I rose, trying to hide my astonishment. Deric's face was
blank, and Bran looked puzzled. Behind him, Shevraeth watched,
his expression impossible to interpret. As I followed the
Marquise, I glanced at her son, and was further surprised to
see his gaze on me. His fingers manipulated his fan; for just
an instant he held it in the duelist's "guard" position, then
his wrist bent as he spread the fan open with languid
deliberation.
A warning?
Of course it is—but why?
With a regal gesture the Marquise indicated a door—a
handsome carved one—and a lackey sprang to open it. A
moment later we passed inside a lamp-lit conservatory and were
closed off in the sudden, slightly unsettling silence
vouchsafed by well-fitted wooden doors. "I find young Deric of
Orbanith a refreshing boy," she said. "He's been my daughter's
friend through their mutual interest in horses since they were
both quite small."
I cudgeled my mind for something diplomatic to say and came
up with, "I hope Lady Fialma will join us for the next race,
your grace."
"Perhaps, perhaps." The Marquise stretched out a hand to nip
away a dead leaf from one of her plants. She seemed completely
absorbed in her task; I wondered how to delicately turn the
discussion to the purpose of her letter when she said, "A
little over a year ago there appeared at Court a remarkable
document signed by you and your esteemed brother."
Surprised, I recalled our open letter to Galdran outlining
how his bad ruling was destroying the kingdom. The letter,
meant to gain us allies in the Court, had been the last project
we had worked on with our father. "We didn't think anyone
actually saw it," I said, unnerved by the abrupt change of
subject. "We did send copies, but I thought they had been
suppressed."
One of her brows lifted. "No one but the king saw
it—officially. However, it enjoyed a brief but intense
covert popularity, I do assure you."
"But there was no response," I said.
"As there was no protection offered potential fellow
rebels," she retorted, still in that mild voice, "you ought not
be surprised. Your sojourn here was brief. Perhaps you were
never really aware of the difficulties facing those who
disagreed with my late brother."
"Well, I remember what he was going to do to
me
I
said.
"And do you remember what happened instead?"
I turned to stare at her. "I thought—"
"Thought what, child? Speak freely. There is no one to
overhear you."
Except, of course, the Marquise. But was she really a
danger? The Renselaeuses now gripped the hilt-end of the sword
of power, or she would have been home long since.
"The Princess Elestra hinted that they helped me escape," I
said.
"Hinted," she repeated. "And thus permitted you to convince
yourself?"
"You mean they didn't?"
She lifted one shoulder slightly. "Contradiction of the
conqueror, whose memory is usually adaptable, is pointless,
unless ..." She paused, once more absorbed in clearing yellowed
leaves from a delicate plant.
"Unless what, your grace?" Belatedly I remembered the
niceties.
She did not seem to notice. "Unless one intends to honor
one's own vows," she murmured. "I have not seen you or your
respected brother at Court. Have you set aside those fine
ideals as expressed in your letter?"
"We haven't, your grace," I said cautiously.
"Yet I have not seen you at Petitioners' Court. That is, I
need hardly point out, where the real ruling takes place."
But Shevraeth is there.
Remembering the promise I
had made that last day at Tlanth, I was reluctant to mention my
problems with him. I said with care, "I haven't been asked to
attend—and I do not see how my presence or absence would
make much difference."
"You would learn," she murmured, "how our kingdom is being
governed. And then you would be able to form an idea as to
whether or not your vows are in fact being kept."
She was
right.
This was my purpose in coming.
Ought I to tell her? Instinct pulled me both ways, but
memory of the mistakes I had made in acting on hasty judgment
kept me silent.
She bent and plucked a newly bloomed starliss, tucked it
into my hair, then stepped back to admire the effect. "There
are many among us who would be glad enough to see you and your
brother honor those vows," she said, and took my arm, and led
me back to the reception room.
At once I was surrounded by Nee and Deric and Renna—my
own particular friends—as if they had formed a plan to
protect me. Against what? Nothing happened after that, except
that we ate and drank and listened to a quartet of singers from
the north performing ballads whose words we could not
understand, but whose melancholy melodies seemed to shiver in
the air.
The Marquise of Merindar did not speak to me again until it
was time to leave, and she was gracious as she begged me to
come visit her whenever I had the inclination. There was no
reference to our conversation in the conservatory.
When at last Deric and I settled into his carriage, he
dropped back with a sigh of relief. "Well, that's over. Good
food and good company, but none of it worth sitting mum while
Fialma glared daggers at me."
Remembering the Marquise's opening statement, I realized
suddenly what I'd missed before—some of what I'd missed,
anyway—and tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. It
seemed that Deric was deemed an appropriate match for the
daughter of a Merindar.
Deric grinned at me, the light from glowglobes flickering in
his black eyes. "Cowardice, I know. But burn it, that female
scares me."
I remembered the gossip about Lady Fialma and her recent
return from Erev-li-Erval, where she was supposed to have
contracted an appropriately brilliant marriage alliance but had
failed. Which was why the Marquise had passed her over for the
heirship of Merindar.
But that wasn't all; as Deric drove away and I mounted the
steps of the Residence, I realized that he could, in fact, be
subtle when he wanted. And that there were consequences to
bluntness that one could not always predict. He had asked me to
accompany him as a hint to the Merindars that he was courting
me, and therefore wouldn't court Fialma.
Interesting, though, that he asked to take me to that party
right
after
I had rejected his attempts to kiss
me.
I'll never understand flirting,
I thought, fighting
the impulse to laugh.
Never.
In my rooms, I sat at the window, looking out at the soft
rain and thinking about that conversation with the Marquise.
Was she, or was she not, inviting me to join her in opposing
Shevraeth's rule?
Ought I to attend Petitioners' Court, then, and begin
evaluating the Renselaeus policies? Where was the real truth
between the two families?
I remembered the hint that the Marquise had dropped.
According to her, Princess Elestra had not, in fact, had
anything to do with my escape. If she hadn't, who, then? The
Marquise? Except why didn't I find out before? Who could I
ask?
Deric? No. He showed no interest whatever in Crown affairs.
He lived for sport. Renna as well. Trishe and the others?
I bit my lip, wondering if my opening such a discussion
would be a betrayal of the promise to Shevraeth. I didn't know
any of these people well enough to enjoin them to secrecy, and
the thought of Shevraeth finding out about my purpose in coming
made me shudder inside.
Of the escape, at least, I could find out some of the truth.
I'd write to Azmus, our trusted spy during the war, who had
helped me that night. Now he was happily retired to a nice
village in Tlanth. I moved to my writing table, plumped down
onto the pillows without heeding my expensive gown, and reached
for a pen. The letter was soon written and set aside for
dispatch home.
Then I sat back on the pillows. As I thought about the
larger question, a new idea occurred to me: Why not ask the
Secret Admirer who'd sent the ring and the rose?
He certainly knew how to keep a secret. If he was only
playing a game, surely a serious question would show him up.
I'd phrase it carefully....
I remembered the starliss in my hair and pulled it out to
look down into the silver-touched white crown-shaped petals. I
thought about its symbolism. In Kharas it was known as
Queensblossom; that I'd learned from my mother long ago.
Nowadays it symbolized ambition.
My scalp prickled with a danger sense. Once again I dipped
my quill. I wrote:
Dear Unknown,
You probably won't want to answer a letter, but I need
some advice on Court etiquette, without my asking being noised
around, and who could be more closemouthed than you? Let's say
I was at a party, and a high-ranking lady approached
me...
TWELVE
AS SOON I FINISHED THE LETTER I ASKED MORA to have it sent,
just so I wouldnft stay awake changing my mind back and forth
during the night.
When I woke the next morning, that letter was the first
thing on my mind. Had I made a mistake in writing it? I'd been
careful to make it seem like mental exercise, a hypothetical
question of etiquette, describing the conversation in general
terms and the speakers only as a high-ranking lady and a young
lady new to Court. Unless the unknown admirer had been at the
party, there would be no way to connect me to the Marquise. And
if he had been at the party--as Deric, Savona, and Geral, all
of whom flirted with me most, had been-wouldn't his not having
given away his identity make him obliged to keep my letter
secret as well?
So I reasoned. When Mora came in with my hot chocolate, she
also brought me a gift: a book. I took it eagerly.
The book was a memoir from almost three hundred years
before, written by the Duchess Nirth Marsharlias, who married
the heir to a principality. Though she never ruled, three of
her children married into royalty. I had known of her, but not
much beyond that.
There was no letter, but slipped in the pages was a single
petal of starliss. The text it marked was written in
old-fashioned language, but even so, I liked the voice of the
writer at once:
...
and though the Count spoke strictly in Accordance
with Etiquette, his words were an Affront, for he knew my
thoughts on Courtship of Married Persons...
I skipped down a ways, then started to laugh when I
read:
...
and mock-solemn, matching his Manner to the most
precise Degree, I challenged him to a Duel. He was forced to go
along with the Jest, lest the Court laugh at him instead of
with him, but he liked it Not...
... and at the first bells of Gold we were there on the
Green, and lo, the Entire Court was out with us to see the
Duel. Instead of Horses, I had brought big, shaggy Dogs from
the southern Islands, playful and clumsy under their Gilt
Saddles, and for Lances, we had great paper Devices which were
already Limp and Dripping from the Rain....
Twice he tried to speak Privily to me, but knowing he
would apologize and thus end the Ridiculous Spectacle, I heeded
him Not, and so we progressed through the Duel, attended with
all proper Appurtenances, from Seconds to Trumpeteers, with the
Court laughing themselves Hoarse and No One minding the
increasing Downpour. In making us both Ridiculous I believe I
put paid to all such Advances in future...
The next page went on about other matters. I laid the book
down, staring at the starliss as I thought this over. The
incident on this page was a response—the flower made that
clear enough—but what did it mean?
And why the mystery? Since my correspondent had taken the
trouble to answer, why not write a plain letter?
Again I took up my pen, and I wrote carefully:
Dear Mysterious Benefactor:
I read the pages you marked, and though I was greatly
diverted, the connection between this story and my own dilemma
leaves me more confused than before. Would you advise my young
lady to act the fool to the high-ranking lady—or are you
hinting that the young one already has? Or is it merely a
suggestion that she follow the duchess's example and ward off
the high-ranking lady's hints with a joke duel?
If you've figured out that this is a real situation and
not a mere mental exercise, then you should also know that I
promised someone important that I would not let myself get
involved in political brangles; and I wish most straightly to
keep this promise. Truth to tell, if you have insights that I
have not—and it's obvious that you do—in this
dilemma I'd rather have plain discourse than gifts.
The last line I lingered over the longest. I almost crossed
it out, but instead folded the letter, sealed it, and when Mora
came in, I gave it to her to deliver right away. Then I dressed
and went out to walk.
In the past, when something bothered me, I'd retreat up into
the mountains to think it through. Now I strolled through
Athanarel's beautiful garden, determined to review the enure
sequence of events as clearly as memory permitted.
During the course of this I remembered one vital hint, which
I then wondered how I could be so stupid as to forget: Lord
Flauvic's little gesture with the fan.
On guard.
That,
I decided, I could pursue.
Running and walking, I cut through the gardens. The air was
cold and brisk, washed clean from rain. The sky was an intense,
smiling blue.
Growing up in the mountains as I had, I'd discovered that
maintaining a true sense of direction was instinctive. As I
homed in on Merindar House, taking the straightest way rather
than the ordered paths, I found ancient bearded trees and
tangled grottos. Just before I reached the house, I had to
clamber over a mossy wall that had begun to crumble over the
centuries.