by A Van Wyck
He toyed briefly with the idea of defiance but couldn’t stomach the idea of any more effort. He’d just finished draping the veil over his face again when there came a diffident knock at the door.
“Enter,” the lady called and the older woman stuck her head in again.
“Your baths have been readied, lady,” she informed them.
“Excellent timing,” the lady said, rising to her feet. He followed suit, following the woman down the stairs, through the length of the inn and into a stone walled room. Slatted wood covered the slanted floor, providing drainage while preventing one’s feet from contacting the cold stone directly. Two copper baths stood, steaming pleasantly side by side, a flimsy room divider the only barrier between them. The thin paper screen proved entirely inadequate at screening him from the horrible images his mind suddenly conjured. It took all his self control to keep walking and not stumble. Or better yet, run for the hills.
“Can I help you undress, lady?” the serving woman offered.
Now wouldn’t that be fun…
“No, that will be all,” the lady answered for him.
The servant bowed herself out, leaving him alone with this unnerving old woman. He tried not to look at the baths but it seemed like they suddenly filled the entire room. He regarded the sharp tongued lady, glad of the veil hiding his face. He must not have succeeded in keeping the speculative horror from his gaze completely. She turned an anticipatory smile on him, rich with dark amusement.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him, motioning him to his bath, “I don’t bite.” She frowned introspectively. “No,” she continued, “I tell a lie. Suffice to say, I will not bite you.”
On the whole, he would have been happier with the former promise.
“Now turn around so I can get at your buttons.”
With plenty of misgivings, he turned, breathing a bit shallowly as her deft fingers loosened the double row of buttons down his back.
“Now me,” she said at last and he cringed at those half-anticipated words.
He was no stranger to women, night sky knew. And the list of his conquests did, per force, number almost exclusively older women. Although, admittedly, never quite so old as this. He was feeling extremely uncomfortable as he fumbled at the finicky buttons of his dress. His efforts were further hampered by his closed eyes. But he’d rather be safe than sorry. When he finally got them all undone, he all but whirled away, diving behind his side of the divider. Even so, it was impossible not to hear her as she divested herself of the rest of her clothing. He tried to make as much noise as possible in the removal of his own to try and drown out the sound. Imagining what a relief it would be to sink past his ears in the water, he jumped straight in. The light scalding was worth it. Water sloshed over the brim of the bath. He spent a couple of long, deep breaths fighting the desire to jump right back out again. Eventually, he relaxed.
Back home, clean water was too dear to allow bodily immersion. Baths were an experience reserved exclusively for princes. Which was why he’d stolen into more than one of the mosaic-monstrosities in his time.
Despite his efforts, he heard the satisfied “Aaah,” as the lady settled into her own tub. She must have skin like a screech beetle to stand such heat. Kindly winds send that he would never have to find out first hand.
Despite himself, the hot water was starting to make him drowsy. It kneaded at the stiff and tired muscles of his back and neck. He hadn’t realized the constant stress had him so wound up. He sank deeper, drifting comfortably, thoughts unwinding along with tired flesh. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone when a bar of soap arched over the divider to splash into his tub. He jerked awake.
“Wash,” came the command from beyond the divider in no uncertain terms.
Muttering angrily, he fished out the lump of soap and started to wash, deigning not to answer when she instructed him to use the brush and really scrub himself. Despite his constant arguments that he wasn’t filthy, the water turned quickly first opaque and then grey. She kept giving helpful instructions, reminding him to wash behind his ears or between his toes. He gritted his teeth but did as he was told, going so far as to lather his hair until the rim of soapy bubbles clogged his ears and threatened his eyes. He ducked his head under the water to take out the sting.
By the time he surfaced, she’d already exited her own tub and stood in a thick robe, staring in dismay at the discolored wash water that hid all but his head and shoulders. He ducked deeper under cover of the water.
“What?” he demanded sulkily.
Shaking her head, she held his robe out to him, ostensibly looking the other way. He narrowed his eyes at her. She didn’t look like she was peeking but he wasted no time getting out of the tub and into the robe.
She chuckled merrily at his precautions, towing him by the elbow around the divider. She collected a low wooden stool as she went. The water of her own tub was pristine and looked all but unused. She placed the stool beside it and bade him sit. He did, careful to make sure the robe covered everything it should cover. With a forceful hand, she tilted his head back, washing his hair again. He groaned as she added scented oils and potions, earning a light slap on the forehead. “Shush,” she commanded.
When she finally let him up, with an aching neck, he thought she might have washed all the color from his hair. In addition to the robes, the inn had provided towels and she deftly wrapped one about his head, leaving a flap free to cover his face with. With a push, she sent him back to his side of the divider to collect his clothes and the two of them padded back up to their room, mercifully without being seen.
The divider in their shared room was a bit more functional, consisting of a total of eight sturdy, wood carved screens. She stuffed a lacy pile of clothing in his arms and told him to go dress and not to come out until she said to. Eyeing the dusty rose garment doubtfully, he retreated behind the divider and shook it out to its full length. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. Thank the moon and her courting stars that no one I know can see me now. It was as close to prayer as he ever got. Steeling himself, he climbed into the nightgown.
“You can come out now,” she called.
“I think I’ll just stay here.”
He could wait until she was asleep and then creep off to his own bed in the dark. That hope was quickly dashed as the divider was pushed aside. The lady stood regarding him with a most eager smile on her face.
“O, now don’t you look lovely,” she exclaimed in a whisper. If there was sarcasm there, it was well hidden.
A choice dockside curse sprang to mind… and ran headlong into the afternoon's lessons on etiquette.
I’m being tamed... He hung his head in shame, earning another rich chuckle. He was beyond resisting as she steered him toward one of two chairs and pushed him down. A silver-backed brush appeared in her hand and she began pulling it through his mane with long, even strokes.
“The texture is not bad,” she commented and he realized she was talking about his hair, “very light and fine. Straight. It could have been a bit longer. Young ladies do not generally wear their hair this short. Hmm. Maybe you’ll start a trend.”
He habitually wore his hair about shoulder length and cut it himself. Mostly because there was no one he trusted enough to let that close to his throat with a blade. But he hadn’t done so in a while and it hung a good hand’s breadth past his shoulders. He was so lulled by the repetitive, strangely soothing motion of the brush he didn’t completely register the snip of the scissors until about the sixth of seventh cut. An urgent hand on his shoulder forestalled his jerking away.
“I thought you said it wasn’t long enough,” he accused angrily. The scissors snipped again and a small tuft drifted to the floor.
“However long it is, it still needs trimming,” she told him. “No self respecting lady would traipse around with such an unshaped mop of hair. And since I intend for you to be a self respecting lady to all outwards appearances, this is necessary.” The absolute au
thority of her words was compelling. And it was only a little hair. But how in creation had he allowed himself to be put in such a vulnerable position, with shears at his jugular? He’d frankly been dozing in his chair, hypnotized by the motion of a brush! That wasn’t like him. How had she managed it?
“Are you an enchantress?” he breathed, deep suspicion coloring his tone. His ring said no, but he’d believe the evidence of his eyes over it.
She laughed. “Only insofar as I am a woman.”
He grunted, resolving to stay fully alert until she was finished.
“There,” she said at last, letting him bound out of the chair. “Go on,” she encouraged, “toss your head and let’s have a look.” At his flat stare, she smiled wickedly, turning to her own pre-bedtime ministrations.
Folding his arms crossly, he frowned at the dusting of severed hair on the floor. With a sigh, he bent to scrape it into a kerchief. He’d burn it when the opportunity arose. You couldn’t leave that kind of thing lying around. Hair and nails and teeth, blood and spit, all were used for curse-making. He’d once seen a man spit up his own lungs, having earned the displeasure of a desert shaman. He knotted the kerchief firmly around the small bundle of hair, moving to his bed to shove it under his pillow.
Abruptly, the exhaustion of the day collapsed on top of him, carrying him down onto the soft bed. The lady’s company was more tiring than a whole day of walking.
“We have an early start tomorrow,” she threw at his back. “Rest well.”
“How far?” he asked, mumbling into the pillow, too tired to frame the question fully.
“Another four days to the capital.”
The capital? Despite his exhaustion, his ears perked.
“And then?”
“I had hoped you would answer that.”
He was unsure whether he believed her. She doused the lantern and he heard her climb into bed. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” he muttered into the darkness.
The next day brought challenges of its own, not the least of which was keeping the nosy serving girls at bay. They seemed to think ‘Lady Valda’ would need a team of shipwrights to fix her hair and makeup.
As promised, there were braids. His tormentor picked him a lavender dress for the day, complete with matching veil to hide his face and lace gloves to hide his rough hands and short nails. And she insisted on dabbing some kind of perfume on him. It did smell nice, he had to admit, provided he could forget it was him he was smelling.
“Here,” she said at one point, holding something out to him.
He took it, staring in confusion. “I’m already wearing stockings,” he protested.
“They’re not for your feet.” At his blank stare, she looked pointedly at his chest. “Valda is bigger,” she informed him, smiling indulgently when he grimaced.
They took their breakfast in the same private dining room, probably the only one the inn had. True to the lady’s promise, they left soon thereafter. For all his protestations that they stay longer, the tablemaster was obviously relieved to see them go and terrified the lady would notice. By his reckoning, the tablemaster was the lucky one.
He still had to spend another four days in her ladyship’s company.
At least the ride was nice and boring. His protestations against absorbing any more etiquette were met with humorless insistence. He didn’t see the point. They only had to keep up the ruse another few days. They followed the same procedure as the previous day, stopping very briefly for rest and refreshment at midday before pushing on.
Despite the padded seats, the continuous rocking and bumping was playing hell with his lower back. He tried turning crosswise on his seat for a bit of a lie-down. All that earned him was a two-fingered whack across the nose. She tutted disapproval as he sat up and completely ignore his murderous glare. He rubbed at his nose. The day ground on interminably and he learned of fans and parasols and what not to do with them.
Gripping stuff.
Evening brought a release from the tedium as they pulled into another coach inn in a town called Morose, of all things. From what he had glimpsed out the crack between the drapes, this was quite a bigger town than the last. It sported a few inns to choose from and it was obvious Neever had gone to lengths to pick one that suited the lady’s station. The tablemaster was a portly man, leading him to wonder whether girth was as much a part of the tablemaster uniform as the apron of office.
Farrow Yule seemed a good natured fellow – arousing his natural suspicions.
The stable was near full to capacity with large, powerful looking horses. The lady eyed them curiously.
“You have many guests at present, Master Yule?”
“A contingent of Imperial Greens, my lady,” the man replied, following her gaze. “Dragoons. They arrived at midday.”
“Greens, here?” At the unaccustomed surprise in her voice, his ears perked. “Who leads them?” she enquired.
“That would be Captain Serric Wramlinn, lady,” the tablemaster supplied, walking with them as they entered the inn.
“Lord Wramlinn’s son? Of Everlinn?”
“The very same, my lady.”
“I see.”
It was impossible to tell from her face whether this was good news or not. He followed after her as they were led to their rooms.
“Someone you know?” he asked when they were safely behind closed doors.
“Serric,” she replied curtly, “son of a noble lord of some influence.” Her tone said that was not all there was to it.
“And?” he probed.
“He has a bit of a reputation. As does his father. And neither are particularly enamored of the priesthood.” She glanced at him. “At least, not the parts that presently concern you or I.”
“He’s a purist?” he guessed.
“Not overtly,” she replied distractedly. “But you could say their ambitions presently overlap, what with the whispers of peace from the Renali quarter.”
He had little interest in peace or politics. “What kind of reputation?”
She worded her response carefully. “There has been talk. Some improbable accidents. People who defy him tend to… stop.” Her lip pulled in contempt. “No one says no to them.”
“I see.” He unconsciously shifted to make sure his knives were still securely strapped beneath his dress. “Do they pose a danger to us?”
“Perhaps. Lord Wramlinn is an exceedingly clever man and his son even more so, if rumor tells it true. We must keep you away from him.”
“You know them?”
“I have met Lord Wramlinn, yes. The son I know only by reputation.”
“I take it we’ll be having our meal in our rooms then?”
“That poses its own problems. We of the nobility are a relatively close knit group and are governed by our own rules of etiquette. It will be expected that we, at the very least, greet the lord in person. I expect the tablemaster is at this very moment informing him of our arrival. I imagine it will not be long before an invitation to dinner arrives. Which we will have to decline and manners be damned.”
She had started pacing up and down, a frown marring her expression.
“What?” he finally asked. She cast him a distracted glance.
“I would dearly like to know what he is doing here. And at the head of a troop of dragoons, no less.”
“You’ve said that word before. What does it mean?”
“Dragoons? Medium cavalry. It denotes those soldiers in service of the Empire armed and armored to fight either from horseback or afoot. No doubt half Wramlinn’s troops come from his own house.”
“How so?”
“Hmm? Oh. Noble lords are fond of purchasing military commissions for their sons. It is a play for prestige, you understand. And the Greens are a closed brigade, the officer corps populated almost exclusively by the offspring of the Empire’s nobility. They run it like a little boy’s fort of blankets and chairs, only much deadlier. Squads are made up according to request, ensuring
the noble officers a squad of men completely loyal to them. Paid sycophants, more often than not. The practice has become increasingly popular of late.” She snorted her disgust.
There was a knock at the door, interrupting her tale. “Who is it?” she queried in her severe tone.
“Master Yule, your ladyship!”
She motioned him to step out of sight of the door before opening it enough to speak to the tablemaster.
“Yes, master Yule?”
“Your ladyship, Lord Wramlinn extends his greetings and hopes you and your niece will join him in a late repast. I am to convey your answer to him.”
He couldn’t see her face but she answered readily enough, after an appropriate pause for consideration. “Please thank the lord for his kind offer, Master Yule. But I fear we are weary from the day’s travel and in need of rest. Kindly convey my regrets to lord Wramlinn, along with my best wishes. And have some dinner sent up for my niece and myself, if you will.”
“Of course lady,” the tablemaster answered. If the man thought askance at the lady’s refusal, he gave no audible sign. Dinner arrived soon after and, in keeping with the inn’s expensive look, it was indeed rich.
“No bath tonight?” he asked when they were done, hiding his trepidation.
“How did you manage to get yourself dirty today?” she exclaimed with a bemused glance.
“Just checking,” he confirmed. He didn’t think he would survive another of those encounters so soon after the last. At her insistence, he’d made use of the large dish of lukewarm water, floating with rose petals, that a serving girl had brought up. Bathing face and hands had been more than adequate for him.
He wandered over to the small table in the center of their shared room. Its top was divided into colored squares, set in a spiral, like the mosaics of Oaragh, and littered with exquisitely carved figures. Some kind of game board, he deduced.
“Do you play?” she asked, watching him.
“I don’t even know what it’s called,” he admitted.
“Well,” she exclaimed purposefully, rising to glide gracefully in his direction, “we cannot allow that! Every young lady should have an understanding of side step, whether it be on the game board or the dance floor.” Taking in his pained expression, she took pity on him. “We shall attempt the dancing some other time,” she assured, to his relief. “Sit,” she invited, pulling out her own chair. He took the seat opposite her.