Chapter 22: The Seat

Nobody in the opera house moved.

Abysis took his wrist out of Lucas's grip, slowly, and straightened his coat.

"A vote," he said. "On my seat. Over a human's complaint."

"Over your own mouth," Valentine said. "The law says what it says."

"Let the houses speak, then." Abysis smiled at the dark boxes.

"Let them tell me they will unseat a lord of forty years for a word to his own exile."

For a moment no one answered.

Lucas looked up at the horseshoe.

Seven lords sat in their gilt boxes, men and women in old black silk, and not one of them would meet Abysis's eyes.

"The second house votes to hold the seat," said a tall woman, flatly.

Abysis's smile widened.

"The third votes to hold the seat."

Lucas felt Noah go stiff beside him.

"The fourth," said a thin old man, and stopped, and looked at the stage.

He was looking at the courtier in the black collar, the one with the lantern.

The old man had come out of the wings and stood at Abysis's shoulder with his hand shaking.

"I'd like to speak," the old courtier said.

"You will not," said Abysis.

"I would like," said the old man, "to show the court my wrist."

He pushed back his sleeve.

The arm was gray and wasted, and the skin from the elbow to the palm was marked with pale, old, healed scars in rows.

"Forty years," the courtier said, and his voice broke.

"He told me it was an honor to serve. I held the lantern, and every night I paid. He doesn't need the cane, my lords. He needs this."

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