by Max Irons
“You did that on purpose,” Lonni said, propping herself up on one elbow.
He scowled. “I’ve told you I’m not one for grace.”
“Clearly.”
One of Hadrian’s large, meaty hands appeared over Galeron, and he took the help up. Turning to offer the same to Lonni, he found her already on her feet, brushing dirt from her dress.
“Watch us,” Phoebe said.
She stood and swept over to Hadrian. They assumed the same opening stance as Galeron and Lonni, and then they started to move.
That’s impressive.
What Galeron had done looked like the crude cranking and rattling of a farmer’s cart compared with the lithe grace of Hadrian and Phoebe. Hadrian stepped with a lightness that belied his great size, and the two seemed to glide around the room, stepping and side-stepping as if one mind commanded their footwork. They took a few passes and then whispered to a halt.
Phoebe beamed at her husband. “You still move so well.”
“I’d not fall out of practice,” Hadrian said. “Not when I won your heart at the balls.”
Phoebe giggled and kissed his bearded face.
Hadrian gave her a crooked smile and turned to Galeron. “Try it again. Trust your instincts, and for the sake of her bones, loosen up a bit.”
Galeron put his hand on Lonni’s shoulder blade and clasped her other hand in his. He took a deep breath and let it out, calming his mind. Dancing wasn’t a battle, but he let his old war instincts take over. His limbs relaxed, and some of the tension eased in his muscles.
The corners of Lonni’s mouth twitched. “It’s a start.”
They practiced again and again. Galeron kept getting his legs tangled with Lonni’s, but they never ended up on the floor a second time. Gradually, he pulled in his steps and managed not to overstep into Lonni’s foot. Once he found the right movements, it wasn’t so bad, all things considered. At least he wouldn’t cause a massive collision on the dance floor.
Hadrian’s attempt to teach them rhythm dancing was less successful. He clapped out a beat and tried to get them to move in time with it. Both he and Phoebe mumbled about counting and taking half steps, whatever any of that meant. There also seemed to be a lot of spinning and trading places involved, but it all moved so fast that Galeron frequently found himself out of position. Finally, Phoebe called a halt to it.
“I’m not sure you could carry a rhythm if it had handles, Galeron,” she said.
Galeron winced. He’d tried, but he just couldn’t seem to keep count and learn the stepping pattern at the same time.
“Don’t worry,” Hadrian said. “No one dances the entire time. You and Lonni know enough not to embarrass Iven, and that’s the important fact. Just politely step aside when the musicians strike faster tunes. Your other dance partners won’t expect too much from you.”
Galeron’s insides squirmed again. “Other partners?”
Hadrian nodded. “You didn’t think you’d spend the entire night dancing with Lonni, did you?”
Hadn’t really considered it. The thought, though, brought a wave of nausea over him. Of course, it wasn’t going to be that easy. He’d have to dance with other women, a new task alone, while possibly gathering information without them realizing it. In other words, a typical night with his luck.
“See you at the ball,” Phoebe said, and she and Hadrian left the room.
#
Galeron went hunting for Iven after Phoebe and Hadrian left. Lonni returned to her room, claiming the need to get ready for the evening’s ball.
How long does a woman need to get dressed? Galeron walked into the mansion’s study and found Iven seated at the desk and trying to burn a hole in a logbook with his gaze. Several volumes surrounded him, some strewn about and open, others closed and bound tight. Galeron took a seat in one of the hard-backed chairs across from Iven as he scribbled furiously with a quill.
“Do you know how much wheat alone Keenan Caffar needs?” asked Iven. Without waiting for a response, he said, “You could bake enough bread with it to reach the moon and come back again.”
“You measured?” asked Galeron.
“It’s a close guess,” said Iven, setting his quill in an inkwell and shaking his head. “Is this it?” He looked around at the logbooks. “Is this all I’m good for now?”
Galeron shrugged. What to say? “Unless you know of a way to drop the house mantle without starving your countrymen.”
“Can’t say I do,” Iven said. “Dianna expects a decision on a bride in the next few days, and Phoebe is arranging a trip out to inspect the plum orchards next week. All the holdings to the south haven’t been visited since our father died. Marcus never was one for traveling.”
“That sounds exciting,” Galeron said.
“Aye, so exciting I’m going to die of boredom.” Iven rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Every decision I make is just something either Dianna or Phoebe told me to do. They run the household, not me.” He glanced down. “We’ve only been here a little over a day, and I feel like I haven’t worn proper clothes in months. I’d like to meet whoever invented hose so I can turn him into a pincushion.”
Galeron chuckled and said nothing, letting Iven continue his rant against all things lordly. His diatribe went on for several minutes before he finally came to a halt.
“Where did you go last night?” he asked.
Galeron winced at the memory. “Arlana dropped by, and we went to do a little investigating of our own. It turned…violent.”
“Did it involve the court physician?” asked Iven. “That was all Dianna talked about this morning.”
“It did,” Galeron said. “We went to visit him, but a few mages dropped by and set fire to him and his house. For whatever reason, he had a large stock of nitrate of potash in the back storeroom, and…well you can imagine how that went.”
Iven laughed. “So that’s why you looked so rough this morning.”
Galeron nodded. “Still don’t know why the mages wanted him dead.”
“It might not be Aleor mages,” Iven said. “Not everyone with magic goes there to learn. Plenty of folk use their talents like we do. Sell-swords, but with magic.”
That fit. Men were the same everywhere.
“Maybe the physician mixed up his herbs and gave someone the wrong potion,” said Iven. “Maybe he had gambling debts. Apparently, he was a regular at dice.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “One of them mumbled something about improper mixing.”
“Night dust?” asked Iven. “He had a huge pile of nitrate in his back rooms. Maybe he used too much of it.”
A worthy theory, but that all assumed Remus had been the alchemist in question. “He could have been storing it for someone else,” Galeron said.
Iven groaned. “This sounds so much more interesting than assigning docks to the grain shipments.” He shot him a mock glare. “Why couldn’t you have been born a noble instead?”
Galeron grinned at him. “I was spared that misfortune.”
“Just keep reminding me.”
“Every chance I get.”
They talked for a while longer, Iven continuing his diatribe against his current predicament. Galeron tried hard to keep his amusement in check. Not so long ago, both of them would have traded in their growling stomachs for a life of boredom. Now, they wanted right back in that old life.
Iven eventually looked to the hourglass sitting on the desk next to a stack of books. Roughly a quarter of the sand still remained in the top half. “I have to go change into formal frippery. Lace is going to be the death of me, Galeron. I’m going to suffocate in a pile of garments one day, my limbs weak and frail from being stuck inside this blasted mansion.” His expression turned pained. “I already miss sleeping on tree roots and eating questionable tavern food.”
Galeron bit back a snort. “The fine life is too fine for you?”
“Next time you get an idea, take
me with you,” Iven said. “Even if I’m in the middle of my marriage ceremonies, you have to come get me.”
They stood up, Galeron’s side quivering as he laughed. “I’ll do that,” he managed to get out.
He and Iven walked to the atrium and climbed the stairs.
“To make matters worse,” Iven said. “Dianna’s hid my bow. It’s somewhere in the mansion, but I haven’t been able to find the thing yet.” He glared at one of the busts of his forebears as they reached the second floor. “It’s not like being a harbor master. It’s more like a legion drill instructor. No one does a thing unless you say to them specifically, ‘Hey, you, stop lounging around and go do this task.’”
“The joys of command,” Galeron said.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would anyone want to be in charge? It’s tedious business, you’ve got no privacy, and no one has any patience. Just this morning, one of the servants drew me a bath. That’s another thing I hate: bathing every day. Why do we have to—”
“Where were you going with that?” asked Galeron.
Iven frowned, and then he said “Oh, Dianna actually dropped in during my bath and had me dictate a letter to one of the barons in Salturnia. As if it really made a difference. I’m just repeating whatever she tells me to say.”
“Why’d you have to dictate it?”
“Old rules about missives only coming from the house lord, but I’m pretty sure she and Phoebe have forged my name more than once on documents.” He scratched his head. “I’m not going to question it. Maybe I can convince them to do it more often.”
“Anything I need to know about tonight?” Galeron asked.
“King Balen will be in attendance,” Iven said. “No sword for you. Sorry.”
Galeron shuddered. Walking into the ball without a blade at his side turned his guts cold, and if King Balen attended, likely Kolvein would, too. Kolvein, who could do what he wished without fear of reprisals.
Or so he thought.
“I’ll make do,” Galeron said. “Try not to suffocate under your lace.”
“Laugh it up,” Iven snorted. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs.”
He headed down his own corridor, leaving Galeron to walk back to his own room at the other end of the second floor. Dim twilight filled his bedchamber, though one of the servants had dropped by to light a candle. Galeron picked up the pieces of armor he’d strewn about earlier and piled them on the bed, frowning. He couldn’t go to the ball dressed in the paladin armor, much as he wanted to, but going without any protection would be foolish and asking for trouble.
He strapped on the steel vambraces and donned his arming doublet, which he then covered with the Porter overtunic. It wouldn’t stop a knife blow, but it was better than only a few scraps of cloth between a blade and his skin. His sword belt came next, sitting comfortably around his waist and preventing the huge tunic from flapping about like some errant ship’s sail. Galeron threw the black cloak over his shoulder and fastened the clasp.
No one would ever mistake him for a lord, but he certainly looked better than a common sell-sword. Small improvements. Galeron cast a last glance at his sword, still lying on the bed, and then walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The statues stared at him, so, naturally, Galeron stared back. Still waiting on Iven and Lonni to finish getting dressed for the ball, he found himself pacing the atrium and turning to face the former lords of house Porter. The last one could have been a mirror of Iven, save for the long locks of hair that flowed around his ears. Iven kept his own short.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
Galeron looked up. Iven walked down the steps. He moved with a certain stiffness, or maybe that was just the shirt he wore. Some poor servant had starched it so much the garment could have gone to the ball without him.
“Why not?” asked Galeron.
“You’ll go mad thinking about all the Porters that came before me,” Iven said. “All that somehow gave way to me.” He twitched and rubbed at his shirt.
“Lord Porter, please don’t do that,” said the servant behind him.
“It itches,” said Iven, scowling back at him.
“It’s what everyone’s wearing, my lord,” he said.
“Then everyone’s skin must be made of iron,” Iven grumbled.
“As my lord says. I’ll let the driver know you’re ready to depart.”
The servant adjusted Iven’s coattails, bowed, and walked away.
Iven rubbed at the shirt again. “I’ll scratch if I want to. Being a lord has to afford some luxury.” He eyed Galeron’s attire. “Some people get to wear comfortable clothing.”
Galeron raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“Where’s Lonni?” asked Iven.
“Still getting ready,” said Galeron.
Iven grunted. “We might be standing here a while.”
“I heard that.”
Lonni emerged from her room, and Galeron blinked several times, trying not to stare. Her insistence on a long time to prepare now suddenly made sense. A long green and black dress with shortened sleeves flowed about her as she walked down the stairs. She’d gotten the corset adjusted at some point, for it wrapped around her midriff without a hint of shifting. Her hair cascaded down her back in long, elegant braids, flashing bronze in the light of the atrium. Lonni had done something to her skin, causing her to glow slightly pink. The entire effect left him breathless.
She approached, eyes sparkling. “How do I look?”
Galeron’s eyes itched, and he realized he hadn’t blinked yet since seeing her. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and then said, “You…look nice.”
He winced as the words came out. Nice? That was the best he could do? She’d probably spent a good while preparing for the ball, and all he could say to her was she looked nice?
Lonni glared at him, either thinking the same thing or reading his mind.
“Behold, Galeron’s wit,” Iven said, snorting.
He scowled. “You’re not helping.”
Iven pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Surely you aren’t speaking to me.”
“Are we going or not?” asked Lonni.
“Aye, let’s get this over with,” Iven said.
They went out to the waiting carriage, climbed in, and the driver got the horse team moving. As they rattled off to the ball, Galeron turned to Iven.
“If I have to have a woman on my arm, why don’t you?” he asked.
“I’m not getting out of it either,” Iven grumbled. “She’s waiting for me when we arrive. My official companion for the Fallen Ones’ ball is Julia Valerian, not that it’s important.”
“The both of you act like young boys,” Lonni said. “As if women ruin the experience.”
Iven shook his head. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“It was implied,” she said.
Galeron sighed. If Lonni was already this agitated, he was in for a very long night. The larger issue at hand, of course, was how to manage the business of attending a ball without causing some sort of incident. Perhaps he was worrying too much. The likelihood of such horrendous problems erupting was low, or so he hoped.
Then again, knowing my luck, it’ll be a shock if I walk out without starting at least a feud between someone else and house Porter.
“Is there anything we need to know before we get there?” asked Galeron.
Iven tugged at his shirt again. “Not especially. They’ll feed us a light meal, most of the dancing will take place after that, and then they cap off the night with a lot of drinking and war stories. There’s not much more to it. Any speeches or some such thing will be announced. Those rams’ horns are hard to miss.”
Galeron winced at the war stories. “How long do we have to stay? I’d rather not relive everything.”
“Bah, we can get out by then,” Iven said. “I imagine most of the nobles will be too drunk to remember much of anything.
”
He nodded. Good. Seeing Kolvein already dragged memories to the surface, many of which needed to stay chained in the deepest waters of the mind. No need to give nightmares fuel again.
The carriage ride continued, but it seemed to be taking a lot longer. Galeron glanced out the window, but he couldn’t see much in the dark. Twilight had faded to a faint reddish haze off to the west. Where were they going? Surely the ball was going to be held in the king’s hall.
The ride ended, and Galeron, Iven, and Lonni climbed out. His first inhale of breath was noticeably colder. A wide lawn stretched out before them, illuminated by two columns of lanterns forming a path to…Galeron frowned. It looked like the facade of a huge building jutting out of the mountainside. Great columns stood in the entryway, but no doors barred the path. Figures moved around inside, and other carriages pulled up alongside theirs, depositing the occupants before rolling away.
“Welcome to the Hall of the Fallen,” Iven said, and he started up the pathway.
“Where are we?” asked Galeron as he and Lonni followed.
“Some ways above the king’s hall,” Iven said. “The mages built it, and they just finished last year. A monument to all who died.”
Walking up the stone steps, Galeron caught site of words chiseled into the awning above the columns. “Seek not a hero, for they never return.” He shuddered as Iven stopped abruptly. A sentiment he found himself repeating far too often.
“It’s about time you arrived, Lord Porter.”
Galeron turned to see an elderly woman bustling forward, hoisting her billowing yellow skirts to keep from tripping. Another woman slunk behind her, pallid, sickly, and staring at the ground.
Iven gave the elder a little bow. “My deepest apologies, Lady Valerian. It was not my intention to keep you waiting.”
Lady Valerian sniffed and peered down her nose at him. “Perhaps you should take greater care. It does not set a good image for your house.”
“Naturally not,” Iven said. “Thanks for your advice.”