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Inheritance plays a key role in Shara Yvarai’s abrupt rise to power. Many discount her father’s wealth and investments, contributing to the woman’s “self-made” image. Historical research makes it clear, however, that she did not make her influence, but relied on her dying father’s investments. It could also be concluded she squandered them quickly, as evidenced by her swift fall from favor.
— The High History, volume VII, chapter 6
The water almost scalds her skin and she winces lowing herself into it. She feels her body relax, feels the heat soothe her muscles. After a few moments, she’s asleep. Dreaming. Knowing her dream, she wanders through it. Her uncle’s party tonight. She smiles. Her uncle’s birthday. Masks and gifts. She has a mask and a gift.
She walks through the empty halls of her father’s house, wrapped in warm cotton. The dream still lingers in her mind and makes her smile. Her bare feet on the cold floor. In her bedroom, her sword sits on the chair of her writing desk. The belt is draped over the back of the chair and the blade itself rests carelessly like a rogue, draped over one of the arms.
The gown she ordered arrived earlier. Green, for her eyes. It is beautiful. It won’t do.
“Mageet!” she calls out, her voice echoing through the halls.
A moment later, small footfalls approach. The woman steps into the room, kneeling at the door. “My Lady?”
“I need a tailor,” she says, still looking at the dress.
“My Lady? The dress maker…”
“I said, a tailor.”
Mageet paused, her pretty face showing her confusion. “Yes, my Lady.” She went away quickly. Shara could hear her down below, talking to the steward. She puts the dress back in her wardrobe and closes it. Then, she drops the cotton and slides her dressing gown over her shoulders, tying it at the waist.
She looks at the sword.
The pommel resting on an arm, the length of it falling under the other. A cavalier stance. She sits on the bed. Then, she laughs, just a little.
“Bold rogue,” she says to the sword. “Alone with me here. In my private chamber.” She leans back, putting her hands behind her. “And look at you. As if you couldn’t care what I do.”
“My Lady?”
The voice startles her and she stands. A man’s silhouette in the doorway.
“Jansen,” she says, putting her hand on her breast. “You…”
“I understand you require a tailor?”
She recovers her composure, smiling softly. “Yes, Jansen.”
“I have a small bit of experience with a needle and thread, my Lady. Sewing your father’s clothes and wounds.” He steps into the room. “And I’m afraid you won’t find a Master Tailor. Not at this hour. Not so close to your uncle’s party.”
She nods. “Very well, Jansen. Then you will have to do.”
“I will do my best, my Lady.”
She turns, walks to the wardrobe and opens it. The green dress.
“This,” she says. “I need it… altered.”
Jansen looks at the dress, his old, grey eyes flashing in the dim light. “I see. In what manner?”
“The hem needs lifting in the front and rear.” She pauses. “So I can move.”
Jansen says nothing, only looking at the dress. Then, he turns, looking at the sword draped over her writing chair.
“So you can move, my Lady?”
She nods. “So I can move.”
He takes the dress from her hands, looking it over. “You will also need the shoulders altered, I think. Rather tight.” His eyes find hers again. “That will drop the neckline a bit, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t think I’m worried about that, Jansen.”
“I didn’t presume you were, my Lady.”
He turns on his heel, stepping away. “I will require Mageet’s assistance, I think. While my skills with the needle and thread are well and good, a certain amount of woman’s knowledge will be required.”
“That will be fine, Jansen,” she says, turning back to the wardrobe, closing it.
“I will let you know when I am finished, my Lady.” Then, he exits the room, closing the door behind him, leaving her alone.
With the sword.
* * *
Standing in front of the mirror with Mageet on her left and Jansen on her right, she watched them make the final stitches.
“That should do, my Lady,” Mageet says, blushing a little, bowing her head, trying not to let it show.
“The bust is…” Jansen pauses, looking for a word.
She turns to him, still standing on the stool, her chest equal with his nose. “Yes, Jansen?” she asked.
His eyes betray his disapproval. His eyes are all she can see.
“I shall say, ‘daring,’ my Lady.”
“Really?” she smirked. “I was hoping you’d say, ‘impressive.’”
“That is not my place to make such comment’ry,” he tells her. “You are my Master’s daughter.”
“Your Master nearly drank himself out of house and home, Jansen,” she said, her voice just a little scolding. She was at the bed, sliding gloves down her slender arms.
“Nevertheless, he is still your father. And deserving of respect.” This time his disapproval was in his voice.
She turns, one glove in hand. “I know that, Jansen. That’s why I came back.”
The tone in the room changed, Mageet sits still, as if afraid to move for the thunder about to fly between them.
“My Lady,” Jansen whispers, his body still and stiff. “I know why you are here. And I appreciate that…”
“That you aren’t out on the street looking for work with another house?”
Jansen’s head falls, just a little. Then, he turns to the chair where the sword rests. Taking it by the hilt and the belt, he walks toward her.
“You will be wearing this tonight, I presume?”
She pauses, hoping to catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. Then, she nods. “Yes. I will.”
He takes the belt in both hands. Reaching around her, he brings both ends to the front. “You will want to wear it loosely. So that, if necessary, you can tilt the blade so the metal tip on the sheath can hit the floor. That sound will get attention. If you hit it hard on the floor, it will clang. It is the sound of someone demonstrating impatience.”
He looks up at her. “It will show them you know what you are doing.”
He buckles the belt. “A swordsman never allows his own blade to touch another. And you never touch another’s blade. Not ever.” He pauses. “Do you understand?”
She nods. “Yes, Jansen.”
He pulls the belt down, over her hips. “Never draw your sword unless you intend to use it. A reckless buffoon draws his blade too soon. A coward draws it too late.”
His hand on the pommel, he draws the blade free from the sheath. “By wearing this, you tell the others you know how to use it. You know this, yes?”
Another nod. “Yes, Jansen.”
The blade flashes in the dim light, the crimson of the candles gleaming like freshly drawn blood on the iron.
“You will need a second,” he tells her. “Someone to negotiate the details of the duel… should blades be drawn.”
“I’ll find someone.”
He nods with the certainty of spring. “I know you will.”
He puts the sword in her right hand. She looks at it for a moment. Then, puts it in her left.
That catches him off-guard. But only for a moment. “You should wear your sheath on your right side, then. To make the blade easier to draw.”
She shakes her head. “No.” Puts the blade back in the sheath. “I won’t need speed. Just surprise.”
His mustached lip curls up into a smile. “Yes.”
They walk together, all three of them, out of the room, down the short hall, down the long stairs, to the entry way. Jansen opens the door.
“Oh!” Mageet shouts, her voice like a hummingbird. “Your mask! And your uncle’s gift!”
“Go fetch them,” Jansen orders. And like that hummingbird, she’s gone.
He turns to look down at her. The black hair she remembered as a girl is almost all gray now. His long nose, longer. His cheekbones poking through his skin.
“I know why you are here,” he tells her. “And I know what you are doing. Just be careful, my little one.”
His words fall down on her like leaves from a trusted tree. She feels her cheeks burn. Leaning up, Shara kisses him on the cheek. “I will,” she tells him.
“No, you won’t,” he says, sighing. “But I would never forgive myself for not saying it.”
Moments later, mask in hand, her present lifted and stowed on the carriage by the driver, she’s ready. Leaning out the window, she waves.
“Be back before dawn!” Jansen shouts, long after the carriage is away.
“Don’t count on it,” Mageet says, smiling up at him.
He shrugs. “I had to try.”
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