Genevieve’s invitation to court had come about thusly:
The Marshal, who had been at Havenor on business, was bidden to an immediate audience with the Lord Paramount. Not stopping to put on court attire, he went upon the notice and was admitted into the small hearing chamber where the Lord Paramount spent part of each morning attending to the business of Haven. His Majesty sat on a low dais, in a gilded and padded chair beneath a baldachin hung behind and on either side with weighty purple velvet to shut out the draughts. The carpet around him was strewn with booklets, both talking book and view-cube, and a tottery stack of other such booklets occupied a small gilded table at his side. His crown was slightly tilted, for he habitually leaned his chin on his left hand, turning the pages with right, listening with his eyes half shut, like a dreaming tortoise. He was in this position when he received the Marshal, alone except for two members of the recently imported off-world security force—Aresians sworn to the Lord Paramount’s service and protection—who stood on either side of the door, weapons at the ready and eyes scanning the room in ceaseless watchfulness.
The Marshal saw all this as he came through the door, particularly the guards—bulky men, and strong looking, as all Aresians were. The two of them traded him look for look, silently, without a hint of feeling: no animosity, no acceptance, just alertness. The taller one was dark haired with a beard so black that his smoothly shaven skin looked blue. The other resembled him, though he was lighter, a bit thinner. They were good men, both. He wouldn’t mind commanding men like these.
“Your Majesty,” murmured the Marshal, bending a knee.
“Marshal,” said the Lord Paramount, without moving, the pages slowly turning. “You know that new minister, the one from Barfezi? Name of Gormus.”
“Efiscapel Gormus, yes, your Majesty, I’ve met him.”
“Don’t like him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I don’t know what it is about County Potcher in Barfezi! The place breeds these free thinkers like lice, and here’s another of ‘em, all full of schemes to connect to off-world, join the community of man, open our arms and our hearts. And our pockets, he doesn’t say. And our private business, which is none of off-worlds’ affair! Well, I don’t like him. Don’t like the influence he has on some of the other ministers. Decided I need a balancing weight.” He looked up, his eyes fully open, piercing the Marshal with his stare. “I’m inviting you to come to court.”
The Marshal paused before answering, for the words had been peculiarly freighted with meaning, and that meaning suddenly penetrated. “You mean, live here, sir?”
“Can’t be here without living here, can you?”
“No, sir.” He thought, furiously. What was he supposed to say now? He’d never thought of such a possibility. He was no courtier! But he could scarcely say so, at the moment.
“Ah … I am deeply honored, Your Majesty, and I will comply as soon as I can arrange the few … responsibilities I’ll have to see to first….”
The Lord Paramount’s eyes had not left the Marshal’s face, but now they slid aside, like a snake from a rock. “Of course, of course, for the moment I’d forgotten. You have a family—what is it, a daughter? Delganor mentioned her to me just recently. He met her at your place in Langmarsh. As I recall, he spoke well of her.” He breathed for a moment through his teeth, a little whistle, whee-oo, whee-oo, in and out. “If possible—though it may not be—she should be with you, of course. All the young women at court have assigned duties, and we’d need to be sure she could acquit herself in a covenantly manner. Let’s have someone take a look at her again, just to confirm Delganor’s impressions. By the way, what’s her name?”
“Genevieve, sir.”
The Lord Paramount’s eyes were on the turning pages. “Of course. Genevieve. Well, I’m sure she’s quiet and respectful, a dutiful daughter, covenantly, pure of soul, a proper candidate.” The Lord Paramount looked up, piercingly.
The Marshal found himself feeling slightly queasy, almost sick, like a man hard pressed, unable to catch his breath. It was known that the Prince was seeking a wife, but it would be presumptuous to imagine Genevieve as a candidate for … well, what the Lord Paramount was obviously referring to.
He chose to evade the question. “That would be hard for a father to judge, sir.”
The Lord Paramount gave him a sharp look. “Ah … you think so? Well, I have an idea. Since that equerry of yours would be looking after her here in Havenor, let him take a look at her. We old fellows, we can’t judge women, and it’s not our place, anyhow. Though Delganor does very well. Proper judge of livestock, Delganor. Gave me a marvelous stallion, just recently.”
“As Your Majesty wishes,” murmured the Marshal, backing away from the presence while trying not to show his discomfort. Why had he mentioned having responsibilities? Still … if the Lord Paramount had meant what he might have meant …
Behind him, in the small council chamber, silence fell. A servant crept through a side door and circled the throne, putting the scattered booklets into a basket and rearranging the pile at the Lord Paramount’s side before creeping out once more. The Lord Paramount dropped the booklet from his lap onto the carpet and took the top one from the pile, leafing through it, marking the pages here and there. The Aresian mercenaries by the door continued their restless watch upon the room, raising their weapons briefly as the curtain behind the baldachin opened and Yugh Delganor slipped through to lean familiarly across the Lord Para-mount’s shoulder.
“So, do I invite the girl to join us all here at Havenor?”
The Lord Paramount smiled. “Give it a little time, Yugh. It isn’t as though we’re in a hurry, eh? Look at this animal, here. Like a sheep, only tiny. It’s a kind ©f lapdog. I want one. Or several.”
“As Your Majesty wishes.”
“Ten of them, I think. That way I’ll have replacements. They don’t last long, pets. Such short lives. Better bring them in stasis. And look here, this admirable new type of rug weaving looms. I must have some of these.”
Yugh Delganor scanned the booklet, bowing. “Your Majesty is no doubt correct.”
“I’ll have Krivel look at it. We may be non-technological, Yugh, but we have to keep up with things, ah?”
“Your Majesty can say nothing less than truth.”
The Lord Paramount nodded, the pages flickering in his hands. “Let that young colonel look her over, the Marshal’s daughter—look at this dinnerware! Quite marvelous—if you think she’s all right and he’s a suitable one to …”
“Oh, definitely. Very … puissant.”
“Then he’ll no doubt find her charming, despite the nose.”
“She may have grown into it by now,” the Prince interrupted.
“Despite the nose,” repeated the Lord Paramount, an edge to his voice. This time Delganor did not interrupt him. “Then you can go down to her school or academy or whatever it is and invite her. If all goes well, we’ll have you wed shortly. Your third wife, won’t it be?”
“Fourth, Your Majesty.”
“Pity. I remember your first wife. Charming girl. Look at this boiler arrangement, Delganor. Now that’s innovative …”
The Prince did not reply. He merely bowed and departed, taking no notice of the Aresians who had measured his every movement and recorded his every word. The Prince was a source of much information to the intelligence people on Ares. They drew sustenance from every casual word uttered by the Prince. More than from the Lord Paramount, who spoke unequivocal nonsense most of the time.
After a time the lips of the guards curved in not-quite smiles at the slither of booklets spilling from the lap of the man on the throne, followed by a gentle but unmistakable snore.
“So, likely we’ll be getting a new woman to flit about here for a while,” said one, Ogberd by name, speaking barely above a whisper without moving his lips. “Destined for the Prince. Brother, it’s interesting that they never stay long, do they?”
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sp; His brother, Lokdren, assented with an almost invisible nod. “Lady Marissa was the last young one, and none since she married Lord Tranquish. Lately I’ve felt like an attendant at a home for the aged, and by the Great Sportsman, it’s a waste of time!”
“Shhh,” hissed the other, with a quick glance at the throne, where the Lord Paramount had stirred slightly. “Aged or not, we are sworn to him, and as the universe knows, we Aresians never waver from our oath of service.” His lips firmed as he said sententiously, “Faithful service is our pride. It says so in the Aresian security services prospectus.”
The other actually did smile at this, a quick twitch of the lips, his eyes roving the room as they always did, taking note of every gentle movement of curtain, every shift of light, every sound that might presage a visitor. He stiffened slightly at a sound in the hallway outside the door, then relaxed at the familiar tramping of feet. Behind the two, the doors slid soundlessly open to admit the change of guard who eased into the places Ogberd and Lokdren silently vacated.
Outside in the corridor, Lokdren removed his helmet, wiped his brow, and continued the interrupted conversation, though softly. “I’m less concerned with what’s in the prospectus than I am what’s in our orders. We may be fulfilling the prospectus, but we’re damned well not finding out what we came to find out!”
Ogberd’s lips twitched. “We’ve learned a lot about rug-weaving looms and chandeliers and wine-making equipment and miniature sheep, though, haven’t we?”
Lokdren shook his head. “More than I care to know, frankly. Time is running out. Father’s getting impatient. He sent another indignant message this morning. If we don’t come up with something soon, he’ll do something irrevocable.”
“Do you care?” Ogberd shrugged.
His brother nodded back. “Haven’s a nice enough little place. Some of the people are pleasant. I’d hate to see them in father’s hands, the mood he’s in, put it that way. He won’t stop at anything. I’m sure of it.”
“Nonsense. Father’s an honorable sportsman.”
“Is he now? Are any of us? Given the consequences if we don’t find out?”
“Given the consequences …” Ogberd sighed. “Damn. Well, I don’t know. Given the consequences … I suppose even Father … well, I suppose even he could … do the unthinkable.”
Lokdren thinned his lips and snarled. “Better start thinking about it, brother. Just so it won’t be unthinkable, when it happens.”
SIX
One’s Place in Havenor
GENEVIEVE, AS HER FATHER DIRECTED, WAS TO TAKE LEAVE of her friends at school, return with her belongings to Langmarsh House, and there oversee the packing of such furnishings and garments as would be needed in Havenor. Meantime, the Marshal himself would go to Havenor and obtain lodgings, which might or might not be to either of their liking. Havenor was always crowded with members of the court and others who came to seek favors from the Lord Paramount, and there was often little to be had in the way of houses or apartments.
“I am sorry to lose you, my dear,” said Mrs. Blessingham, with a pang she herself thought unwarranted. Girls were always going away; why should she anguish over this one? Nonetheless, she did anguish.
“I don’t want to go,” whispered Genevieve, admitting it for the first time to someone other than herself. “Oh, I do not want to go, Mrs. Blessingham. I would so much rather stay here.”
“Do you think this journey is possibly what your mother meant?”
Genevieve looked up, spilling tears. “I’ve thought … perhaps it is. Though … I’m not sure.”
“Think on it, dear.” Mrs. Blessingham actually wrung her hands. “Please, Genevieve, it will be wise for you to take a great deal of notice of what’s going on around you. You must be alert in Havenor.”
So Genevieve went home, all at doubts and dithers, with no idea what Havenor had to offer or what she should take with her. Soon, however, the post packet that plied the River Reusel stopped at Sabique, a Wantresse County village in the valley below Langmarsh House, and from there a fast rider brought up a letter from the Marshal saying he had acquired a large and partially furnished house with a garden and stable, one left tenantless by the recent death of its owner.
The day before they left, Genevieve slipped away from the busy company of packers and folders to sneak down through the cellars of Havenor to that same remote, deep-pooled cavern where her mother had taken her. She shut the doors behind her, as her mother had always done, and then she memorialized her mother by doing the things her mother had taught her to do. Though the exercise was itself uncomfortable—she had become unpracticed—she was comforted that she still remembered how.
The journey to Havenor was made by carriage, with wagons behind bringing Genevieve’s clothing, books, and other belongings. Their route took them down the hill road to Sabique, and thence northward along the Reusel road, which climbed easily but steadily toward the pass leading into the cupped valley of High Haven. Five outriders accompanied them, to help with the wagon in the likely event of snow or the less likely one of brigands. Though brigands were endemic in Dania—stealing women seemed to be their main occupation—they rarely crossed the Reusel into Wantresse.
Genevieve had chosen to bring her own maid, the Lang-marshian woman who had tended her since she was a child: ruddy, red-haired Della whose strong arms had comforted Genevieve as they had her own children, long since grown and scattered. Genevieve, behaving most unlike herself, had insisted to the Marshal that she would have Della, not a maid hired in Havenor, since Della’s husband was one of the horsemen accompanying the Marshal. Della cared more about joining her John than going for any other reason, and Genevieve was well aware of this. Since Genevieve preferred a known quantity to an unknown one, however, the arrangement satisfied them both.
The journey was accomplished before the first snows, just before, the last miles of it beset by freezing squalls that blew scattered needles of ice into their faces. From the top of the pass above Sabique, High Haven lay before them: a wide dun grassland with ivory Havenor set distantly upon it, like a fancy cake upon a platter. For a moment the sun broke through, and Havenor became an ephemeral toy, a play city full of sugary towers and icing plazas, all glittering in the cold light, and for that moment Genevieve regarded it with something like hope.
They spent the night uncomfortably at the only available inn. On the morrow, as they came closer to the city, Genevieve found the view less auspicious than she had hoped. The chill wind had driven everyone indoors, leaving the streets untenanted, dim and dreamlike behind shifting veils of snow. As they went through the residential area, Genevieve regarded the stern lines of city houses on either side of them with dismay. Their faces were shut up tight, the windows lidded with heavy curtains, the iron-bound doors locked-lip and stern. These forbidding visages became even more dour when they turned onto a broader boulevard where the houses were farther separated and set deeply behind walled and gated gardens beneath bare, black-branched trees. Dusk had come by this time, and though the wind had ceased, the snow was falling hard.
“The houses go on forever,” Genevieve murmured in dejection. “Miles of them. It’ll be dark soon.”
“The end of a trip is always the longest part,” soothed Della. “I’m sure we’re almost there.”
She spoke the truth, for they soon turned between great granite pilasters and heard the tall iron gates shriek open on corroded hinges. From there was only a short way to the house, where they pulled up as the last light left the sky. Della and Genevieve alit to be greeted by Halpern, the butler, while the wagon continued around to the stable yard and the protection of the carriage house.
The interior of the house was scarcely less cold than the courtyard, each cavernous room as gloomy and lightless as a tomb. Not even Genevieve’s apartment, on an upper story toward the back, had any feeling of welcome. The dirty windows overlooked a weed-filled wilderness of garden, the drapes were stiff with dust, and the died stove was cold.
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Della had better luck in the rooms she would share with her husband on the ground floor, for they were kept cheerfully warm by the stoves in the adjacent kitchen. It was there that Della brought Genevieve, to seat her in a chair before the fire and help her rub feeling back into her hands and feet while Halpern set people to fueling the tiled stove in her room, dusting out, sweeping up, warming the linens, and making up the bed.
“My Lady Marchioness,” he said, his brow beaded with cold sweat. “No one told me you were coming. Your father did not mention it.”
“Let it go,” murmured Genevieve. “Don’t apologize. I’m here now, so we’ll start from where we are.”
“Your Ladyship is very gracious.”
“My Ladyship is very tired,” she said, smiling at him. “Let’s not waste time on things not said or done, Halpern. Let’s do what we can to make ourselves comfortable.”
“And where’s the Marshal?” Della demanded angrily of her John. “Here’s Jenny, frozen half solid, and not even a fire in her room.”
“Gone hunting, so he said,” muttered John. “And he didn’t tell us you’d be coming today. Or at all! He depends on others to do his day-to-day thinking for him, he does, and the one who does it lately, his equerry, that Colonel, he’s not taken up residency here, not yet.”
When the Marshal returned a day or so later, having been invited to hunt stag with a party from the court, he was surprised to find the new arrivals still in confusion as they tried to settle in.
“Ha,” he said to Genevieve, when she confessed that things were not yet in order. “I’ve set up a camp for a thousand men with less fuss than this.” He then proceeded to unsettle the entire menage even further by announcing their schedule for the near future: several formal dinners, including one only ten days hence; innumerable courtesy calls with Genevieve over the next several days; attending a command performance of the Royal Orchestra; and an ambitious program of familiarization with the city. Since the cook was newly hired and did not have the kitchen yet to her liking and since the place itself needed a good deal of work before welcoming guests, Genevieve, as putative mistress of this establishment, was more than merely set back.
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