I bit my lip.
She touched my wrist. "Let us make a pact. If you will come
to Athanarel and dance at my wedding, I will undertake to teach
you everything you need to know about Court life. And I'll help
you select a wardrobe—and no one need ever know."
I swallowed, then took a deep, unsteady breath.
"What is it?" She looked unhappy. "Do you mistrust me?"
I shook my head so hard my coronet came loose, and a loop
settled over one eye.
''They
would know," I whispered,
waving a hand.
"They? Your servants? Oh. You mean Branaric and Lord
Vidanric?"
I nodded. "They'll surely want to know my reasons. Since I
didn't come to Court before." I thought of that letter hidden
in my room and wondered if its arrival and Shevraeth's on the
same day had some sinister political meaning.
She smiled. "Don't worry about Bran. All he wants, you must
see, is to show you off at Athanarel. He knew you were
refurbishing this castle, and I rather think he assumed you
were—somehow—learning everything he was learning
and obtaining a fashionable wardrobe as well. And every time he
talks of you it's always to say how much more clever you are
than he is. I really think he expected to bring us here and
find you waiting as gowned and jeweled as my cousin
Tamara."
I winced. "That sounds, in truth, like Branaric."
"And as for Vidanric, well, you're safe there. I've never
met anyone as closemouthed, when he wants to be. He won't ask
your reasons. What?"
"I said, 'Hah.'"
"What is it, do you mislike him?" Again she was studying me,
her fingers playing with the pretty fan hanging at her
waist.
"Yes. No. Not mislike, but more... mistrust. Not what he'll
do, but what he might say," I babbled. "Oh, never mind. It's
all foolishness. Suffice it to say I feel better when we're at
opposite ends of the country, but I'll settle for opposite ends
of the castle."
Her eyes widened. If she hadn't been a lady, I would have
said she was on the verge of whistling. "Well, here's a knot.
But—there's nothing for it." She closed the fan with a
snap, then ran her hands over the harp.
"Why should it matter?" I asked, after a long moment. "If I
don't want to be around Shevraeth, I mean."
She plucked a string and bent down to twist the key, then
plucked it again, her head cocked, though I have a feeling she
wasn't listening. Finally she said, "Of course you probably
know he's likely to be the new king. His parents are in
Athanarel now, his father making his first appearance in many
years, and he came armed with a Letter of Regard from Aranu
Crown in Erev-li-Erval. It seems that in her eyes the
Renselaeus family has the best claim to the kingdom of
Remalna."
Half a year ago I would have been puzzled by this, but my
subsequent reading gave me an inkling of what protracted and
ticklish diplomacy must have gone on beneath the surface of
events to have produced such a result. "Well. So the Merindars
no longer have a legal claim. If they mean to pursue one." I
added hastily,
"Meant
to pursue one."
She gave a little nod. "Precisely. As it transpires, the
Prince and Princess of Renselaeus do not want to rule. They're
merely there to oversee what their son has accomplished and, I
think, to establish a sense of order and authority. It is very
hard to gainsay either of them, especially the Prince," she
added with a smile.
When I nodded, she looked surprised. "You have met him,
then?"
"Yes. Briefly."
"Would that be when you made the alliance? You know how bad
Bran is at telling stories. A random sentence or two, then he
scratches his head and claims he can't remember any more. And
the Renselaeuses don't talk about the war at all."
This news surprised and amazed me. A portion of the
tightness inside me eased, just a little.
"To resume—and we'd better hurry, or they'll be down
here clamoring for our company before their supper goes
cold—Lord Vidanric has been working very hard ever since
the end of the war. Too hard, some say. He came to Athanarel
sick and has been ill off and on since then, for he seldom
sleeps. He's either in the saddle, or else his lamps are
burning half the night in his wing of the Residence. He's here
on his mother's orders, to rest. He and your brother have
become fast friends, I think because Branaric, in his own way,
is so very undemanding. He wants no favors or powers. He just
likes to enjoy his days. This seems to be what Vidanric needs
just now."
"Do you think he'll make a good king?" I asked.
Again she seemed surprised. "Yes," she said. "But then I've
known him all my life."
As if that explains everything,
I thought. Then I
realized that to her it did. He was a good prospect for a king
because he was her friend, and because they were both
courtiers, raised the same way.
And then I wondered just who—if anyone—at Court
was willing to speak not for themselves, but for the people, to
find out who really would be the best ruler?
A discreet tap outside the door brought our attention round.
Calden, the server from the inn, parted the tapestry and said,
"Count Branaric sent me to find out if you're coming?"
"In just a moment, thanks," I said.
"Will you agree to my pact, then?" Nimiar asked.
I opened my mouth to ask why they couldn't just marry here,
but I knew that was the coward's way out. I did not wish to get
involved in any more wars, but that didn't mean I ought not do
what I could to ensure that the next reign would be what Papa
had wished for when he commenced planning his revolt.
And the best way to find out, I realized as I looked into
Nimiar's face, would not be by asking questions of third
parties, but by going to the capital and finding out on my
own.
So I squashed down my reluctance and said, "If you can teach
me not to make a fool of myself at that Court, I'll gladly come
to see you marry Bran."
"You will like Court life, I promise," she said, smiling
sweetly as we went out of the parlor.
I took care to walk behind her so she could not see my
face.
For the next several weeks Nee and I spent nearly all our
days together as she tried to remake me into a Court lady. Most
of the time it was fun, a little like what I imagined
playacting to be, as we stood side by side facing a mirror and
practiced walking and sitting and curtsying. Nee seemed to
enjoy teaching me. The more we talked, the less opaque I found
her. Beneath the automatic smiling mask of Court, she was a
quiet, restful person who liked comfort and pleasant
conversation.
In between lessons she talked about her friends at Court:
what they liked, or said, or how they entertained. Pleasant,
easy talk, meant to show all her friends in the best light; she
did not, I realized, like politics or gossip. She never once
mentioned the Marquise of Merindar.
In my turn I told her my history, bits at a time, but only
if she asked. And ask she did. She listened soberly, wincing
from time to time; one cold, blustery day I recounted how I had
ended up in Baron Debegri's dungeon, and my narrow escape
therefrom.
At the end of that story she shuddered and asked, "How could
you have lived through that and still be sane?"
"Am I sane?" I joked. "There are some who might argue." Her
reaction secretly cheered me, exactly like a ten-year-old who
has managed to horrify her friends.
It isn't much of a
claim to fame, but it's all I have,
I thought later as I
stared down at the third fan I'd broken, and
when—again—I'd forgotten which curtsy to make to
which person under which circumstances.
The one thing I couldn't talk about was that terrible day
when Shevraeth brought me to face Galdran before the entire
Court. I did not want to know if Nimiar had been there, and had
looked at me, and had laughed.
We saw Bran and Shevraeth only at dinner, and that seldom
enough, for they were often away. When the weather was
particularly bad, they might be gone for several days. On the
evenings we were alone, Nee and I would curl up in her room or
mine, eating from silver trays and talking.
Branaric and the Marquis managed to be around on most days
when the weather permitted gatherings in the old garrison
courtyard for swordfighting practice. Even though I was not
very good at it, I enjoyed sword work. At least I enjoyed it
when not rendered acutely conscious of all my failings, when
the bouts were attended by someone tall, strong, naturally
gifted with grace, and trained since childhood—such as
the Marquis of Shevraeth. So after a couple of particularly bad
practices (in which I tried so hard not to get laughed at that
I made more mistakes than ever), I stopped going whenever I saw
him there.
When Nee and I did join Bran and the Marquis for dinner, for
the most part I sat in silence and watched Nee covertly, trying
to copy her manners. No one—not even Bran—remarked
on it if I sat through an entire meal without speaking.
Thus I was not able to engender any discussions about the
Marquise of Merindar, so the letter—and the question of
kingship—stayed dormant, except at night in my troubled
dreams.
Nee had brought only one seamstress, whom she dispatched
with outriders the day after our conversation in the parlor.
Armed with one of my drafts on our bankers at Arclor House,
this woman was entrusted to hire three more seamstresses and to
bring back cloth suitable for gowns and accoutrements.
I don't know what instructions Nimiar gave her seamstress in
private. I had expected a modest trunk of nice fabric, enough
for a gown or two in the current fashions. What returned,
though, just over a week later, was a hired wagon bearing
enough stuff to outfit the entire village, plus three
determined young journey-seamstresses who came highly
recommended and who were ready to make their fortunes.
"Good," Nee said, when we had finished interviewing them.
She walked about inspecting the fabulous silks, velvets,
linens, and a glorious array of embroidery twists, nodding
happily. "Just what I wanted. Melise is a treasure."
"Isn't this too much?" I asked, astounded.
She grinned. "Not when you count up what you'll need to make
the right impression. Remember, you are acquiring overnight
what ought to have been put together over years. Morning gowns,
afternoon gowns, riding tunics and trousers, party dresses, and
perhaps one ball gown, though that kind of thing you can order
when we get to town, for those take an unconscionable amount of
time to make if you don't have a team doing it."
"A team? Doing nothing but sewing? What a horrible life!" I
exclaimed.
"Those who choose it would say the same about yours, I
think," Nee said with a chuckle. "Meaning your life as a
revolutionary. There are many, not just women, though it's
mostly females, who like very much to sit in a warm house and
sew and gossip all day. In the good houses the sewers have
music, or have books read to them, and the products are the
better for their minds being engaged in something interesting.
This is their art, just as surely as yon scribe regards her map
and her fellows regard their books." She pointed toward the
library. "And how those at Court view the way they conduct
their public lives."
"So much to learn," I said with a groan. "How will I
manage?"
She just laughed; and the next day a new arrival brought my
most formidable interview yet: with my new maid.
"Her name is Mora," Nee told me, "and she's a connection of
my own Ilvet. An aunt, I think. Ilvet promises she is deft and
discreet. She was working for one of the northern
families—low pay and too much work—but she stayed
until her mistress married and adopted into a household even
more huskscraping. Mora and the others suddenly found
themselves each doing the work of three, while living in
chambers that hadn't been altered for four hundred
years—right down to the mold on the stones. If you like
her, she will then hire your staff, whom you will never really
see."
I shook my head. "Strange, to consider having a staff I
won't see." But as I went to the interview, my thought was:
You mean, if she likes
me.
Mora was tall and thin, with gray-streaked dark hair.
Her face is more inscrutable even than Shevraeth 's,
I
thought with dismay. She bowed, then waited, her hands folded,
for me to speak.
I took a deep breath. "I gather you're used to sophisticated
Court people, and I'd better tell you right out that I'm not
sophisticated and haven't been to Court. Well, except once, but
that was against my will. It's true that I'm going to Court,
but I don't know that I'll stay past the wedding; and
then—most likely—it's back here for the rest of my
life. I go barefoot all summer, and until now I've never owned
more than one hat. And my friends have all been village
people."
She said nothing, but there was the faintest crinkling of
humor about her eyes.
"On the other hand," I said, "I'm used to cleaning up after
myself. I also won't interfere with your hiring whomever you
need, and you'll be paid whatever you think fair, at least
while we
can
pay. The fortune came to us on someone's
whim, so I suppose it could disappear the same way."
Mora bowed. "You honor me," she said, "with your honesty, my
lady."
"Does that mean you'll stay?" I asked, after an
uncomfortable pause.
She smiled then, just a little. "I believe, my lady," she
said, "it is for you to decide if you want me."
I clapped my hands, relieved that this formidable woman had
not left in disgust. "Great. Then start today," I said, and
grinned. "There's plenty to do if I'm to get properly
civilized."
FOUR
MY FIRST GOWN WAS READY SHORTLY THEREAFTER. It was a dinner
gown; I was learning the distinctions between the types of
clothing. Morning gowns were the simplest, designed to be
practical for working at home. Afternoon gowns were for going
visiting, for receiving visitors, and for walking. Dinner gowns
were elaborate in the upper half, meant to make one look good
while sitting, and narrow in the skirt, so one's skirts
wouldn't drape beyond one's cushion. The distinction between
party gowns and dinner gowns was blurring, Nee told me, because
so frequently now there were dances directly after dinner;
quite different again were the ball gowns, which were designed
to look good moving. And then there was the formal Court gown,
meant for state occasions, and few people had more than one, or
possibly two, of these—they were meant to be seen again,
and in these, the fashions had changed the least.