Lace and Blade 2

by Deborah J. Ross

  Lace and Blade 2

  Edited by Deborah J. Ross

  The Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust

  PO Box 193473

  San Francisco, CA 94119

  www.mzbworks.com

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  More in Sorrow

  by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  Dragon Wind

  by Mary Rosenblum

  The Crow

  by Diana L. Paxson

  The Biwa and the Water Koto

  by Francesca Forrest

  Trial by Moonlight

  by Robin Wayne Bailey

  The Pillow Boy of General She

  by Daniel Fox

  Miss Austen’s Castle Tour

  by Sherwood Smith

  Rent Girl

  by Traci N. Castleberry

  The Baroness’ Ball

  by Pauline Zed

  The Sixth String

  by Elisabeth Waters

  Comfort and Despair

  by Tanith Lee

  Writ of Exception

  by Madeleine E. Robins

  About the Editor

  Anthologies

  Copyright

  Introduction

  It was a joy and a privilege to put together the first Lace and Blade, and this second volume has brought me additional, unexpected delights. I am grateful to those authors who trusted me with yet another of their creations, and am thrilled to present newer voices as well.

  But more than the specifics of the contributors, editing this second volume allowed me to experience the richness of possibility in the type of elegant romantic fantasy. What I had not realized was the sense of tidal current or musical theme and variation, in both concept and incarnation.

  For the first volume, I had received not one but two stories featuring Spanish highwaymen, each so different and compelling that I included both of them.

  This time, the spirit moved to the East: two Chinese general stories! Two Asian musical instrument stories! At the same time, I present here splendid tales of imaginary kingdoms, of Brazilian magic alive in Paris, of the Chinese Treasure Fleet, of a ball in Latvia and a castle in Transylvania, of love conventional and transcendent, of dragons and werewolves, romantic trysts, villainy and sacrifice, fulfillment and redemption.

  Our hearts tremble with yearning for connection, for enchantment. We open ourselves to the beloved, the other, the known, the impossible, and become more fully human. The universe deepens, resonant with the music of endless varieties of love....

  Deborah J. Ross

  Boulder Creek CA

  September 2008

  More in Sorrow

  by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  (for John Kaiine)

  Rosemary Hawley Jarman was born in Worcester, England and came to fame in 1971 with her novel, We Speak No Treason. Reprinted many times, the book’s hero is the much maligned King Richard III. It sold 30,000 copies in its first week of publication, and gained her the prestigious Author’s Club Silver Quill for best first novel, while in the US she was nominated as a Daughter of Mark Twain. Further equally successful novels followed, also an illustrated account of the Battle of Agincourt. She is the author of many short stories, and her first fantasy novel, The Captain’s Witch—soon to be re-issued by Norilana Books—is set in the mythical realm of Taratamia, the Opal Kingdom. She lives in an antique stone cottage between sea and mountain in West Wales, where she is working on a sequel.

  If unfulfilled love can sustain contentment, then I was as contented as any man could be. For yearning brings in its train a tormented ecstasy, and in dreams everything is possible.

  I had nothing to grumble about, certainly. I was twenty-five, in superb health, surrounded by good friends, and I had lately been promoted in the élite guard of the royal house of Taratamia. Admiring my new uniform in my private quarters, I was, I confess, full of myself. I struck a pose and addressed the tall looking glass formally.

  “Good evening, sir. Are you not Captain Rudek Palzani, of the seventh Rose detachment of the Red Royals cavaliers? What a splendid fellow! I approve the moustache.”

  I admit it was very lustrous, honey gold, its ends subtly tipped skyward. “Excellent eyes, too, sir,” my alter ego fulsomely continued. “Richly blue, and you are tall and spare, and toned of muscle; that opal ring you wear for the royal house becomes the elegant, dangerous hand of a courtier, swordsman and warrior....”

  You conceited, idiotic and shamelessly egotistic young man! thought I, all these things you may be, but I only hope she still thinks so as well....

  There was pride in my clowning, and yet always a touch of the self who had been told often by father and brothers: “You will never amount to anything.” My inexcusable bragging was rooted in the long past.

  But the manner in which she had looked at me! She had found something in me to warm her, and far more than that. I swear it, in the name of the Lion.

  I was stationed in Tam, the royal capital of glorious Taratamia, the Opal Kingdom. Tam was judged the loveliest city in the universe, with its marble streets and the river Milesa flowing under seven bridges west, to a millrace and Avatal Bay. The royal palace was pitched high among floral plateaux, overlooked by the gigantic Lion of Stone, effigy of our godhead.

  I turned from the mirror and my image of scarlet coat, gold lacings and glassy boots. Respectfully I buckled on my captain’s sword, a fine honed weapon decorated with lion-masks. All the while her face, her name, glowed in my mind. Incomparable Michalla, and, I feared, out of my reach. My first real love, a craving love from first glance. Yes, they all say that, but in my case it was true.

  At first I thought she was a slim youth, for I saw her in the Great Court of Arms where only the élite swordsmen are allowed to practise. Michalla was nobly born, obliquely linked to the royal house; my family too had the right connections, but whatever my estate it could have altered nothing of how I felt.

  The Great Court has a fresco of suns and the Lion round the walls, and a long chequered floor. Within this male preserve, Michalla was dueling with a fiery wiry man called Maxith with twenty years of bladework behind him. And by the gods! She was good. She was exceptionally—I might say supernaturally gifted: I saw her use her filigree-pommelled rapier like a hornet’s sting, with a pirouette of a parry then a nasty thrust to Maxith’s quilted breast which stumbled him toe over toe in his fighting slippers. The bout must have been nearing its end; he saluted her with his weapon then bowed deeply. “The final concession, Madame, once again. Congratulations.”

  My Michalla laughed, and flung back her head, and the silver net over her coal-black hair floated loose. A shining tumult unfurled. “Yes, enough for today,” she said, removing her face guard. Maxith bowed again and left, handing their dainty lethal weapons to the sword cutler’s servant.

  She turned and looked straight at me. She was a small woman, the top of her head would come level with my collarbone. Her flawless face, shaped like an ivy leaf, had a pearl flush from the duel. Huge grey-green eyes she had, and a full mouth red as a battle-flag. She wore tight breeches, lilac silk over slender muscled thighs. Her jacket was shaped to a waist my hands could cup, and her small bold breasts were framed by a foam of lace.

  My heart was pounding, my face was hot. Yet she liked what she saw, for she came forward smiling, pushing back a vagrant black tress from her cheek. And my voice burst out louder than intended.

  “You were marvellous,” I said, then hastily: “with the blade, I mean.”

  And she, teasing me: “Is that all? Am I, myself, not marvellous?”

  My wits almost deserted me. “What?” I managed. “Madame, you are more than marvellous. Never in my life have I seen
—”

  She cut in quickly. “Why haven’t we met? What is your name?” She was charmingly, innocently direct.

  I told her my name. She came dizzyingly nearer, and her skin was as perfect as a baby’s, her eyes as clear as green glass. And I found myself dumb, as she placed one hand like a white star, on my sleeve. And all at once I wanted to draw that small lithe body against me, arms crushing out her breath, take her—in fact, openly take her there and then on the lozenged floor of the Great Court, while another part of me longed to kneel and praise her feet with kisses.

  I know she felt similarly moved. For she said “Rudek” softly, stood on tiptoe still holding my sleeve and raised her face to look deep into my eyes. There was more to this. She knew my past and perhaps my future. She knew me to my bones.

  Then into this time of recognition a rude intrusion: a gruff, angry cough.

  Ah. Here was Daddy, and he had a moustache to frighten children.

  Father was not pleased. He had come to take her home, out of danger from such as I. The carriage waited outside, the horses clattered their hooves; the moment was lost and broken.

  “Miclushka. Who is this young man?”

  I bowed as humbly as possible, while she reassured him. The vast grey crescents about Father’s mouth bristled, as I described my unblemished character (true), my abstemious nature (not quite so true) and the moustache finally settled into an unwilling serenity. We sparred in formal courteous phrases. Michalla gazed at me, dare I say tenderly, then back at her father almost as fondly, and finally the longed-for words came from the stern old man.

  “This is my only daughter, sir. I suppose you wish, like many others, for permission to call.”

  “I should be deeply honoured, sir.”

  I noticed Michalla’s little foot tapping impatiently, while she frowned. The frown made her more adorable. Father’s next words were uncomforting.

  “I shall have to give the matter my full consideration. I must consult the Almanac for your pedigree.”

  I was rather annoyed.

  “I assure you it will not disappoint, sir. I am an honourable man. The Regiment would vouch for that.”

  He growled, and frowned. In his case, the frown did not improve him. He said, “We shall see. We shall be going to the lakes shortly for my wife’s health. A month, or maybe longer. Your visit may not be possible before we leave. I promise nothing. Now we will bid you good day. Come, daughter.”

  And that was it. Unbelievably, eyes locked on mine, she was as bereft as I.

  Now, however, I was going out with friends, one of whom was a prince of the blood. I would have traded it all for that entrée into my beloved’s house.

  I had to shelve my yearning. Prince Lepo always insisted we should be happy. I ran downstairs into the street, where the setting sun poured shadows on the barracks square.

  As soon as I arrived I guessed it was to be a Girl Night. A whimsical game, a Prince Leporet diversion. Lord Carne unbolted the door of the princely apartment. No servants, no guard. Tonight we were the prince’s security.

  “You’re a mite late, Rudek. Highness is about to robe.”

  In Lepo’s chamber, the monumental bed wore silk and wolfskins, with a score of crested satin pillows. At least a hundred beauties had been between these sheets, and not one bore a grudge when her tour of duty was done, for everyone loved Lepo. He was ridiculously generous, kind, funny and wild. An older prince was the royal heir; Lepo was the royal clown.

  On tables loaded with silver and crystal, fizz was over­running the necks of slim jade bottles.

  “Rudek!” he cried jubilantly. “Felicitations on your promotion. Well done, laddie.” He waved his goblet in salute. Bare-chested, he sat before a glass, while one of his friends struggled to drape him in startling mustard silk trimmed with magenta feathers.

  “Can you lift your butt, Highness? You’re sitting on the top of the gown.”

  “I’ll do his makeup,” said Carne.

  “No, Rudek does it best. You fix my hair.”

  Carne opened a coffer. A profusion of wigs in terrifying colours burst forth. They were built up like cumulus clouds, foaming like fountains. Ice blonde, purple, carnelian, and a glorious fall of ink-black hair, probably a peasant girl’s one treasure, yet a poignant reminder of my love. And then my riotous imagination saw her naked. There would be a soft ebony heart between her slender thighs...now my body betrays me. Obviously!

  The prince missed nothing. He let out a loud guffaw.

  “By the Lion’s holy tail, I’ve given Rudek a hard-on! And I haven’t even got my bosoms up yet. Come on, Carne! Sort them out.”

  Carne began stuffing wads of swansdown inside the prince’s bodice.

  “That’s not right,” said a laconic voice. Captain Tallis— now there was a warrior—sat on a chest, swinging his booted legs. “The right one’s higher than the left. And it’s fatter.”

  He came off the chest and jabbed his hand inside the bodice, pushing Carne aside. “There.”

  “You’re so rough, Tallis,” complained Lepo. “Apologise.”

  Tallis shook his head, smiling. He was an austere, enigmatic man, a fabled leader. He owned a Lionsword, reputed to be so ancient it was imbued with enchantments. I was sceptical about such matters.

  “Hairpiece now, Carne,” ordered the prince.

  He became a stunning redhead with a band of stars across his brow. His dilated eyes were rimmed with soot and pearl. I applied a subtle rouge. “Don’t make me look like a whore,” he murmured.

  Jewelled, he swayed from the room between his escort, an overgrown lily in a field of mustard and valerian.

  “The Old Town, first.”

  It was dangerous after dusk. Once leaving the marble precincts of the palace quarter, it was a chain of branched cobbled ways. The upper walls crouched inward, stifling light. A sharp corner plunged us into the main alley. There was only room for us to walk in line across the street, keeping Lepo in our midst. We must be mad, I thought, my hand on my sword-hilt. We could be bringing him home on a hurdle.

  Yobs and yokels squeezed themselves against walls. Eyes bulged like poached eggs.

  “Pardon, princess, pardon, my lords.”

  “Outta the way, Jack Tanner, quality comin’ through.” At the Thirsty Toad, an amphibian was displayed on the inn sign. Within, they were carousing on benches, setting terriers to fight for money, and drinking with dedication. In a sudden silence, Lepo gloriously came among them, and we arrayed him on a settle. Rough wine was sped to our table.

  We raised smeary mugs. “Madame, your health.”

  He loved this charade. His ardour for women was undeviating, so there was only one explanation. Silk on the body, red lips, high heels. He was curious to know the mystery of women in the eyes of men.

  The next tavern stood in an alley which forked right and left at its end. The roofs closed in on the blackness of oblivion. The sight of this pit seemed to breed a small frenzy in Lepo, and Tallis and I restrained him. We were becoming edgy. In the inn, there were a few riotous songs, someone snored like a hog behind a sideboard, and a couple of Red Royals lieutenants saluted us. Whispers: “Who is she? What a peach, looks familiar.”

  We were all drinking sparingly. But our prince was throwing them back. We’d come upon good wine, an import from Karlinkis in the Pearl Realm down south. After a small measure, the world seemed slightly to shift....

  Men were gazing at Lepo. Bored, he turned with uninterest from their hunger. We moved on.

  We were almost at the black junction of the ways. Lepo drew away from us.

  “You’re not going down there, Highness.”

  “Nothing’s happening,” said the prince petulantly. “Last time I had six proposals, one was of marriage. Just stay right behind me.”

  Next instant he’d gone, into the pitchy way where not even a star shone.

  There were sounds, Lepo’s wild laughter, then a man’s deep voice, cursing vilely, and silence. We brought the man o
ut in short order, his lust pathetically quelled. More stunned than angry, now.

  “A man,” he said. “A great big man in a frock.”

  Lepo howled, happy tears ruining his maquillage.

  The man wrenched free of us and fled up towards the lighted tavern. Lepo, still laughing, sat down on the cobbles. “I’m tired now. Dear friends, take me home.”

  As we left the alley behind, something—I know not what—caught my attention and I glanced back into the black maw. A figure was there, motionless. A slim man, even taller than the prince, with long hair and a sheathed sword at his waist. The pommel gave off one sparkle, like a turned gem. And the man stood within his own light. He had come from darkness. He was a piece of lit silence.

  His gaze was unerringly fixed on me, with a deep and determined concentration. In that impossible light, I could even see his eyes. Ripe, olivine, but with red in the depths as if a torch burned at the bottom of a pure well.

  I turned to Carne. “Who’s that?’ I said.

  We both looked back at the empty spot where the figure had been.

  ~o0o~

  There had always been bandits in the High Tiranian mountains south of the city. For generations, they had come down over Knife Pass to raid the villages on the yellow plain. They rode rough ponies and stole good horses and young women. It had become a part of military training to hunt them, but the mountains made them elusive. Their sporadic forays were looked on as something as inevitable as the weather.

  Lord Carne and I had seen the prince to bed. We walked back to the barracks under a blazing white moon floating among the giant lilac and linderella trees and shimmering on pale stone walls. We crossed the seventh bridge. Below, the river sparkled with points of light as it rushed down to the millrace.

  Carne, leaning to look over the parapet, said, “Some news came in today. They’re becoming ambitious. They’ve a big leader called Bearfoot, fancies himself bandit king. The General thinks retribution is due. There’s to be a nice serious scrap. They’ll need a useful captain.” His eyes gleamed at me. I thought suddenly of those other eyes, that turned out not to be there at all.