Savona lowered his wineglass. “It is straightforward. The question is, is this the time to be raising prices? Because we all know that the Guild will duly raise prices in order to meet the extra expense.”
“It is not the time to be raising prices.” The princess’s fluting voice was pleasant but firm. “The people who will be most affected by the price rise will need another year or more to recover from the recent hardships.”
Several more people spoke then, some merely repeating what had already been said, and one person, Lord Olervec Elbanek, declaring that if the poor simply worked harder they could afford to buy more.
Others spoke more sensibly, and then finally Elenet said, “Perhaps the request should be granted, contingent on the Guild using some of its own funds and not raising prices. If that’s summarily refused, the subject could be brought forward again in a year’s time.”
Shevraeth nodded. “If they want light at night badly enough, they’ll unpocket the funds. If not, then they can wait.”
General agreement went round the table, and Shevraeth leaned over to speak to the quiet scribe who sat at his elbow. He then wrote swiftly on the petition and laid it aside.
The second petition caused longer debate, which led to calls for more investigation. It seemed that one of the fortresses on the northern border—I wondered if it was one to which the troublesome army officers had been sent—was charging increasing amounts of tax money to the people they protected. The petitioners, from a nearby town, begged for a royal decree placing a ceiling on the taxes. “They claim they have more new recruits than ever before, which accounts for all the supplies and equipment and horses they are ordering. But we’re no longer at war. So if they really are ordering all this, against what?” one man had said.
The debate went on, listened to but not commented on by the three Renselaeuses. Then when all seemed to have had their say, the petition was set aside pending investigation.
The third petition caused more general talk, led by the prince; and so time sped on, the bells for blue ringing before the pile was half done. There was general agreement to meet the next day at green in the Exchequer First Chamber and then all rose and departed.
I left, having not spoken during the entire proceeding. I was glad that I’d gone, and I was fascinated by what I’d seen. As I walked down the long halls, listening to the swish-swish of my skirts on the fine mosaic tiles, I wondered how they’d investigate, who they’d hire—and just how one went about building the unseen part of a government.
When I reached my rooms, I saw a letter lying on my table.
Hastily stripping off my gloves, I sank down onto my pillows, heedless of the costly fabric of my court gown crinkling and billowing about me, and broke the seal with my finger.
The Unknown had written:
You ask why there has been no formal announcement concerning a coronation. I think this question is better addressed to the person most concerned, but I do know this: Nothing will be announced until the sculptors have finished refashioning a goldenwood throne for a queen.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Well, I had no answer to make to that; thinking about Elenet, or Shevraeth, or that carved throne, caused a cold ache inside, as if I had lost something I had not hitherto valued.
So I didn’t write back that day. Or the next. The following morning I received a letter that did not refer to thrones, queens, or coronations, to my intense relief. And so, for a handful of days anyway, things went right back to normal.
Except, what is normal at any given time? We change just as the seasons change, and each spring brings new growth. So nothing is ever quite the same. I realize now that what I wanted was comfort, but that, too, does not often come with growth and change.
I did not go back to Petitioners’ Court the next day, or the next; and the morning after that, when Nee had arranged a breakfast for Elenet and me, I moved so reluctantly that I arrived outside Nee’s tapestry somewhat late. From inside came the sound of Elenet’s laughing, and then her voice, talking swiftly. Either she was happy over something specific, or else she felt constrained while in my company. Either way, I did not know how to react, so I backed away from the tapestry and retreated to my rooms.
“Mora, I think the time has come for me to remain here to oversee the last of the preparations for the party,” I said as soon as I slipped inside. And there was no mistaking the relief in her face.
oOo
One could, of course, issue orders through servants for this or that group of performers to appear, promising a sizable purse. There were many of these groups earning their living in and around Remalna-city: players, dancers, singers, musicians whose livelihood depended on their knowing the latest trends and tastes.
My idea was to transport everyone five hundred years into the past as soon as they entered the portals. The building was appropriate; I hired a ballroom near the Residence that had not been renovated for generations, knowing that the marble therein was more than five hundred years old.
As for the rest, I did not want to issue orders through servants. I wanted to see the project through myself. I’d discovered that in discussing my vision with each artist I encountered, the artists altered from hirelings into individuals—and conversely, for them I altered from a faceless courtier with money into an individual with an interest and appreciation for their expertise.
This, in turn, led to offers of cousins, friends, relations—some so distant they were beyond our borders—who were experts at this or that art. Over the month in which I prepared for that ball, my own vision slowly transformed into a much greater reality, one conceived in willing collaboration with many minds.
I’d thought to have someone scout out enough five-hundred-year-old tapestries from houses around town to borrow, or rent, for suitable wall hangings. When I mentioned this to one of the palace servants Mora introduced to me, I was brought an uncle who specialized in re-creating ancient arts.
“No, no,” said this wizened little old man, his eyes bird-bright. “Never tapestries for a ball, not then. Always a chimerical garden, so arranged that the air always smells sweet and fresh.” His hands whirled around his head, reminding me of wings, then he darted back and forth, showing me where this or that herb would hang, and describing streams of water that one heard but did not see, which would somehow help the air to move.
One day, near the end of my planning, I traveled into the city to hear the music of the time, and to help choose the songs. In a low-roofed inn room I sat on a cushion as an audience of one, and the group picked up the old instruments they had assembled and began to play.
At first the sounds were strange to my ear, and I marveled at how music could change so greatly over the years. There were no strumming instruments, such as the harp or tiranthe, which formed the essential portion of any ensemble nowadays. Instead the instruments were drums and wind and sweet metallic bells and cymbals, combining complicated rhythms with a light-edged, curiously physical kind of sound that made one’s feet itch to be moving. The drums echoed in memory of those heard on the mountains from the unseen folk there.
I laughed. “I like it! That will be perfect.”
“Of course we’ll have our own instruments laid by,” the group mistress told me. “So we can play any of the modern dances your guests ask for. But for the arrivals, the start of the event—”
“—we will make them feel they have stepped into the past,” I said.
And so it went, even with the mimery. It turned out that the Court during that period had been fond of entertaining itself, and more frequently than not had performed for one another. Thus I bade my hired players to guise themselves as figures of the period, that some of my guests might be surprised to see themselves mirrored in art.
My greatest coup was when Mora brought to me her brother, who with a few quiet words and a low bow, offered to take charge of the food, from preparation to serving. I’d been at Court long enough by then to know that he was—justly—famous. “You??
?re the chief steward for the Renselaeuses,” I said. “Surely you haven’t left them?”
“I came to offer my services,” he said, as blank-faced as his sister. “With the full permission of the princess.”
I accepted gratefully, knowing now that the food and drink would be the very best and perfectly served.
oOo
The morning of the ball dawned.
I walked through the ballroom for my last inspection. The number of people busy at work was roughly the same number as those invited. I could feel the excitement running high among performers and servers alike as they showed me this or that detail, or demonstrated a little bit of music, or dance. As I moved about admiringly, it seemed to me that my event served as a symbolic representation of the kingdom: These artists, like the aristocrats, came to be seen as well as to see; and the servants, who worked to make all smooth, were the kingdom’s craftspeople and farmers, unseen but crucial to everything. Everyone would have a tale to take home, a memory of performance, whether a countess or a scarf dancer or a server of pastries.
My preparations were nearly done. I went to my rooms to get ready.
oOo
As the bells for second-blue echoed from wall to pillar to gloriously painted ceiling, then died away, I stood alone at the midpoint of the ballroom to welcome the guests of honor. Everyone was there, or nearly everyone. Only Flauvic was missing, which did not disturb me.
Nee and Bran came down the stairs, arm in arm, both dressed in the violet-and-white of the royal Calahanras family.
My own gown was mostly white and dove gray, with knots of violet ribbon as acknowledgment of my role as Bran’s sister. But there the reference to the royal family ended, for my colors in the ballroom were Remalna’s green and gold—the green of the plant leaves, and all shades of gold, from ocher to palest yellow, picked out in the blooms, and echoed in the marble walls of the ballroom. The focus was on Nee and Bran, who grinned like children as they came to me.
I glanced up at the balcony, and a ruffle of drums brought the quiet tide of murmurings to a cease. Then an extravagant cascade of sound from all the instruments of the air, flutes to greathorns, announced the ancient promenade, and all took their places to perform the dance that their ancestors had toed-and-heeled through hundreds of years before.
Backs straight, heads high, fingertips meeting in an archway under which the honored two proceeded, followed by everyone else in order of rank.
So it began. By the end of the promenade I knew my ball was a triumph. I breathed the heady wine of success and understood why famous hosts of the past had secreted knowledge of their artists, sometimes hiring them exclusively so that no one could reproduce the particular magic that so much skill had wrought.
For a time the focus was equally on me as I made my way round the perimeter and accepted the compliments of the guests. But gradually they turned to one another, or to the entertainment, and I remained on the perimeter and thus faded into the background.
Or attempted to, anyway. For as I moved away from a group of young ladies bent on dancing, I found myself face-to-face with Flauvic. Could I possibly have overlooked him?
Not likely. He was magnificent in black, white, and gold, the candlelight making a blaze of his hair. His eyes were brilliant in that light, their expression hard to read, but I sensed a kind of intensity in him when he bowed over my hand. “Beautifully done,” he said with an elegant lift of his hand.
“It was your suggestion,” I reminded him—knowing full well he didn’t need to be reminded.
“You do great credit to my poor idea,” he returned, bowing slightly.
And because he did not move away, I invited him to stroll with me.
He agreed, and as we walked around the perimeter, he commented appreciatively—and knowledgeably—on the fine details of my evocation of our shared past, until he was seen and claimed by friends.
As I watched him walk away, I contemplated how skillfully he had contrived his entrance. He had managed, while saluting me as hostess, to avoid paying honor to Bran and Nee. One always arrives at a ball before the guests of honor, unless one wishes to insult them. Great dramas had been enacted in the past this way, but he’d slipped in so quietly, no one—except me, it seemed—knew that he had not been there all along.
I watched him as I sipped some wine. He moved deftly from group to group, managing to speak to just about every person. I set the glass down, reflecting that Flauvic would always constitute an enigma.
Though I was no enigma, I ought to be circulating as well. I turned—and found myself confronted by the Marquis of Shevraeth.
“My dear countess,” he said with a grand bow. “Please bolster my declining prestige by joining me in this dance.”
Declining prestige? Out loud I said, “It’s a tartelande. From back then.”
“Which I studied up on all last week.” He offered his arm.
I took it and flushed right up to my pearl-lined headdress. Though we had spoken often, of late, at various parties, this was the first time we had danced together since Savona’s ball, my second night at Athanarel. As we joined the circle I sneaked a glance at Elenet. She was dancing with one of the ambassadors.
A snap of drums and a lilting tweet caused everyone to take position, hands high, right foot pointed. The musicians poured out a merry tune to which we dipped and turned and stepped in patterns round one another and those behind and beside us.
In between measures I stole looks at my partner, bracing for some annihilating comment about my red face, but he seemed preoccupied as we paced our way through the dance. The Renselaeuses, completely separate from Remalna five hundred years before, had dressed differently, as they had spoken a different language. In keeping, Shevraeth wore a long robe, colored a sky blue, with black and white embroidery down the front and along the wide sleeves. It was flattering to his tall, slender form. His hair was tied with a diamond-and-nightstar clasp, and a bluefire gem glittered in his ear.
We turned and touched hands. He had broken his reverie and looked at me quizzically: I had been caught staring.
I said with as careless a smile as I could muster, “I’ll wager you’re the most comfortable of the men here tonight.”
“Those tight waistcoats do look uncomfortable, but I rather like the baldrics,” he said, surveying my brother, whom the movement of the dance had placed across from us.
Just then Bran made a wrong turn in the dance, paused to laugh at himself, then hopped into position and danced on. Perhaps emboldened by his heedless example, or inspired by the unusual yet pleasing music, more of the people on the periphery who had obviously not had the time, or the money, or the notion of learning the dances that went along with the personas and the clothes, were moving out to join. At first tentative, with nervously gripped fans and tense shoulders here and there betraying how little accustomed to making public mistakes they were, the courtiers slowly relaxed.
After six or seven dances, when faces were flushed and fans plied in earnest, the first of my mime groups came out to enact an old folktale. The guests willingly became an audience, dropping onto waiting cushions.
And so the evening went. There was an atmosphere of expectation, of pleasure, of relaxed rules as the past joined the present, rendering both slightly unreal.
I did not dance again but once, and that with Savona, who insisted that I join Shevraeth and Elenet in a set. Despite his joking remarks from time to time, Shevraeth seemed more absent than merry, and Elenet moved, as always, with impervious serenity and reserve. Afterward the four of us went our ways, for Shevraeth did not dance again with Elenet.
I know, because I watched.
oOo
The two tones of white-change had rung when the scarf dances began.
To the muted thunder of drums the dancers ran out, clad in hose and diaphanous tunics of light gray, each connected to the dancer behind him or her by ropes of intertwined gold and green. Glints of silver threads woven into the floating, swirling tuni
cs flashed like starlight, as well-muscled limbs moved with deliberate, graceful rhythm in a difficult counterpoint to the drums.
Then, without warning, notes from a single flute floated as if down on a breeze, and with a quick snap of wrists the dancers twitched the ropes into soaring, billowing squares of gauze.
A gasp from the watchers greeted the sudden change, as the gossamer fabric rippled and arched and curled through the air, expertly manipulated by the dancers until it seemed the scarves were alive and another kind of dance altogether took place above the humans.
Then the dancers added finger cymbals, clinking and clashing in a syncopated beat that sparked responsive swayings and nods and taps of feet from the audience.
Why this gift, 0 pilgrim, my pilgrim,
Why this cup of water for me?
I give thee the ocean, stormy or tranquil,
Endless and boundless as my love for thee…
Now it was time for the love songs, and first was the ancient Four Questions, sung in antiphony by the women and the men, and then reversed. High voices and deep echoed down from the unseen gallery, as the dancers below handed out smaller versions of the scarves and drew the guests into the dance.
…why this firebrand for me?
Dancers, lovers, all whirled and dipped and pranced, connected only by the scarves which hid them, then revealed them, then bound them together as they stepped in, his corner held high by the shoulder, hers low at her hip.
…just so my love burneth for thee
The music, flawlessly performed, the elusive perfume on the scarves—all made the atmosphere feel charged with physical awareness. In the very center of all the dancers were Branaric and Nimiar, circling round one another, their faces flushed and glowing, eyes ardent.