Fairest

  We should bring songbirds into the Featherbed. I’d have to tell Father.

  I had the morning to myself, and I hoped to explore. The duchess was going to see an old friend. Then we were to attend a centaur performance in the tournament arena. I would see my first centaur.

  I looked for a simple gown, but the simplest one had so many ruffles in the skirts that I had to hold my arms out stiffly. Moreover, the matching headdress was a bonnet with a two-foot-long bill.

  The corridor outside my chamber was empty, but someone was singing nearby.

  “I sing to outwit

  the thoughts that come

  to mind.

  I walk to outwalk

  worry. Loss lies far

  behind.”

  I wondered if the singer might be a corridor troubadour. I hadn’t encountered one yet, but the castle was known for them. They were servants whose only duty was to stroll through the hallways, singing. Anything might suggest a song to them: a historical occasion, a boar hunt, even a rainy day.

  The corridor ceiling downstairs, on the entry level, was vaulted, twelve feet high at least. Everything was oh so grand, but the stink of the tallow lamps was a whiff of home. Song lyrics, painted in gold leaf and black, covered the corridor walls, each letter as big as my hand. I admired the calligraphy and wished that my brother Ollo, the family artist, could see it.

  After more twists and turns than I could keep track of, I smelled baking bread and hot ostumo. My stomach grumbled. I followed my nose.

  I expected to hear the same sounds the Featherbed Inn’s kitchen produced: plates clattering, pots banging, laughter, an occasional oath. Instead, I heard bells, a harpsichord, and feet pounding in time with the music.

  I reached the kitchen—and stood gaping in the doorway. The room was ten times the size of the Featherbed kitchen. In the center was the harpsichord, played by a wench with lightning fingers and a dreamy expression. Activity swirled around her. Serving maids piled muffins and rolls on platters. Three men muscled an ox carcass into a huge oven. A boy peeled a potato that could only have come from a giant’s farm. The potato was half as tall as the boy. The pile of peelings came up to his ankles.

  The bell ringer was the cook, a red-faced woman almost as big as I was. Her arms were striped with bracelets made of tiny bells strung together with twine. She was cooking in three frying pans at once, cracking eggs into one, flipping pancakes in another, and frying meat patties in a third. As she worked, her arms shook and the bells tinkled. She shuffled from foot to foot in time to her music, shooshing the rushes that were strewn across the wooden floor.

  As if a signal had been given, everyone began to sing a morning song.

  “Climb the day,

  Drop your dreams,

  Possess the day.”

  I longed to be part of it.

  “Uncloak your eyes

  And shine the day.

  Invoke your voice,

  Impress the day.”

  I joined in, singing softly.

  “Stretch and yawn—

  Now is the beginning.”

  I took a step into the kitchen. A serving maid carrying a stack of dirty plates bumped into me.

  “Now is the—”

  The dishes went flying. Crash!

  Silence.

  How could I have been so clumsy? The plates were rimmed with gold. They would cost a barrel of yorthys to replace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”

  Everyone was staring at me. A frozen moment passed. Then everyone was curtsying and bowing. A man with a broom headed my way.

  The cook moved her pans off the flame. “What can Frying Pan do for your ladyship?” Her face was expressionless.

  I crouched and picked up pieces of broken china. “I’m sorry … I should have—”

  The woman repeated, “What can Frying Pan do for your ladyship?”

  From the floor, I said, “I’m not a ladyship. I’m only an innkeeper’s daughter. I thought—”

  “Frying Pan thinks the innkeeper’s daughter should leave the kitchen.” Her voice rose. “Frying Pan thinks the innkeeper’s daughter has no business interrupting the king’s servants. Frying Pan thinks the innkeeper’s daughter should get out!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I STUMBLED BACKWARD through the kitchen door and stood outside, feeling miserable and beginning to be angry. It wasn’t a crime for a guest to enter the Featherbed kitchen.

  The door opened. The serving maid I’d collided with slipped out. “Mistress—”

  “I’m sorry about the dishes. I didn’t—”

  The maid shook her head, causing the ribbons on her cap to jiggle. “It was my fault. I’ve been stepping wrong all morning.” She was a pretty girl, near my age. I envied her appealing, heart-shaped face.

  “Will you or Frying Pan have to pay for the plates?”

  “No. Someone breaks something every few—Sweet, that’s worrying you? Us, paying for the crockery? You sweet!”

  “But then why—” Why had Frying Pan yelled at me?

  “Frying Pan would yell at the king if he came into her kitchen. Are you hungry?”

  I admitted I was. The maid, whose name was Isoli, slipped back into the kitchen and returned with two muffins and a russet apple, wrapped in a napkin. Then she went back to her duties. I was sorry to see her go.

  I returned to my explorations, nibbling on a muffin. The apple I placed in my pocket to toss away later.

  When the second muffin was almost gone, I heard a man singing and people laughing. The entrance to the Hall of Song was a few yards ahead. I believed I was hearing the composing game. My favorite. At home I excelled at it.

  I finished eating and stopped in the doorway to listen. Here I wouldn’t collide with anyone. Here I wouldn’t be noticed.

  A courtier was leaving the stage, circling around a mound of books. It was the composing game! A dozen people sat in the first row of seats, Prince Ijori among them, Oochoo at his feet.

  The dog raised her head and then raced up the aisle to me, tail wagging enthusiastically.

  Oh, no! Everyone turned to look.

  I put one hand in front of my face, curtsied, and began to leave.

  A woman’s voice called out, “Wait!”

  I stopped. Oochoo put her paws on my chest and tried to lick my face.

  The prince exclaimed, “Oochoo, down! Come!”

  The dog ran to him. The woman came up the aisle to me. She was Lady Arona, the damsel who’d sung to the king and queen on the receiving line, the one who’d made Ivi jealous. Today she wore a violet gown with a lace fan collar. In place of a bonnet she wore a pearl headband. She looked fetching.

  “Providence has come to your rescue, Ijori,” she cried gaily. She curtsied to me.

  I curtsied, feeling my blush begin.

  She said, “The prince has been telling us and telling us that he’d do better with a partner, and here you are.” She held out her hand. “Please join our game.”

  Her face was gleeful. Was she being cruel? Perhaps she thought it amusing to pair the prince with a gargoyle like me.

  I wanted to refuse, but I feared what might happen if I did. They were courtiers. I was an innkeeper’s daughter. I curtsied again and took her hand.

  Prince Ijori, looking disconcerted, said, “Arona! The young lady doesn’t want to rescue a hopeless case.”

  He didn’t want to sing with me. I wished I knew what to say to get us both out of it. But I was too shy to speak, even if I’d had the words.

  “Rescue a prince?” Lady Arona said. “Of course she does.”

  Prince Ijori turned up his palms in defeat. “I’ll welcome any help she can provide.”

  Lady Arona started down the aisle, towing me by my hand. My hips and Dame Ethele’s skirts couldn’t fit in the aisle with her. I followed at an awkward angle.

  When I reached the others, they stood to greet me. I wanted to sink through the floor. The prince said, “You’re the duchess of Olixo’s friend, aren’t y
ou?”

  He remembered the fool I’d made of myself on the receiving line.

  He added, “Lady …”

  I didn’t want to say I wasn’t a lady, which would embarrass everyone. But I couldn’t say I was. “… Aza.”

  To my horror, Prince Ijori introduced me to everybody. There was a flurry as they curtsied or bowed. I curtsied as he announced each name. The names flew by. There were a count, at least two sirs, several ladies, a baroness, and a duke.

  At last, it was over. But then one of the women said, “Where do you hail from, Lady Aza?”

  My throat was dry.

  They waited.

  Trying to help, Prince Ijori said, “Do you live near the duchess?”

  If he’d been right, I’d only have had to nod. I shook my head. “Amonta.” My voice was a croak.

  One of the men said, “That’s near Kyrria. Do they even know how to play the composing game there?”

  Irritation gave me a bit more voice. “We play often.”

  Lady Arona said, “Pray tell us your impressions of Ontio Castle.”

  My impressions? The cook was unfriendly. The nobility were too friendly. The prince was kind. I sent him a look of appeal.

  “I see your design, Arona,” he said. “You’ve begun to fear Lady Aza will outdo you, so you want to postpone your turn.”

  “No such thing. Let the competition continue.” She turned my way. “You’re next after me. Count Amosa, please …”

  Next!

  The count, a middle-aged man in scarlet hose, picked a thick tome from the pile of books and skimmed through it. “Ah. Here. This part.”

  I took a seat at the end of the row, a seat away from Prince Ijori. Oochoo sprawled on the floor between us. My heart was racing. Singing was the best part of me. If I could make any sound come from my throat, perhaps I could do well.

  Lady Arona took the book and started up to the stage.

  Prince Ijori whispered, “She’s one of our best composers.”

  She looked over her selection. “Amosa! I didn’t believe you capable of such cruelty.”

  The books used in the composing game are dense and dull. The referee selects a passage, and the singer must invent a melody on the spot. The singer is allowed to repeat words, but not to change any. When all the players have sung, everyone votes on which tune was best. In the composing game, best means silliest, the tune that made everyone laugh the hardest.

  Arona began to sing. The tune she came up with was martial and dramatic. She could have been singing about a battle. “The Upuku pig is prone to boils....”

  Lady Arona sang stirringly about the many methods of lancing a pig’s boil. I laughed along with everyone else. The prince laughed most merrily of all. When she finished, we all waved our hands in the air. She curtsied and left the stage.

  I was going to have to stand on the stage. I’d never been on a stage. At home we didn’t use one.

  Prince Ijori whispered to me, “We’ll do respectably. That’s the most I ever hope for.” He looked rueful. “And the most I ever achieve.” Then he smiled.

  I was too frightened to smile back. We rose and approached Count Amosa. He marked a page in a book and gave me the book, which I dropped. I bent down for it. The count and Prince Ijori bent down, too. I knocked heads with the count. Prince Ijori picked up the book and passed it to me.

  We both mounted the stage, followed by Oochoo. I clutched my book so hard, my fingers hurt. I raised it to hide my face. My book was the second volume of The Encyclopedia of Sleep. Prince Ijori had volume one. The procedure for duets is for each player to sing a sentence in turn. Then, at the ends of their passages, they start over, both singing their separate pieces at the same time.

  Prince Ijori courteously let me go first. “Show me what I must aspire to.”

  It’s advantageous to be first. The first singer sets the tone. But I couldn’t concentrate on the page. The letters seemed to be squiggles.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. The squiggles formed words.

  My passage was harder than Lady Arona’s, because it was less tedious. The duller the subject, the easier to inspire laughter. My section contained suggestions for people who have trouble falling asleep, and if some present had that difficulty, they would be genuinely interested. I’d have to struggle against their interest.

  I read the passage and tried to think of a single idea.

  Count Amosa said, “Highness and Lady, please begin.”

  Oochoo whined.

  I curtsied and looked out over the heads of my audience, too frightened to make a sound.

  People shifted in their seats.

  I wanted the prince to think well of me, but he wouldn’t if my throat was paralyzed. He wouldn’t if I lost the game for him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MY VOICE FINALLY came—as a squeak. “The following are sixteen—”

  The squeak was an accident, but someone—bless him!—chuckled. I repeated “sixteen” on a higher note than even Lady Arona’s high soprano had gone.

  I dared a glance at the prince and saw he was smiling.

  Elated, I sang “sixteen methods for—” I opened my mouth wide in an unmistakable yawn and drew out the next word “—falling …” on a falling pitch until I heard laughter.

  There!

  I repeated “falling,” and Oochoo began to howl. I had never sung with a dog before, but I harmonized. I finished my piece that way, with Oochoo’s accompaniment, and the laughter almost drowned us out.

  It was Prince Ijori’s turn. I could face him now that I’d performed well. He was nervous! I saw it in his expression. I smiled to give him courage, as if I could do such a thing.

  He sang, “Some bedframes …”

  His voice was a beautiful baritone, without a hint of gravel. But his tune was nothing extraordinary, lyrical, not funny. He was witty in speech, but not musically.

  Luckily, everyone was still laughing from my performance. I was able to look at them, since their attention was diverted. They regarded him happily, ready to be pleased.

  “… are made of …” He hiccuped, a wonderful idea.

  Everyone laughed.

  “… hic-hic-hic-hic-hic …” He turned to me, and I knew he wasn’t sure when to stop.

  He could go a while longer. I nodded and kept nodding. He kept going.

  I listened to the laughter and noticed when it crested. I stopped nodding and indicated with my eyes that he should move on.

  He got it. “… hickory, partic-tic-tic …” He sneezed—by accident or design—and there were shouts of laughter.

  A few more words, and it was my turn again. I borrowed his sneeze and added a new element, a snore.

  When we sang together, the hall rang with hiccups and snores and yawns and sneezes. Oochoo stood and barked. It was a triumph. We were a triumph.

  Then we were finished. Oochoo stopped barking. I ran off the stage and sank into my seat.

  Prince Ijori sat beside me. “We’re going to win,” he whispered. “I’ve never won before.”

  Count Amosa selected a book for the next player.

  Prince Ijori added, “But then I never played with Lady Aza before.”

  Oh! I felt my blush rise again. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you!”

  I smiled and rose. I couldn’t stay here, pretending to be a lady. “I must go.” I was able to speak without stammering. “The duchess expects me.” I curtsied and left.

  I felt light-headed and as happy as I’d ever been. This was what should happen in royal castles. This was a memory I’d have my whole life, singing with a prince, laughing with a prince.

  As I turned into the corridor, I heard one of the courtiers say, “Such a voice! It’s unfortunate Lady Aza’s mother was a hippopotamus.”

  My happiness evaporated. I heard people laugh. Courtiers could be as cruel as anyone else.

  Was the prince laughing too?

  I hoped not. I thought not. He wouldn’t laugh at
someone’s expense.

  Perhaps my seat would be near his at the Sing tonight. If he still seemed friendly, I could ask him who won the contest. We could congratulate ourselves if we’d won or commiserate if we hadn’t.

  If only Dame Ethele’s gowns were more becoming. If only they didn’t make everything about me look worse!

  In the distance the corridor brightened. I hurried toward the light and entered an interior courtyard, which was the hub of my corridor and three others. Benches circled a fountain where water spouted from the mouths of marble singers.

  The courtyard was empty. I sat on a bench. If I lived in the castle, I’d come here to escape the people who taunted me.

  When I returned home, I’d tell Father we should have a marble fountain at the Featherbed. He’d laugh and laugh. I illused his voice coming from a male statue. “Yes, and a golden chamber pot in every room!”

  I illused Areida’s voice from a female fountain singer. She changed the subject. “Which do you fancy more,” she sang, “the prince or his dog?”

  Yarry’s bass voice rang out. “No matter. Does the prince fancy you?”

  I blushed. Yarry could always make me blush.

  Mother’s voice came from another statue. “I don’t fancy that Frying Pan. We wouldn’t keep her.”

  Mother brought me close to tears, as her sympathy often did. I stopped illusing.

  Behind me, someone applauded. My stomach clenched. I didn’t want anyone to hear me illuse. Moreover, Ayorthaians never clapped. I turned.

  It was the queen!

  CHAPTER TEN

  IVI WAS IN shadow, just beyond a corridor doorway. “I was hoping to see you again. I was wishing for it.”

  How could that be? I jumped up and curtsied.

  She came toward me. “I looked for you at breakfast”—she pouted—“but you weren’t there.”

  Her voice was stronger today. It had a nasal quality that didn’t augur well for singing.

  “I’d have summoned you, but …” Her cheeks reddened.

  I wished I could blush so becomingly.