Mirk stared up at the Glass Tower from the base of the infirmary steps, thinking. It all seemed very improper, dropping in on Comrade Commander Margaret unannounced. But from what little he'd been able to learn about the manners of the high-born K'maneda by eavesdropping on the members of the Tenth, calling cards and sending along servants with letters before visiting was not the done thing. A holdover from ancient K'maneda habits, maybe.
He wasn't even sure whether it was right to refer to her by her title and given name. It was the pattern the healers of the Twentieth followed, and what Genesis favored when he was forced to be polite, but was it what the high-borns themselves used? There was something tricky involved there, Mirk suspected, involving the way in which the English guild mages who'd demanded ceremonial titles from their mortal king and the K'maneda who’d moved there with the City had intermarried. Margaret, he’d found out through more eavesdropping, was the third daughter of a poorly regarded English Grand Master. Left with no options in English mage society, she’d married into an old K'maneda line, the Rak'sen family, that had been in a position of authority within the mercenaries since before the City had been moved further west into Habsburg lands.
Her husband, Casyn, was the head of the Fourth Cavalry. It was a middling sort of command position, if Sheila was to be believed, rewarded to Casyn because of his blood more than due to any merit on his part. The Fourth was half teleporting mages and half horsemen, the latter being a holdover from simpler times. Those days, the horsemen were only deployed when a contract involved work on a realm the teleporting mages hadn't sorted out a good way of using their magic on. Even if the division wasn't one of the K'maneda's finest, it felt odd to Mirk not to call a lady so much older than himself and so further above him in station by her family name, given its storied past.
But everyone around the infirmary called her Comrade Commander Margaret, including her daughter Kali. It'd be best to follow suit, no matter how odd it felt. Just like it'd be best for him to be off across the parade grounds to the Glass Tower before he wasted the whole of the morning shift he'd begged for Sheila to cover for him woolgathering on the front steps. Sighing, Mirk smoothed his hands down the front of his justacorps to double-check that he hadn't missed any buttons while hastily dressing in the supply closet. Then he drew his grandfather's staff out of his breast pocket, tapped it up to its full size, and set out.
The Twelfth was as reasonable a place as any to start to wind his way into an understanding of the high-born side of the K'maneda hierarchy. If Casyn's command was middling, then Margaret's was entirely ornamental: the Twelfth was the home of all the high-born K'maneda women who wanted to actively participate in the organization, the infirmary healers aside. Their main duties were Seeing for potential complications in the other divisions' contracts and enchanting swords and wands for the men to use while they were out fighting. Though, if Kali's griping was to be believed, most of what the women did up in the Glass Tower all day was limited to needlework. However, very few women in the K'maneda had as martial a disposition as Kali Rak'sen.
Most other noblemen, Mirk knew, wouldn't think twice about how they presented themselves in front of a gaggle of women, none of whom he was looking to court. Mirk had to concentrate hard to keep his worry from seeping through onto his face as he walked across the parade grounds to the great ebony double doors at the foot of the Glass Tower. He felt woefully underdressed in his gray traveling suit, plain and conservatively cut, the usual falls of lace forsaken in favor of a shirt with good pearl buttons to highlight his wrists and collar.
But if there was one piece of gossip about the high-born English that he remembered from his time in French society, it was that they were a dour, depressing, and joyless lot. No dancing that pushed the limits of acceptability, no bright and lively silks or extravagant patterns, no witty repartee. They had taken the dictates of Calvin and his ilk far too much to heart, in the opinion of most French nobles. If Mirk had come to Comrade Commander Margaret's doorstep dressed in one of his more fashionable suits, she most likely would have thought him a worthless fop and sent him away. He couldn't be sure that the better off among the K'maneda held the same views as the rest of the English, but considering the prevailing tendency toward wearing all black, Mirk assumed that, if anything, the K'maneda were even worse about taking life too seriously.
The two women guarding the doors were wearing black, in any case. Their dresses had high standing collars and were buttoned up tight, their skirts lacking the usual frills and voluminous petticoats that were in favor with the French noble ladies the past few seasons. Though they had no insignia on them, Mirk still thought their dresses still had a certain martial air to them. And both ladies had wands in holsters around their narrow waists in place of swords. Once he drew within speaking distance, Mirk greeted them with a deep, deferential bow. Neither woman moved to curtsey in return.
"Good morning, comrades," Mirk said, putting on his warmest, most inoffensive smile. And he made sure to adjust his grip on his grandfather's staff so that it was clear he had no intention of taking a swing at either of them if they let their guard down. "I apologize for bothering you. May I inquire as to whether Comrade Commander Margaret is available?"
The words all sounded clunky to Mirk's ears. He'd tried looking up the right words in the dictionary to convey the precise degree of politeness he would have shown a noble lady in French, but, as always, English had come up lacking. The two women exchanged questioning looks. "Who are you?" the one to the right of the door asked.
Mirk bowed again. "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon, comrades. Your servant."
The look of puzzlement on their faces deepened. The same woman who'd greeted him continued the questioning. "Comrade Commander Margaret didn't say she was expecting a visitor from abroad."
"Ah, it's a little confusing...I am from abroad originally, comrades, but I've since joined the Twentieth and moved to the City."
They both frowned at the mention of the Twentieth. "What do you wish to speak to her about?"
"That's a little confusing as well. But I promise, I'm not here to waste her time. It concerns her daughters. Perhaps Kali may have mentioned me to the Comrade Commander? I have healed her several times..."
Their expressions shifted again at the mention of Kali's name. Though, from what Mirk could sense of their emotions, the exasperated slant their frowns took on was related to some ill-will they held toward Kali, not toward him. At least it got one of them to budge, finally. The woman to the left of the doors dipped into a utilitarian curtsy before turning away from him to open one of the giant ebony doors and slip inside, as the other kept her gaze fixed on Mirk. "We'll ask if she has time to meet with you, seigneur."
"My thanks, comrade."
Mirk didn't know what to do with himself while he waited. It didn't feel right, treating what was most likely a noble lady like a common valet, ignoring her until he heard word from Margaret. The polite thing to do would have been to make pleasant conversation, to discuss the cold turn the City's weather had taken, or ask about the lady's work up in the Glass Tower. But even the more gregarious K'maneda, Mirk had noticed, weren't fond of small-talk. At least not outside of the healers.
He settled for leaning on his staff and keeping an eye on the field transporter. No one had been sent out that day, according to what he'd seen and heard at the infirmary. He didn't know whether it meant that the terrible battle that had brought in Elijah Oliver and the Destroyer's arrow had put an end to that contract, or if the high-born officers were simply taking the time to re-calibrate their strategy before sending in the low-born fighters from the Seventh.
After five or so minutes, the other woman returned. Rather than coming out to retake her position, she held the door open, nodding to Mirk. Her expression was lighter now, Mirk thought, more curious than skeptical. A good sign. Though he couldn't imagine that Kali would have had anything nice to say about him to her mother. "Comrade Commander Margaret will see you, seigneur. This way."
Flashing both women another smile and ducking his head in thanks, Mirk entered the Glass Tower. Though its outside appeared to be made entirely of glass, the inside was mostly stone, of the same featureless, impossibly regular sort that all the original buildings in the City were made of. Aside from a lone pillar of solid glass that stretched from down beneath the ground floor all the way up to the tower's pinnacle. Mirk wondered if its ultimate bottom was buried somewhere in the mess of tunnels Genesis had led him through to meet with Am-Gulat. It would make sense — Genesis had told him once that the Glass Tower regulated the chaotic magic that kept the City wandering, somehow.
As much as Mirk hadn't enjoyed creeping around the tunnels, he would have endured the experience again and again to avoid what lay ahead of him. Rather than by stairs, the upper levels of the Glass Tower were accessed by a levitating platform built around the pillar of glass, controlled by runes and levers. Those floors were made of stone as well; Mirk only assumed that the pillar must extend all the way to the roof. But the platform itself, like the outside of the tower and its central pillar, was made entirely of glass, though someone had been considerate enough to install an iron railing around its outer edge. The guardswoman opened an ornamental gate in the railing, holding it to one side, waiting for Mirk to enter before her.
"Ah...euh..."
"Is something wrong, seigneur?”
"Oh! No, nothing. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm not used to the K'maneda way of doing things yet, methinks," he said, shuffling over to the platform, forcing himself to keep smiling and, more importantly, keep staring straight ahead. "I only feel a little rude, getting on ahead of you."
The guardswoman didn't comment, but she did look pleased, in a quiet, subtle way. Mirk would have been more reassured by it, had she not bustled on after him and immediately thrown the platform into life. It rose soundlessly, powered by some sort of chaotic magic that Mirk could feel brushing against his mental shielding but couldn't see a single shadowy trace of. Though his vision was growing dark around the edges, he was certain it wasn't from the chaos.
Mirk had always hated heights. He had to bite down hard to keep from vomiting. Thankfully, he'd remembered to ask Yule to heal the scab on his lip for him before he'd left the infirmary. Otherwise he'd have ended up bleeding all over the front of his justacorps.
He tried to focus on the floors gliding silently past them rather than down at the growing gap between his feet and the earth. Mirk was only able to catch the barest glimpses of them, but most of them seemed empty, all bare stone floors and walls made of clouded-over glass. Very few noble ladies in the K'maneda elected to work, Mirk supposed, if they could handle all their business on just one floor. That or the real work of managing the K'maneda's legions of menfolk went on in other places, in out of the way parlors and kitchens, rather than in the heart of the City.
The instant the platform arrived at the topmost floor, Mirk was off it in a flash, his manners forgotten in his rush to have stone beneath his feet again. He thought he heard the guardswoman stifle a laugh from behind him. Though he felt himself go red, he couldn't exactly blame her for it. Considering the temperaments of the men the K'maneda ladies were more accustomed to, he had to be a spectacle. The women up on the top floor were polite enough not to make a show of it, but he could feel all their eyes on him as he tried to gather his wits and catch his breath.
The topmost floor of the Glass Tower was one large room, each side of it devoted to different tasks, the divisions marked by furniture and rugs rather than walls or screens. To his left, a pair of women were standing on either side of a long table, one of them reading from a grimoire while the other worked at casting enchantments on a sword. And on his right, there were even more tables full of books, pushed flush against the wall, though there were gaps in between the tables where mirrors were hung for scrying, divination spells written directly on the cloudy glass around them in wax pencil.
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But the majority of the women were straight ahead of him, seated on a circle of unforgiving straight-backed wooden chairs, chatting with one another as they occupied themselves with their embroidery and other handicrafts while waiting for their magical potential to recover after bouts of casting. One of the women stood at his arrival, passing the wand she'd been adorning with tiny gemstones off to another lady to finish. Mirk reapplied his smile, hoping it looked genuine enough to conceal the fact that he still felt like he was about to throw up.
He was relieved when she greeted him with a curtsy. That, he knew what to do with, though she didn't offer her hand out afterward for the customary kiss. Mirk returned the gesture with a bow. "Comrade Commander Margaret. I apologize for coming unannounced."
"It's no trouble, seigneur. Please, come sit."
Margaret led him past the sewing circle to a second small sitting area near the wall. It must have served as something like a private parlor for the commander of the Twelfth, or some kind of informal office. The chairs there were more ornate and plush than the ones the other women were sitting at, and there was a small worktable off to one side, atop an ornate Oriental rug with the K'maneda seal woven in among its flowers and birds of paradise. Margaret gestured him to one and Mirk sat down, studying her as she took the chair across from him.
The resemblance between Margaret and Kali was faint, though Mirk could detect flickers of it in the determined focus of her dark eyes and the firm set to her rounded chin. Everything else about Margaret was different. Kali was tall and wide about both shoulders and hips, her complexion dark. Every part of her was laced with scars that stood out bold against it, scars she never tried to hide with powder or distracting finery. Her mother was a small, narrow, fragile woman, the skin of her face and hands immaculately white. And though her dress was plain black like that of the other K'maneda high-born ladies, it was speckled with small, personalized details that made her rank clear to anyone who cared to take notice. The fabric was of better quality, not silk but just as smooth and lustrous, its fastenings silver and intricately carved, just like the buckles on her shoes and the brooch at her neck. The latter had a garnet the size of a Louis d'or set in its center. Most likely enchanted.
"I believe I owe you my thanks, seigneur," Margaret said as she smoothed out her skirts. "You've done excellent work on Kali. So many of the other healers that handle women's matters are butchers. I would have never thought there'd be someone so skilled in the Twentieth. But I see it must be because you had the benefit of a proper education before coming here."
Mirk didn't know how to respond to that. She was testing him, no doubt, gauging his opinion on the other healers, both high and low-born. He decided it'd be best to sidestep the matter, at least for now. "Children are always getting into something, aren't they? Both daughters and sons. But I do admire Miss Kali’s strength, even if it causes some trouble from time to time."
"Has she been causing you trouble?" A frown came onto Margaret's face, like she was bracing herself for bad news.
"Oh, pas du tout, Comrade Commander. She's a bit...rough, yes, but she's always kind, in her own way. Actually, I came to speak to you about her. Methinks she might be able to help me with a small problem I've run into. Along with her sister, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
"Is that so?"
"Have you heard of the Circle? A society of French mages..."
Margaret's eyebrows lifted, ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted from him to the wall to their right as she thought. The cloudiness had been scraped off a section of the glass, creating a sort of window to the outside. Mirk had been doing his best to avoid looking out it ever since he'd sat down, lest his nausea flare up again. "Yes, the Circle of Friends. The French have always had a talent for that kind of humor."
Mirk chuckled, shrugging. "The Grand Masters are all friends, sort of. Friends don't always get along, after all."
"Why do you ask, seigneur?"
"My grandfather sat on the Circle for many decades before he passed last winter."
"My condolences." The sentiment was genuine, Mirk thought, but clouded with a certain suspicion of what a person with that kind of lineage would be doing among K'maneda healers. And he couldn't exactly fault her for that, though he wasn't about to go into the details. Namely, that he'd happened to make friends with what were widely considered to be some of the worst people the K'maneda had to offer.
"Thank you, Comrade Commander. I've been invited to one of their meetings in a few days. Nothing too serious, mostly attending to a few things that were left undone after my grandfather's death. I don't expect to inherit his position, that's not how the Circle works, but I'm expected to follow the same traditions that a member would. When the Circle meets, it's expected that each member brings along two attendants. Methinks maybe they were meant to be guards, long ago, but it's mostly ceremonial now. They're more like...friends of friends? People you think the others might be interested in knowing, or who can speak to some problem you're having. I don't have many close ties with the French guilds, so I couldn't think of anyone to bring with me right away. But since I'm part of the K'maneda now, it makes sense to introduce you all to them, non? The only problem is that I'm a healer. Comrade Commander Emir is always in need of more hands, so I wouldn't feel right taking any of the other healers away, even if it's only for an afternoon. That and, well. The other members of the Twentieth are bit...euh...rough."
It was enough context for Margaret to put the pieces together. Her eyebrows lifted further as she met his eyes once more. "If you need someone with manners to go with you, I'm not certain Kali would make the best impression either."
Mirk met her skepticism with a smile. "Mais non! Methinks she'd be perfect. You know how we are on the Continent, Comrade Commander. We're all fascinated by different types of people. And nothing is more fascinating than a woman warrior. It's not a common thing. That and I really do think Miss Kali shows some of the best parts of the K'maneda spirit. She's very bold."
"I'll agree that she’s bold," Margaret said, with a smile that didn't have a trace of good humor in it.
"And we don't expect guests to follow all the same rules that we do. A misstep from someone who knows is one thing, but one from a stranger is just even more fascinating. Besides, as I said, the role is mostly ceremonial. All Miss Kali and her sister would have to do is stand behind my chair and look distinctive. And methinks you can agree that Miss Kali cuts a very distinctive figure."
"She takes after her father in that way."
Though Margaret said the words in an offhand sort of way, already deliberating the merits of Mirk's proposal rather than continuing to dwell on what she perceived as her daughter's troublesome nature, Mirk thought he heard a bit of bitterness in them. Bitterness that made him wonder what sort of man Casyn Rak'sen was, aside from a middling cavalry commander. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to introduce her to a more liberal-minded society,” Margaret said after a long pause. “She's already offended all the English mages so badly she isn't welcome with anyone aside from the K'maneda and the fae. And I'd rather she didn't get involved with either."
Margaret wasn't being direct, Mirk thought he could tell what she was thinking of. Though English and French mage society differed in several ways, the principal concern of noble mothers with unmarried daughters was something of a universal. That and every time Kali came in to the infirmary, she always had something cross to say about her mother's constant efforts to find her a suitable husband.
He had no intentions of trying to play matchmaker along with Margaret, but he was willing to allow her to assume he was, if it meant not having to go to the Circle with a pair like K'aekniv and Slava in tow. French mages could be more accommodating of strangeness than the English, but there were limits. That and Mirk was worried the Grand Masters would get the impression he wanted a fight if he brought along two men who looked like they could rip trees out of the ground. Kali and her sister would be just interesting enough to take the attention off him and let him make his observations more or less in peace, once the matter of the Montigny men was settled. Mirk smiled and nodded. "I'd be willing to compensate Miss Kali and her sister for their time, of course. I understand that they both must be busy."
"The K'maneda ladies are not nearly as...mercenary as the men. The introduction will suffice. How am I to prepare them? I'm aware that your countrymen have certain opinions about what constitutes proper attire.” She gave his justacorps a closer look, her brow furrowing.
"Oh, I wouldn't expect them to follow our fashions," Mirk said, laughing. "Actually...everyone seemed rather taken with the K'maneda way of dressing the last time they saw it. Forgive me for not knowing, but do the women also have a dress uniform, of sorts? The men's uniform went over very well." More due to the amusement all the other nobles got out of tormenting Genesis than the outfit itself, but the point still stood. And Kali and Genesis were fairly similar in that aspect.
"It's rarely used. But my daughters both have one, I believe. If not, it wouldn't be dear to have something tailored to fit."
"I'm willing to pay, like I said. I'm very grateful, Comrade Commander. You and your daughters would save me the embarrassment of having to go alone."
Margaret shifted forward in her chair, her intense gaze focusing tightly on him. Somehow, the determination in it was worse coming from her than Kali, although Mirk got the impression that her mother was much less likely to hit him upside the head if he had something to say that she found distasteful. "I do have to ask, however...how did you come here, seigneur? And how has it not become common knowledge that there's a man of your distinction languishing in the Twentieth? Did Comrade Commander Emir claim you for himself due to your lineage?"
"Beg pardon, Comrade Commander?"
"You're a half-blood too, are you not?"
"Ah, yes, well..."
"I had assumed you were in the Twentieth due to your foreign birth. Kali did mention that you were French. But she never mentioned that you are the head of a noble family. Or that you are half-angel. Dishoael...that's the name of the Empire's Cathedral Guard, isn't it?"
Mirk was taken aback. But he nodded all the same, doing his best not to start fiddling with the staff across his knees to distract himself from his discomfort. The title of Cathedral Guard was a human invention, one that his father had always chafed at but had never had the patience to argue with anyone about. His father always saw himself as the descendant of the Western shields, a brave sentry on the edge of the Empire's domain. What the humans decided to call him was unimportant. Save for the one human whose opinion he valued more than anything. And the worst she ever called him was grumpy, when he hadn't been getting enough naps in. "Yes, that was my father. I'm surprised you know of him, Comrade Commander."
"An old tutor of mine had dealings with the angels. He said the Cathedral Guard was quite uninterested in his opinions on what sort of impression the servants of the Empire were making on the mortals."
"Yes, that does sound like him," Mirk said with a sigh. "He, ah, has passed as well."
"My condolences." If anything, that bit of news made Margaret's gaze even more intense, somehow. "I don't mean to pry, seigneur, but it's very curious that a person of your line has ended up in the City."
Mirk decided to be as truthful as he could without raising any more suspicions, shrugging. "Euh...it was a...complex situation. I fell very ill when my family passed. Since we'd hired a group of K'maneda to defend us right before it happened, the one who led them decided to bring me back here for treatment instead of trying to find a French healer who understood how to treat the kindling sickness. Since there was nothing left for me back home, I thought it might be better to start again here. I was raised in the Church as a child, but the orders that accept mages are well enough off without another healer. I thought this would be a little like serving the Church, since so many of the men here are poor. But I’ve received news that part of my family survived after all. So...well. Now my duty is to both them and the low-born men."
After a long pause, Margaret relented, smoothing an imperceptible wrinkle out of her skirts and leaning back in her chair. "An…interesting choice, seigneur. Apparently the French fondness for oddities extends further than I'd heard."
Margaret flashed him another smile. But this time, Mirk thought, the smile was friendlier, more open. He wasn't sure whether it was from pity over his circumstances or something else entirely. Either way, he wasn't going to question it. He'd passed whatever evaluation that Margaret held men to, and that was fine enough, regardless of her reasoning.
Margaret lifted a hand and one of her ladies came to her. "Would you bring the seigneur and I tea, Comrade Elizabeth? I have a few more questions about this Circle of yours," she added to Mirk, as the woman nodded and headed off. "I'm interested to hear how your way of managing the guilds differs from ours here in England. If you have the time to stay for tea, that is."
Since he'd resolved all the worst questions Margaret could hurl at him, Mirk was finally able to relax some, leaning back in his chair as well, mirroring Margaret's pose. With the difficult matter of his reason for being in the City out of the way, Mirk felt more at home in the Glass Tower, despite being leagues away from the comforting murmur of the earth. Though the trappings were different, it really wasn’t much different than what he'd been accustomed to at home, before everything had gone wrong. It was just another mid-morning tea passed in the parlor of a noble lady, whose ambitions and concerns made more sense to him than the dire and bloody mechanizations of great men, of generals and Grand Masters. For the first time since he'd set out from the infirmary, Mirk felt like he knew what he was doing.
And he hoped it came through to Margaret, as he smiled and nodded. "Of course, Comrade Commander. I'd be happy to stay."