In any other place the wine might have been served in a stoneware mug or a cup, perhaps of wood or tin. But here the arts of civilization still flourished, glassblowing among them, and so when the ugly man held the vessel up in front of him he could see the dark red liquid within and, through the window beyond, the stars. Sighing, he set it down again on the table. The wine through the glass against the dark-stained wood was a pleasing composition. The stars, on the other hand, were cold and colorless, and the black of the aether between them was merely that: black. Infinity was an ill-suited backdrop for a dry red.

Leaving the wine where it was, he settled back in his chair. It was overstuffed. He felt as if his head was being pushed forward a bit too far by the cushioning. Because of this he felt in constant danger of falling forward. But it was the style — ostentatious, overstuffed, too comfortable by half. The chair was upholstered in an exotic pattern he could not name, in a color he suspected there was no name for at all. And in his little nook corner of the parlor’s second floor there was a wasting of space. In front of the window: his chair, the little table with the glass of wine on it, and then another identical chair, sitting empty. That was all. But Revel knew some clients liked their privacy, and so he kept these two- or three-person nooks arranged here and there about the expansive halls, waiting for just such a meeting as the ugly man had proposed. That was why he had come there, despite his disdain for the furnishings. That, and for the wine, for which he held no disdain and in fact a great deal of regard.

He was ugly as a painting or other work of art is ugly. That is, though a master’s painting of an ugly subject could not be called ugly, a hack’s painting of the most beautiful subject would certainly be called ugly. He managed to give this impression, that he was the portrait of a handsome man executed by a hack. The rippling, bizarre glass which was the rendering of the talentless hand lay between the viewer and the man’s true appearance.

This was, in fact, as near to being literally true as it could be. The ugly man had a handsome brother, a twin named Cerdig, and when the two were viewed side-by-side it would have been natural to suppose the one the botched attempt and the other the master’s work.

The ugly twin’s name was Armen. With one hand he pulled his short cape off the back of his chair where he’d set it when he arrived and shrugged it over his shoulders. The breeze coming through the open window had turned chilly, and though he himself had opened the window moments before, and though it stood within his power to shut it, Armen did not, because he preferred the chilly fresh breeze to the cloying miasma which hung in the air within the parlor, fruit of the scented candles Revel kept burning around the place at all times. Armen would take the fresh breeze off the aether any day, with all its variability of temperature, over the controlled and created uniform scent of candles infused with mint, rose, or starslip essence. This was another place where he and Revel differed in taste. Reflecting, Armen thought perhaps they shared no taste but the wine.

The hour was growing late. Armen took another sip. He toyed with the laces of his jerkin, tugging at them idly until they were perfectly even. He looked out the window. He looked down along the gallery. On the left a balcony rail overlooked the largest room in the parlor, which was just beginning to get busy at this hour. On the right were booths built into the wall. At the end of the gallery was the staircase that led down into the main room. Someone was coming up the stairs, but the person turned the corner and Armen relaxed into his chair. It wasn’t his person.

He sipped again. He looked out the window again. The stars shone coldly, as before. He closed his eyes and thought about Belinda. The last time they’d parted she’d been in a mood. She had promised to toss him out the window if he ever came back again. Given the location of her mansion, that would be a long, long fall. He shuddered at the thought. There was little doubt that she meant it. Armen had good information indicating that a previous paramour had actually met that very fate. He was probably still falling, for all anyone knew. The best way to deal with her in this sort of mood would be time. Time and patience, and a careful approach. Perhaps a poem and a bouquet of roses.

“Dreaming, Armen?” asked the voice, from the other chair.