The Bitterbynde Trilogy (85 page)

A great stillness fell, near and far.

In the gardens and courtyards of the palace, bonfires flared, inviting the Winter sun's return. A band of well-wrapped musicians sustained the circles of dancers around each conflagration. Some maidens ran, screaming ‘Bogles in the hedges!' Someone, it was reported, had seen them—but it turned out to be a mere folly.

The city bells rang a carillon for midnight.

A mighty cheer went up to the starry skies, and a blowing of horns and a rampage of bells and drums. In the Royal Ballroom, the oboe, the clarinet, the viol, the shawm and hautboy, the serpent, the trumpet, the horn and timpani, the triangle, the gittern, and the double bass struck up.

The Royal Ballroom stood wide and high, its painted, paneled, festooned walls lined with mirrors and chairs, the latter occupied by ladies with fans and gentlemen with snuff-boxes, many of these observers being in various stages of coquetry and flirtation. Dancers packed the floor. It would seem to an onlooker that servant and master, both simple and gentle, mingled without regard to propriety: cup-bearer and countess, minion and marquess, drudge and Dainnan, valet and viscount, laundry-maid and lord, nursery-maid and noble, equerry and earl, squire and seigneur, henchman and high-born lady. With blue glass gleaming at her throat like sapphires, a ragged scullion whirled in the arms of an under-butler with gold-buckled shoes, whose jacket had been turned inside out. A queenly dame in cloth-of-gold partnered an elderly, bewhiskered steward; a kitchen-maid in a stained apron trod the boards with a velveted duke while a baroness danced with a pastry-cook. The Yeoman to the Royal Wine Cellar footed it with the Countess of Sheffield, and the Master of Robes trifled with a gardener's daughter in damson silk and a golden chatelaine. It was all bewildering in the extreme, which indeed was the intention, for the period between midnight and sunrise on Littlesun Day was a dangerous time when anything might happen.

On this the longest night, dark-loving eldritch things roamed abroad—in particular, unseelie entities out to do harm to mortals—and if they should be led astray by appearances, if they should not be able to identify those upon whom they spied, then there was a chance that they would have less power to wreak mischief upon them during the coming year. With reversal in mind, acrobats walked about on their hands, their feet waving in the air, wearing gauntlets over their shoes. Jesters, dressed as birds and butterflies with stars on their heads, toddled here and there; others, wrapped in swaddling to represent the worms of the soil, glissanded near the ceiling.

The lowliest drudge, a young, uncomely maid whose distasteful daily duties included the emptying of chamber-pots, presided over the Ball. Smiling in genuine glee, this Queen of Misrule sat on one of the King-Emperor's very thrones, with a paste-and-paint crown stuck askew upon her curls and glass baubles winking on every joint. Ercildoune, who loved such occasions, made great show of falling upon his knees before her, offering tray after tray of sweetmeats and wine. In his joskin's garb, he looked quite the yokel, although rather rakish. His performance, however, was soon eclipsed by Goblet-As-Footman. His powdered wig on sideways, his long-toed shoes tripping him up at the slightest provocation, the Royal Jester fell on many people—judiciously selected. He fell into the lap of the Queen of Misrule and was mortified and begged forgiveness, but, unforgiven, tried to hang himself with a noose whose frayed end he held high in his own hand. When suicide failed, he implored pardon again; she kissed him, and he was so elated that he cut a caper, tripped on his shoes, and landed in her lap once again. In disgust, his fellow jesters heaved him up by the hands and feet and threw him into the multitude, whereupon he was passed from hand to hand over their heads around the room. None scorned to join this activity, least of all those of the Set. In all seasons Goblet was deemed fashionable by the Set, even though he was, by choice, not part of it. His scathing tongue could strip face and facade from those he chose to mock; as jester, he was licensed to lampoon; none bar a very few would not give way before him, and most would not wish to do so. He was popular despite his acerbic wit and because of it; Goblet could say and do almost anything and get away with it. Furthermore, it was deemed lucky to touch a jester on New Year's Eve.

When next seen, Goblet was wearing an elaborate farthingale, with two slightly lopsided puddings squeezed into the bodice and two more in the bustle. In this finery he skipped through the crowd, having perfected the knack of appearing at people's elbows, then kicking up his heels and disappearing with an arch wink before they had time to collect their wits. A trail of children endeavoured to follow him.

In the adjacent room, the White Drawing Room, a take-as-you-please supper had been laid out. Gold glittered everywhere; encrusted on the walls and the heavy frames of the paintings that adorned them, on the embroidered chairs, the ornate ceiling, the solid gold firescreens. About the walls, cabinets inlaid with semi-precious stones housed objets d'art. Tall doors gave on to the torchlit gardens. Before these portals posed graceful marble statues and tall ivory vases overflowing with white lilies. Overhead hovered a breathtaking tiered crystal chandelier. The floor was thick with priceless purple and gold carpets that flowed out beyond the White Drawing Room into the length of the red-and-gold East Gallery.

The Yeoman of the Silver Pantry, who compensated for his lack of height with excessive girth, was helping himself generously, piling his plate high with lobster mousse and goose pâté. Nearby, a tipsy butler with a long and equine countenance was performing the most extraordinary antics before an admiring audience of pages and porters, balancing empty plates in aspen stacks upon his head and hands. Not unexpectedly, these ceramic towers ultimately descended with a startling crash, causing the unfortunate Yeoman of the Silver Pantry to jump and inadvertently bestow his victuals on the undeserving purple-and-gold carpets.

Thus deprived, he bristled like an indignant boar.

‘You there, Fawcett!' he shouted. ‘Hold yer noise.'

‘Shout till yer hoarse, I'll never heed
your
noise,' came the flippant reply.

The Yeoman of the Silver Pantry hitched up his belt and rolled his sleeves to his podgy elbows. His cheeks purpled like two generous aubergines.

‘'Tis not I who's horse but you, horse-face—and yet the face of you compares best with the hinder parts of the noble beast.'

Sniffing an entertaining discourse, servants gathered around. The Yeoman of the Silver Pantry had struck on an issue sensitive with the butler.

‘If horse I be then I can draw the likes of you after me—aye, draw you whithersoever I would choose to go,' sneered Fawcett. ‘Put wheels on and you are a wain—you've the build of it!'

‘'Tis a pity he does
not
wane,' interjected the butler's friend waggishly. ‘He waxes more than he wanes methinks—more so than a thousand candles!'

‘Nay, no
drawer
you, but an artist,' shot back the Yeoman of the Silver Pantry, ignoring this interruption. ‘An artist in horse manure.' Quickly reconsidering, he added, ‘Had I but a pair of drawers such as you, you would be the crotch!'

The audience, who had been applauding each sally, cheered this barb of wit. Nonetheless, the butler was not to be deterred. After a brief deliberation as to whether to interpret the word ‘crotch' as ‘fork' and thus allude to his opponent's disgusting eating habits, he decided on a more threatening approach. Both participants were incisively aware of the retribution that would shortly be exacted from them by the Master of the King's Household in his wrath, as payment for the damage they had occasioned to the carpets and dishes of the White Drawing Room. Thus they decided that it was as well to be hanged for a buck as a fawn.

‘A crutch you would fain lean upon once I have bested you!'

‘Aye,
leaner
will they call me an you keep me from my dinner,' hotly said the Yeoman of the Silver Pantry, who was in fact proud of his bulk. ‘But I'll dine anon, horse-face, while you shall couch upon the cold ground. Then you'll be the leaner, understand me?'

‘Rather do I
over
stand you, base churl.' The butler loomed over the short figure of the pantryman, his long chin thrust forward.

‘Why then, I'll undermine you!'

While the butler was thinking of a reply, the Yeoman of the Silver Pantry tackled him around the knees and bowled him over.

Fists flew. Rohain and many others prudently' withdrew to the comparative safety of the Ballroom. Among the crowd that jostled there she briefly noted a tall man with a scarred face, high cheekbones, and startlingly blue eyes—one of the footmen. Wearing a gorgeous jacket of sapphire velvet lined with white Rimanian bear fur, he was bowing low before a curly-haired ‘chambermaid', the sixth granddaughter of the Marquess of Early. The girl took his hand and they began to dance. Their eyes never left each other.

‘Love knows no boundaries of rank,' murmured Rohain to herself.

Unfolding the pleated leaves of a carved wooden fan, the chicken-skin parchment of which was ostentatiously painted with a scene from the Legend of the Sleeping Warriors, Viviana edged closer to her mistress's elbow.

‘I dream—am I truly wearing my lady's cloth-of-silver gown and topaz girdle?'

‘Go on with you!' said Rohain, smiling. ‘You are a lady tonight. You need not attend me.'

‘Georgiana Griffin attends Dianella—'

‘Nonetheless, I insist!'

‘A thousand thanks, my lady! I cannot wait to join the dance. This will surely be the best night of my life!'

After a quick curtsy, Viviana made haste to join the ladies waiting for partners.

Rohain's eyes roved the assembly. She fluttered a lacquered fan of brilliant luster, edged with gilt. At her girdle hung a small, slender case containing ivory dance-cards. Made of mother-of-pearl, it was overlaid with gold filigree work and had a matching pencil. Several gentlemen had inscribed its ivory leaves with their names. Having been plagued with offers to dance, each ardent aspirant producing a white lace handkerchief and flourishing it under his nose with a bow, Rohain had accepted a few and refused many. Without the influence of trow-music she was an inept dancer, having learned the few steps she knew during impromptu lessons from Viviana—a fact that none of the gallants who whirled her in their arms had seemed to care a whit about. But not one of her partners could match Thorn. She did not wish to dance any more, not with anyone but him. Tired of refusing offers, she had masked her face with a feathered domino borrowed from the Duchess of Roxburgh, dressed herself like a chambermaid, stuck a large pair of artificial moth's wings on her back, and teased out her black hair in a fright.

Dainnan knights were among the crowd in the ballroom, costumed as both aristocrats and servants, but she could not obtain a clear view from where she stood. It occurred to her that from the elevation of the musicians' gallery, one could be sure of commanding the scene. Eluding a dashing young earl who may have penetrated her disguise and was advancing in her direction, Rohain slipped through a service door and found a narrow stair.

As she ascended the steps a chill swept over her. She looked up and flinched. Something barred her way. It was a tall, white object, like a column of pale marble. The flicker of a torch in a sconce showed a long, dark shadow stretching from the pillar's feet and up the wall. She pushed back her mask to obtain a better view.

‘Oh! My lord Sargoth!'

He said nothing. He simply loomed there, looking down from the added height lent him by the staircase. Torchlight carved shadows out of his unblemished pallor, his luminous marble hair. The long face and beard matched the utter colourlessness of his wizard's robes. Here was one member of the Imperial Court not dressed for Misrule. It was all Rohain could do to prevent herself from backing away, turning and fleeing down the stair. She told herself she would not be intimidated by this man. He was a servant of the King-Emperor, after all—surely in the Court hierarchy she was his superior?

‘Sir, let me pass.'

‘My lady—
Rohain
, is it? Is that what you are called?'

‘Yes.'

‘My lady
Rohain,'
he deliberately emphasized the name. ‘Far be it from me to impede your upward progress.'

He did not move. His eyes glittered oddly. What did he mean? What could he know?

Her mind groped for some anchor, and found the past.
Sianadh said never to show fear, never to run. To do so gives fearsome things power over you
.

‘Well then, let me pass,' she said, evincing a boldness she did not feel.

‘Assuredly.'

He moved, but she thought that instead of stepping aside he stooped toward her. She recoiled. A voice boomed up the stairwell from below: ‘Ho, my fair lady, are you there?'

Ercildoune bounded into sight. With relief, Rohain smiled at him. When she looked again, Sargoth was gone.

‘Oh! Where is he?'

‘Who? Have I been so churlish as to interrupt a lovers' tryst upon the stair? Now, Rohain, you must allow me to know the name of my rival. And what an enchanting push-broom you make, I declare. Winged to boot!'

‘No rival, Your Grace. No rival was here, only Sargoth the Wizard.'

‘Gadzooks, you tremble like a twanged harpstring, my dear. What, has the old charlatan frightened you? I'll have his gizzards!'

‘He has not.'

‘That is well for him! Never trust a wizard, that's what I say. All that trickery and smoke—bah! There's no more gramarye in the Nine Arts than in a sieve. Come now, were you not directing your steps to the musicians' gallery? I would fain accompany you there. It is a place in which I feel right at ease, if they are playing well.'

They ascended together.

Yet, although she leaned long on the parapet looking down, Rohain could not spy the one for whom her eyes ached. And when the red eye of the Winter sun first opened its lid on the late, slate dawn, it seared his absence on a frost-blighted world.