CHAPTER 55: SOCIAL CAPITAL

  The reception was a lot, even for a fellow skilled in the subtle art of charm. Countless partygoers whom he had never met before today told Bertrand Fairweather they recognized his name, and perhaps they had previously crossed paths once or twice now that they thought about it—a year back, was it?

  “That’s right,” Bertrand would inevitably say. “Where was it again?”

  Answers varied from the mundane to the more exotic, placing Bertrand into foreign adventures as whimsical as they were fictional. “Of course,” he told one woman. “In the Southlands, yes. Beautiful country.”

  And to another: “A party for the ages, that was. Puts this one to shame.” Glasses were clinked, laughs were forced, and Bertrand missed his real friends.

  The Fairweather Company did have a long history in the city, but he was quite certain these people had a short memory and were simply seeking the second most valuable currency in Sailor’s Rise. Bertrand had more social capital tonight than he’d accumulated in a lifetime. More than he wanted, really.

  “Why was it again that your friends abandoned you?” Sorea snuck up beside him, her sixth drink of the night in hand (Bertrand was counting, or losing count).

  “Business matters, sister,” he replied. “Speaking of which, how goes things at the family firm?”

  “You know how father can be, but I dare say they’re going well,” she said. “Better than my marriage, at any rate.”

  “On the subject of our parents, where did they get to?” Bertrand asked.

  Sorea turned to the crowd. “He and Mother discovered the dance floor.”

  “I see.”

  The venue that evening was an expansive private garden overlooking the eastern edge of Sailor’s Rise. Despite its foggy start, the day had warmed into a relatively comfortable spring evening—the bated dream of all party planners. Large fire pits were missing coats for underdressed women, and the alcohol certainly ignited a few folks, some more than they could handle. Indignities notwithstanding, it was an undeniably elegant affair: emerald paper lanterns were strewn in abundance, a full orchestra textured the air with a beautiful waltz, and dancers swirled about the dancefloor like the ocean on a windy day.

  Standing above the shoreline, Bertrand peered past them all, past the spectacle, past the pleasantries, and to the end of the eastern horizon—toward absent friends, nervous hopes, and faded stars.

  Eventually, as his gaze drifted downward, he found his parents. “It used to embarrass me when they danced like that,” he confided in his sister. “Now, I think I’m proud of them. Do you know what I mean?”

  The reassuring agreement he expected from his sibling failed to manifest.

  “Sorea?” He whirled around, but his sister had abandoned him for something or someone more entertaining. “Try not to get yourself in trouble,” he whispered like a prayer.

  Unbothered by his sudden lack of company—for it never lasted as long as he would like—Bertrand observed the event’s well-dressed attendees with a more anthropological eye, a perspective he had picked up from Elias. His determined friend had learned to see and act like a real resident of the Rise, but a little bit of Acreton had rubbed off on Bertrand too.

  He noticed many telling details that evening. For example, that Mr. Grimsby had already excused himself early, as he always did, and that the Graystones appeared absolutely miserable—even Abigail, to his surprise, given she had literally wished failure upon her own brother.

  And then there were the biggest mysteries of all: the Valshynar. Strangely, Bertrand was beginning to recognize them. He spotted the woman he met in the sky rift, Lucas Dawnlight, and—was that Jalander? They were deep in conversation with the unmistakable Southlander. Bertrand wondered if he should say hello but felt he might be intruding on something.

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  Eventually, as was bound to happen, someone observed him in return. “Bertrand.” It was Abigail, looking radiant as always—and slightly less miserable. “There you are.”

  “Here I am,” he confirmed. “Escaping the family?”

  “It is a cursed marathon, being a Graystone,” she said. “I noticed you’re here alone, which is strange. I naturally assumed the whole crew would be in attendance. It’s sort of your party, after all. You won the race.”

  “We did,” Bertrand sighed, “but one race bleeds into another. We’re trying to close a big deal in the Broken Isles, and they don’t have much time.”

  “That’s cutting it awfully close.”

  “We needed the prize money to secure said deal.”

  “And that’s quite the gamble.”

  “Close gambles: that’s basically our business model at The Two Worlds Trading Company. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  Abigail chuckled. It was obvious she had expected to see Elias here, though she soon spotted someone else she recognized. She waved the mystery person over and introduced her friend to Bertrand. “Have you two met?”

  The woman, a petite Southlander with large, curious eyes, craned her neck upward and smiled. “We have not.”

  Bertrand opened his mouth, but Abigail beat him to it: “This is Bertrand Fairweather, chief business officer at The Two Worlds Trading Company and winner of this year’s Emerald Cup.”

  “It was a team effort,” he inserted.

  “And this,” she continued, “is my good friend, Amara. She owns and operates the best shoe store in Hightown.”

  Bertrand assumed that, like many Southlanders, Amara had no surname, no father’s stamp upon her reputation, no familial ball and chain dragging from her ankle wherever she traveled. He was probably oversimplifying things, but he had always been fond of the custom, not that he minded being a Fairweather.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Bertrand said to her and she to him. He followed up with, “How do you know Abigail?”

  “Our mothers are old friends, or enemies—I’m never quite sure—but Abigail and I get along swimmingly. And you? How is it you know my sister in spirit?”

  Bertrand smirked. “We have a mutual friend and a mutual interest in a popular card game.”

  “She is quite the Sirens player. It really rankles the boys. Speaking of—” Amara let her unfinished sentence blow away in the breeze.

  A man Bertrand had never seen before invited himself into their circle. He was a fashionable fellow with a smart, clean look about him, handsome in that manicured sort of way. He had hair even blonder than Bertrand’s, and he was tall, albeit with a considerably smaller circumference.

  He did not bother introducing himself. He simply waved and presented his hand to Abigail in the same smooth motion, appearing as comfortable in this setting as a man lounging about his own backyard (Bertrand would later learn that this was, in fact, his backyard).

  “I know how fond you are of this song,” the man said.

  “I believe your fondness of it surpasses my own.” Abigail took his hand and turned to her friends. “Perhaps I shall catch you two later.”

  As she was whisked away, Bertrand leaned down toward Amara and asked the obvious: “Who was that?”

  “You don’t know?” Amara seemed surprised. “Levi Quinn of the Quinn family.”

  Bertrand had heard of them. Like the Graystones, the Quinns ran one of the largest businesses in the Rise and, accordingly, enjoyed a seat on council. “I guess we never ran in the same circles.”

  “Well, perhaps now you’ll get to know him better,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Why would I get to know him better?”

  “You really are out of the loop, aren’t you?” She smiled a charming smile, as if his upper-class naivety was an endearing quality, and perhaps to her it was. Bertrand had always felt uncomfortably wealthy compared to his fellow crew members, but Sailor’s Rise was a city of layers, and everything was relative. He could tell from the quality of her amber dress, the size of her sapphire earrings, and even the way she carried herself that, were they to wander right now into the Trader’s Bank, Amara would not be forced to stand in the same winding queue.

  “Can’t say I ever really wanted to be in the loop,” Bertrand said.

  “Can’t say I blame you,” Amara replied, “but Abigail isn’t like the rest of them. Levi, on the other hand, I’m not sure that boy has ever peered over the precipice of his silver spoon. Not that he’s the worst.” She nodded toward Edric standing nearby. “Perhaps Abigail will widen his world a little.”

  “I feel I’m still missing something,” Bertrand added.

  “They’re betrothed, dear. Levi and Abigail. Have been for a year, though there is still no wedding on the horizon.”

  “They’re engaged?”

  She nodded. “I wouldn’t quite call it an arranged marriage, but you know how it is with these families. The expectations. The deals. There truly is no separation between business and one’s personal life, especially if you’re a woman.”

  “Which is precisely why I stay out of the loop,” Bertrand said. “We low-borns still marry for love on occasion.”

  “They don’t hate each other. Is that not love?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It is in some circles.” Amara poked his chest, standing eye-level with it. “And what about you, Mr. Fairweather? Are you engaged for love?”

  “I am rather disengaged,” he said.

  “Boring you, am I?”

  “I didn’t mean—of course not.” Bertrand cleared his throat. “I am most definitely engaged with you. With this conversation, rather. Sorry, I’m normally good with words.”

  Her laughter—for it was more genuine than anything else at this party—was a wave bursting against the bluff of his chest. She stared up at him. “Even the best juggler drops the occasional orange.”