‘Much better,’ said Mica stoutly. But she knew that it was a blow to Calwyn, and especially to Heben, to have come so far and still be unable to penetrate the inner salons of the court. The poetry tournaments and banquets and smoke-parties were held in closed galleries; they would never be able to examine them unless Calwyn was invited inside.
The next day Mica went to the bazaar. Every day a hundred craftsmen and merchants set up their stalls inside the covered market. There were aisles of goldsmiths and fan-makers, shoe-stitchers and sweetmeat-cooks, hunched under striped awnings with their wares heaped before them, while a crowd of courtiers and their attendants buzzed all around.
Mica made her way slowly down the aisles, pausing to inspect the fine necklets and shiny buckles spread on the counters. She looked up at the delicate gossamer lattice that held out the sun’ s glare. The bazaar was cool and shaded; it was easy to forget that they were in the centre of the desert. She leaned forward to admire some silver bangles. They were very large, too large for a human wrist, and Mica puzzled over them for a moment before she realised that they were meant to be worn over the embroidered gloves.
Next to Mica, a lady with towering hair pointed to a tray of extravagant hair ornaments. Seeing Mica’ s brown skin and cropped hair, she drew herself away with a little shudder of distaste. Mica had come to expect that, though she didn’ t like it. What made her angry was that the lady’ s manservant, himself burnt bronze by the sun and wind, gave her a snooty look down his nose as well. ‘Puffed up swanker!’ muttered Mica as she moved on.
At last she found the aisle of the glove-makers, stall after stall fanned with the enormous glittering gloves. Eagerly she scanned the array of goods. There was a pair that would do for Calwyn: not too flamboyant, but very beautiful, made of soft blue-dyed leather and stitched with golden birds and moons. The crowd pressed against Mica’ s back as she bent forward, careful not to stare at the pair she really wanted, but at some gaudy ruby-studded gloves nearby. Swiftly, casually, she glanced about. The vendor was attending to a lady in pink and white, who was examining a pair of green gloves with silver lacework and lilac ribbons. Behind her, the crowd rippled, and parted, and she saw, not far away, a sinister dark-clad figure. That must be Amagis! He was the only one at Court who dressed so severely. Her heart quickened. It would be a double challenge, to get away with it under the nose of the Hatharan Ambassador.
Without hesitation, she reached for the blue gloves and tucked them quickly into her robes. Then with a nonchalant toss of her head – not too fast, be casual about it – she turned away.
‘Hey!’ The heavy hand of the vendor clamped her arm. ‘What do you think you’ re doing?’
‘I dunno what you’ re talkin about!’ Mica struggled to shake herself free, but he gripped her too tightly.
‘Hark at her! You know exactly what I’ m talking about, girl! Maybe you don’ t pay for your purchases in Phain or Geel or whatever sea-town you come from, but here in the Palace, we do!’ His contempt as he spat out the word sea-town was palpable. The murmuring crowd gathered around the stall. Lords and ladies shook their elaborately coiffed heads, carefully, so as not to disarrange their hair.
‘Sea-town savages. . . riff-raff. . . shouldn’ t be allowed!’
‘Let me go! I ain’ t done nothin!’ Mica was truly desperate now. If she were caught stealing, it would mean all kinds of trouble. Perhaps they would all be interrogated – tortured – expelled from the Palace. . .She tossed back her head and tried to glare down the stallholder with all the venom she could muster, but he was grim and self-righteous.
‘Undo your robe. Go on! Or I’ ll send for the guards to do it for you!’
She could see that he meant it. She couldn’ t hope to get away, the crowd was too thick. She would just have to find a way to keep the others out of it. Slowly Mica reached into her robe and drew out the blue gloves. The crowd gave a moan of disapproval.
‘It’ s quite all right. Those gloves belong to me.’
Mica turned in surprise and saw the young lady in pink gesturing to her manservant to open the purse he carried. ‘I can pay with silver or gold, whichever you prefer,’ she said to the glove-maker.
‘You’ re too kind, my lady. This young – person – were stealing. That’ s the point of it.’
‘Not at all,’ said the pink lady calmly. ‘I asked my maid here to hold these gloves for me while I looked at the others, these green ones here which you kindly showed to me. I hadn’ t quite made up my mind which I liked best. But now I have decided. I’ ll take both pairs.’
‘Now, my lady, you know that’ s not what happened.’
‘Are you calling me a liar? Me?’ The lady’ s ice-blue eyes flashed dangerously. Her blonde hair was arranged in an elegant fan shape, and even Mica could see that her pink and white robes were as stylish as could be.
The vendor swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Well, now, my lady, I wouldn’ t say that.’
‘Then I’ ll thank you to unhand my servant, and to cease making such a fuss about my property.’ Silently the pink lady’ s manservant laid some gold coins on the counter. The vendor, abashed, removed his hand from Mica’ s arm. Furiously she began to rub the place where he’ d clutched her.
‘Thank you.’ The pink lady turned to Mica. ‘Come,’ she said imperiously. ‘I must attend the Emperor at noon.’
A shiver of delight ran through the onlookers, and the lords and ladies cleared a respectful space for the pink lady and her servants to pass. In a few moments Mica found herself swept away from the bustle of the bazaar. The milling crowd closed up behind them and they stood in a quiet inner corridor.
‘You may thank me now,’ announced the lady in pink. She gestured to her manservant, and he thrust the blue gloves at Mica. ‘But do, please, tell me why. Surely you don’ t intend to wear them yourself ?’
‘They’ re for a friend,’ said Mica in some confusion. ‘I mean, for my – for my lady –’
‘Commendable loyalty! Most amusing. I only hope that Immel would do the same for me!’ The pink lady nodded toward her impassive manservant, and gave a trilling laugh. ‘Well, my dear, I give you the gloves, but on one condition. Your lady must attend my poetry tournament tomorrow. I simply must meet the person who can command such touching devotion that her maidservant would risk the dungeons to steal her a pair of gloves. If she doesn’ t come, I’ m afraid I might have to make some teensy trouble for you both. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. But –’ The lady narrowed her ice-blue eyes. ‘You don’ t know who I am, do you?’
‘No,’ said Mica bluntly.
The lady gave another of her trilling laughs, and tipped back her head so that her hair ornaments tinkled together. ‘You must be the only person in the Palace who doesn’ t know me! How delicious! In fact, I’ ve made up my mind not to tell you, so I can enjoy the sensation a while longer.You must find out for yourself. But by tomorrow! I do insist on your lady’ s attendance at my little tournament. I do believe we’ ll be friends! How delicious!’
With a charming smile and a flurry of blown kisses, the lady disappeared up a private staircase, her pink and white skirts rustling.
Her manservant lingered for a moment. ‘Her name is Keela,’ he hissed. ‘The tournament is tomorrow evening, in the Gallery of Birds. Tell your mistress not to be late.’ And with that, he vanished after the pink lady, leaving Mica to stare open-mouthed after him.
When Mica returned to their apartments, she pulled out the gloves and tossed them to Calwyn. ‘I got you these, Cal.’
Calwyn gazed at the gloves in dismay. ‘Oh, Mica! They’ re beautiful, but – these must have cost three gold pieces, at least.’
Mica shrugged. ‘No need to worry bout that. Some lady took a fancy to me. She bought em for me.’ She reached out for a slice of spiced cake. ‘Mm, I’ m starved, I could eat a whale!’
‘What lady?’ asked Heben in alarm, looking up from his cushion on the floor.
Mica swallowed. ‘Keela,�
�� she said indistinctly, through a mouthful of crumbs.
Heben sank back with a groan. ‘Keela! She is the Third Princess, the chief gossip of the Court, a notorious intriguer. My sisters schemed for a whole year for an invitation to one of her famous poetry tournaments, but they never managed it.’
‘That’ s right.’ Mica wiped her mouth. ‘She said, she wants you to go to her poetry whatsit tomorrow night, Cal, in the Gallery of Birds. Wants to see what you’ re like.’
Calwyn turned to Heben. ‘What is a poetry tournament, exactly?’
‘All the most fashionable courtiers gather and try to best each other in poetry. Someone starts – the Princess decides the order – they invent a verse, and then the next person has to use the last words of that poem to begin their own. And you must insult the person who went before, as wittily as you can. And you must try not to give the person who follows you any ammunition to insult you. And you must be original.’
‘You mean they make up the poems on the spot?’ cried Calwyn. ‘And speak them, in front of everyone? How many people attend these tournaments?’
‘Oh, only thirty or forty,’ said Heben reassuringly. ‘It takes too long otherwise.’ Reserved as he was, Heben had been brought up with public story-telling and versifying and it held no terrors for him. But Calwyn had never done such a thing. In Antaris, the rituals of the priestesses were shared, many voices together, not one lonely individual standing up in front of a crowd. Calwyn had never liked crowds.
‘I suppose I’ ll have to go,’ she said dismally. ‘It’ s the chance we’ ve waited for, to get into one of those galleries. But –’
Do not fear. I will be with you.
Across the room, Halasaa’ s dark eyes smiled at her. Calwyn smiled back, but she was not entirely comforted. She would rather have gone to sea in a hurricane than stand before a group of powdered Merithuran courtiers and make up poetry. At least she had the right gloves now, she consoled herself, pulling the soft blue leather over her hands. The embroidered moons winked at her. ‘The Goddess will help me,’ she said, more cheerfully than she felt. She was beginning to wonder if the Goddess’ s gaze could penetrate these ivory walls that shut out the sun.
The sword’ s edge of the shadow
On the red sand
Sharp as your sleeve when you turn from me.
A ripple of applause greeted the poet as he bowed modestly, then resumed his seat. The next contender rose to his feet. Heart sinking, Calwyn saw that it was none other than Amagis, forbidding in his stark black clothes. She shrank in her seat, trying not to catch his eye.
As sharp as your sleeve
Is the raven’ s beak
Descending on the nadu from the fierce wind.
Amagis’ s voice was low but commanding, and the poem was met with an appreciative rustle of laughter and much more enthusiastic applause. The Third Princess, who had seated Calwyn beside her, leaned across and whispered.
‘Amagis is very clever at this. That’ s the only reason I invited him. Nadu is Jamin’ s nickname, he’ s such a timid little thing. And Amagis is known as the Raven. That’ s why everyone laughed.’
‘I see, thank you,’ Calwyn whispered back. Amagis stared coldly around the assembly as though daring anyone to better him. Calwyn was almost sure he hadn’ t seen her.
Keela nudged her elbow. ‘Come on, my dear.Your turn. It’ s not polite for newcomers to wait too long.’
Calwyn stared at her in horror. ‘I – I can’ t –’
The Princess’ s blue eyes crinkled with amusement. She laid a slim, green-gloved hand on Calwyn’ s glove: a gesture of great intimacy. ‘I’ ll help you. Stand up!’
Reluctantly Calwyn rose from her stool. She felt the piercing gaze of forty pairs of eyes as everyone in the crowd turned to face her. There was Amagis, his black eyes burning in his deathly pale face. Calwyn swallowed, and stared over the array of complicated hairdos to the back of the gallery. All around the walls, with their frieze of swooping birds, were the servants who had carried the stools. They stood silent and immobile, hands folded, as if they too were merely furniture. Halasaa stood among them; his face leapt out at her, and his bright eyes smiled.
Courage, sister!
He was joking, but in truth, Calwyn’ s heart beat as fast as it had ever done when she was faced with true danger. Keela smiled up at her.
‘From the fierce wind falls the raven,’ she whispered.
‘From the fierce wind falls the raven,’ repeated Calwyn. Her voice was steady and clear; years of practising chantment had given her that at least.
‘Bitten by the slithering serpent Beneath the flame of the sun.’
Calwyn repeated the whispered words. There was an immediate gasp of horrified laughter, and a few cheers among the applause. It seemed that Calwyn had said something very daring, or very rude. She shot a quick glance at Amagis. His face was livid with anger. Calwyn sat down, too furious to bow. The Third Princess touched her hand; she was laughing.
‘Bitten by the snake means he’ s been disappointed in love. And the flame of the sun means he’ s been burned by trying too hard at a sport he’ s not fit for. Very good, my dear! You’ ve managed two wonderful insults in the space of one poem!’
‘I would rather not have offended him,’ whispered Calwyn fiercely. Keela bit her lip in mock contrition.
‘Forgive me! But everyone will know it was my fault. No one will think that – pardon me for speaking frankly – a girl so new to the Court, fresh from the wilderness, would be capable of two superb insults, and in such an elegant verse, too! Amagis won’ t blame you.’
Calwyn was too agitated to pay attention to the next poem, which, naturally, contrived to insult her. But she did catch something about a dishevelled tent, blown in the sandstorm.
After the poems were over, the servants fetched delicate glasses filled with cool, frothing drinks, and the courtiers mingled, strolling about the gallery, arm in arm. This intimacy, ‘touching gloves’ , was the highest mark of friendship at the Court. At the first opportunity, the Third Princess drew Calwyn’ s arm through hers. Calwyn was still upset, and would rather have been left alone to explore the immense gallery, but Keela was insistent.
‘Come, my dear, don’ t be cross! This is what life at Court is all about! The cut and thrust of wit, and so on. You’ re lucky I’ ve taken such a liking to you. There are ladies in this room – and gentlemen! – who would willingly scratch out your eyes from sheer jealousy! And you’ ll find me a very valuable friend. We will be friends, Calwyn, you know, even though you do dress so badly.’ She plucked at Calwyn’ s sleeve. ‘Did those Cledsec girls help you pick out your clothes? Now, let me see, what are their names?’
The ice-blue gaze was uncomfortably piercing. Calwyn stammered, trying to remember the names of Heben’ s sisters. Luckily for her, the Princess was soon whisked away by some other ladies, who cast derisive glances at Calwyn, evidently sharing Keela’ s judgement of her dress sense, and Calwyn was left alone to wander the perimeter of the gallery. It took her a long time to walk all the way around it, with Halasaa at her heels, and when they were done, the gathering had almost dispersed, and a stony-faced servant was waiting to usher them out. Neither Calwyn nor Halasaa had sensed any hint of chantment. As they departed, Keela blew Calwyn a kiss, and tweaked at her robes. ‘I’ ll teach you to drape them properly,’ she whispered. ‘Come to my reception rooms tomorrow.’
‘Well, really!’ said Calwyn crossly, watching her sweep away around a bend in the corridor, trailed by a little group of her admirers and their servants.
You dislike her. Halasaa was at her elbow.
‘Yes, I do. Tricking me into insulting Amagis! How can someone be so polite and so rude at the same time? But I suppose she’ ll be useful.’
She is no more rude than others in this place.
‘That’ s no compliment,’ said Calwyn ruefully. ‘For all their fine manners, I don’ t think I’ ve met a more unpleasant collection of people in my life.�
��
Halasaa smiled peacefully, and his words were typically diplomatic. They are unlike any people I have known.
‘A pampered, perfumed pack of idlers!’ After her uncomfortable experience at the tournament, Calwyn felt the need to vent her feelings. ‘Did you hear them, taking images from the desert for their poems? I’ m sure none of them has ever set foot in the desert!’
It would be possible to live in this Palace for a lifetime and never see the sands outside. A shadow crossed Halasaa’ s face. This place is more dead than the desert itself. It is like the coral gardens Mica spoke of, built from the bodies of dead creatures. Coming from the thick forests of the Wildlands, teeming with life, it was the most damning thing he could have said.
It was long after midnight when Keela heard the discreet tap at her doorway. She frowned at her reflection in the polished silver mirror, slowly removed her earrings, and handed them to her maid. ‘Leave me, Riss,’ she said. ‘I’ ll manage the rest myself.’ The maid bowed, and silently withdrew. The Third Princess, like most of the ladies of the Court, often received visitors in the middle of the night.
Keela called, ‘You may enter.’
The heavy curtain at her doorway lifted, and a dark, shadowy shape appeared in the mirror. Keela did not turn around. Languidly she reached up and extracted a long tortoiseshell pin from the elaborate arrangement of her hair. ‘Really, my dear, must you skulk about like that? Can’ t you whistle, or sing? Oh! How foolish of me!’ She lifted her naked fingertips to her lips and looked coyly over her shoulder. ‘Of course you can sing!’
Amagis stood at her shoulder, his pale face impassive. ‘You will have your jokes, my lady.’
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