Quillifer the Knight

by Walter Jon Williams

  She raised her level brows. “You have a reputation as a soldier? I thought you were a sea-captain of some kind.”

  “I am, above all things, a lover,” said I, and held her close while I kissed the smooth skin at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

  “Ay,” she said with a pleased sigh. “That you are, Heliodor.” She touched my neck while I caressed her, and then sighed again. “I am expected for a game of cards at Hallmeet House,” she said. “Will you help me dress?”

  “Of course, Girasol. Helping you into your gown is almost as pleasing as helping you out of it.” And we began the complicated business of making Lady Westley suitable for an appearance in public, which began with donning her smock.

  “What of Countess Marcella, lady-in-waiting to Princess Floria?” I asked as I knelt before her and carefully drew her stockings up her legs. “I don’t imagine it’s common to take Aekoi into a royal household.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Do you fancy her? She is handsome, I think.”

  I kissed her thigh. “In the light of a blazing Girasol, all others seem mere shadow.”

  She laughed. “That courtier’s language again!”

  Her stockings having been sufficiently gartered, I offered her the corset. It was lashed to a steel busk in front, and the ingenious busk itself was split, but could be hooked together, which both enclosed her waist and saved the trouble of re-lacing. “Countess Marcella?” I reminded.

  “She is a widow,” said Lady Westley. She tugged and smoothed the smock beneath the corset. “Her husband was conducting some kind of mission to Pisciotta, and he died there. Before she could return to the Empire, there was a political change at home, and her husband’s faction was exiled. She has plenty of money, so she travels until it’s safe to return.”

  “And how did she come to be in Floria’s household?”

  I held the farthingale low to the floor so she could step into it. “I know not. But Floria enjoys the company of interesting people, provided their interests are not in politics.”

  “Floria mislikes politics?”

  “Floria knows politics are dangerous for her.” She drew the farthingale to her waist and tied it in place. “Berlauda, you know, has miscarried twice, and once given birth to a stillborn girl.”

  With satin ribbons I lashed the bumroll in place. “I was unaware.”

  “You were at sea.” Lady Westley regarded herself in the looking-glass, and adjusted the farthingale, “But there was great anxiety here, more for Her Majesty’s life than the life of any children. For if the queen died, Priscus would remain a foreign king here on the throne of Duisland—unless perhaps the people’s choice fell on Floria, and then there would be war.”

  “I see where Floria might have a goodly share in that anxiety.”

  I helped Lady Westley lace on her kirtle, with its forepart of dusky-orange embroidered satin that would set off the deep blue of the gown. “Until Berlauda gives birth to a living child,” she said, “and if you leave Priscus out of the business, then Floria is the heir, and if powerful men flock to her, she could be accused of conspiring to gain the throne.” She straightened. “So Floria occupies herself with harmless pastimes, like dancing, and masques, and music, and natural philosophy.”

  “Astronomy,” I said. I helped settle her ruffled partlet about her neck and shoulders.

  “Ay, with Mistress Ransome. Who is another of Floria’s collection of curiosities.”

  Reflectively, she gave her reflection a reflective look. “I will say this for Edith Ransome,” she added. “She has twice the brains of her brother. Though if she ever publishes her catalogue of stars, it will have her brother’s name on it, and not her own.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The brother desires to enhance his reputation. Edith cares for the work, not for acclaim. And—” She looked over her shoulder at me. “Do you think the world would credit an arcane astronomical work by a woman?”

  I kissed the shoulder. “I know not what astronomers might think, but I know I would not care to contradict Edith Ransome in any way,” I said. “Yet if prejudice against her sex is a problem, she can publish the work under a pseudonym, Asteria or something.”

  I brought out the silk gown and held it open so that Lady Westley could back into it. This was the same dark blue gown of watered silk she had worn for the regatta, but embroidered sleeves of dusky orange satin had been laced onto the gown in place of the sleeves of white samite, and with the kirtle’s orange forepart made the ensemble seem very different. I helped lace up the front and then adjusted its folds. Then Lady Westley attended to her hair, while I dressed myself.

  “Floria’s other two ladies?” I asked. “What of them?”

  Again she gave me a look over her shoulder. “Are you looking to replace me, Heliodor?”

  “You are irreplaceable, my Girasol. And I think Floria’s ladies look for husbands, not lovers.”

  She was amused. “You can’t be both?”

  “I fear it would overstrain my gifts.”

  She returned her attention to the mirror, and to her hair. “Very well, then,” she said. “Chenée Tavistock is a poor relation. Elisa d’Altrey is a niece of the Marquess of Melcaster, who supported Clayborne and was attainted. The family has lost everything and is now quite poor.”

  “Yet she remains very much above me.”

  “Ay, she is very concerned with her fallen dignity. I think also she may have something of the character of a hostage, for her family’s good behavior.”

  I considered this. “That must weigh on her mind. If the family considers some crime or other, do they even care whether Niece Elisa will suffer as a consequence? I don’t suppose they would.”

  I finished dressing and put my sun medallion about my neck. Lady Westley turned to face me, her white diamond about her neck, and the yellow diamond earrings glittering like little suns. The effect was dazzling, and my breath was quite taken away. She saw my breath so taken, and gave herself a catlike smile of satisfaction.

  “Help me with my shoes,” she said, “and kiss me good-bye.”

  I tied her shoes, then rose and touched my lips to hers. “I will see you again?” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “if you promise not to talk so much of other women.”

  “You choose the topic, then.”

  She bobbed a little curtsy. “I shall think of some pithy matter that will heighten the brilliance of our intercourse.”

  “I hope you will.”

  And so we both left the palace, each going our own way. The strange enchantment, the sense of distance that the afternoon had given to the court, was slow to fade. The bustling servants, the bright tapestries, the brilliant courtiers, and even Their Majesties seemed of less consequence than characters in one of Blackwell’s plays. They seemed nothing more than puppets capering before an audience of children.

  But if they were puppets, I thought, I wondered who controlled them, and who wrote their lines. And who, for that matter, controlled me?

  I thought perhaps I would not care for the answer to that question, and so I left the palace, summoned my carriage, and rode in splendor to my home.

  * * *

  “Please excuse me,” said I, “but I am not a tradesman. I do not visit others, nor wait in hallways for admittance. If you wish to view my stones, you must come to my house.”

  The man’s name was Scarnside, and he was something called the premier baron of Bonille, which I supposed meant he was just like any other baron, but with an invented ancestry that went back further than the fabricated genealogies of his peers.

  “But you sell diamonds,” he said.

  “As well as rubies and sapphires. But I do not keep a shop.” I made a gesture with one hand, and my rings glittered. “Precious stones are my amusement. If it amuses me, I am willing to part with them.”

  Baron Scarnside gave me an icy glance. “I do not set myself to amusing tradesmen.”

  “I am not a tradesman.”
/>   “Better a tradesman than a rampallion knight,” he snarled, and stalked off.

  I suppressed laughter behind my innocent-choirboy face and consoled myself with the thought that he had at least recognized me as a knight, however much rampallion, and not called me a butcher’s son.

  So, I concluded, we must thank the nobility for their courtesies.

  I did not care if I lost Scarnside’s custom, for I had many visitors now, and my supply of precious stones had waned as my acquaintance had increased. In addition to my new connections, many from the nobility of both Duisland and Loretto, my lord of Roundsilver had bought gems for himself and his lady, and so had Prince de Ribamar-la-Rose.

  Lady Westley also had I seen, both in my house and in her apartment at Ings Magna, and she gave me more practice at my new, delightful profession of lady’s maid.

  I had joined Coronel Lipton in test-firing one of his little leather guns—or rather, I joined him in a trench while a cannoneer’s journeyman named Peel put a portfire in its touchhole, lit the fuse, and ran for cover. The gun fired nine times before it burst, which Lipton said made it the best of these engines he had yet constructed. And when it burst, the leather jacket restrained somewhat the flying metal, which made it that much safer for any crew.

  The second regatta had been run, Dunnock had placed third, and the pennant of victory had gone to the Worshipfull Companie of Ale-Conners, or at least their hired captain. His Grace of Roundsilver took second place. I would have done better had not I been run aboard by a galley belonging to the Conte Ricardo, a noble of Loretto, so that his oars tangled with my own. So willful did this collision seem that I wondered if it were a deliberate attempt to take me out of the race, but then I decided that it was unlikely that Ricardo had been bribed by the Ale-Conners, and that he was more likely another captain who had not read the rule book.

  I had begun guitar lessons with Master Knott, though by now my calendar had become rather full, what with tennis lessons, practice on the lake, visits to court, stolen hours with Lady Westley, and the necessity of inventing stories to go with all my gems.

  I had encountered Baron Scarnside at Howel’s old Aekoi stadium, where we had gone to view that new wonder from Loretto, the horse-ballet. This new species of spectacle had premiered in Loretto only two years before, and had been a sensation. King Priscus had summoned the troupe from his homeland, and all the court would view its debut on this fine October afternoon.

  The ancient stadium stood north of Howel and was used for jousting and athletic contests. The stone seats on the south side of the arena were reserved for the royalty and nobility, and were shaded by a canopy, while the rest of us stood in the open, like groundlings at the theater. I fetched myself a cup of wine from a vendor, then discovered Coronel Lipton standing in the line behind me.

  “Well, youngster,” said he, “you have cost me some silver, for I put money on you in that last race.”

  “I think you have not lost as much money as I,” I said. “For I planned to win that race, and if Conte Ricardo had not fouled me, I would have.”

  He shrugged. “Well, you will race again, sure.” He turned to a young man standing behind him. “I promised I would introduce you to Master Alaron Mountmirail the engineer, did I not?”

  Mountmirail was a tall, lank young man who looked no older than sixteen. He had pale red hair all crimped into tight curls, a round moon face with the wispy beginnings of a mustache, and large hands covered with scars and burn marks.

  “How may I serve you, lord?” he asked.

  I sipped at my wine. “That pleasing appellation is at best premature, for I am a mere knight,” said I. “Though I will take it, if I may, as an omen for the future.”

  He nodded, showing scant signs of embarrassment. I continued.

  “As I understand, you are an engineer and artificer of mechanisms. I wonder if you can make me a grinding machine.”

  He affected to consider this. “I suppose I could, sir. What must it grind?”

  “Hard vegetable matter—nuts, for example. You might practice on oak galls, they are cheap enough. The mechanism must grind them in quantity, and to a fine powder.”

  We discussed my requirements for a while, and Mountmirail said he would consider the matter, and then call on me at my house. With our wine, we walked to the arena, and Lipton’s uniform and coronel’s sash gained us a spot at the rail, where we encountered the playwright Blackwell, who had drunk more wine than was good for him. He sagged against the arena’s rail, and his ultramarine eyes narrowed in disgust as he looked at the neatly combed sand and straw that filled the ring.

  “Is something amiss?” I asked him.

  He snarled. “I know that if these horse dramas become fashionable, people will desert my plays.”

  “I hardly think they are a threat. I saw your Waldemar the other day, in the old Aekoi theater, and there was no lack of audience.”

  “Waldemar is an old play, a favorite of the mob. It replaces another play that did badly.”

  “Old play or new, the spectators parted with their pennies, and you had profit without the trouble of writing something new.”

  He gave me a narrow look. “I did write something new. Rinaldo, the play that failed.”

  “Rinaldo? You wrote a play about the poet?”

  “Ay.” Blackwell reached for a wineskin he carried on a cord, opened it, and filled his cup. A brandy reek stung the air.

  “Is there anything dramatical about the poet’s life?” asked I. “I thought he had a quiet existence, with a cottage and a garden, a plump mistress, and a rich patron.”

  “He lived a life devoted to contemplation and to beauty.” Blackwell took a swallow of brandy. “He wrote the most sublime verse in his generation, if not all generations. I wished to inspire the audience as Rinaldo inspired me, but my own verse failed.” He gave a twist of his lip. “Well, the duke liked it, or said he did.”

  Certainly a play about a poet reciting verse and worshipping beauty seemed to lack a degree of dramatic vigor. I decided to be helpful.

  “You should publish it,” I offered. “Perhaps it reads better than it plays.”

  Blackwell made an equivocal wave of his hand, and then—as if the actor had just given a cue—trumpets played a sennet, and Their Majesties’s party mounted the stands. Beside them Princess Floria, though grown to as full a height as she could manage, seemed a half-grown child next to her tall, blond, sturdy sister. It would require some effort to thrive in that shade.

  With them was a monk from Loretto, which I knew because instead of the plain unbleached wool favored by monks in Duisland, he wore a jeweled belt over robes of purple satin edged with gold and scarlet. Behind the tonsure that shaved the forepart of his head, his black hair was caught in long, oiled ringlets, and gems glittered on his fingers. His posture was erect, his glance imperious, and clearly he obeyed the Fiat of Abbot Reynardo. He shared King Priscus’s dark complexion, and his nose was only slightly less impressive than the king’s hooked beak. It occurred to me that he might be some kind of royal relative. I turned to Coronel Lipton.

  “Who is that ultra-luxurious cenobite?” I asked.

  Lipton looked upon the monk with distaste. “His name is Fosco, a kinsman to the king. He headed one of the princely houses, until he chose to serve the Pilgrim, passed the title to his younger brother, and become abbot to a score of monasteries.”

  “The Pilgrim seems to have done well for him.”

  “The Pilgrim gives gold and silver with both hands, sure, and keeps none for himself.”

  The royal party took their places beneath the canopy, and we of the audience bowed to the presence. They took their seats, the king waved a hand, and the entertainment began.

  I am not a natural rider, and my relations with the equine species have had moments both of low comedy and of high drama. I had survived the battle at Exton Scales in part because my ill-tempered charger Phrenzy behaved as savagely toward the enemy as he did to me.

&
nbsp; Yet for the next hour I fell in love with horses. An orchestra began to play, and the chargers of Loretto floated onto the field in defiance of all the custom of gravity, hanging in the air in time to the long slow throb of the tambour. Their great loose manes and tails drifted in the breeze like clouds. They came forward and knelt to the king and queen, one foreleg stretched out before them like a line of courtiers making their reverence. Then they began a complicated weaving dance, passing about and through one another, turning in small, tight spirals, all in time to the music.

  They danced left and right, forward and back. They leaped over their kneeling trainers. They reared on their hind legs, forelegs flashing as they bounded across the field; and they stood on their forelegs only, lifting their rear legs off the ground, then kicking out. They bounded high into the air, or strode with forelegs reaching out as if to paw the air, or walked in place with dainty marching steps.

  Horses came forward, one at a time or two by two, to display their specialties. There was no one grand narrative, as might be seen in a more conventional ballet; but there were little stories woven into the display, simple stories of love, war, and conquest enacted by horses who seemed able to communicate passion even in their silence.

  At the end the line of horses came forward again to bow to Their Majesties, and the audience burst into cheers and applause. I turned to Blackwell and saw his indigo eyes gazing bleak from his ashen face.

  “This is obscene,” he said. “A sham entertainment, with animals taught like whores to please the ill-tuned mob. I will see no more.” And then he stalked away, the one doleful wretch in all the happy crowd. I thought I should follow him, but I knew not what comfort I could bring. My pleasure in the horse-ballet was all too obvious, and I did not credit his claim that the horses would replace his acting company—for one thing, when the spectacle grew stale, the horses would take too long to learn any tricks.

  So I let him go, like a black squall storming over a calm ocean, and then I chatted with Lipton and Mountmirail as we left the tiltyard. We parted as I went to my boat at the quayside, and they headed south into town. Along the way I encountered the duke’s guest, Prince Alicio de Ribamar-la-Rose, who was dressed in a suit of brilliant green silk, slashed to reveal his saffron satin shirt. His silken doublet was painted all over with fantastic animals, and he wore the short Loretto cloak. I greeted him, and he bowed in that Lorettan way, with one leg thrust toward me, the bow that the ballet-horses had imitated at the beginning and end of the spectacle.