The Marble Pavilion of Foreign Envoys glittered with three thousand beeswax candles, cut-crystal chandeliers from the Venetian Isles. The perfumed hypocrisy of high royal statecraft.
It was the formal evening reception for the Plenary Assembly of the Grand Synod. Beneath vaulted ceilings painted with grand allegorical frescoes of Justice trampling civil discord underfoot, several hundred aristocrats, foreign ambassadors. High Notaries in ermine-trimmed silk robes mingled over flutes of iced champagne and silver platters of roast pheasant. The floor was a sea of shimmering brocade, powdered wigs. The clinking of jeweled medals awarded for campaigns won entirely on paper.
Near the central fountain of distilled rosewater stood Vane Vale.
The Merchant of Guilt was in his total element. He wore a borrowed evening tailcoat of midnight-blue broadcloth. His gold-filigree waistcoat shone under the crystal lights, his dark goatee trimmed to a spotless, razor-sharp point. In his left hand, he held a crystal glass of vintage port. In his right, hidden halfway inside his tailored coat pocket, his gold-trimmed brass counting frame clicked with rhythmic, malicious fury.
Beside him stood Lord Ren. The Ash Emperor was clad in formal blackened iron parade armor over a tunic of dark northern wolf pelt, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his scarred jaw set like an iron anvil. His sheer physical presence radiated the chilling menace of a conqueror waiting for his siege engines to breach the gate. Between the two of them, they looked like an extortionist and his headsman attending an opera.
