deserved.
Arlandes had done his best. He had planned as diligently as always. Through the good graces of the Countess, they had been permitted to hold Lucia’s funeral deep in the inner precincts of the Cere House, as if the girl had been a hero or lord of the city. Arlandes had attended the funeral flanked by his most loyal officers; they had walked the Cere House’s dark corridors together in silence, boots clacking on the paving stones, all in jet-black of a tight military cut, black-braided, sabers clanking dully against black boots. An attendant of the House had led them through its corridors with silent gestures. They had gathered in the Seventh Precinct under the rustling shadow of the waxcloth, where the body was to be slowly and reverently dismembered.
The Cere House catered to a variety of rites of ending. Mr. Hildebrand was a follower of austere and incandescent Tiber; his fortune, Lucia’s fortune, the fortune into which Arlandes had married and which was now no more than ashes and dirt to him, came from his interests in a number of the Church of Tiber’s mills and workhouses, including Harmony, Merry Vale, Barbotin, and Broadway. Accordingly, Mr. Hildebrand had demanded that his daughter be burned. Arlandes, like most military men, preferred not to play favorites among powers. Lucia herself had had a fondness for Lavilokan, of the mirrors—which was hardly surprising: she had been an only child, and a shy girl, and a pretty one. She’d believed she’d seen the god’s shimmering face more than once in the glitter, in the shadows, in the corner of her dressing-mirror, and perhaps she had. Accordingly, Arlandes had insisted that the Observants of Lavilokan conduct the proceedings. Mr. Hildebrand had shrugged and let him have his way. Hildebrand wasn’t a pious man. It would look bad in front of his business associates, but it was safer to cross them than to cross the Captain.
There had been three Observants, in velvet robes sewn with tiny glinting mirrors that clinked and rattled as they slowly crisscrossed the floor in front of and behind Lucia’s bier. When they came up close to Arlandes, the mirrors caught his reflection like a scattering flock of ravens. They read the service from heavy books with blank silver pages, in which it was said they could read their god’s words in the lines and angles of the infinite refractions.
Arlandes’ mind had been as blank and as brittle as the Observants’ mirror-masks.
Arlandes and his officers had stood stiffly on the left of the bier. When Lieutenant Duncan had tried to rest a hand on Arlandes’ shaking shoulder, the Captain had wrestled away as if assaulted. Duncan had stood with Arlandes on the deck of the
Vanguard
at the Lion’s Mouth when the air was black with powder and smoke, and Arlandes loved him dearly, but his touch—any touch but hers—was unbearable.
Mr. Hildebrand had stood on the right, surrounded by what appeared to be business associates. The mother was long dead; there was an ancient, wizened, weeping servant-thing there that might have been a nanny.
The Countess had not attended; affairs of the city made it impracticable. Holbach was present—whether as the Countess’s envoy or on his own behalf Arlandes had not known or cared. The fat scholar’s face had been sickly green with well-deserved guilt. One of his
intellectuals
—some girlish young man, or some girl disrespectfully in men’s mourning attire—had held his plump left arm and whispered to him. He’d had more sense than to approach Arlandes.
One of the attendants of the House—a Mr. Lemuel, a wiry little black-robed functionary, who had made the broken body presentable, who had placed the lilies and brought out the blades on a steel tray, who had presumed to shake Arlandes’ stiff hand—stood on Holbach’s right side, and made inappropriate remarks, too loudly, as if he were watching some play-act staged for his private amusement, and poorly staged at that. When
Arlandes had done his best. He had planned as diligently as always. Through the good graces of the Countess, they had been permitted to hold Lucia’s funeral deep in the inner precincts of the Cere House, as if the girl had been a hero or lord of the city. Arlandes had attended the funeral flanked by his most loyal officers; they had walked the Cere House’s dark corridors together in silence, boots clacking on the paving stones, all in jet-black of a tight military cut, black-braided, sabers clanking dully against black boots. An attendant of the House had led them through its corridors with silent gestures. They had gathered in the Seventh Precinct under the rustling shadow of the waxcloth, where the body was to be slowly and reverently dismembered.
The Cere House catered to a variety of rites of ending. Mr. Hildebrand was a follower of austere and incandescent Tiber; his fortune, Lucia’s fortune, the fortune into which Arlandes had married and which was now no more than ashes and dirt to him, came from his interests in a number of the Church of Tiber’s mills and workhouses, including Harmony, Merry Vale, Barbotin, and Broadway. Accordingly, Mr. Hildebrand had demanded that his daughter be burned. Arlandes, like most military men, preferred not to play favorites among powers. Lucia herself had had a fondness for Lavilokan, of the mirrors—which was hardly surprising: she had been an only child, and a shy girl, and a pretty one. She’d believed she’d seen the god’s shimmering face more than once in the glitter, in the shadows, in the corner of her dressing-mirror, and perhaps she had. Accordingly, Arlandes had insisted that the Observants of Lavilokan conduct the proceedings. Mr. Hildebrand had shrugged and let him have his way. Hildebrand wasn’t a pious man. It would look bad in front of his business associates, but it was safer to cross them than to cross the Captain.
There had been three Observants, in velvet robes sewn with tiny glinting mirrors that clinked and rattled as they slowly crisscrossed the floor in front of and behind Lucia’s bier. When they came up close to Arlandes, the mirrors caught his reflection like a scattering flock of ravens. They read the service from heavy books with blank silver pages, in which it was said they could read their god’s words in the lines and angles of the infinite refractions.
Arlandes’ mind had been as blank and as brittle as the Observants’ mirror-masks.
Arlandes and his officers had stood stiffly on the left of the bier. When Lieutenant Duncan had tried to rest a hand on Arlandes’ shaking shoulder, the Captain had wrestled away as if assaulted. Duncan had stood with Arlandes on the deck of the
Vanguard
at the Lion’s Mouth when the air was black with powder and smoke, and Arlandes loved him dearly, but his touch—any touch but hers—was unbearable.
Mr. Hildebrand had stood on the right, surrounded by what appeared to be business associates. The mother was long dead; there was an ancient, wizened, weeping servant-thing there that might have been a nanny.
The Countess had not attended; affairs of the city made it impracticable. Holbach was present—whether as the Countess’s envoy or on his own behalf Arlandes had not known or cared. The fat scholar’s face had been sickly green with well-deserved guilt. One of his
intellectuals
—some girlish young man, or some girl disrespectfully in men’s mourning attire—had held his plump left arm and whispered to him. He’d had more sense than to approach Arlandes.
One of the attendants of the House—a Mr. Lemuel, a wiry little black-robed functionary, who had made the broken body presentable, who had placed the lilies and brought out the blades on a steel tray, who had presumed to shake Arlandes’ stiff hand—stood on Holbach’s right side, and made inappropriate remarks, too loudly, as if he were watching some play-act staged for his private amusement, and poorly staged at that. When
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