Jehan was stunned. A more false word picture of the Sasha he knew could scarcely be found—except for the sword. The single true observation reported to my father. Surely Atanial had to be playing some sort of game, right under Canardan’s nose.
“Oh, I do so hope I can introduce the two of you.” Atanial gave a coy little bat to Jehan’s sleeve. “I can give you some little teentsy hints on how best not to set off, that is, how to please her the most. She is the best company if you don’t anger—ah, when in her wonderful social mood.”
Jehan was sure of it now, Atanial was lying. To what effect? His father made a surreptitious encouraging motion.
Jehan turned back to Atanial. “Teentsy hints like?”
“Never talk about flowers with her. She hates the sight of them for some reason. Oh, and rain. It puts her in such a dour mood. That’s natural, isn’t it? Everybody hates rain. She also hates snow, hot weather and wind. Horses. She despises their smell, and their noises. Talking about any other woman will miff her, oooh, the tiniest bit. She’s been so sheltered, she never really learned social graces. We were on the run for so many years, and then she had to adjust to another world at the most awkward age, and the awkwardness, I fear… Her family loves her dearly, and we don’t count any of these faults against her thousands of good qualities.” Atanial sighed, looking up again. “But oh, I must admit to the teeniest bit of jealousy myself! That’s the way of it. When a young woman enters the conversation, if not the room, the old woman is quite forgotten. I must get used to it, I suppose.”
There was more obvious digging for compliments, which Canardan, bestirring himself at last, gave with grace, evoking that head-shattering laugh. And then—none too soon—they all parted, to the sound of hammering and muffled swearing from below as servants muscled garlands out to decorate the walkways leading to the grand chambers.
Canardan put a hand out to keep Jehan from leaving. When they were alone, he said, “She’s never spoken so much about the girl in all the days she’s been here.”
“Is she always like that?” Jehan asked, too tired to think.
Canardan rubbed his jaw. “No. But I think, I think she was flirting with you.”
Jehan stared, appalled. “That was flirting?”
“What else could it have been? You’re young, almost as handsome as I am, and who knows what sort of customs they get up to in that other world?” Canardan took in his son’s honest disgust and amazement. “The important thing is, she hasn’t said as much in all the weeks she’s been here. I want you to take her out for a ride. Let her flirt as much as she likes. Get more out of her, especially about Math.”
Jehan forced himself to bring up the subject of Sasha, dangerous as it was. Much as he hated himself for his astounding failure in every particular of their relationship—except for one incredible kiss. Maybe that had been a mistake as well, but one he’d never regret… Focus, idiot. “Do you really want me to marry someone called Clumsy Kickpail?” And then he had it, Atanial’s reasons for the lies. “She sounds terrible. We should be glad she’s gone.”
But Canardan just grinned. “What could be better? The worse this girl is, the more popular you become. She can always sustain an accident when convenient. From the sound of it, no one would even mind. Better and better.”
Jehan almost felt dizzy, his emotions veering between revulsion and laughter at how wrong that vivid word picture was of Sasha. How to let Atanial know her ruse was not working? He couldn’t. He hated the pretense, the lying, but as he crossed to his rooms, the soft summer air bringing the sounds of workers singing tunelessly a ballad from Sartor, he knew he would lie—cheat—steal, if he had to, if it meant he could protect Sasha from discovery by Randart. Even though she didn’t want to be protected.
He also would lie—cheat—steal in order to protect the kingdom.
It needed protecting badly.
Once he reached his room, he dismissed everyone but gangling, tuft-haired Kazdi, his cadet runner. It took only an exchange of looks and Kazdi prowled around watching for spies, especially Chas.
Jehan shut himself in the bath chamber and pulled out his magic-transfer case, which he had not been able to check for days.
Several tiny folded pieces of paper awaited him. The first, from Elkin, his mage-student friend doing his journeywork as a mage-scribe at the academy.
In ancient Sartoran, he’d written: Damedran put in for changes. Dannath rescinded them. Tension between masters and seniors.
There was one from Robin, leading the fleet.
The Skate is leading the Aloca fleet after us. We think they’re going to try a pincer. We’ll hang them up around the islands.
One from Aslo, the ally he’d planted in Randart’s fleet carrying the invasion weapons, now the liaison with Tharlif, the tough old woman who’d been privateering for most of her life. One of Zathdar’s staunchest allies. Our contact agrees, purpose of shipment is to stockpile weapons. Much speculative war talk.
So far, as expected.
The last one, the smallest, he unfolded, his heart hammering.
There were no words, only a tiny drawing of an owl in flight.
He smiled for the first time in days, left the bath for his waiting bed, and was soon deep in long-postponed sleep.
Chapter Five
The weather did not relent.
In the gardens the blossoms drooped, looking papery and withered, the edges of leaves yellowed, and a silted pall of dust shimmered in the air above the roads. But the night of the masquerade, a couple thousand candles softened the dust and dryness of the city with a forgiving, golden shimmer. Lights were everywhere, candles in cut-glass holders, their flames glittering in infinite reflection against paired mirrors down hallways. Outside, candles glowed in lamps of colored glass that were hung in trees and set along stone walls.
The king watched his guests arrive from his private balcony overlooking the broad entryway to the grand chambers. His son was with him, observing the press of open, light carriages rolling up to release fantastically groomed and glittering guests. Atanial listened through the open doors of her room to the echoes of musicians tuning instruments, servants calling last-minute orders and bustling about on last errands.
All three knew the setting was right. Why shouldn’t it be, after uncounted hands had labored all week to get it that way? All three of them reflected (Canardan briefly, Jehan brooding, Atanial with resignation) how the decorations, the clothes, the starry night with its colored lights, hid the parching drought—as the prospect of a party hid the tensions between people.
The king had to wait until everyone was there, for his appearance signaled the beginning, and afterward arrivals were officially late. Being late to a party given by a king would get you talked about, and not in a good way, for months afterward.
So Canardan stood out on the balcony, which was at least somewhat cooler than indoors. He wished he’d not chosen a heavy robe, splendid as it had looked in the heralds’ drawings. Yet his costume was a message, a subtle reminder of his own heritage, for he was going as Matthias Lirendi, the last and most famous (some said infamous) emperor of Colend. Who was a Merindar ancestor. Of course he was an ancestor of most of the royal houses in the eastern part of the continent, but that also underscored Canardan’s royal antecedents.
Jehan had chosen the guise of an old Sartoran poet-prince, known for his complete disregard for the invisible boundaries of politics as well as for his visionary works of art. The long paneled robe worn over loose trousers was cool and easy to move in; the colors, sky blue and black, complemented his white hair.
He knew the costume would annoy his father, good as it looked. But its purpose was to deflect interest in him as a political figure. Though in truth, he thought sourly as he reluctantly started downstairs, every single thing he did or said had political repercussions.
The costume and his rank would at least hold importunate guests to discussing any subject he chose, and he chose to stick with poetry.
/> As his shoes whispered over the marble steps, he considered Atanial. The question was, what would he say to her?
He thought back over their ride earlier that day. They had talked little, both agreeing that the heat was too breathless. In reality, Jehan’s planned words had zapped away when he discovered that Chas was to accompany them, ostensibly to see to their needs.
The few words they’d exchanged had been masterpieces of dullness, punctuated by Atanial’s horrible giggle. As Atanial commented with excruciating detail on everything she saw, right to the types of grass growing on the roadside, Jehan enjoyed the jaw-locked tedium in Chas’s face.
Obedient to his father’s wishes, he’d asked about Sasharia, to be regaled with giggle-punctuated stories not really about Sasha at all, but about Atanial. She’d described little anecdotes even more pointless and tedious than her chatter about grass, often correcting herself several times in the maddening way of the crashing bore. “Was it five? No, no, I state it wrong, it was four. No, it was five, for I remember the moon that night, and I was wearing my new gown…four…my friend—you should meet her some day—anyway she said, ‘Four more times,’ I remember it like it was yesterday. Or was it five after all?”
Jehan had kept Chas in view just so he could count the man’s attempts to swallow yawns. Jehan was now convinced Atanial’s chatter was a performance, and it was brilliant.
He was convinced when he realized that Atanial was willing to lie about Sasha when alone with the king and himself, but in front of all those other ears, she never quite brought herself to say anything at all. And so, mindful of Chas behind him, he’d contributed his mite by boring on until his throat was parched about styles of Sartoran versus Colendi art.
They’d all been glad when that ride ended.
Snapped back to the present by the sweet, brassy peal of the King’s Fanfare, Jehan took his place in the grand ballroom. Around him hissed the breathing of far too many people, all shifting and rustling as they tried not to sweat into their good clothes.
The promenade introductory music prompted the company to assemble, and because this was a masquerade where the customary order of rank was somewhat relaxed, those more bold, more confident or more desperate all tried to get to the front without unseemly haste.
Atanial, at the king’s side, observed the prince’s distracted blue gaze as he fell in behind. She raised her hand to meet Canardan’s palm at shoulder height, distracted momentarily by the fall of the splendid sleeves of his robe, all blue and gold, embroidered with highly stylized, gracefully attenuated lilies.
He did the king thing well, she thought with private irony. He looked good from his fineweave boots to the waving auburn hair brushed back nobly from his brow—not a hint of balding, either. The angle of his chin, his slight smile convinced her he knew it. He was preening. That sense of irony became an inward laugh.
As for arrogance, she knew she looked good all in midnight blue velvet, edged with crimson, and the high medieval headdress like nothing in the room, her mask being (for she knew she was the center of attention, and she’d play along) the sheerest of veils.
It was enough to hide her inch-long grayish silver roots. She remembered that people did color their hair on this world, but it was done by magic, not chemicals. She did not want to risk inviting any of Canardan’s mages to perform magic over her. Who knew what kind of spell they might slip in besides the hair color?
Therefore the veil. Even if she was the only one amused, going as Maleficent from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty definitely gave her secret enjoyment.
The promenade began with a flourish of brassy horns and a clash of cymbals, all the guests pacing in time, chins high, backs straight, toes pointed.
“You look lovely, Atanial.” Canardan smiled. “Is that a guise from your world or ours?”
“Oh, mine,” she said cheerily, noting the “your world or ours”. “Maleficent is a very, very wicked woman.”
“Ah, and by that you are suggesting?”
“Nothing. Do you think me wicked? You know better than that, Canardan. I like her style.”
“I sometimes wonder if I know you at all, Sun. But a wicked queen who reigns in a ballroom, it’s a fine touch. Danger with dance, without destruction. Would that the world were conducted the same.” He smiled, saluting her hand with grace.
And—they were quite aware—every pair of eyes in the ballroom took in that hand kiss.
Snap. The trap she’d helped him to build closed round her, just as she became aware of it. I ought to have been Clarabelle the stupid cow. She realized at last what a masquerade meant. She was on display, everyone knew who she was, but the very fact that this was a masquerade meant she could not actually speak to anyone about anything real.
She was stuck in a Disney guise, but this was no Disney film, with a handy fairy godmother or blue angel standing by to waft the hapless heroine to a happy ending.
Furious with him, with herself, she stared straight ahead and worked on her breathing, as Canardan looked round to the formed circle of his guests. He caught at least four meaningful glances, people who were going to single him out for A Little Talk.
He faced forward, setting a slower pace. When you’re a king you can slow up an entire circle of people and no one will make a peep. The gap between them and the last couple widened. Speaking low so that Jehan and the duchess behind them could not hear—not that they were listening, for he could hear the duchess talking about her daughter’s stunning talent in the arts—he said, “I take it you feel more comfortable among those of rank than you once did?”
“Oh, I got over the rank thing really fast in the old days,” she responded with forced cheer. “As Math often said, princes have to put on their pants one leg at a time, same as do poets. Or poulterers.”
“I remember you brought that up during one of our first conversations. Such sayings sound earnest and egalitarian, but are they really believed? There is a such thing as protesting too much.”
“Then I’ll drop the sayings. I see your aristocrats as human beings raised to certain customs, ways of speaking and thinking, that become habit. It’s partly training that sets anyone apart from anyone else. And training means you’re taught to do something, whether it’s making lace or running a kingdom, but whether or not you do it well is up to the individual,” she said.
Before Canardan could answer, the musicians shifted up half a key, and he realized they’d been patiently playing the same phrase far too many times. He was not being a good host. He lengthened his step, Atanial matched his pace, and they obligingly closed the distance with the rest of the circle.
Atanial turned gracefully to the right as the king turned to his left, and her palm met the prince’s. They completed their half turn and began pacing in the opposite direction.
Everyone’s attention was distracted by their new partners. She snapped her gaze back to Jehan and was surprised by a narrow, assessing gaze that was, for a moment, startlingly like his father’s.
She murmured without moving her lips, “Ananda said to trust you.”
And heard him draw in a breath.
No more. Already the couple ahead had glanced back, and she felt the weight of the king’s gaze behind her. She turned her attention away from Jehan, smiling vapidly into the room as they trod the measures until the next chord change, half a key up the scale.
Again they changed partners and direction, leaving her facing a man her own age. She recognized a duke from what used to be the west, before Locan Jora forced a treaty onto Khanerenth, dividing the kingdom into two. Thus truncating most of the duke’s land. His spare form was barely in costume, more of an old-fashioned court outfit. The “mask” was the visor of his helm, which he’d lifted.
Obviously he was only paying lip service to the masquerade rules. Being a duke, he could. Atanial remembered the unspoken but iron-strong custom: if someone of higher rank broke a social rule, you could too. But you didn’t do it first.
It was up to the
duke to choose whether he would speak to Atanial or to Maleficent. She wasn’t really a princess, not with the Zhavalieshins deposed. It was a mere courtesy title, her privilege (or lack of same) dependent entirely on the king’s whim.
“Is Prince Math alive?” he asked, his brows bristling.
“I don’t know.”
“You trying to find out?”
Step, step, dip—step, step, dip. The music changed, but the duke gripped her hand. “Are you?” He let her go and growled, “Never mind. I think I have my answer.” He turned away.
Atanial also turned, not really seeing her next partner. She felt sick, certain the duke had implied she had forgotten her husband and was angling for a king. No time to consider anything except that, so far, the masquerade was a disaster. I’m a failure without having spoken ten words.
Her next partner asked who she was.
“Maleficent.”
She did not know the man, but he was polite, asking one or two suave questions about Maleficent that were easy to answer, and the dance whirled him on.
The next two partners accepted Maleficent at face value, and embarked on light flirtation with this fantasy wicked queen. She answered in kind, which was easy, but as the long dance wore on she was more and more aware of just how badly she had fumbled.
A new partner leaned close as they placed their palms together. “Do you remember me, your highness?”
She faced him, to encounter her new partner’s mask. Through the eye holes she made out familiar gray eyes. He had a heavy jaw, and iron gray hair.