso set it down so that it lay on top of the gold he’d snipped. He used a thin gold wire to touch first the good prong, then the extra gold, and last one of the two damaged prongs. As he did that, he muttered to himself.

The little chant didn’t sound like Algarvian. After a moment, Sabrino realized it wasn’t: it was classical Kaunian, with some of the words turned into nonsense syllables from who could say how many generations of rote repetition. A chill ran through the dragonflier.

But those endless repetitions had made the charm extremely effective, even if some of the words were ground into meaninglessness. As Sabrino watched, the damaged prong reshaped itself. Dosso slid the emerald into place between what were now two good prongs. As he repeated his ritual, the third one grew out and embraced the stone. With a grunt of satisfaction, Dosso handed Sabrino the restored ring. “I hope it pleases your lady.”

“I’m sure it will. She’s fond of baubles.” Sabrino paid the jeweler and went off well pleased with himself.

When he let himself in, Fronesia greeted him with a hug and a kiss that told without words how long it had been since they’d seen each other. Then she asked the question he’d known she would: “And what have you brought me?”

“Oh, a little something,” he said, his voice light, and slipped the ring onto her finger.

Fronesia stared at him. The emerald was of an even deeper green than her eyes. Part of that stare was simple admiration; part of it was a calculated assessment of how much the piece was worth. “It’s lovely. It’s splendid,” she whispered, both sides of her character evidently satisfied.

“You’re lovely,” he said. “You’re splendid.” He meant it. Her hair glinted in the lamplight like molten copper. Her nose had a little bend in it, just enough to make it interesting; her mouth was wide and generous. Her short tunic displayed perfectly turned legs. She was within a couple of years either way of thirty. That gave him more than a twenty-year head start on her, a truth he would sooner have forgotten. “I hoped you’d like it.”

“I do, very much.” One of her carefully plucked eyebrows rose. “And what did you bring your wife?”

“Oh, this and that,” he said casually. The countess knew about Fronesia, of course, but hadn’t asked Sabrino what he’d got her. Maybe that was the restraint of noble blood. On the other hand, maybe she just didn’t want to know.

“Have you seen her yet?” Fronesia asked.

That took it further and faster than she usually went. “Aye, I have,” he replied. “It is good form, you know.” Algarvian nobles ran on form hardly less than their Valmieran or Jelgavan counterparts.

Fronesia sighed. Form was harder on mistresses than it was on wives. Sabrino found that fair: mistresses were supposed to be having more fun than wives. Nobles married for money or for family alliances far more often than for love. If they wanted love--or, sometimes, even a physical approximation of it--they looked elsewhere.

Sabrino asked, “And what have you been doing while I’ve been . . . away?” Trying not to get myself killed didn’t sound right, even if it was what he meant.

“Oh, this and that,” Fronesia answered--casually. She wasn’t a pretty fool. Sabrino wouldn’t have been interested in her had she been. Well, I wouldn’t have been interested in her for long, he thought. He wasn’t blind to a pretty face or a pleasing figure: far from it. But gaining his interest was one thing. Holding it was another.

“And with whom have you been doing it?” he asked. Her letters hadn’t said much about her friends. Did that mean she didn’t get out much, or that she knew when and what to keep quiet?

“Some of my set,” she answered, her voice light and amused. “I don’t think there’s anyone you know.” Sabrino had more practice than she might have thought at reading between the lines. That couldn’t mean anything but, Everyone else I know is younger than you.

Was she doing more than going to feasts and parties with her set? Was she being unfaithful to him? If he found out she was, if she made him notice she was, he’d have to turn her out of this fancy flat or at least make her find someone else to pay for it. He was glad he hadn’t had to pay anything for the emerald ring but the cost of repair. The Unkerlanter noble from whose house he’d taken it wouldn’t worry about rings--or anything else--ever again.