“But wealthy people like the Merindars and the Renselaeuses have horses stabled all over the kingdom,” I protested. “I noticed that last year.”
“Yes, but good stablehands know those horses, and thus know when they’re taken out, and for how long, and where they went. For one stablehand to talk about the fine roan Windrunner and how he did in the bad weather last week is merely horse talk and seldom raises comment. But Windrunner’s movements put together with Jerrec of Ilvan-town’s movements make a pattern.”
“I see. So you want to know if I’ll pay for it?”
He shook his head. “I want to know, my lady, what you will do with the information.”
My first thought was that the Marquise of Merindar would probably make any servant disappear who spoke thus with her. But I had given Azmus the right. He loved a challenge, this I knew, but he also loved the kingdom. When I first took charge of Tlanth’s accounting books, I had discovered that Azmus had been paid only sporadically over the years. He had used his ostensible trade as goldsmith in order to pursue his clandestine vocation on our behalf. My father, and then my brother and I, had helped little, beyond sending him back to Remalna-city with a basket of fresh food and one of our good mounts after he’d made one of his reports.
So he was not in any sense a mere lackey to go silently and carry out my whims. He was a co-conspirator, and he wanted to discuss the goal.
So what was my goal?
Images fled through my mind, chased by phantom emotions: my descending on Shevraeth to inform him of whatever it was the Merindars were planning; my sending him an anonymous letter with the same information. Fine, triumphant gestures, but to what end? And why?
I shook my head, as if that would dispel the images. If I was going to dip my hand into public affairs, then I had to dismiss personal considerations.
“To help the new king,” I said. “To make certain that no Merindar sits again on that throne, because none of them are worthy.”
Azmus smiled, clapped his hands to his knees and bowed with slow deliberation. “I shall communicate with you as soon as I know something, my lady,” he said, and slipped out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The days immediately following passed very swiftly.
Now that summer had begun, the spring rains, which had held off for weeks, inundated us steadily. I noticed worried conversations once in a while, among people whose lands lay along the coast, and runners dashed and splashed back and forth to report on crops and roads and floods.
Meanwhile, the peculiar life of Athanarel continued. We did not have a king, yet the government was somehow carried forward, and foreign diplomats attended the constant round of social events, and they all seemed content with things as they were. Not so the more serious of the courtiers, but as yet the questions everyone most wanted to ask—”When will we have a king? Why does he wait?”—were as yet discussed only in quiet comers of informal parties and never by those most closely concerned.
The weather curtailed outside activities. For now the races and picnics were set aside for inside diversions: readings, music, dancing, parties, chocolate, and talk. I think four new dances were introduced during that time, but what I really enjoyed was the resumption of sword work. Parties to pursue the martial arts were organized, and fencing tourneys replaced racing for those who liked competition.
I competed only for fun, and no one bet on me, not even Savona, because, despite my enthusiasm, I wasn’t very good. Neither was Bran, though he shared my enthusiasm. The others who favored the blade had been well trained from childhood, and our lack showed. But this did not stop either of us from trying.
One of the topics of conversation was my party, which was perhaps the more anticipated because people kept inside perforce had more time to spend on their costumes. My own involvement with the preparations had escalated accordingly, about which I’ll have something to say anon.
From Flauvic nothing was seen, nor did he entertain—but after enough days had passed that I had quite given up on him, I received a witty note, gracefully written by his own hand, stating that he would attend my party.
And so, on the surface, all was serene enough. Tamara remained cool but friendly, and Nee told me over chocolate one morning when Elenet was not there that Tamara never mentioned me but in praise.
Trishe held her weekly breakfast parties in her rooms at Khialem House; Deric and Geral continued to flirt with me; Savona continued his extravagant compliments; I was often in company with Shevraeth now, and we both smiled and conversed, but always, it seemed, with other people.
And on most mornings, Elenet joined Nee and me for breakfast. Sometimes Bran was there, and sometimes not. I cannot say that I came to know Elenet any better as the days wore on. She was reserved and never made any reference to anything personal. Still, when she was there, we had some of our best discussions of reading, music—always music—art, and history.
One morning when we three were alone, Nee leaned forward and said, “Elen, you’ve been closeted with Vidanric a lot, I’ve noticed. Has he said aught about a coronation? I confess it makes me nervous to have it not decided—as if they are waiting for something terrible to happen.”
Elenet’s expression did not change, but high on her thin cheeks appeared a faint flush. “I trust we will hear something soon.” she murmured. And she turned the conversation to something general.
Were they in love? I knew that she was. Elenet would make a splendid queen, I told myself, and they both certainly deserved happiness. I found myself watching them closely whenever we were all at an event, which occurred more and more often. There were no touches, no special smiles, none of the overt signs that other courting couples gave—but she was often by his side. I’d inevitably turn away, thinking to myself that it was none of my business. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have admirers, both the social kind and one real one—though I didn’t know his name. Still, the subject made me restless, which I attributed to regret over how badly I had behaved to Shevraeth. I knew I owed him an apology, or an explanation, two things I could not bring myself to offer lest—someone—misconstrue my motives. And think me angling for a crown.
So I hugged to myself the knowledge of my Unknown. No matter how my emotions veered during those social occasions, it was comforting to realize that I would return to my room and find a letter from the person whose opinions and thoughts I had come to value most.
I preferred courtship by paper. No one feels a fool, no one gets hurt. And yet—and yet—though I loved getting those letters, as the days went by I became increasingly impatient with certain restraints that I felt were imposed on us.
Like discussing current events and people. We continued to range over historical events, or the current entertainments such as the Ortali ribbon dancers or the piper-poets from faraway Toar—all subjects that I could have discussed with an erudite lady.
The morning of Nee’s question to Elenet about coronations, I found the usual letter waiting when I returned to my room. I decided to change everything. Having scanned somewhat impatiently down the well-written comparison of two books about the Land of the Chwahir, I wrote:
I can find it in myself to agree with the main points, that kings ought not to be sorcerers, and that the two kinds of power are better left in the charge of different persons. But I must confess that trouble in Chwahirsland and Colend seems a minor issue right now. The problems of wicked mage-kings are as distant as those two kingdoms, and what occupies my attention now are problems closer to home. Everyone seems to whisper about the strange delay concerning our own empty throne, but as yet no one seems willing to speak aloud. Have you any insights on why the Renselaeus family has not made any definite plans?
That sent, I changed into my riding clothes, summoned a rain canopy, and set out for sword practice, wondering about the silence from Azmus.
The long room now used as a gymnasium had formerly been some kind of drill hall for Galdran’s private army, and before that it had obviously served
mostly military purposes, for flags, ancient and modern, hung high on the walls, celebrating past ridings and regiments that had been deemed worthy of fame. These were not as spectacular as the House banners that were displayed on angled poles in the Throne Room, testament to Remalna’s unity, but they carried their own prestige; now that I was better read about our past I recognized some of them, and there was a kind of thrill in seeing the physical evidence of past glory.
At one end of the room was a group of young teens busy with swordplay, and at the other a swarm of children circled round on ancient carved horses mounted on cart wheels or played at stick-and-ball.
I wandered toward my friends and was soon hailed by Renna, who offered me a bout. Time passed swiftly and agreeably. I finished my last engagement with one of Nee’s cousins and was beginning to feel the result of sustained effort in my arm and back when a practice blade thwacked my shoulder. I spun around—and gaped.
Shevraeth stood there smiling. At his elbow my brother chuckled, and next to him, Savona watched with an appreciative grin.
“Come, Lady Meliara,” Shevraeth said. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned since you took on Galdran.”
“I didn’t take on Galdran,” I protested, feeling hot and cold at once.
“I don’t know what you’d call it, then, Mel.” Bran leaned on his sword, still grinning. “Looked like you went have-at-’im to me.”
“I was trying to defend you,” I said, and the others all laughed. “And a fat lot of good it did, too,” I added when they stopped. “He knocked me right out of the saddle!”
“Hit you from behind,” Shevraeth said. “Apparently he was afraid to confront so formidable a foe face-to-face.”
They laughed again, but I knew it was not at me so much as at the hated King Galdran.
Shevraeth raised his point and said, “Come now. Blade up.”
I sighed. “I’ve already been made into cheese by Deric, there, and Renna, and Lornav, but if you think I merit another defeat…”
Again they laughed, and Savona and my brother squared off as Shevraeth and I saluted. My bout with Shevraeth was much like the others. Even more than usual I was hopelessly outclassed, but I stuck grimly to my place, refusing to back up, and took hit after hit, though my parrying was steadily improving. Of course I lost, but at least it wasn’t so easy a loss as I’d had when I first began to attend practice—and he didn’t insult me with obvious handicaps, such as never allowing his point to hit me.
Bran and Savona finished a moment later, and Bran was suggesting we exchange partners when the bells for third-gold rang, causing a general outcry. Some would stay, but most were retreating to their various domiciles to bathe and dress for open Court.
I turned away—and found Shevraeth beside me. “You’ve never sampled the delights of Petitioners’ Court,” he said.
I thought of the Throne Room again, this time with Galdran there on the goldenwood throne, and the long lines of witnesses. I suppressed a shiver.
Some of my tension must have exhibited itself in my countenance because he said, “It is no longer an opportunity for a single individual to practice summary justice such as you experienced on your single visit.”
“I’m certain you don’t sit around happily and play cards,” I muttered, looking down at the toes of my boots as we walked.
“Sometimes we do, when there are no petitioners. Or we listen to music. But when there is business, we listen to the petitioners, accept whatever they offer in the way of proof, and promise a decision at a later date. That’s for the first two greens. The last is spent in discussing impressions of the evidence at hand; sometimes agreement is reached, and sometimes we decide that further investigation is required before a decision can be made.”
This surprised me so much I looked up at him. There was no amusement, no mockery, no threat in the gray eyes. Just a slight question.
I said, “You listen to the opinions of whoever comes to Court?”
“Of course,” he said. “It means they want to be a part of government, even if their part is to be merely ornamental.”
I remembered that dinner when Nee first brought up Elenet’s name, and how Shevraeth had lamented how most of those who wished to give him advice had the least amount worth hearing.
“Why should I be there?” I asked. “I remember what you said about worthless advisers.”
“Do you think any opinion you would have to offer would be worthless?” he countered.
“It doesn’t matter what I think of my opinion,” I retorted, and then caught myself. “I mean to say, it is not me making the decisions.”
“So what you seem to be implying is that I think your opinion worthless.”
“Well, don’t you?”
He sighed. “When have I said so?”
“At the inn in Lumm, last year. And before that. About our letter to Galdran, and my opinion of courtiers.”
“It wasn’t your opinion I pointed up, it was your ignorance,” he said. “You seem to have made truly admirable efforts to overcome that handicap. Why not share what you’ve learned?”
I shrugged, then said, “Why don’t you have Elenet there?”—and hated myself for about as stupid a bit of pettiness as I’d ever uttered.
But he took the words at face value. “An excellent suggestion, and one I acted on immediately after she arrived at Athanarel. She’s contributed some very fine insights. She’s another, by the way, who took her own education in hand. Three years ago about all she knew was how to paint fans.”
I had talked myself into a corner—all through my own efforts. “All right. I’ll go get Mora to dig out that Court dress I ordered and be there to blister you all with my brilliance.”
He bowed, lifted his gray-gloved hand in a casual salute, and walked off toward the Royal Wing.
I retreated in quick order to get ready for the ordeal ahead.
oOo
As the bells for first-green echoed sweetly up the stone walls of the great hall built round the Throne Room, I passed through the arched entrance into the room itself. I felt very self-conscious in my never-worn pale rose satin gown and gloves. I glanced down at the gemstones winking in the light, and the cunning silver and maroon embroidery, then I raised my head carefully so as not to dislodge the formal headdress.
People seemed to be milling about in an orderly fashion, the rare sunlight from the high windows sparking rich highlights from brightly colored velvets and satins and jewels.
Elenet and Savona appeared, arm in arm, she dressed in forest green and he in a very dark violet that was almost black. They came directly to me, smiling welcome, and with a pretty fan-flourish of Friends’ Recognition, Elenet said, “You look lovely, Meliara. Do come stand with us; we have found a good place.”
And it was a good place, from which we could see all three Renselaeuses plus the petitioners. We could hear them all without too much distortion from the echoes in the huge room, for there were only twenty or thirty of us at most; not the hundreds that Galdran had required to augment his greatness.
The throne was empty, and above it hung only the ancient flag of Remalna, tattered in places from age. Galdran’s banners were, of course, gone. No one was on the dais. Just below it, side by side in fine chairs, sat the prince and princess.
At their feet Shevraeth knelt formally on white cushions before a long carved table. He now wore white and silver with blue gemstones on his tunic and in his braided hair. He looks like a king, I thought, though he was nowhere near the throne.
Each petitioner came forward, assisted by stewards in the gold-and-green of Remalna. They did not have to stand before the Renselaeuses, but were bade to take a cushion at that long table, which each did, first bowing and then kneeling in the formal manner.
It really was a civilized way of conducting the business. The prince and princess remained silent, except when they had a question. Their son did all the speaking, not that he spoke much. Mostly he listened, then promised a decision on this or
that day; as the number of petitioners increased, I realized he’d been doing it long enough to gauge about how long each piece of business was likely to take. Then he thanked them for coming forward, and they bowed and rose, and were escorted away to the side table, where refreshments awaited any who wanted them.
I noticed some of the courtiers with cups in their hands, or tiny plates of delicately made foods. The room was chill, and the rain had returned, drumming against the high windows. The Renselaeuses did not eat or drink. I was so fascinated with the process that I did not want to steal away to get food for myself.
The last petitioner left well before the second-green, which meant that there would be no Court the following day. I suspected they’d need to use the time to go over the petitions; one change was not going to do for all that I had heard that day.
Nor did it. When the great doors at the other end were closed, we repaired into a beautiful antechamber of pink marble, where more food and drink were spread, hot and fresh.
This time everyone partook liberally and seated themselves on narrow stools along a long, high table. When I realized that these were to accommodate the women, I wanted to laugh. Court gowns, having wide skirts and delicate, costly decoration, are not made to be sat in, but one could manage with a stool. I wondered when the stools had been made, and with whom in mind, as I harkened back to elder days of fashion when it was the men whose tight, constraining clothing made sitting difficult, while the ladies knelt at their ease in their flimsy gowns.
The prince and princess sat at either end of the table. Both had foreign diplomats at their right and left hands. Prince Alaerec caught my eye and smiled a welcome, then he said, “So who has thoughts about Guild Mistress Pelhiam’s request?”
“Seems straightforward,” the baron from Orbanith said, sounding slightly pompous. “Cloth makers want glowglobes for their street for night work, citing the sail makers and the scribes as having glowglobes on theirs. They’ll contact the magicians, order them, pay for them.”