Chapter Text
“So would you like the good news or the bad news first?”
Illario takes advantage of the mirror in Lucanis’ bedroom to lick his thumb, smoothing down an errant hair in his left eyebrow. As if somehow popping down to the gardens to peer in at the gondola landing for five minutes would be enough to ruin his carefully-groomed visage, or wrinkle the crisp lines of his finest tunic and vest. Lucanis tries not to stare at his own reflection the way he's been doing for the past fifteen minutes, counting down the seconds until the gondolas leave for the Chantry.
“I prefer the good news first, and no bad news at all.”
Illario barks a laugh, shifting to examine the way his black velvet vest sits at his waist. “Allow me to soften the blow then, cousin. The good news is, she's not terrible to look at.”
“Ah.” Privately, Lucanis doesn't much care about what his new bride looks like as much as the fact that he's getting married at all. This is not what he wanted. Caterina knows it's not what he wanted, but there were expectations placed on him as the elder of her grandsons (by five months, he thinks bitterly) that Illario got to dodge.
“Oh, another bit of good news! She's not taller than you!”
Lucanis sighs. They know each other well enough that he can tell when Illario is talking around something. “What is the bad news?”
“Well.” Illario looks slightly dodgy for a second, but that could just be because he can't artfully arrange a black silk handkerchief in the pocket of a black velvet vest to its maximum artistic effect. Tone on tone. For shame. “She's shorter than you, and not bad-looking…for an elf. Viago de Riva neglected to mention that his beloved sister is not a blood relation. You are marrying a de Riva by adoption.”
Of course. Of course de Riva obfuscated this information until the very last moment. Viago de Riva has only been the Talon of House de Riva for three years, but everything Lucanis knows of the man (and he knows a lot, thanks to Caterina's insistence on knowing one’s enemies intimately) suggests he's far cannier and infinitely more paranoid than his predecessor. Truth be told, House Dellamorte had been aware that the Fifth Talon had no children, no heir apparent by birth. For years they banked on that fact.
They had not been aware that de Riva had had a sister, adoptive or otherwise, until the second round of treaty negotiations. Not that Lucanis can blame him for keeping any potential points of weakness a secret. Any familial relation is a point of leverage, a tender spot to drive the dagger into— a lesson House Dellamorte learned long ago.
“Why is her being elven bad news?” Lucanis asks instead. “All of the Houses employ elves. We employ elves. Several of our finest assassins are elves. Bolivar Nero is an elf. Andarateia Cantori is an elf. The Crows would not exist without elves. Besides, wasn't your latest fling an—”
Illario waves a dismissive hand. “Do not think I am disparaging the quality of their work, cousin. I'm certain Caterina would rather have an elf like Teia for a grandchild than me.”
“Then what are you disparaging?”
“An elf? For fun? For a fling? Yes, certainly, that goes without saying. Why should I turn my nose up at that? But to marry?”
Lucanis falls silent. Once more, it's less the fact that his bride is an elf than the fact that she's his bride to begin with. Marriage has always been a distant prospect, a bridge to be crossed at some uncertain future point. Having hit his thirties, it felt even more distant than ever until he was brought to the negotiating table. House de Riva and House Dellamorte have been warring for the better part of two decades. Neither have gained or ceded ground that they didn't eventually win back, an endless cycle of vengeance that ultimately went nowhere, other than with the bodies to their pyres. Two decades is far too long for a stalemate. The position he holds as Caterina's grandson, much like the position his bride holds as Viago de Riva's sister, means that Lucanis is the only chance that House Dellamorte has at any real lasting peace. He cannot go into this with his cousin, his closest and only friend, casting any aspersions against this alliance.
Even if it's an alliance Lucanis does not want to be part of, at least in this particular regard. But if it will bring an end to the losses, the years of on-and-off chaos and bloodshed between Dellamorte and de Riva, then Lucanis must do his part. It's his duty to House Dellamorte. To the Crows. He has no other choice.
“I will thank you to not talk disparagingly about my wife,” Lucanis says. Never mind the fact that they are not yet married, and she isn't going to be his wife until they stand together under the eyes of the Maker and Treviso's Revered Mother and speak their vows. “If we are going to make this work, I will need to trust her. She will need to trust us. Do you think she’ll manage that if she hears her new in-laws slandering her heritage?"
"You know I—"
Lucanis presses forward, pushing his point home. "Do you think Viago de Riva will react kindly to any reports of House Dellamorte welcoming her with anything less than open arms?”
"And do you really think we can make peace last with de Riva?" Illario scoffs. "I give it a week before they break the treaty and make an attempt on your life. A month, at most. Viago de Riva is an ambitious man. He will be biding his time, mark my words.”
Lucanis sits back in his chair, staring at the cold dregs of his coffee. The odds of getting another cup before they leave for the Chantry are slim, but not impossible. It takes him a moment to realize the melancholy he feels is not borne of the empty coffee cup, nor of Illario's argument, but of the room. Of all the silly things.
He has not lived under Caterina's roof for over a decade but it is still a challenge to not sit in his childhood bedroom, now stripped of personal touches and done up as a guest room befitting a grown Master Assassin of House Dellamorte, and not feel as if this may be the last time he'll ever see these walls again. Just one more point negotiated between Dellamorte and de Riva: the arrangement of a new marital abode that belonged to neither House. Lucanis can't imagine feeling particularly at ease living in a de Riva villa with his new bride, or vice-versa. Though he supposes a proclamation of their new home being neutral territory won't mean much if, as Illario suspects, de Riva will attempt to do away with him anyway.
“Ever the optimist, Illario,” he says at last, tipping the last cold mouthful in his cup past his lips.
“Call me the realist. My hopes cannot be dashed if they weren't high to begin with.” A distinctly stormy look has settled on Illario's brow as he considers something. “At least you can still work.”
“Of course I will still work. What else would I do?”
“Preferably something that would get you out of the house before your blushing bride realizes she has an opportunity to bury you in the courtyard. Just….be careful, cousin.” Illario hesitates, then settles his hand on Lucanis' shoulder, squeezing as he always does as they part before missions or journeys taken separately. This is one journey Illario won't follow him on. “We have already lost so much. We cannot lose you too.”
“I'll only be a few streets away," Lucanis says, giving Illario's forearm a reassuring grip. The same as he always does in return. "Besides, it's not as if I have to live in Salle.”
That, too, had been considered carefully. The negotiators from de Riva had at first objected most vehemently to the couple staying in Treviso which has, historically and in terms of sheer influence, always been a Dellamorte town. But then again, it wasn't like they could simply move to a point halfway between Treviso and Salle, where House de Riva's estate proper is. In the end they'd settled on a property— less a palazzo and more a townhouse with a courtyard and its own landing for gondolas— in the far end of Heart and Central. If Lucanis wished, he could walk to the Villa Dellamorte whenever the mood struck him. Perhaps the dangling promise of the seat of Second Talon had been enough to make de Riva capitulate and agree to keep them close to Lucanis' home.
“You know what I mean.” Illario shrugs, and just as suddenly as it had descended upon him, the tempestuous air lifts. He squeezes Lucanis’ shoulder again, before slapping him heartily on the back. “But enough of doom and gloom! This is your wedding day, cousin. We should enjoy the occasion while it lasts. I never thought you would actually beat me to the altar.”
Lucanis can't help but snort. Even the most serious of Illario's romances hadn’t lasted much longer than a year, and Lucanis knows for a fact that an offer of marriage was never on the table. “It is a shock for me as well,” he says dryly.
Illario grins. It is his usual the Masters Dellamorte against the world grin, and it lifts Lucanis' spirits more than he can say. Whatever they had just been considering — broken treaties, Lucanis' impending murder at the hands of his new in-laws— perhaps it won't be that bad. This arrangement, this ceasefire, is only business. And at the end of the day, a marriage is a contract. Lucanis knows contracts, and knows them well. How is this any different from a regular job?
After all, there's nothing in the contract that states he must fall in love with the bride from House de Riva.
───●◎●───
Time-honored Trevisan wedding tradition dictates that the wedding parties depart for the Chantry in separate gondolas, each taking a different route which would allow them to pass beneath seven different bridges to begin the new marriage with good fortune. Each bridge would be crowded with passersby, crowds of Trevisans vying for views of the marital parties and the beautifully-decorated gondolas, strewn with flowers and fabric drapery, and to call down well wishes for the happy couple.
Naturally, this tradition is a favorite of the Crows, given that most targets are too distracted by impending nuptials to worry about assassins in the crowds of well-wishers. Lucanis doesn't think he takes a full breath until the gondola docks at the Chantry landing, despite the strictest order of neutrality decreed by both Caterina Dellamorte and Viago de Riva. If a member of any House, from the seats of the Talons to the lowliest cuchillos, so much as drew a knife within eyesight of the wedding party, retribution would be swift and total. Far too much rides on this alliance, but that doesn't mean there wouldn't be any attempts or that they can breathe easily. Any House ambitious enough could take advantage of such a rare opportunity. The First and new Second Talons being in the same place at the same time? Tempting quarry for anyone looking to throw a coup and claim the highest seats of power for themselves.
The unfortunate consequence of the order of neutrality is that, for the first time in almost his entire life, Lucanis is unarmed. Blades are not, strictly speaking, necessary to kill a man, though rapiers and daggers do help to greatly expedite the process. While he does take some comfort in the studded leather breastplate over his black linen shirt, beautifully tooled with its feathered pauldrons at the shoulders, he feels somewhat naked without the weight of his rapier at his belt. The fit of his fine black boots feels strange without a boot knife tucked against his ankle. Even his covered arms feel odd, too light by far without the comfort of a stiletto slipped up his sleeve. All he can think about is the places where his weapons aren't, and when the gondola bumps gently against the landing it pulls him from his thoughts with some surprise. He hadn't even registered the trip, or the onlookers and well-wishers on the seven bridges.
“You look like you're about to throw up, cousin,” Illario comments. “Be sure to aim into the canal and not on your boots. We'd never hear the end of it from House de Riva. Think they’re snobby enough to call off the wedding if your boots got dirty?”
“Enough, Illario,” Caterina chides. Lucanis watches as Illario shifts, sitting up a little straighter. When Caterina Dellamorte addresses you directly, you sit up straight and listen. “Times are changing, and swiftly. After today we no longer count House de Riva as our enemies. They will be family. We will speak of them accordingly, whatever our history.”
“Of course.” Illario gives Lucanis a significant glance. Lucanis can almost hear the unspoken comment he knows better than to make in front of Caterina: Who needs enemies when you have family?
The Dellamortes have arrived first: another tradition in the grand pageantry of Trevisan wedding customs. Illario leaps from the gondola bench to the landing in order to offer his arm to Caterina, taking care not to let the hem of his rather dashing cape dip into the canal. Their grandmother is dressed in a wide-collared gown of steely silk, rings glittering on her fingers as she grips her cane. Lucanis follows, trying not to think of the one notable absence in Caterina's suite of rings: the opal, his mother's opal, the mark of Caterina's favor now securely tucked away in Lucanis' breast pocket.
In the planning stages he had asked her if she really meant to part with it for something as unsentimental as a political alliance. Her adamance that it was as much a marriage as it was a ceasefire and alliance shut down any further questioning on his part. Lucanis supposed it still counted as a mark of her favor, if only because Caterina would refuse to even entertain the notion of him marrying someone she didn’t approve of.
That should be good enough for him, he reasons with himself as the Dellamorte wedding party waits just outside the Chantry’s wide double doors. It is good enough for him.
…never mind the fact that he hasn’t even met his bride, and only has Illario’s scant description and the knowledge that Caterina approves to rely upon. All he really knows about her is she is a de Riva (obviously), she is an elf (though not bad to look at, thank you Illario), and she is called Rook. Lucanis wonders if it’s her given name, or an appellation like The Black Shadow or The Demon of Vyrantium.
Delegations from the other Houses have begun to gather in groups and clusters below the Chantry steps, all a respectful distance away from the Dellamorte party and the gondola landing. Lucanis watches Caterina note each new arrival, her piercing gaze swiftly passing across the groups, likely looking for weapons or any subtle tells of conspiracy. Vigilance, even on such a special occasion and under the auspices of an order of neutrality, was how his grandmother still firmly held onto the seat of First Talon— even after House de Riva’s multiple attempts to unseat her in years past. A Crow did not reach her seventies without being cautious to the verge of paranoia.
“Nonna,” comes a voice from the bottom of the Chantry steps. Caterina and the two cousins all turn as one to see Andarateia Cantori, Seventh Talon of House Cantori, clad in an artfully-draped gown of teal chiffon. A statement in terms of beauty and deference to the occasion: the fit of it ensures that Teia could not conceal a dagger anywhere on her person without the shape of the weapon being patently obvious. That she looks like a work of art is merely a secondary benefit. She smiles winningly at Caterina, bowing her head respectfully before leaning in to air-kiss the older woman’s cheeks.
“Andarateia,” Caterina says, warm as she possibly can be. Certainly warmer than she had ever been to her grandsons in their youths, but Lucanis doesn't begrudge Teia this. It is not her fault, after all. Caterina raises one hand to grip Teia’s, the gesture affectionate rather than downright terrifying. “House Cantori has our thanks for joining us in witnessing this momentous occasion. Not to mention for so graciously allowing us use of the Diamond for the festivities after.”
“For such an historic occasion? A new chapter for the Crows? Rampaging brontos could not stop us from being here. It is an honor to be of assistance,” Teia says, giving Caterina’s hand a squeeze before turning her attention to Lucanis. “And don’t you look handsome, Lucanis! Rook is a very lucky woman.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?” Illario grouses. He had been at least somewhat correct, earlier: Caterina all but considered Teia a third grandchild, and as such the Talon of House Cantori enjoyed a more familial relationship with the cousins Dellamorte than any other Crow could claim. It had been her persuasion for both Houses, and the use of the Cantori Diamond rafters as a neutral space for negotiations, that had gotten them as far as forging treaties in the first place.
“It’s his wedding day,” Teia shoots back, elbowing Illario in the side. He makes an exaggerated oof, doubling over dramatically. “And if you have to fish for the compliment, do you really deserve it?”
Illario clutches at his heart. “I am wounded, Andarateia.”
“Not by me, and not under the order of neutrality you're not. You are the picture of perfect health and polite behavior,” Teia says. She steps closer to Lucanis, fussing with the way his cravat is sitting. “Pay no attention to him, Lucanis. Soon enough you won’t have to; Rook will be keeping you busy.”
“So you know her,” Lucanis says, unable to stop himself from sounding accusatory. For as close as Teia was with their family, it did not escape anyone’s attention that she was also close with House de Riva— close enough while still being at least marginally trustworthy— and therefore would have known about Viago de Riva’s adoptive sister much, much sooner than House Dellamorte did. Teia just shrugs.
“Comes with knowing Viago. They are a package deal. But you must understand that Vi is a very private man; I thought the two of them were simply close, if…somewhat antagonistic friends until Rook told me how Viago had named her his sister. Get her to tell you the story sometime. It’s very sweet.”
Privately, Lucanis rather doubted that the man who had ruthlessly killed three of House Dellamorte’s finest master assassins in the space of a month was capable of being sweet, but he would not share that thought with Teia. The only way her relationship with both Houses worked, after all, was her firm stance as a completely neutral party who would not aid one of them over the other. Her careful neutrality is why the wedding party's being held at the Diamond, and not at the Dellamorte opera house or whatever location de Riva could have put forth.
“What is she like?” is what he asks, instead.
Teia’s eyes glitter. Lucanis recognizes the mischief in them, not malice. “Why should I spoil the surprise? You're about to meet her.”
Cheers come up from down the canal, rising in response to the bridal gondola approaching. Serenely it drifts beneath the last of the seven bridges, bedecked with garlands of roses and royal purple silk draperies that flutter in the balmy spring breeze. They're still too far away for Lucanis to see any distinct figures in the gondola, but that doesn't stop his heart from rather foolishly beginning to pound in his chest.
It's just a contract, he reminds himself. Only a contract of a different sort. Just something so their Houses can put the past aside and begin fresh on a new page. It's good for the Crows. His life doesn't have to change drastically. Just view it as a job, his duty to House Dellamorte. Maker willing, perhaps even Rook will prefer to treat it as an arrangement of Crow business, and they can live as polite but distant roommates in the same house. They can each carve out their own space and only deal with each other when their Houses require it.
I will take the bottom floor, he decides. He feels better about the bottom floor.
The gondolier poles the bridal gondola to the landing, steering it smoothly alongside the Dellamorte gondola. Several Crows in sleek dark finery disembark first, lining the steps of the landing before a tall, rangy man with high cheekbones, dark hair, and a scowl that looks permanent steps off the gondola. Like Caterina he uses a cane, the polished sylvanwood gleaming in the high sunlight of late morning.
Viago de Riva. Until fairly recently, Lucanis was fairly certain he'd have to kill the man….somehow. Like Caterina, paranoia was Viago de Riva's primary mode of operation. House Dellamorte's intelligence suggested he even regularly inoculated himself with poisons both common and rare. Far and beyond what most normal Talons did to protect themselves from threat.
But now, Lucanis supposes, that is his brother-in-law. Not for the first time today, he has no idea what to make of this situation. He's had the better part of six months to make his peace with it, and is only marginally approaching anything like reconciling it in his own head.
“Strange to be looking right at him without weapons drawn,” Illario mutters, just low enough for Lucanis to hear. Whatever Lucanis was going to say in response, however, is lost to the sudden shock of nerves that send Lucanis' guts twisting when Viago extends his arm to help another figure off the gondola.
It can only be his future wife. The silver threads woven into the midnight blue silk of her dress glint in the sun, and the gown’s train is so long the end has to be carried by another de Riva Crow to keep it from dragging on the paving stones.
Illario gives a low whistle. “That's Vyrantium samite,” he says, low and begrudgingly impressed. “House de Riva spared no expense. I wonder if they're making a statement? Vyrantium samite for the Demon of Vyrantium?”
“Shh,” Lucanis hushes him. It doesn't really matter if they are choosing to make a statement or not; everything that Rook wears is designed to inform all assembled that she - and by extension her House - are untouchable. Impervious. The bodice of the gown is rigid in a way that suggests armor beneath, and as she holds her hems up to climb the Chantry steps Lucanis can see boots of scaled black leather, dragon or wyvern hide. Tough, but still stylishly cut and tooled in a way that wouldn't be out of place in Antiva’s more fashionable circles. No clumsy greaves in House de Riva, apparently. But boots aside, Illario was right: she is shorter than him, and much shorter and slighter than Viago de Riva.
Ridiculously, he finds himself looking anywhere but at her face. The gown’s trailing sleeves are cut low enough to bare her shoulders and the tops of her arms, the crisp lines of tattoos done in dark ink only partially obscured by the fluttering translucent veil. As Viago de Riva approaches Lucanis hurriedly fixes his gaze on an imaginary speck of dust at his own tunic hem, lest the new Second Talon think him doing something as boorish as staring at his intended’s breasts before he even looks at her face.
“You are looking very well, First Talon.” Viago de Riva dips his chin in a deferential nod— too proud for a proper bow, apparently— though he does concede to gentlemanly standards and kisses the back of Caterina's ringed hand. Lucanis' grandmother inclines her head, her gaze still ironclad. Despite being raised by her from boyhood, Lucanis often still has no idea what she's thinking, and right now is no exception. Displeasure at de Riva's lack of proper deference? Memories of all the death wrought by the war between their Houses? Satisfaction that de Riva capitulated, while she still holds the seat of First Talon? Lucanis cannot even begin to guess.
“If I look well, it is simply because I am eager to put any past enmity behind our Houses. I believe we can both agree that this is long overdue,” Caterina says. “And I am eager to welcome my grandson’s bride into our House. There are none better suited than you, my dear.”
This last is directed at Rook, who, like her brother, does not bow deeply. She does sweep the skirts of her dress back and dip her head, a passably respectful greeting between family members. Lucanis catches a brief impression of a tumble of dark hair beneath the veil. “It is an honor, First Talon.”
And Maker, even though he has been avoiding looking directly at her, Lucanis can't do anything about hearing her voice. He wonders what he expected. He doesn't know what he expected, really. Politeness in deference to the occasion, certainly, but whereas Viago has the refined accent and crisp pronunciation of a born patrician— and no wonder, given the rumors of his parentage— there's no markers of any such accent in Rook’s voice. If anything she has the rounder vowels, the more spirited inflection that Teia has when speaking, a hint of a Salle accent polished almost entirely out of her voice.
Of course she doesn't sound like a highborn lady, he chides himself. Illario already told you she is an elf. Not many elven noblewomen floating around, are there?
Silence descends on the two Houses assembled at the top of the Chantry steps. Lucanis feels like he should be saying something, but what is there for him to say? Nice to meet you, I hope our Houses do not betray one another, though I suppose murder is easier than divorce? He bites the insides of his cheeks. This is…absurd. They should have chosen Illario for this. Illario would know what to say, even if he did consider marriage to an elf to be somewhat beneath him. Illario would be smiling and charming his new spouse and the in-laws, not steadfastly trying to avoid meeting their eyes.
“Surely there is no point in standing around wasting time,” Caterina says, and Lucanis can feel her gaze piercing him. Somehow it feels like there's been a test he has failed to pass, even though his training concluded years and years ago. Even after all this time, his grandmother still has that effect on him. “Let's proceed.”
───●◎●───
In the future, whenever he looks back on his wedding day, Lucanis will remember just a handful of moments that stood out amid the haze of the ceremony. He won't be able to remember what, precisely, the Revered Mother said as she joined him and Rook in marriage beneath the eyes of the Maker and under the watch of the House of Crows, but he will remember how he willed his fingers into steadiness as he helped Rook lift her veil from her face. He will remember the soft shock of meeting her eyes for the first time. How striking the color of them were, flecks of gold glimmering in hazel in the sunlight pouring through the Chantry windows, and how unreadable.
The vows he'd memorized blurred on his tongue but he must have spoken them to the satisfaction of the Revered Mother and Caterina, for a moment later Rook echoed them. Lucanis will remember watching her lips move. The sheer plummy shade of them. He noticed the slightest crookedness in her bottom front teeth, and will remember taking bizarre comfort in the flaw. He will remember following the lines of the tattoos on her cheeks with his eyes, wondering what they mean in the secret language of Crow House marks.
And he will remember the kiss that marked them as man and wife in the eyes of the Maker, and to all assembled. The moment of hesitation before her face tilted up to meet his. The realization that this would be it: the unreality of this whole day made very real. Months of planning, of careful negotiations, the future of the seat of First Talon sealed the second their lips meet.
He will remember how soft her lips were against his. How she smelled of rose and sandalwood, and how the scent of her perfume would linger on his clothing from the brief moment they'd been pressed together. As far as circumstances for first kisses go, Lucanis supposes he could do worse.
More than anything else, he will remember the distinct impression of a rippling breath of relief sighed the Crows gathered in the Chantry, and the rare upward curve of Caterina's lips as all assembled applauded.
───●◎●───
Silence stifles the atmosphere beneath the canopy of the marital gondola the entire journey from the Chantry to the Cantori Diamond's private landing. Beneath a fringed awning of ivory and gold silk Lucanis and Rook sit, close enough to touch and yet determinedly keeping to their sides of the small bench. Sunlight dances on the water's surface, lighting up the silver threads woven into Rook's wedding gown and the thread-of-silver feather stitch embroidery at the neckline.
Vyrantium samite, for the Demon of Vyrantium.
Caterina sits behind them, hand fixed on her cane as the gondola bobs in the water, steered by a Dellamorte Crow and poled by a de Riva Crow. She's flanked by Viago and Illario; Lucanis can only imagine what his cousin must be thinking with their old enemy close enough to touch. Perhaps it's a good thing that Caterina sits between the two of them. One look from her is enough to curtail even the strongest of Illario's impulses, righteous though they might be.
The applause that had echoed in the Chantry’s great hall is nothing compared to the cheers and whistles from every passerby on the streets and bridges. Although the common folk of Treviso may be oblivious to the monumental significance of this Crow wedding ceremony, it's obvious even to outsiders that this is a marital gondola carrying people of importance. A flower seller on the corner of one canal in the Grande Market district peels two white roses away from a bouquet of her wares and tosses them to the front of the gondola; Lucanis catches them reflexively, like he would a projectile fired in his direction. When he offers one to Rook she takes it, and if she murmurs anything it is lost in the shout of "tanta felicitá!" from the flower seller.
Lucanis wishes that someone - anyone - in the gondola would say something instead of leaving all the conversation to the citizens of Treviso calling out their well-wishes. That he would have any clue of what to do next. He is now married, and sitting beside his bride. What does one say to a bride one doesn't even know?
He risks stealing glances at her every chance he gets, all the while uncomfortably aware of Viago de Riva watching him like a tall, cane-wielding hawk. Illario had paid her no credit earlier. While her face is too long and narrow for her to be considered a traditional beauty, she is lovely— more striking than merely pretty. Her long dark lashes shade her cheeks as she looks down at her lap, twisting the stem of the rose back and forth between her fingers. His mother's opal ring flashes brilliant iridescent fire with each turn of her fingers. While the tan skin of her hands is nicked and scarred here and there, the consequences of life as a Crow, her nails are flawlessly polished and her hands less calloused than he might expect from a working assassin. Perhaps Viago de Riva kept his sister off of most contracts, keeping his potential weakness safely close by.
Lucanis cannot imagine what Caterina might have done if they had learned of Rook's relationship to Viago while they were still warring with de Riva. He knows, beyond a shadow of doubt, that if Caterina had ordered him to hunt and kill the woman he's now wed to, he would have. He wonders if she would have done the same, if Viago tasked her with it.
He wonders if she will do the same, if Viago tasks her with it. Though Illario is now silent, he can hear his cousin's voice just as clearly as if the man had spoken up.
Something that would get you out of the house before your blushing bride realizes she has an opportunity to bury you in the courtyard. Just…be careful, cousin. We have already lost so much, we cannot lose you too.
Lucanis cannot do anything so revealing as glance backwards at Viago de Riva. This whole marriage is a boat built of contract paper and mutual trust that they are all embarking out on. Lucanis cannot do anything to start punching holes in the hull.
They're most of the way through Heart and Central and Lucanis can see the Cantori Diamond's dome rising above the rooftops in the distance when he cannot take the silence any more. Rook has been silently twirling the rose back and forth between her fingers. The stem looks faintly crushed, the green woody end flattened by her worrying it.
"Have you—" he starts, and watches her eyes snap up to him, startled. All three passengers in the back of the gondola are looking at him. Now that he's begun the sentence he has no idea what to ask. The only thing he can do is keep pushing through, determined to outpace the cringing awkwardness. "…have you taken any interesting contracts recently, Rook?"
As far as Crow conversation openers go, it's on par with lovely weather for an assassination, isn't it? Everyone in this Maker-forsaken gondola knows it. Illario is probably resisting the urge to hide his face in his palms out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. Rook just blinks at him. Probably surprised that her new husband is capable of speech that isn't memorized wedding vows.
"…not recently," she says at last.
"…ah."
The silence returns, broken only by the plunk-splash of a nearby caorlina rowing past, the oarsmen giving a cheery shout of recognition for the newlyweds. Incredibly, it is Viago de Riva who comes to Lucanis' rescue. Either he cannot stand the stilted atmosphere as well, or he thinks Lucanis is simply pitiful and deserves a rare spot of mercy.
"The last assignment Rook received was to Orlais," he says. "That was ten months ago, right before the second round of treaty negotiations and the offer of a marriage alliance was put on the table."
So de Riva had kept her close since then, just in case things fell through and Dellamorte decided to strike at Viago through Rook. Better paranoid with a living family than foolhardy at a funeral.
"I am eager to get back to work," Rook says, likely reading the momentary pause in conversation for what it is.
"Ten months," Illario repeats, sounding faintly impressed. "You must be getting rusty by now, bella."
A familiar feeling settles over Lucanis, known since they were boys: the desire to strangle his cousin. "Just ignore Illario," he begins, but Rook has already turned and fixed Illario with a cool stare.
"I did not say they were ten idle months, Master Dellamorte."
"Oh, Maker forbid," Illario says smoothly, with the little quirk of his lips that suggests he means nothing by it, really. Perhaps this is his way of reassuring both Lucanis and himself: if Lucanis' new wife intends on killing him, she is out of practice taking professional contracts. Lucanis outweighs her by at least three stone, and while he doesn't doubt she knows her way around a vial of poison given de Riva's proclivities, at the very least he's certain he could outmatch her if it came to physical blows. She is a de Riva Crow. He's fought and killed enough de Riva Crows to have a good idea of what to expect.
"You are welcome at the Dellamorte training yard," Caterina offers. "Now that our Houses are united, we are invested in the success of your contracts."
Viago and Rook are both silent for a long, tense moment. With the hostilities behind them, at least on paper, it's nothing more than a kind offer of shared resources. But with the hostilities so recently behind them, having Rook train with the Dellamorte Crows is a dangerous prospect. Spying on Rook's combat style, her tells, the way she was trained. Learning her weaknesses through observation, at least. An unfortunate training accident, at most…Crows died while training all the time.
Not for the first time, Lucanis wonders if Caterina intends on striking at de Riva before he can strike at them, peace treaty be damned.
"That is a very kind offer, First Talon," Rook finally demurs. "If the opportunity presents itself…but I wouldn't want to cause you any trouble. I'm so accustomed to how the de Riva facilities are set up, I am certain I would only get in the way."
A polite offer, and an equally polite refusal. This is where they stand, then. The boat built of a marriage contract and mutual trust can only carry them so far— but it carries them as far as the Cantori Diamond's landing, where the gondola kisses the edge with a soft bump.
Lucanis rises, steadying himself against the bobbing of the craft in the water, and offers his hand to Rook so she may disembark. To his surprise, she takes it. It's nothing more than the briefest touch, her fingers curling around his just to anchor herself for the single step off of the gondola, but the moment he feels her bare skin against his is enough to throw him off-kilter.
It would be plain to even the most oblivious of civilians that the Diamond is closed to outsiders for the day. Crows from the lesser houses not invited to the Chantry ceremony were welcomed to the wedding feast, and the streets around the Diamond are filled with all manner of figures dressed to impress in their finest plumage. When this many people in dark clothing and feathers gather in one spot, ordinary Antivans know when to turn around and walk the other way.
There is a moment, standing at the top of the landing steps with Rook at his side, that Lucanis can feel every Crow assembled turn as one to look at the two of them. Not at the First and Second Talons behind them, no— the recognition and the deferential bows will come momentarily. All eyes are fixed on him, on Rook, and here it is: the first image they must present together as husband and wife in the eyes of the lesser houses and the cuchillos. Lucanis can feel expectation as a physical weight on the two of them.
It is a surprise, then, to feel Rook take his hand once more, palm to palm, and lace their fingers together.
The touch is faintly shocking. No one has ever held his hand like this. Not since he was a child, walking with his parents around the courtyard garden of their palazzo. He can barely remember how it felt then; the memory threatens to be obliterated by the sensation of her skin against his. For all the momentary shock he has no time to dawdle. Rook strides ahead and Lucanis' feet follow by reflex, the two of them leading the wedding party down the path of petal-strewn carpet that leads from the gondola landing to the Diamond's doors. He can already hear music from within, an airy strain of violin and lute that grows louder when the doors open.
Even if she weren't considered as close to family as a Crow from another House could get, this is why the wedding feast was left in Teia's capable hands: she has spared no expense. On a regular day the Diamond is tastefully dark and elegant; today it glitters like a flawless gem. Trevisan glass globe lanterns cast sparkling light down on the casino floor, illuminating the crowd already gathering and the waiters doling out refreshments. Silk draperies in the colors of both Dellamorte and de Riva weave together over fragrant bouquets of hothouse roses, and to the far side of the casino floor, where the feasting tables are arranged beneath the banners of both Houses, a glittering ice statue of two crows in flight forms the centerpiece. Lucanis only has a moment to take this all in before a jovial voice overtakes the wedding party.
"And there they are!" A beaming Emil Kortez, followed by Bolivar Nero and a peaky-looking Dante Balazar, spreads his hands and grips both Lucanis and Rook by the shoulders. "Couldn't get a word in at the ceremony, of course, but if I may be the first of the Talons to formally congratulate you two on your union. Glad tidings for the House of Crows, and for Antiva."
"Thank you, Fourth Talon." Lucanis inclines his head in gratitude: Kortez has always been a steadfast friend to Dellamorte, even through the years of war with de Riva. "And thank you for coming. We appreciate how busy your schedule must be."
Emil squeezes Lucanis' shoulder for a moment before he releases the two of them. "No, no, none of that! You two needn't concern yourself with reminders of anything so crude as business today. You should be celebrating!"
"Somehow I think the matter of business is still very much tied up in the celebrations," Viago de Riva says dryly, from behind Rook's shoulder. Lucanis hadn't even heard him come up. The room is very loud, a hundred points of sound all pulling at Lucanis' attention.
Turning to the new arrival, Emil only gives an over-exaggerated, skeptical scoff. "How unromantic of you, Second Talon! My congratulations to you as well, of course. How does the seat suit you?"
Viago gives a thin smile. "Now who is concerning himself with business?"
Emil only laughs, though Lucanis cannot help but notice he is the only Talon present laughing. Dante Balazar, who up until very recently had held onto the seat of Second Talon all through the war between First and Fifth, looks distinctly disgruntled. Lucanis only hopes that the former Second Talon remains relatively sober despite the abundance of alcohol already flowing. He wouldn't put it past Dante Balazar to lose himself in his cups so as to forget the order of neutrality and take a swing at Viago de Riva for the indignity of losing his seat and being demoted to Fifth. A shuffling of the Talons will come soon, Lucanis suspects, but as of right now he cannot even begin to imagine when or how that might start. Adjusting to the new peace between the First and Second Houses will be more than enough for some time. After that— the chips will fall where they may.
As for now, Dante Balazar may be compromised by drink— and the open secret of far more dangerous cravings— but he isn't an idiot. Dellamorte and de Riva are now united, allied through marriage. Surely he wouldn't do anything so stupid as try to retake the seat of Second by force.
"I yield, de Riva," Emil says, raising a hand as though gesturing for peace. "Let us return to more matrimonial topics. Are the two of you eager to embark on the honeymoon? Our lovely Seventh Talon let slip that the Rivaini coast is particularly lovely this time of year."
Lucanis and Rook stand in a slightly awkward silence, like two fledglings caught sneaking into their Grandmaster's private office.
Oh, Maker. The honeymoon.
"We haven't—" Lucanis begins, at the same time Rook says, "We're both looking forward to—"
Those are not impressive answers from the couple of the hour, and not exactly the united front they need to be presenting to the rest of the Talons. Emil Kortez, Bolivar Nero, and Dante Balazar all slowly raises their eyebrows. Lucanis tries not to wince. Rook recovers first.
"What we mean to say is, Fourth Talon, we both have outstanding contracts that were negotiated before our marriage was even arranged," she says, cheeks stained with a very becoming rosy flush. "As unromantic as it is to discuss business on our wedding day, you know that a Crow—"
"— never abandons a contract. Yes, I know." Emil gives her an indulgent smile, like a fond uncle pleased by something a favorite niece just said. "Ah, how right you are, my dear. And how vigilant! A credit to your House and to your brother. Perhaps a delayed honeymoon simply gives you both something to look forward to, whilst off on your contracts. I see the wisdom in that."
"And the Second Talon will be the first to tell you I work better with a dangling carrot," Rook says, with just enough of a hint of innuendo that even Dante and Bolivar chuckle. "I was just telling my in-laws on the journey over from the Chantry how eager I am to get back to work after all the fuss of planning a wedding, as I'm sure my husband is. Rivain isn't going anywhere. We'll see to the honeymoon once our contracts are fulfilled."
"All the more reason to take care and strike true," Emil nods, turning his attention back to Lucanis. "No point in leaving your lovely bride a young widow, hm?"
"I never miss," Lucanis says. The irony is not lost on him, that House de Riva may prefer that Rook take matters into her own hands and widow herself as soon as possible. Nothing in Rook's face suggests it— but neither does it suggest the contrary.
Emil barks a laugh. "According to the rumors, you certainly don't! While we're all assembled here, perhaps you can set them to rest for me. A little bird fresh from Tevinter this past Kingsway brought tidings of such glorious carnage I could scarcely believe one man was responsible. Over forty dead at a fashion show in Vyrantium…all your work?"
It was, and even now Lucanis' ribs ached if he pushed himself too hard in training or on a job— and Illario continued to tease him mercilessly about whether or not he was going to liberate the help on any of their future jobs. Still, his elusive client hadn't stipulated anything about not putting his name to the deed.
"It was. My target was a monster, even as far as fanatical Tevinter lunatics go," Lucanis says. Literally a monster, at the end, he adds silently. "The world is better for his absence. Ask Illario about the fashion show; he notices those things more than I do."
He still dreamed of it, sometimes. The fountains of wine and priceless, chic garments. The magically-transforming hairpieces on the smiling models. The room of chained slaves below, insensate, their lives and bodies nothing more than a means to produce the perfectly horrible, beautiful hair that Forfex worked with.
The creature Forfex became did not bother him. Lucanis had killed him, after all. No, what continued to haunt Lucanis after that blood-soaked contract was the fact that for as many slaves as he had freed, there were so many he hadn't been able to save. What woke him at night were the empty, hollow eyes of the faces he'd seen. Who knows how many more had died, wasted away to feed the vanity of Tevinter's elite, that he was able to do nothing about? How many still lingered in torment, their bodies eager to fall to demon's claws in the hopes that they might get some scrap of retribution in death?
"So I was right on that count," Emil says, ticking off one finger and sounding very pleased with himself. "But my other point of curiosity remains: The Demon of Vyrantium."
Here we go. Lucanis resists the urge to drag his hands down his face. "At your service."
"Who came up with that?" Emil looks at him expectantly, as if waiting for Lucanis to fess up to the unforgivably gauche act of coming up with his own nickname. From somewhere behind him, Viago de Riva clears his throat, filling the awkward pause.
"Don’t mistake this for anything other than my own curiosity," Emil says, when no confession is forthcoming.
"Who started calling the Black Shadow the Black Shadow?" Lucanis points out, feeling oddly defensive. It wasn’t like he had any say in what people began to call him after the job in Vyrantium, though now he might also like to know who started it, if only to have a stern word with them. A word that, perhaps, could involve knives.
Bolivar Nero takes a slow sip of his wine. "There is no shame in wearing a title if you've earned it."
Dante Balazar makes an ugly, derisive sound; Lucanis feels more than sees Rook flinch next to him.
"We have different definitions of earning a title," says Dante, fixing Viago with a baleful look.
"We also have different definitions of shame," Viago counters. The muscle in Dante's jaw ticks, and just as Lucanis wonders if he'll need to step in to prevent Dante from doing something as gauche as attempting to murder his new brother-in-law at his wedding feast, a new voice breaks in.
"Outrageous," comes a new voice, at once playful and admonishing. "I spend a fortune on the finest wine in Antiva and you are all sitting around gossiping like a bunch of aunties. Do I need to start pouring your drinks myself? I can assure you they are free from poison."
Dante Balazar lifts his head like a dog called by a whistle, the fight going out of him. He swallows, a new light in his bloodshot eyes at the Seventh Talon's approach, her heels clicking smartly on the marble tiles. "Teia. You look— beautiful. Very beautiful."
"You are sweet, Dante," Teia says, graciously allowing Dante to take her hand and brush his lips across her knuckles— though she's just as quick to withdraw it and turn her attention back to Lucanis and Rook. "But I pale in comparison to the lucky bride, of course. Rook, dear, your things are downstairs in the Pavilion whenever you're ready. Now, what's got everyone so worked up?"
Emil chuckles, likewise taking Teia's hand to give it a welcoming squeeze. "Nicknames, chosen or given. How do we feel about the Demon of Vyrantium, Andarateia?"
"It is a much better nickname than Magekiller," Lucanis cuts in, frowning. "Plenty of Crows kill mages. I only happen to…specialize."
Teia shrugs. "I suppose it isn't the worst. Speaking of— what little nickname did you have for that one Grandmaster out in Seleny, Dante? From House Varela?"
The former Second Talon actually laughs, his recent murderous temper forgotten in Teia's presence. "Do you mean while she's in earshot, or while her back is turned?"
"Oh, the latter, of course."
"I—" Dante starts, then frowns, faintly befuddled. His winning smile slowly fades into uncertainty, and a little line appears between his brows, marring his handsome face. "I…I seem to have forgotten. What was it?"
"No matter," Bolivar Nero says hurriedly, and flags a passing waiter for a fresh glass of wine.
A cold chill creeps up Lucanis' spine as the slight hiccup in Dante's memory is smoothed over by Bolivar Nero and Teia, and within moments, with a glass of sparkling wine in his hand, it is as if nothing happened. He must be off the lyrium, Lucanis realizes. No wonder he is so volatile.
"Regardless, it begs the question if we should start referring to Mistress de Riva as Signora Demon of Vyrantium, or Signora Magekiller?" Emil says, raising an expectant eyebrow at Lucanis' wife, clearly eager to move on from the momentary but noticeable lapse in Dante's memory.
Viago de Riva clears his throat again. "You might find that Rook prefers—"
"You'll find that Rook prefers to not be treated like a child," Rook says lightly, though the look she gives Viago is so icy that Lucanis wonders how Viago doesn't freeze on the spot. "Rook also happens to prefer her name."
"All right, all right," Emil says, raising his hands placatingly. "I see my impertinent line of questioning is threatening the state of marital bliss. Forgive me, I was merely curious if the title was created in-house or if some tawdry Tevinter broadsheet struck gold after a few dozen magisters and their hangers-on were struck down. It's quite the individual appellation…a certain je ne sais quoi, as the Orlesians say."
"If you'll excuse me." Rook inclines her head to the Talons, and finally to Lucanis, who can't help but notice the way she avoids looking at Viago. "I should go change. I can't very well dance in this dress, can I?"
"And I believe that is my cue to cease my monopolizing the newlyweds," Emil Kortez says, with a wink in Rook's direction. "Be fast, my dear— tarry too long and your groom may have no choice but to assume you've fled the roost."
Lucanis watches as Rook's smile grows tight at the edges, but it's Teia who speaks before he or Rook can.
"It would be more likely that she'd get stuck in the reception gown," she says with a smile that smooths over the moment. "On that point, Vi— I couldn't help but sneak a peek while my girls were getting her things set up. Ferrante's work?"
"The fit and draping were Ferrante, yes," says Viago de Riva, as the other Talons clear their throats and begin to drift elsewhere, uninterested in talk of fashion— or else eager to remove Dante from any more tension or lapses in memory. Rook takes her opportunity to slip away to the discreet set of doors at the side of the room, and Lucanis watches her retreat, only half-paying attention to whatever Viago's saying about lacemakers in Salle. He doesn’t truly relax until Teia and Viago gradually drift in the direction of the wine, leaving him by himself for the first time in what feels like hours.
At least for a moment. Teia turns and fixes him with a severe look.
"You are not off the hook yet," she says. "And since I've told Illario that he is explicitly banned from letting you ride his coattails all evening, I think that means you should come have a glass of wine and get to know your brother-in-law."
Viago looks about as thrilled at this idea as Lucanis feels. Neither man immediately voices an objection. Lucanis can safely conclude that they both know better than to object to Andarateia Cantori— not when she's the one hosting the party and pouring the wine.
"Maker," she sighs, all but shoving glasses into Lucanis' and Viago's hands, and then snatching one up for herself. Lucanis brings the glass up to give it an appreciative sniff; Viago merely peers into it, scowls, and pulls a small case from an inner pocket. "Now that everything is going off without a hitch, I can finally confess that planning the wedding feast has taken a decade off of my life. Maybe even two."
"The night is still young, and plenty of hitches may yet wait undiscovered for us all," Viago says, dour, and withdrawing a tiny phial from the case. He shakes the liquid inside for a few moments. Lucanis watches, fascinated despite himself, as the Second Talon tips a few drops of the unknown substance onto a strip of blotting paper, then swirls the paper in his glass.
Teia sighs. "Vi, I would no sooner let someone poison my reserve of Castillo di Genellan than I would let them spit in my eye."
"Do you do that for everything you drink?" Lucanis asks, hesitating before he tastes what promises to be a truly excellent white wine. The prudent thing to do would be to drink only after Viago de Riva does, but Teia only shakes her head and takes a healthy sip, giving an appreciative sigh after.
"Food. Drink. Correspondence. Clothing," she says. "Nothing is sacred."
"Anything can be poisoned, and much more easily than you think," says Viago, and crumples the blotting paper between his fingers, apparently satisfied with the result. Nevertheless, he takes a cautious sip, holding the wine on his tongue for a moment before he swallows. Lucanis follows suite a moment after, appreciating a sweet bouquet of honeyed herbs and apricot as it spreads across his tongue. A very fine vintage— some of House Cantori's best stock.
"Cheers," he says. "Thank you for the wine, Teia."
"No thanks necessary," Teia says, clinking the edge of her glass against his. "And this isn't anything you need to worry about, Lucanis. Rook is far less paranoid than Vi. Your mealtimes should be fairly normal."
Viago scoffs into his wine. "Is it paranoia if it has so helpfully kept us alive thus far?"
Lucanis feels the conversation veering dangerously close to reminders of the recent war between their Houses, and resolves himself to steer it into less treacherous waters. "Has Rook been with House de Riva long?"
Viago and Teia's expressions suggest that the relative clumsiness of the non sequitur is noted, but not commented on. Viago takes another drink of wine, one gloved thumb rubbing absently at the stem of the crystal glass.
"Since she was eight," he says. "And she is not from Salle, but Antiva City."
"That's…nice," Lucanis hazards. The majority of his trips to the capital were for work, naturally, but perhaps that was something they might talk about. While he's blatantly mining for more information on his wife he asks, "Did you have a hand in her training?"
"Are we really playing two truths and a lie without her?" Teia says, rolling her eyes. "You should know, Lucanis, she adores dogs."
"Really?"
"No, that was the lie. Don't get a dog; she will sneeze herself to death."
"And I am certain I needn't remind all present that according to the stipulations of the contract, an accidental death within the first two years of marriage can and will be considered as a deliberate act of provocation." Viago takes a measured sip of his wine. "Thus, dogs are to be avoided."
"She is not allergic to horses, is she?" Lucanis asks, feeling no small measure of apprehension. Teia turns to him, surprise and delight on her face.
"Why, Lucanis. Are you spoiling the surprise of your wedding gifts while she's not here?"
"Just ensuring no one gets the impression that I am trying to kill my wife," Lucanis says— though now that he thinks on it, an engineered fall from a horse is a tried and true means of assassination. He'll have to make sure that Rook can actually ride before he suggests anything so pastoral as a leisurely ride on the rolling hills of the Dellamorte country estates on the fine Murgese mare that was to be one portion of his gift to his bride.
"She is not allergic to horses," Viago concedes. "She quite likes them, actually."
"And snakes," Teia adds helpfully.
Lucanis looks up, seizing the opportunity. A stroke of good fortune. Hopefully, this is something they can talk about, though Lucanis doesn't imagine it will result in anything so romantic as stolen kisses over Snillario's tank. "She does? Does she have any?"
"Unless you count her trying to forcibly supersede the established names of my own snakes with her altogether more ludicrous ones, no," Viago sniffs.
Lucanis wonders if it is perhaps too late to find a snake to give Rook as a wedding gift. Precious little time remains between now and the traditional breakfast held between new families-in-law, where less formal wedding gifts were given; he simply cannot procure a snake between now and tomorrow morning. Still, perhaps he can frame it as needing to know that Rook wouldn't run screaming from the sight of a snake like a delicate merchant princess before committing to giving her the gift.
"What kind of snakes do you have?" he asks instead, and is pleasantly surprised to see Viago look slightly taken aback. Clearly he hadn't counted Lucanis as a fellow snake enjoyer.
"Currently? A pair of black asps, a common adder, and a Rialto water snake."
"Impressive," Lucanis says. Teia rolls her eyes.
"Oh, no you don't," she says. "We are not spending your wedding feast talking about snakes, you two."
"Excuse me," Viago says, "you were the one encouraging us to get to know one another."
"Yes, and the point is to discuss yourselves, not snakes."
"Snakes are a rich topic of conversation." Viago frowns at her. "Fine. What would you like to know? My star sign and favorite variety of cheese?"
"Vi," Teia groans, exasperated, even as Lucanis gives a dry cough to conceal his laugh. But whatever variety of cheese the Second Talon favors remains a mystery, for raised voices from across the room abruptly breaks the flow of conversation and pleasant music— and then, a moment later, a crash from near the dining tables.
"Cazzo." Teia sets her wine on the nearest flat surface and gathers up her skirts, her brow set. "You two, stay here. I'll handle this myself."
"You certainly will not," Viago begins, cane striking briskly against the marble floor as he and Lucanis follow. A small crowd of Crows has gathered by the time they cross the room, and Lucanis the muted sound of a struggle. If enough wine has already been consumed for a fight to break out—
The crowd parts to let Teia through, Viago and Lucanis close behind. There on the floor, sprawls Dante Balazar, his shirt wine-stained and mouth set in an ugly grimace as he scuffles with a Crow Lucanis is unfamiliar with, a young man in the colors of House Arainai.
"Take it back," the Arainai Crow growls. "Take it back, you stuck-up whoreson—"
"Dante!" Teia's voice does little to rouse the larger man this time; he shakes his head like a wet dog and takes a wide swing at the Arainai Crow. Were he sober and in peak condition the blow would be enough to knock the smaller man out completely; it only goes wide, leaving Dante open to a sharp jab to the solar plexus. A pained oof wheezes out of him, but the fight doesn't stop. If anything, the two men on the floor scuffle even harder. Teia makes another attempt. "Dante! Stop it! The order of neutrality—"
From somewhere behind him comes Caterina's voice above the din. "Fifth Talon, cease this gibbering idiocy at once."
Dante Balazar swears, mostly inarticulate, but the sentiment is nonetheless clear. Lucanis watches as he adjusts his grip on the Arainai Crow's cravat, and then watches as Viago hefts his cane up in one hand with a sigh. Just as Lucanis is certain he's about to watch his new brother-in-law knock Dante Balazar unconscious— or kill him outright with the cane, as he had done to so many Dellamorte Crows— he finds himself and Teia knocked to the side by a tall, slender figure in a sharply-cut grandcoat of blue damask. Lera Valisti. A second, shorter figure barrels behind her, taking advantage of Dante's momentary hesitation to seize the Arainai Crow by the shoulders and begin to haul him out of reach.
"Dante. Stop it," Lera says, kneeling between Dante and the Arainai Crow. Dante's bloodshot eyes roll around the assembled watchers, widening as he takes in all the people staring at them. Whatever good sense he had must make a sudden appearance, for his face flushes a moment later.
And all the while the musicians across the room serenade them with a jaunty dancing song. The incongruity is so ludicrous Lucanis can scarcely believe this is real.
What a wedding day this is shaping up to be.
"Lera," Teia begins, "please don't trouble yourself, I was handling—"
"Clearly you weren't," snaps Giuli Arainai, sparing Teia an icy glance as she pulls her subordinate to his feet. Lera Valisti has Dante Balazar by the shoulders and murmurs, soft but stern; Lucanis watches the man's shoulders sink, something shameful in the gesture.
"Eighth Talon." The Crow gives a wet, shameful sniff; at least one of Dante's wild swings had connected with his nose. Crimson blood streams down his chin, dripping onto his white cravat. "Eighth Talon, he was saying—"
"I don't care who said what, idiot," Giuli says, tone acid. She slaps the young Crow upside the head. The blow sends him reeling; Teia makes a sound of protest as the Crow staggers back. "Go clean yourself up and get out of—"
Caterina's cane slams on the marble floor like a death knell. "You will do no such thing. Your Crow and the Fifth Talon were brawling like common thugs, Eighth Talon, and I will not have it."
"This doesn't concern you, First Talon," says Giuli. Lucanis winces. Common knowledge that House Arainai were by and large unlucky idiots, but this latest Arainai Talon seemed to keep finding impressive new lows to reach.
"It is my grandson's wedding day," Caterina says, delicate, dangerous stress on every word. "Your Crow and the Fifth Talon have violated the order of neutrality. You will find that it very much concerns me."
"First Talon," Lera begins, rising to her feet. Dante Balazar lurches up a moment later, stepping away to smooth out his mussed clothing. "If you will just—"
"Quiet, girl," Caterina snaps, scarcely deigning to give her a glance. Lera's mouth goes thin, eyes cold and hard, but she doesn't argue. Lucanis gets the feeling that this isn't something she'll soon forget, or soon forgive.
"First Talon," Dante starts, scrubbing his face with a broad palm. "I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I—"
"By rights the Second Talon and I should have you thrown into Rialto Bay," Caterina says, unimpressed by the attempted apology. Viago clears his throat.
"By rights, we could, but it is Lucanis' wedding day. He is the wronged party here. My sister as well, though perhaps she is simply the luckiest of all of us to be spared this…unbecoming display."
Everyone turns as one to look at Lucanis. Dante's eyes are downcast and bloodshot, Lera's cold, Giuli's sparking with suppressed fury. He has long since grown used to Caterina's look of exacting expectance, but Viago merely looks curious, as if whatever Lucanis decides should be done will only be mildly interesting.
However he feels about the violation of the order of neutrality, how quickly this scuffle could have devolved into a cascade of violence is not lost on him. Nor is the clear resentment from the other Talons, or the way Teia had been pushed aside by Lera Valisti. But given the simmering resentment between the assembled Talons, Lucanis is not eager to kick off another war between the Houses with an incident at his wedding feast.
"You've disrespected our gracious hostess, and violated the goodwill of our families," he says. "Make your apologies and leave."
Giuli's expression suggests she would rather drink stagnant canal water than do so, but a warning tap of Caterina's cane against the floor makes short work of her pride. Lucanis sits through her, Dante, and Lera making insincere apologies to himself and Viago, and watches Giuli choke out the beginning of an apology to Teia when he feels Viago lean in closer to him.
"We will handle it from here," the Second Talon murmurs. "Rook is taking quite a long time. Go check on her— but somehow I suspect she won't be happy to learn she missed such an outstanding example of Arainai idiocy."
───●◎●───
The Pavilion of the Cantori Diamond rests beneath the main gambling floor, a warren of hallways branching off from two plushly-carpeted stairways. Teia's decorations have extended even down here, although the assembled guests have not. He follows the silken bunting to an exquisitely-carved mahogany door, where floral garlands festooning the frame indicate that this must be the bridal dressing room. The hallway smells like gardenia blossoms and wood wax, and a subtle perfume that Lucanis thinks might be Rook's. The rose and sandalwood that he had caught on her in the Chantry. It isn't unpleasant.
Cautiously, Lucanis raps on the door, loud enough to announce his presence and give her time to dress if needed, but not so loud that he sounds two seconds away from kicking down the door. There's no response from within.
Fuck.
There have been enough wedding day assassinations in the annals of Crow history for Lucanis to curse himself for a fool. He shouldn't have let Rook disappear by herself— if the scuffle was only a distraction, if one of the other Houses decided to violate the order of neutrality and strike at de Riva and Dellamorte while they're all unarmed and gathered in one spot…
Safety wins out over privacy. Lucanis tests the handle, is pleasantly surprised to find that it's unlocked, and opens it just in time to duck out of the way of a beautifully-tooled dragon hide boot hitting the wall next to his head hard enough to take a chunk out of the plaster.
"Damn you, Viago, I already said I don't want to talk!"
Lucanis peeks around the door to find Rook, seated at a dressing table, still in her wedding gown. She holds the second boot like a threat, glowering at the reflection of the room in the vanity mirror, before their eyes meet. All of the color drains from her face.
"Shit. I'm—"
"I'm not Viago," Lucanis says, holding up a hand like somehow the lack of glove will prove his point. "I apologize. I should have announced myself. If I come in, will you promise not to throw your other boot at me?"
He watches in the mirror as Rook's lips press tightly together before she nods, just once. Scooping up the projectile boot, Lucanis steps in and closes the door behind him.
"Everyone was just…wondering where you were. You missed a fight," he explains. He's halfway across the room before he realizes he's approaching her slowly, carrying every movement deliberately so as to not appear a threat. Like he's approaching a wounded cat on Treviso's streets, trying not to goad something small and sharp into launching itself at his face. "Viago said you might be annoyed to have missed it."
He sets the boot down at her side, and is almost surprised when she half-twists in her seat to look up at him. Red rims and smudged lines of black cosmetic around her eyes tell Lucanis everything he needs to know: that this marriage was a mistake, and they both know it.
Slowly, Lucanis lowers himself to the nearby padded bench, taking care to avoid a mass of gathered black silk. It must be the reception gown Rook hasn't yet changed into. Ferrante's work, with the Sallesian lace. Has she been sitting here weeping in her gown and veil this entire time?
Rook turns back to the mirror, swiftly dabbing beneath her eyes with the edge of a square of violet silk. "I just - I need to powder my face."
Lucanis watches a blotchy flush spread slowly up her neck, and wonders if she's embarrassed by the slip in her composure. It's the most animation, the most life he's seen in her all day. "Tell everyone I will be right out."
"You're upset with Viago?" he asks, unable to help himself.
When Rook only stares at him, face still flushed, he hurries to add, "You were fit to glare a hole right through him, earlier."
Rook laughs, the sound bright and humorless. "He is your brother-in-law now, Master Dellamorte. You'll find that our Houses don't have to be warring for you to want to kill him."
"You don't have to call me that," Lucanis offers, sidestepping the topic of committing violence against Viago de Riva's person. "I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot."
Rook exhales, too soft to be called a laugh. Opening the dressing table drawer, she roots around before emerging with a lidded dish of cut crystal. It's full of tinted powder, which she dusts across the bridge of her nose with a feathered puff. "Was that a joke because I threw my shoe at you?"
"I…no," Lucanis admits, still feeling very much on the wrong foot, boot or no boot. "But we are married now. You can call me by my first name. If you'd like."
Rook goes silent again, though when Lucanis tries to occupy himself by examining the gold and jet beading on the bodice of her reception gown, from the corner of his eye he can see her watching him. A wary, sidelong sort of look, as though trying to ascertain his motives. But in the end she says nothing, and returns to fixing her makeup in the mirror.
A few minutes of silence passes, punctuated only by the sound of jars being opened and brushes being tapped. But what is yet another awkward lapse in conversation today, a day of deeply awkward lapses in conversation? Lucanis runs his thumb along the outline of a beadwork snake, subtly stitched onto the edge of the gown's bodice. An adder, he realizes. House de Riva—and Rook— did love their serpents.
Viago's ownership of snakes happened to confirm one piece of Dellamorte intelligence: that the former Fifth Talon kept lethal serpents, and allowed himself to be bitten by them to develop a tolerance to their venom. He wonders if all de Riva Crows undertook this inoculation as part of their training. He wonders if Rook would even tell him if they did.
"But you are upset," Lucanis says at last. "With Viago or…in general."
Rook's hand slows, halfway through applying a fresh coat of that soft plummy lipstick to her bottom lip. Maker, Lucanis had kissed her not three hours ago, and they are no less strangers now than they were then.
Between her anger at Viago and her careful, polite mask of neutrality, it didn't take a brilliant scholar to conclude that she did not want this. Could Viago de Riva have forced her into this ceasefire marriage? Sold his adoptive sister to the Dellamortes for the seat of Second Talon? Or is Rook simply holding herself distant from Lucanis with professional indifference, so it would hurt less when his contract came due?
"Rook, I…" Lucanis hesitates. He does not know what's on her mind or in her heart. Even if it is the knowledge that either way this marriage will only end with death, he cannot just sit by with the knowledge that she had been so recently crying.
"Is something the matter?" he attempts. "Something I can help with?"
Rook's shoulders shake in a barely-suppressed huff of laughter, so quickly stifled it almost sounds like a sob. Lucanis watches her tan knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the table, her entire bearing brittle, breakable. But it is only a momentary lapse in her composure. A damnably telling split second, a vulnerability swiftly concealed. Lucanis watches as she immediately pulls herself back together again. Within seconds it is as if it hadn't even happened.
"If you wouldn't mind, signore," Rook says, closing the dressing table drawer and pushing her chair back. "I still need to change. Please tell them they don't need to delay the party on my account."
Never let it be said that Lucanis did not know when it was his cue to leave. He stands, trying to think of something to say, before he decides against saying anything. Whatever he could come up with, he suspects it wouldn't be what she wanted to hear, if she even wanted to hear anything from her husband at all.
Lucanis closes the door firmly behind him, and allows himself the brief luxury of slumping against the Cantori Diamond's luxuriously immaculate damask wallpaper. They won't miss him upstairs for another few minutes, unless some other guests have started fighting and made a spectacle of themselves. But on the other hand…
They're all probably hoping we're starting the honeymoon early, Lucanis thinks, rubbing at his forehead. His gut turns over unpleasantly at the thought. Rook is a beautiful woman, but she clearly does not want anything to do with him. That is fine. Lucanis knows himself well enough that he cannot just leap into bed with someone simply because they are beautiful or handsome. The thought of sleeping with Rook against her wishes just because it is what's expected of them makes him feel slightly nauseous.
They will have to talk about the issue of children eventually. Contract negotiations stipulate that the first child to be born from their union stays with House Dellamorte; a second child will go to de Riva once they are of age to be trained, and any subsequent children may be trained by whichever House their family finds most appropriate. A clever trick to avoid inter-House conflict down the road, though the rumors of Viago de Riva's parentage may suggest he has less cozy feelings about keeping siblings alive simply because they are related than the Dellamortes would.
But he's getting ahead of himself. It's still a gut-punch to realize he's married. He can't think about children. Not when Rook is…upset about this situation. Not in any way he can do something about, beyond leaving her alone.
In a few weeks, he decides. He'll look into the legality of adoption against the stipulations of the contract. Perhaps he and Rook don't even need to touch each other to have children that will satisfy the terms.
Sighing, Lucanis pushes himself off from the wall and starts wandering back down the warrenlike maze of the Cantori Diamond private hallways, following the muffled sound of lively music and laughter from the casino floor. It sounds like everyone is already in high spirits. Likely thanks to the abundance of champagne as much as the knowledge that the two leading houses are, at last, done warring.
A glass of champagne is starting to sound good. Maybe even two. Any more than that and Illario will start blackmailing him into dancing with the wedding guests, when he—
Lucanis doesn't notice the other person in the hallway until they're colliding with him around a corner. Instinct makes him take a step back, hand falling to his belt for the hilt of a blade that isn't there. Instead of dodging or apologizing, the solid body keeps walking with one hand gripping his bicep, dragging Lucanis with them back around the corner he'd just rounded. Suddenly Lucanis finds himself with his back against the wall, caged in place by a hand planted next to his head and a cheerful smile.
An elf, of a height with Lucanis, but with the build of an enforcer and thick, curly hair pulled back into a high bun, revealing a row of three diamond studs up the cartilage of each ear. Like Rook they wear a House de Riva tattoo on their cheek, though when Lucanis glances down to check for a weapon he can see the clean line of a ritual scar design peeking out from the casually undone top buttons of their lavender shirt.
"Master Dellamorte," they say, so very casual and conversational, like they haven't just backed him into a corner. "Many congratulations on your wedding day! Such a beautiful occasion, isn't it? One could weep. Not me, of course, but someone else."
"What do— who— ?" Lucanis tries not to think about how categorically fucked he is if this elf has managed to sneak a weapon in despite the order of neutrality. If he had to be honest, he doesn't think they even need a weapon to beat the shit out of him. Their hands are scarred from countless skirmishes, just as his are, but the elf is much broader in shoulder and waist than he is. Crows trained to kill with sword and shield and maul are far less common than their rogue-trained counterparts, but no less deadly.
"Shh, shh, let's not waste time with the whole who are you what do you want you're violating the order of neutrality thing, yes?" they say, giving Lucanis a smile. It's not a smile that puts Lucanis at ease. If anything, it's intended to have the opposite effect.
"If House de Riva is breaking the treaty on the very first day, you are all dead," Lucanis says, keeping his voice even. Perhaps Viago sent him down to the Pavilion so he could be cornered like this. Perhaps the scuffle between Dante and the Arainai Crow had been a ruse. If he can kick the elf away and sprint for his family— get Caterina and Illario out first and regroup…
The elf's smile only grows broader. "Ohh, signore, I'm not acting for House de Riva. This is all me. Understand?"
Slowly Lucanis nods.
"Good. You don't seem like a stupid man, but I know how easy it is to generously overestimate someone else's mental capacity, so I'm going to lay it all out for you. Just so we're on the same page, yes? No ugly misunderstandings? No ooh, but I thought Caprice meant this that and the other— none of that bullshit. It's very simple."
"What is."
"You touch one hair on her head, and you are a dead man. Understand me?"
Lucanis nods again.
"Lay a single finger on her and I'm gonna make what House Velardo did to the Dellamortes look like a Chantry picnic. And you can quote me on that when you go running to tell your grandmama and Viago that the horrible mean elf is making threats on your special day. Am I making myself clear?"
A white-hot coal of anger smolders in Lucanis' chest. The insinuation that he would tattle to the Talons like a fledgling stings just as badly as the forceful reminder of the slaughter of the family Dellamorte, and he's starting to think that order of neutrality be damned, lack of weaponry be damned— settling this with his bare hands is sounding very appealing. He did not ask for this when he had agreed, however reluctantly, to the marriage.
"Get out of my face," Lucanis says, staring hard into their eyes and struggling to keep his voice steady. Any patience he'd had when ordering the other Talons to make their apologies is rapidly evaporating. "Get out of my face before I start thinking about violating the order of neutrality myself. Now."
The elf only gives him a cool, lingering look of amusement, one brow cocked, before they take a single step back. It's just enough space for Lucanis to slip out from against the wall, though their shoulder glances against his as he starts to move away. A little reminder of their disregard for the order, and their willingness to get physical.
"Just a friendly conversation," they say, straightening their collar and brushing their shoulder free of an imaginary speck of lint. "Just so we're all on the same page, hm? One big happy family that understands each other."
Lucanis' skin crawls as he continues down the hall, aware of their eyes on his back the entire way. He walks unhurried, spine straight. Any indication that they'd gotten to him would be a sign of weakness, an admittance of subtle defeat.
His picture of why Rook had been so upset gets a little clearer with every step, like seeing a smaller piece of a larger painting that somehow casts a new light on the entire composition. Being forced to leave behind a lover in House de Riva, being forced to marry someone who was, up until very recently, a mortal enemy…mierda.
Maybe that's three glasses of champagne that Lucanis will allow himself to have, if not the whole bottle.
───●◎●───
Lucanis only gets halfway through his second flute of champagne, standing with Illario by the banquet tables overlooking the casino floor and listening to Teia attempt to wrangle Viago and Dante Balazar into conversation about the upcoming end to the opera season when Rook emerges from the hallway, looking for all the world like she hadn't just been crying in the Pavilion. As if on cue the musicians on their dais strike up a fanfare that bleeds into a slow tempo of violin and gamba— a familiar Trevisan processional traditionally played at weddings. Lucanis doesn't even get to admire the new gown she's changed into before someone shoves his shoulder from behind, hard enough to jostle him forward.
"Go, idiot," Illario hisses.
"I—"
"No one else is going to dance before the two of you do." His cousin lifts the glass from Lucanis' hands. "Are you waiting for someone else to take your spot?"
In a manner of speaking…Lucanis would not be surprised if the elf from earlier leapt at the opportunity to take his place. They likely won't be pleased at any close proximity he has to Rook, in any case. He tries not to look for their face in the crowds of assembled Crows ringing the dance floor, but is nevertheless certain that they're there watching him, scrutinizing his every movement, when he steps out onto the floor.
The assembled guests applaud when he offers Rook his hand, a handful of Crows who have already had more to drink whooping raucously when Lucanis pulls her body closer to his in a rustle of dark silk. On their dais, the musicians strike up a pavane for lute, something slow and with steady tempo to guide the steps of the dance.
Unlike the wedding ceremony, Lucanis is completely, wholly, uncomfortably aware of every second they dance. He'd fumble his footwork otherwise, and he suspects Caterina would beat him with her cane as she did when he was a clumsy fledgling if he did something so gauche as trip like a clumsy backwater bumpkin during their first wedding dance. Rook follows his every retreat in perfect step, and Lucanis' eyes are drawn to the gold beading on her gown glinting in the casino light. Somehow it makes her eyes look even brighter, more hazel.
"You are an excellent dancer," he offers, low enough that none of their observers should hear over the music. Rook's eyes dart up to his at the compliment, then look away.
"Thank you. Viago will be pleased to know that the very expensive dancing master he hired was worth the investment."
"Just for you? Or for all the fledglings in House de Riva?"
Rook waits until Lucanis' slow, measured circle around her is drawn and they once again stand side by side. It's easier to have a conversation when they're not looking directly at one another, staring the uncomfortable reality of their marriage in the face.
"For those who express an interest or an aptitude. House de Riva's clients expect us to have some culture, and Viago ensures we follow our talents. A hound cannot be trained to hunt if you deny it its nature."
"Very wise," Lucanis admits.
"I think so. Fortunately for you I am a better dancer than I am a singer or musician. Those instructors gave up on me after a while."
"Caterina let me quit drawing lessons when I was ten," Lucanis offers, lips twitching at the memory. "The only thing she let me quit."
Rook glances back up at him. "Why is that?"
"Illario insulted the self-portrait I had drawn as our instructor had told us to. He called it Reflection Holding Two Bananas."
"I assume they weren't bananas?"
"They were knives," Lucanis confirms, happy that they're having a conversation that doesn't involve the aftermath of her weeping. This is nice. This feels almost normal. "So I punched him and knocked one of his teeth out for the insult. He broke my wrist in return."
A laugh comes out of Rook like it's been startled, abrupt and genuine. "Caterina Dellamorte just let you quit after a little squabble? Over banana-knives?"
"I think the instructor quit, and she had priorities other than finding a replacement," Lucanis admits. "She had us on double fencing lessons for months. Not ideal with a broken wrist."
That was only the half of it. Caterina had naturally beaten them both bloody and ordered three days of no food and little water for them both, but that wasn't something one told one's new bride.
But that new bride was a Crow. Lucanis doubted her training under Viago de Riva was as idyllic as singing and dancing lessons might suggest. The training of House de Riva couldn't be so terribly different from the other Houses, Dellamorte included. Rook might understand…no, she would understand.
And it seems that she does, for the hint of a wry smile slips off her face. "No, I…I imagine it wouldn't be. The First Talon's standards must be higher even than Viago's."
"On par, at least. It is why she has still held the seat after…everything that has passed between our Houses."
There is a momentary pause. Rook keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead, but as they dance he suspects she is searching for his grandmother in the assembled guests.
Of course. For years, Rook has heard nothing but reports of Caterina Dellamorte's cruelty, her tyranny, just as Illario and Lucanis had heard nothing but reports of Viago de Riva's cold and ruthless calculation, and all the while the corpses piled up. The moment of good humor between them slips out of Lucanis' grasp faster than he can try to claw it back.
This is going to be the mold in which their marriage is cast: glimpses of connection between them, before the untenable reality sets back in. A slow and constant swing between the faltering first steps of trust, and stifling suspicion. Lucanis can feel the pace of the pendulum as he and Rook complete the final steps of their first wedding dance, standing face to face once more in the circle of watching Crows.
Rook drops into a half-curtsy as Lucanis bows, the standard ending gestures to a formal dance. The final note plucked on lutestring lingers in the air for a long and fragile moment before applause breaks out once more, though Rook's eyes do not leave his. The musicians will start up again shortly, something jaunty so that others may join them on the floor, but for now they are suspended in a crystalline moment— one that feels like it could shatter, if he isn't careful.
He does not know if that is what spurs him on. Perhaps it is the way the two of them are surrounded by the eyes of the Crows, the applause and approval and all the bodies of their families, that makes Lucanis want to do something for himself. Perhaps it is just the way he wants something true, something real as her laughter, not the awkwardness and suspicion that have clouded the air between them since they met.
Very softly, he asks, "What is your name?"
This close he can see it: hesitation, momentary suspicion, an internal equation of risk and trust. It all takes place in the space of a heartbeat, as the applause dies down and the hum of strings warms the room once more. But Rook doesn't look away from him even as the circle of onlookers begins to break, eager for the festivities to continue with drinking and dancing.
"Nova," she says at last. He watches the shape of the word on her lips, feels it offered just as he had offered a silly story of childhood squabbles. "Nova de…"
She catches herself then, a near-imperceptible stumble. When she speaks again, it's so quiet he almost doesn't hear her over the musicians' opening notes of a saltarello. And as she corrects itself, her expression calls to mind nothing more than a prisoner watching a cell door swing shut: the moment a life sentence begins.
"Nova Dellamorte. It is Nova Dellamorte now."