On the Isle of Sound and Wonder

by Alyson Grauer

  The elaborate knot he was about to attempt had been tried multiple times over the last few weeks, and had given him a great deal more trouble than he’d initially anticipated. He’d just barely gotten it right on the day of the wedding, only to have it unravel an hour before the ceremony. His uncle, Bastiano, had to come to his sartorial rescue. Bastiano’s nimble, long fingers had tied that tie as easily as some men might saddle a horse or build a boat—with careful, deft movements that came from much practice. It was intimidating, and Ferran wanted all the more to get it right now.

  There was a knock at the cabin door as he began to loop the silk around itself. A moment later, the rumpled head of Truffo Arlecin, reluctant fool and sometimes servant, appeared around the doorframe, sleepy-faced and uninterested.

  “Highness,” mumbled Truffo, “they’ve gone up to dinner.”

  “I’m almost done,” answered Ferran, glancing at him in the mirror. “I just have to tie this.”

  Truffo lounged against the wall, yawning, and crossed his arms. “Same knot?”

  “Yes.” Ferran’s brow wrinkled as he carefully began the process of tying the folded knot.

  “Why not just a regular one? S’only dinner. No heads of state to impress. Excepting your father, of course,” Truffo added.

  Ferran did not answer, his brow still furrowed in concentration. Truffo sauntered a little further into the room, his arms folded, eyes idly casting about the chamber. Ferran hesitated as he tried to remember which way the silk folded next. Truffo was staring at him again, dark eyes unimpressed and laconic. Ferran pulled a face and exhaled slowly through his nose. The silk slid from his fingers, dissolving into a loose loop about his neck, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose to hide his embarrassment.

  “Staring at me like that really isn’t helpful, Truffo,” muttered Ferran.

  Truffo’s eyebrows wandered upward toward his smooth dark hair, which was kept short in the current sleek fashion. He was a few years older than Ferran’s eighteen, but his face appeared childishly woeful much of the time. Truffo’s hair was black, where Ferran’s was an unruly brown, and the clown was an inch or so taller—a point of envy for Ferran. Over the years, the dullness of Truffo’s dark brow and slight pout had become a familiar moue which irked Ferran, but for some reason was endearing to Stephen, the valet, and Ferran’s father, the king.

  “Sorry, Highness,” drawled the fool, lowering his gaze demurely.

  Ferran turned in exasperation. “Can you do a regular knot?”

  Truffo pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Is that the one where the big bit goes over and around and then back into the small bit?”

  Ferran blinked. “Yes . . .”

  “Nope, can’t do that one,” said Truffo, and shuffled out of the chamber. “Dinner’s served, and all that.” The door swung shut behind him, and Ferran sighed.

  He wrestled the green silk necktie into a standard sort of knot—although a bit lumpy—and ran his hands through his hair to flatten it down a bit more like Truffo’s. The fool might be a bore while abroad, but he was a good-looking fellow, if the opinions of the courtiers were anything to abide by, and Ferran was of an age that found him reluctantly staring at his own wardrobe and throwing furtive glances at himself in mirrored surfaces.

  Someday I’ll be king, he thought grimly. He thought about it often these days. I don’t look like a king. I don’t even look like a prince most of the time. Just . . . nobody.

  Ferran made his way out of his cabin and down the long, rosy-lit corridor toward the stairs leading up to the recreational deck, and ultimately the dining hall. This corridor in particular had a nice solid feel to it, despite its narrow length. It was almost enough to make Ferran forget how high up in the air they were. He was not prone to airsickness or seasickness, but thinking in too much detail about the altitude of the Brilliant Albatross above the waves made him want to skip dinner altogether.

  The Brilliant Albatross was comfortable, though, and so far their trip had been smooth, even enjoyable. They had sailed away from Neapolis several weeks ago, then taken to the air once the wind had settled, and ultimately landed in Tunitz for his sister’s wedding. Now that Coralina had wedded the prince of Tunitz, most of the wedding party was flying home: Ferran, his father, his uncle, and an assortment of servants, including Truffo, the valet, Stephen Montanto, and of course, Gonzo, his father’s advisor.

  Everyone was already seated in the dining room while servants poured the wine—everyone but Gonzo, who never really came to dinner, anyway. As Ferran passed over the threshold, his father’s keen, hawk-like gaze flicked up and followed him about the room while he took his seat. Ferran did not meet his father’s stare, but kept his shoulders down and his chin level as he’d been taught.

  King Alanno Civitelli was well into his fifties—a slender, aging man whose body had been well-preserved by exercise and discipline in his younger years. At his left sat his younger brother, Ferran’s uncle, Bastiano, a handsome, smiling man in his thirties—the fashionable bachelor of the court. To the king’s right sat Duke Torsione Fiorente, a dark, shrewd diplomat whose reputation for success was untainted both at the conference table and in the bedroom.

  Torsione and Bastiano were friends of old, well-known for their good humor and loyal camaraderie, although Torsione spent much of his time abroad visiting other lands in the name of the king, while Bastiano stayed in Neapolis as something of a cultural figurehead for court.

  The valet, Stephen Montanto, paused to pour wine into the glass at Ferran’s plateside. “Your Highness,” he said quietly.

  Ferran held up his hand slightly to signal he didn’t want any, and Stephen bowed a little, moving away in silence.

  “Good evening, Father,” Ferran said at last, unfolding his napkin as the other servants began to bring the first course. Nice and easy, he told himself. Be calm and collected, and tell him you want to study at the university next year. Just say the words. He might even say yes.

  The king looked shrewdly at his son. “Good evening.” His eyes drifted, falling on the awkward knot of the green silk tie. Ferran looked away quickly and reached for his fork.

  His uncle lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head. “I say, Ferr,” Bastiano chuckled. “That’s an interesting knot. Trying something new, now, are we?”

  Duke Torsione glanced over. “Can’t say I’ve seen that one before,” he mused.

  The king said nothing and went on spooning soup into his mouth.

  Ferran tried hard not to look embarrassed. He speared several leafy greens onto his silver fork. “It was the best I could do on short notice,” he said lightly. “But I’m getting better at it.”

  Bastiano smiled warmly. “Still haven’t got the hang of that twisty one, have you?” he observed with a shake of his dark golden curls. “You’ll get there. Ties are a devil of a thing ‘til you’ve had enough practice.”

  “Same is true of anything worth doing,” agreed Torsione, lifting his glass a little. “Language, art, music . . . war . . . women,” he added thoughtfully.

  The king grunted a little disapprovingly at this, but Bastiano laughed again. “In that order?” he wondered aloud.

  Truffo Arlecin slouched into the room and Ferran was glad of the interruption. When the wine flowed like this, his uncle and Torsione took to philosophizing on all sorts of things that Ferran hadn’t even experienced yet, and he found it tiresome and bullying of them to talk over him night after night, especially with his father glowering at the head of the table like some great Benjul tiger watching its prey.

  “What have you for us this evening, Truffo?” asked Bastiano eagerly. “What on earth could possibly top your fascinating presentation last evening on the history of wallabies?”

  Torsione made a judgmental sound and tipped his glass back for a deep drink. Bastiano tried not to laugh. Like schoolboys, thought Ferran, catching their exchanged glance out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t like the way his uncle got flighty when the duke was around. Torsione w
as not a bad man, not as far as Ferran could tell, but there was something about him that brought out ill humor and posturing in Bastiano that made Ferran uneasy. It was as though there was some inside joke being referenced over and over again, but neither wanted to be the one to explain it.

  “In honor of our most noble vessel, which wings us ever closer to our much missed, much lamented, much longed for homeland,” droned Truffo with his hands behind his back and his shoulders hunched forward, “I have prepared a recitation of The Albatross.”

  “The what?” said Torsione with a wrinkle of his nose. King Alanno looked down, as if to pretend he was not listening. He seemed entirely focused on his food. Bastiano hovered one hand close to his mouth as he tried not to laugh.

  “The Albatross,” repeated Truffo with a furrowed brow. “It’s a poem.” Then he straightened a little and cleared his throat.

  “By what poet?” demanded Torsione. Bastiano’s giggle nearly broke. Truffo’s mouth turned downward in an excellent horseshoe-shaped frown.

  “By that poet whose name I have forgot, my good lord Torsione . . . a poet who did write this goodly, true poem about the noble bird of the sea whose name is also borne by this, our good and sturdy vessel homeward.” He cleared his throat again, a little louder, and closed his eyes to prepare for the first lines of the poem.

  With a resigned sigh, Ferran lowered his head and continued eating, but Truffo heard it and opened his eyes again, his brow dark and scowling.

  “Come, come, Truffo,” pleaded the grinning, helpless Bastiano. “You did woo us so elegantly with your history of wallabies the night past. Tell us now this poem. Say it how you will.”

  Although he often felt only vexation towards Truffo, whose sour moods never failed to annoy him, Ferran now felt a stab of pity for him as his uncle and the duke chuckled over their wineglasses. Truffo was nothing if not a sad sort to begin with, and teasing only made it worse.

  Truffo Arlecin was neither fool nor fop, and he was neither courtier nor servant, although all four things seemed to apply to him all at once in the strangest ways. He had started as a servant in the kitchens, but they’d discovered his skills with mimicry and performance, and had hoped to encourage him toward foolery, but his ego was too delicate for full-time jestering. The courtiers often called him ‘clown’ or ‘fool’ anyway, though he’d never officially earned either title. He had been born far north of Neapolis, in a Frankish sort of country with brooding shadows, dark wines, and a more than healthy amount of egotism. His family had migrated southward and died along the way, and he had been passed into a serving family in the lower household of the king, thus working until he’d been given the post of fool some years past. He was not a juggling sort, however, and it fell upon the highest courtiers, such as Bastiano and Torsione, to needle and mock him as they saw fit.

  Ferran noticed that Truffo’s resolve was waning. He watched as the valet, Stephen Montanto, bent discreetly toward Truffo’s ear as he passed by, and heard his quiet, gruff voice.

  “Come, my boy, we’re nearly home. Sing them a silly song and let it lie. Once you’re through, I’ll sneak you into the wine closet for a nightcap.” Stephen moved away again, as smoothly as any shadow, and took up his post again in the dim corner.

  Truffo drew a deep breath and looked as though he might throw a complete tantrum, but after a moment, his cheeks reddened and he let his breath out again slowly. The noblemen continued to eat, bemused. Ferran chewed his food slowly. If Truffo would just get through his bit, I can bring up university to Father and be done with it. His nerves were beginning to turn his stomach.

  Truffo began to sing in a loud, irritable voice:

  I met a little bird,

  Ding dong, ding dong, hey,

  I met a little bird, oh, by the sea-shore

  It had a broken wing,

  Ding dong, ding dong, hey, now

  It had a broken wing, oh, by the sea-shore!

  Ferran glanced over at Stephen thoughtfully. The older valet had a peculiar watchfulness over the moody Truffo, and had always been a solid, trustworthy sort. Stephen caught the prince’s gaze, the tiniest wrinkle appearing at the corner of his mouth as he winked. Ferran smiled a little and turned back to his plate.

  Truffo Arlecin’s little bird song went on for eleven more stanzas, all performed with equal volume and strained tonality, despite the chuckling and eye-rolling of Torsione and Bastiano. King Alanno seemed not to hear anything that had been said for some time, but at last he lifted a hand, dropping his fork to his plate with a clatter. The fool shut his jaw quickly.

  “That’s enough,” said the king, his expression grave. He did not seem angry, only decisive. Truffo Arlecin bowed low and backed comically out of the room, shooting Stephen Montanto a pointed look as he did.

  “Your Majesty.” The valet stepped closer to the king’s elbow. “Do you require another cask of the wine?”

  “No.” The king dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “That will be all, Montanto.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” murmured the valet, bowing. He and the other servants moved toward the door, clearing the room for the moment.

  It’s good we’re nearly home, thought Ferran. We’re all so sick of each other. Even Torsione seems a bit bored with making Uncle Bas giggle all the time. He sat back in his chair. At least the food’s been good. He watched his father, trying to collect himself to say the words he’d been practicing for days.

  King Alanno scraped the plate with his fork, slowly and deliberately scavenging the last bits of the triple-layered gateau from the fine china. The shrill clinking of the silver fork was the only sound, other than the hum of the ship’s engines, the creaking of the wood paneling in the walls, and the settling of each of the men in their chairs as they sipped the last of their brandy.

  An eternity passed as they listened to the king finish his dessert. The silence was painful, but no one wished to be the first to break it. As the time dragged on, Ferran felt muted, and he could not quite bring himself to speak up. He cleared his throat once, but no one looked up. The words danced around and around in the back of his mouth like flies, impatient but reluctant to start on their own.

  At last, the king’s chair scraped the floor and he got to his feet. The others scrambled to do the same as King Alanno looked at Ferran. He drew a deep breath, finally ready to make his case, but his father simply shook his head slightly and moved toward the door. The look of disappointment on the king’s face snatched the words from his tongue unspoken, and Ferran’s heart fell.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” murmured Torsione.

  Bastiano bowed his head slightly. “Good night, Your Highness.”

  “Good night, Father.” Ferran lowered his gaze ruefully to the empty plate before him. Of course, he thought. Not a chance. I should have brought it up right away. So stupid of me!

  The king was gone in a moment, and Bastiano let out his breath in a soft whistle, reaching for his nephew with one arm to hug him closer. “Don’t let it bother you, Ferr. He’s tired from the trip, that’s all.”

  Ferran looked up at his uncle grimly. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make him so cross with me,” he admitted, “except that I’m just an enormous waste of his time. Now that Coralina’s married and gone, I’m the only one left, and he hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you,” soothed Bastiano. “He really doesn’t. He’s always loved you, you’re his son. His only son. But he’s going through something, all right. Lina is his only daughter, too. And the eldest child. He just isn’t ready to talk about it, whatever it is.”

  “Much like he still isn’t ready to talk about Arthens,” growled Torsione, suddenly surly. He slouched back down into his chair and put his boots up on the empty chair beside him. Reaching into his suit jacket, he pulled out a slender, bone-carved pipe—a trophy from his travels—and set about preparing for a smoke.

  “You shouldn’t smoke that awful stuff,” Bastiano frowned. “It’s terrible. I know it smel
ls nice while you’re smoking it, but it’s really bad for your lungs.”

  Torsione looked up and met the worried gaze Bastiano had fixed on him. Without blinking, he proceeded to light the pipe and give several insistent puffs, his expression challenging. Bastiano continued frowning, but said nothing.

  “What about Arthens?” prompted Ferran, looking at the duke.

  “The same thing, over and over again,” replied Torsione, with a shake of his head. “They’re cross about your sister, still, you know. Rightfully, too.” He blew a sleek stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “The Earl of Dolente can’t live it down that the princess refused him.”

  “But she was already promised to Khalil!” Ferran liked the Tunitzan prince his sister had wed. Khalil was bright-eyed and quick to make jokes, putting everyone at ease when they’d first arrived. He’d given everyone gifts of strange and exotic birds upon their arrival, but had ordered the birds released at the end of the rehearsal dinner to signify the start of the festivities, much to Ferran’s disappointment.

  “Well, we know that,” the duke went on, with a nod. “But they didn’t. And it doesn’t change the fact that the Earl’s the Arthenian golden boy, and is well-in with the Greccian king. Everyone’s quite upset. Easily insulted, the lot of them.”

  “Pity they haven’t another immediate heir. Then we could patch things up,” mused Bastiano, sitting down again and reaching for his brandy.

  “Already thought of that.” Torsione puffed a little plume of smoke away from the king’s brother. “Although nobody jumps to mind, I wouldn’t put it past them—any of them—to try and weasel a marriage pact out of us. Especially since Alanno’s being so . . . misanthropic.”

  Ferran frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Misanthropic,” said Torsione more clearly. “It means begrudging. Antisocial. Hermetic.”

  “I know what misanthropic means,” interrupted Ferran. “What do you mean about another heir?”

  The duke leaned his head against the high back of the chair and bit daintily on the stem of his pipe, bemusement sneaking into the wrinkled corners of his eyes. “Why, Your Highness . . . you’re the next eligible royal bachelor, are you not?”