by A Van Wyck
He almost didn’t recognize Neever out of robes and with hair slicked and oiled. The monk was transformed in dark woolens, a symbol picked out on the left breast in gold stitching.
Must be the she-monster’s insignia.
“Ready, milady,” Neever bowed.
Turning back to him, she extended a hand. Her smile was so startling and sweet, if he hadn’t been sitting down it would have bowled him over. “Let us be on our way, dear niece,” she crooned at him.
Sighing, he stood.
In retrospect, the pinch to his bottom should not have come as a complete surprise. She seemed intent on unbalancing him. Jumping, he grabbed up a handful of the stupid dress and hurried out the door, followed by her lilting laugher.
Where’s that bloody mage when you need him!
The carriage was an expensive one. The entire contraption was lacquered black and drawn by four showy horses. The large wheels bounced on some kind of ingenious suspension system that buffered the passengers against the worst of the bumpy road. But imperfect road maintenance wasn’t the reason for his discomfort. He would have much preferred to sit up in the driver’s seat next to Neever, even if that meant his dress would flap around his ears. But no, he had to sit inside with Lady Lassleider.
At least, he thought that was her name. That’s what it had sounded like when Neever had said it, opening the carriage door for them.
The interior was as luxurious as the outside was ostentatious, tastefully done in padded leather, dyed a decadent red. Drawers and cabinets beneath the seats had provided the lady’s drink. She held the glass of clear spirits expertly against the slight rocking of the carriage. Thick curtains kept the view and the dust outside while worked silver vents, sporting fine sieves, let in air. All in all, very snazzy. Not that he knew much about carriages. He was more used to palanquins. Not that he’d ever been inside one for any length of… no, hang on. He’d been in one or two, just never on invita– Oh, alright, once on invitation. And the lady had set her guards on him afterwards. He’d understood of course, she’d still had her husband to contend with. And she’d been good enough to give him a head start.
Hah! Head start!
Good times.
“If I’m any judge of men,” Lady Lassleider interrupted his reverie, “and I am,” she declared with authority, “I’d say a woman put that smile on your face.”
“Maybe,” he scowled.
She chuckled richly as if he’d admitted as much. He didn’t like the way she seemed to be able to read him. Composing his face, he turned to stare blindly at the drawn curtain.
She was perplexing. She seemed the perfect lady – insofar as he understood the imperial concept of what constituted a lady. Yet she acted like… like… He scowled as a suitable comparison came to mind. Like a clan leader. Frowning, he peeked at her sidelong, rocking slightly to the motion of the carriage. Well, why not? Maybe he could use that to his advantage. Turning to face her, he dipped his head, trying to work the proper deference into his voice. It was harder than it should be. He had an arrogant face, he knew. Nothing he could do about that. He’d been born with it. His urge to piss people off sometimes seemed equally inescapable.
Huh. Momentous realization.
“So,” he began, “how did you meet Father Smokestack?”
“Messin?” she feigned surprise at the question. He doubted anything he was likely to say could surprise this woman. “We grew up together,” she smiled. “Not in the usual way perhaps. He was the fourth son of House Travinassa. A minor house with no real wealth or influence but with prestige nonetheless. Albeit old prestige, dusty and scuffed and handed down through the generations like a good antique. His eldest brother died in the war, so the second inherited. He was never close to his third brother, who also took the road of the soldier, leaving him to either follow after or enter the Temple. As a boy, he spent much time at our city estate as a ward to my late father.” She sat staring far into the past and a fond, if somewhat malicious, smile crawled across her features. “Oh, how we despised each other!”
“Despised?” He was no expert – life in the slums was eat or be eaten – but last he’d heard childhood friendship required at least a measure of amicability.
“What changed?” he couldn’t help asking, genuinely interested despite himself. He was having some trouble picturing Pesclior as a youth. His mind insisted on the image of a young boy sporting an outrageously bushy beard. He shook his head, trying to dispel it.
At his question, the lady came back to herself with an elegant shake.
“Oh, the usual,” she murmured as she rummaged under her seat for a refill. He had to strain to hear amid the clink of bottles.
“I grew up. He grew taller. At that age any strong emotion can pass for attraction in a bad light.” She sat back, topping up her glass.
“You and Pesclior?” he smiled, shock and fascination warring in his voice.
“It helps being young and stupid, of course.” The smile she directed at him past her glass led him to wonder whether they were still discussing herself and adolescent Pesclior.
“Did you try to stop him entering the priesthood?”
“Why would I? Priests are not eunuchs. The Oaths don’t cause any important parts to spontaneously drop off.”
He blinked at her, “I suppose not.”
The ghost of a smile played around her mouth but her eyes were shrewd as she toyed with her glass. “Are they planning on making a priest out of you too?”
“They can try,” he growled.
She smirked toothily. “Ha! I doubt the whole Temple has enough faith among the lot of them!”
He returned her smile, feeling like he was being paid a compliment. They sat in silence for a while, each in their own world and rocking gently to the motion of the carriage.
“This sure beats walking,” he said conversationally.
Her expression turned serious.
“Yes. We are going to have to discuss some finer points of etiquette if you’re going to pull off this charade, walking included. If you are not believable as my niece, we’ve made the effort for naught.” Her voice dropped dangerously. “And I hate having my time wasted.”
He swallowed.
“Just so you know,” her eyes narrowed on him, “my niece, Valda, really exists and, despite her many faults, I love her dearly. So I will expect you to not drag her and, more importantly, my name through the mud.” Her voice turned gruff, losing all vestiges of ladylikeness. “You will be the perfect lady, even if I have to get out my sewing kit and tuck your balls away in a corner where they won’t bother anyone.”
The carriage seemed suddenly much smaller. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, reassuring himself of the presence of his knives. When she was apparently satisfied she was understood, she sat slowly back in her seat, eyes wandering away from him.
He cleared his throat, nervously. “Where is your real niece?” he asked, just for something to say.
“I sent her to a convent for the summer.”
“Oh,” he tried to sound matter of fact, though he had no idea what a convent was. Gently he tried steering the conversation away from needlework. “Why is that?”
Her eyes were flat as she turned to regard him. “So she can still wear her veil when she finally gets engaged.”
“Ah…” He wisely let the conversation die. Salt and silver, how far to the next town?
They rode on at the same stiff pace throughout the day, the horses proving tireless. They stopped only once, at a flyspeck village a little short of midday, to rest and water the beasts. The lady declined to take the midday meal in the only inn in town and had the simple fare brought out to the carriage instead. When he questioned her about this, she said she wasn’t letting him out in the public eye until she was sure he wasn’t going to embarrass her. She’d been drilling him the entire morning on proper etiquette and accepted behavior for ‘unattached young ladies of marriageable age’.
It was absolute drivel. Who care
d whether he stood up from a table first or which hand he used to accept something someone handed to him? What was the point of always waiting for someone to open a door for you or to greet you first?
Blegh!
But she’d caught him drifting only once during their lecture, halting mid-sentence to rummage through the drawers under the seat with a pre-occupied expression. Aware that her annoying prattle had stopped, he’d asked.
“What?”
“Can’t find my sewing kit…” she’d murmured.
After that, he’d paid strict attention to everything she’d said. While he couldn’t claim to understand the practical use of much of what she’d taught him, he’d committed it all to memory. A lot of it, he suspected, had no practical use. But when evening found them nearing the center of a medium sized town, he was sitting primly in his seat, hands clasped in his lap and ankles crossed, staring demurely at the floor.
She leaned over to twitch his skirts into a more circumspect fall while they waited for Neever to arrange for their stay at an inn. The lady had timed their arrival well and the sun was just setting, long shadows ready to do their part for his costume. She twitched the curtain to one side to look out at the stable yard. Peering past her shoulder he saw Neever approach, followed by a thickset man in a spotless apron.
“Is her ladyship ready to disembark?” Neever enquired politely, playing his part to perfection.
“It’s about time,” Lady Lassleider huffed irritably, planning to draw as much attention to herself as possible to spare her ‘niece’.
Opening the carriage door with a bow, Neever stood offering his hand. The lady grasped it peremptorily and lowered herself to the ground, blocking his view with her voluminous skirts.
“Your ladyship,” an unctuous voice began, “welcome to the Old Mill Inn. I’m Lorris Metter, the owner and your table master. If you require anything, anything at all, please do not hesitate–”
“A room for the evening,” she interrupted, “for myself and my niece.” He smiled, imagining he could hear the unfortunate man’s teeth click shut.
Taking his cue, he rose from his seat, taking care to shorten his steps and let Neever help him from the carriage. Only at the last moment did he remember to bundle his skirts up out of the dust.
“As well as a private dinner, followed by hot baths for the both of us,” the lady kept on the beleaguered tablemaster. “I trust that is within your abilities?”
“Of– Of course lady,” the poor man stammered.
“Good. Also, care for our horses and our driver,” she lumped Neever in with the animals.
“Yes, lady,” the man bowed so low he was at risk of scooping sand with his nostrils. “This way, lady, if you please. I will show you to our best rooms.” They followed the cowed man inside, entering through the kitchen. Lorris Metter spoke over an aproned shoulder, careful to keep wide eyes safely to the front. “Will her ladyship be staying long?”
He was glad for the veil that hid his smile at the poor man’s discomfort. The tablemaster was no doubt anticipating a miserable week, waiting hand and foot on this terrifying woman.
“We shall rise with the sun and leave soon after. Make sure to provide the morning meal on time.”
“As her ladyship commands,” the tablemaster bobbed awkwardly mid-walk.
They were shown up some stairs, Metter yelling anxiously for baths to be prepared. A young woman, reacting to the near panic in the tablemaster’s voice, darted out of sight. A moment later a resounding crash echoed loudly from the back rooms. Their host winced, hunching as if under the whip but her ladyship continued, contemptibly oblivious. Metter seemed to recover a smidgen of pride when throwing open the doors to their rooms, obviously the best in the house. The wooden floor sported a carpet and was scattered about with various well worn pieces of furniture, including two large four poster beds. The tablemaster bowed them in.
“It will do,” the lady conceded after a cursory glance. The tablemaster’s face fell at so dismissive a reference to the finery. “Have our luggage brought up and send word when the meal is ready.”
At the clear dismissal, the man bowed himself out, stammering wishes for their pleasant stay. They could hear fleeing footsteps down the hallway.
Staring at the closed doors, the lady’s face softened marginally. “Poor man,” she mused dispassionately, “he didn’t deserve that.”
“I think he’s still running,” he put in, smiling.
“Hmm,” she grunted in dissatisfied agreement. “Leave it,” she told him as he reached up to remove the veil. “We’re not done yet.”
“It’s wearing my nose down to a nub,” he complained but dropped his hand. “You don’t expect me to eat in this thing?”
“Just wait,” she told him, “you can take it off when it’s time for your bath.”
“Who said anything about a bath?”
“I did,” she told him, looking even more implacable (if that were possible) with her hands clasped behind her back. “I am not lending you any more clothes until you have had a thorough scrubbing. You are grimy and the garments are expensive. On top of which, I still have to wash and braid your hair.”
“Braid?” he mouthed. “You never said anything about anyone getting braided!”
“Be sensible,” she dismissed his objection out of hand. “If you intend to pass for a respectable young lady, you are going to have to look the part. That full head veil you’re wearing is terribly old fashioned. Ones from this century leave the hair bare. I just hope I’m not too out of date with the court style for young ladies.”
Fuming, he opened his mouth to argue further but was forestalled by a knock at the door.
“Come!” the lady called severely. The door opened and a serving girl stuck her head in cautiously as if afraid of having it bitten off. Seeing the lady was outside of biting range, she opened the door all the way and curtsied awkwardly.
“You luggage, lady,” the girl squeaked.
“Bring it in.”
The girl gestured and two stable hands, using Neever as a shield, followed her into the room, all bearing large chests.
“Put them there,” the lady directed.
The stable hands beat a hasty retreat while Neever paused to bow from the door before disappearing. The serving girl executed her nervous bob again. “If her ladyship would like to follow me,” she trilled nervously, “a table has been prepared in one of the private dining rooms.”
“Lead on, girl,” the lady commanded, gathering him up with a glance as they followed the serving girl out the door. The girl led them to an elegant, if bare, dining room. The furniture was simple but efforts had been made with colorful tablecloths and flowers. A cozy fire crackled in the hearth. The tablemaster conducted them to their seats and pulled up a chair for the lady and then for her niece.
He remembered to run his hands over the pleats of his skirts, folding them properly for sitting. It caused a bit of confusion when he tried to pull in his own chair, their combined efforts ramming it into the backs of his knees. The frightened tablemaster apologized profusely, a dozen half-formed sentences fighting to escape the man’s mouth simultaneously.
He waved a gloved hand in what he hoped was an effeminate way to allay the man’s fears. Still apologizing, the man ushered in no less than three serving girls, bearing trays. The table was quickly set.
“May we serve you, lady?” an older one asked, bobbing respectfully. At the lady’s nod, the serving girls quickly filled plates with choice cuts of meat, bread, a selection of vegetables and a small portion of steamed fruit that smelled quite good. He didn’t fail to notice that the amount of food they put on his plate, while representative of all the dishes on the table, would have starved a mouse. If this was how young noblewomen ate, it was no wonder they were always swooning.
“Lady?” the older woman offered a bottle of wine, pouring only a bit into the lady’s glass. She tasted it and nodded her approval but stopped the server before she could come around th
e table and fill his glass as well.
“None for her,” the lady commanded. “That is fine thank you. You may leave us.”
The serving girls bobbed again and they filed out of the room, closing the doors behind them. He waited until he was sure they were out of earshot before he spoke.
“Why no wine for me?” he challenged. A little balm after the day’s effort wouldn’t go amiss, he was thinking.
“You’re too young,” she answered promptly, not looking at him.
“Am not. You don’t even know how old I am,” he argued. Neither did he but she didn’t need to know that.
“Perhaps not,” she answered, calmly cutting a piece of meat, “but I know how old Valda is and she is too young.” She gave him a quelling look across the length of the table. “Now eat your dinner.”
Feeling rebellious, he ripped the veil off and rose to heap more meat onto his plate, letting his chair squeal loudly. She said nothing, apparently too absorbed in her food. He would have preferred to eat in silence but she kept correcting him on the finer points of dining. She’d mentioned something about different kinds of forks and knives used for different dishes. The pieces they’d been provided here precluded such confusion. But the way she kept badgering him made it sound as if he’d never fed himself in his life. Who cared what he did with his elbows or where his knife was pointing when he wasn’t using it? What matter how big bites he cut or how many times he chewed as long as it got in his stomach? Spirits below he was hungry! It felt like he might starve to death with a heaped plate sitting right in front of him. Any more of this, he thought, and he might try drowning himself in the sad puddle of steamed fruit. Eating wasn’t supposed to be this much effort! The main meal tired him so much he had no energy to tackle the small pudding that had been placed at his elbow.
“Are you done?” she asked. She hadn’t had any problem following her own instructions and had even seemed to enjoy her food.
He nodded that he was finished.
“Then put your veil back on.”