Page 34 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
“The Eyans are not my concern.”
“Did you not just claim that they were the ones most in need of your insight?” Mr. Lutrell grabbed a stuffed vine leaf from a nearby tray. “I’m sure Mr. Wyndham understands that you don’t want to reduce the history and culture of your nation to a simple parable about religious intolerance. But at least do him the courtesy of admitting that your creative choices were made for your benefit, not his.”
Mr. Kovac curled his lip in open contempt. “Go back to your magazine, old man. You know nothing.”
At which juncture, Mrs. Benamara caught him firmly by the arm. “Oh, look, dear Vasile, Ifunanya Liu has just arrived.” The lady did a remarkable job of remaining calm and measured, as though it truly were a mere happy coincidence that an appropriate distraction had arisen just as the conversation was becoming awkward. “She was telling me just the other day how greatly she admires your work. Do be sweet and go bother her instead of these people.”
“You are all philistines and lackeys,” he retorted, although with less venom than he had previously employed, “and I do not know why I associate with you.”
“I always thought you only came for the food, Vasile.” Mr. Van der Berg sauntered, chuckling, in the direction of the buffet.
Although I was rather ashamed to have precipitated it, the dissolution of the discussion group came as no small relief to me. I was equally conflicted on the matter of Mr. Lutrell’s intervention, for while it comforted me to know that my companion would come to my defence, in truth I felt for Mr. Kovac and would not, if left to my own devices, have spoken so harshly to him. It is a hard thing to know that your homeland rejects you and I begrudge nobody the strategies that enable them to bear it.
Mr. Lutrell took the opportunity to pursue the playwright and her consort, the force captain, who had retired together to a more intimate nook. They did not look entirely pleased by the intrusion.
As we approached, the force captain narrowed her violet eyes and uttered a low growl. “Begone. You are not wanted.”
“Which part of ‘influential literary critic’ do you not understand?” returned Mr. Lutrell.
“The part that would stop me breaking your spine like the leg of desert spider.”
“Darling”—Miss de Luca put a restraining hand upon the Marvosi’s muscular thigh—“we’ve spoken about this. In our part of the cosmos, threats of physical violence are not considered a sign of respect.”
Mr. Lutrell smirked in a manner that, momentarily at least, made him look a lot more like a sorcerer and a lot less like a journalist. “Believe me, as physical threats go, that was pathetic.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“Ambrosia”—Domitia reached slowly for her gladius—“this man is annoying me. Let me kill him. It will save a lot of time and energy.”
I was, at this point, in no especial fear for Mr. Lutrell’s safety. I had seen only a fraction of my companion’s sorcerous powers but was confident that she would be in no danger from anything so prosaic as a sword, even one wielded by a Marvosi force captain. Still, I waskeen that this altercation not escalate, as it would likely lead to our expulsion from the party and unnecessarily impede our investigation.
Placing myself between Mr. Lutrell and Domitia, I stood as firmly as I was able and spoke as follows. “Force Captain, you are armed and we are not. You will draw your sword and kill us now, or you will be silent.”
This was, I will admit, a gambit not wholly without risk. During my time with the Company of Strangers I had, on occasion, needed to face down angry Marvosi and had always found they responded best if you spoke plainly and stood your ground. I had been stabbed twice and suffered a broken jaw attempting such a strategy in the past, but those outcomes had always been preferable to the alternative.
After appearing to seriously contemplate both options, Force Captain Domitia loosened her grip on her weapon and nodded sharply.
“So, Mr. Lutrell,” said Miss de Luca, barely missing a beat, “what can I do for you? You’ve already made your feelings onThe Inhabitantquite clear.”
“Remind me again what I said?”
Miss de Luca’s very red lips twisted into a mocking smile. “You said it was unthinkingly decadent and blindly amoral, without the subtlety of observation or originality of expression that might make such shortcomings forgivable.”
“Dear me. I do sound like an utter prig, don’t I?” Mr. Lutrell did not, in fact, say “prig”—although I hope I have preserved his sentiment if not his precise vocabulary.
“Yes, darling, yes, you do.” Miss de Luca’s tone left me in little doubt as to her opinion of Mr. Lutrell.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he went on, “you must have been very young when the revolution came to Carcosa. Doesn’t that make it rather challenging to write about?”
“My father made certain that I remembered my heritage.” Miss deLuca was hard to read behind the mask, but I fancied I heard sorrow in her voice. “My mother was taken when they purged the Repairers.”
“That must have been difficult.”
This was an understatement. If Miss de Luca’s mother had indeed been a Repairer of Reputations, a member of the rightly feared secret police that once served the kings of Carcosa and now worked for the party, then the Carcosan state would have gone to great lengths to capture and reeducate her entire family. Either Miss de Luca was immensely fortunate or she was a spy.
She shrugged. “It’s one such tale amongst many, and you may find its like in poems and playbills across reality. Even dear Iacomo has hisIn Memory Of—seven hundred and twenty-three verses on the theme of how sad it is when your friends die. Grief, we are given to understand, is universal. But how do you grieve for a nation? For a life you never knew? For a world that was stolen from you?”
“Well, personally I wouldn’t.” Mr. Lutrell lowered himself in a somewhat ungainly fashion onto a cushion. “Who we were is so much less interesting than who we are.”
