Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,93

veil in shadow?

“As in all things,” she said, “I expect your secrecy, Orso. But especially there.”

“Certainly, Founder.”

“Now…if you will excuse me, I’ve a meeting shortly.”

“I as well,” he said. “Good day, Founder.”

He watched her go, then turned and swept out to the hallways around the council building, where the legions of attendants and administrators and servants hovered to assist the throngs of great and noble men within. Among them was Berenice, yawning and rubbing her puffy eyes. “Just four hours?” she said. “That was quick, sir.”

“Was it,” said Orso, rushing past her. He walked through the crowd of people dressed in white and yellow—Dandolo Chartered colors—and moved on to the red and blue crowd—Morsini House—and then the purple and gold crowd—which was, of course, Michiel Body Corporate.

“Ah,” said Berenice. “Where are we going, sir?”

“You are going somewhere to sleep,” said Orso. “You’ll need it tonight.”

“And when will you sleep, sir?”

“When do I ever sleep, Berenice?”

“Ah. I see, sir.”

He stopped at the crowd of people dressed in dark green and black—Company Candiano colors. This crowd was much smaller, and much less refined. The effects of the Candiano bankruptcy still lingered, it seemed.

“Uh…what would you be planning to do here, sir?” asked Berenice with a touch of anxiety.

“Ask questions,” he said. He peered through the crowd. At first he wasn’t sure she’d be there and thought himself absurd for even imagining it. But then he saw her: one woman, standing apart from the group, her posture tall and noble.

Orso stared at her, and instantly regretted this idea. The woman wore a bewilderingly complicated dress, with puffs on her upper sleeves and her hair twisted up in an intricate brooch that was covered in pearls and ribbons. Her face was painted white, with the now-fashionable painted blue bar across her eyes.

“My God,” said Orso quietly. “She went in for all that aristocratic fluffery. I can’t believe it.”

Berenice glanced at the woman. Her eyes grew wide, and she stared at Orso in naked terror. “Don’t, sir.”

He flapped a hand at her. “Go home, Berenice.”

“Don’t…Don’t go talk to her. That would be deeply unwise.”

He understood her fear perfectly: the idea of approaching the daughter of the founder of a competing merchant house was mad. Especially if she was also the wife of the chief officer of that same house. But Orso had built a career on bad choices. “Enough,” he said.

“It would be outrageously inappropriate for you to approach her,” she said, “whatever your…”

He looked at her. “Whatever my what?”

Berenice glared at him. “Whatever your history with her, sir.”

“My own affairs,” said Orso, “are just that—my own. And unless you want to get tangled up in them, I suggest you leave now, Berenice.”

She looked at him for a moment longer. Then, sighing, she walked away.

Orso watched her go. He swallowed and tried to compose himself. Am I doing this for good reason, he wondered, or just to talk to her? He decided not to dither on it anymore. He pivoted on his heel and marched up to the woman.

“That dress,” he said, “looks absurd on you.”

The woman did a double take, her mouth open in outrage. Then she saw him, and the surprise evaporated from her face. “Ah. Of course. Good afternoon, Orso.” She glanced around nervously. Many of the Candiano Company servants were either staring or trying hard not to stare. “This is…very inappropriate, you know.”

“I guess I forget what ‘appropriate’ means these days, Estelle.”

“My experience, Orso, suggests you never knew in the first place.”

He grinned. “Does it? It is good to see you, Estelle. Even if you are stuffed into the back halls like a damned valet.”

She smiled back, or at least tried to. It was not the smile he was familiar with. When he’d known her years ago, Estelle Candiano’s eyes had been bright and alive, and her gaze had been sharper than a stiletto. Now there was something…dull to them.

She looked tired. Even though she was still twelve years his junior, Estelle now looked old.

She gestured ahead, and they moved out of earshot from the rest of the group. “Was it you who killed the meeting?” she asked. “Four hours is a little short, yes?”

“Not I. That would have been your husband.”

“Ah. What did Tomas say?”

“Some rather disparaging things about your father.”

“I see.” An awkward pause. “Were they true things, though?”

“Well, yes. But they still pissed me off.”

“Why? I thought you hated him. When you left Company Candiano, Orso, there was a lot of bad blood between you and