by Hilari Bell
“All right,” Edoran grumbled. “But we’re still leaving. We can come back another day. Or send for the diaries. Or get some clerk to waste his time over them, instead of ours.”
Arisa snorted. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to waste Your Highness’ precious time. You have so much to do.”
Weasel glared at her. Arisa had a feeling that if her ankle had been in range, she’d have been kicked too.
Edoran turned and walked out of the room. Weasel shrugged. “I guess we’re leaving.”
Their sudden departure took Master Horace by surprise, but he came out to the steps where they waited for their horses, and bade the prince a fulsome farewell.
Now that she had time to look around, Arisa noticed a set of small statues in niches beside the great double doors. One of the old kings, with his sword and shield bearers beside him.
“No wonder Regalis lied,” Arisa murmured. “In those days the sword and shield were almost as important as the king.”
“This is the king who paid for this building,” said Weasel, reading the worn inscription. “Founded the university, I suppose. Another lefty.”
“How can you tell?” Arisa asked. “He’s not holding anything.”
“His purse is hanging on his left side,” said Weasel. “Only left-handed people put their purses in their left coat pockets.”
As an ex-pickpocket, he would know.
“Most of the old kings were left-handed,” Weasel added.
Arisa might have questioned that, but Weasel was more observant about such things than anyone she knew.
“What about Regalis?” she asked.
“Right-handed,” Weasel told her. “But according to their portraits, some of the kings before him were right-handed as well. In the early paintings where the kings are all handsome, they made them left-handed all the way back to old Deor. But they were just guessing then.”
“You can hardly call Deor old.” Arisa wrapped her arms around herself; the breeze was brisk despite the sunlight. “He didn’t live long enough to get old. Why would he do that? I know kings are supposed to care for the realm above all else, and so on, and so on, but that’s rot. They’re men, just like anyone else. Do you think he really, deliberately, laid down his life?”
“Yes,” said Weasel. “At least, I think it’s possible.”
It was the last answer she’d expected from Weasel-the cynic.
“But why?” Arisa asked.
“Not having been there, I can’t say for sure.” Weasel stuck his hands into his pockets. “But I’d guess it was for the future.”
Arisa frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“The One God willing,” said Weasel softly, “you never will.”
Edoran spent most of the long ride home looking to the south, and ignoring his companions. Arisa was happy to ignore him in return. She wasn’t sure if this was arrogance, or creepiness, or both.
Probably both, she decided. The wind had grown colder, and she was glad when they reached the stable yard… until Sammel told her, in a groom’s respectful murmur, that her lady mother wanted to see her when she returned.
Arisa knocked on the office door, and the Falcon’s voice told her to come in. Her mother was alone, wearing a plain trim gown and frowning at one of the many papers that flooded the desk. Arisa was sorry—she’d hoped for a crowd of officers and officials, so she could come back later.
Her mother put down the paper she’d been studying, and looked Arisa up and down.
“Britches for all occasions? Katrin told me you’ve sworn off corsets, but she didn’t say you’d abandoned skirts as well.”
Arisa scowled.
“I’m glad to hear you’ve been with the prince,” the Falcon added.
Arisa’s scowl deepened. “He’s an arrogant twerp. A creepy arrogant—”
“Don’t talk about him like that,” the Falcon said. “Whatever you think of him, he will be the next king. And you have to become a lady, whether you like it or not. This is important, Ris.”
“But I can’t breathe or move!” Arisa burst out. “I’m trying, mother, I really am, but I can’t stand this!”
She dropped into the chair in front of the Falcon’s desk, blinking back tears. Her mother never cried.
The Falcon sighed, then smiled. “I suppose it’s foolish to pin a peacock’s tail on a kestrel.”
Arisa grimaced. “You’re the hawk in the family. I’m a sparrow. At best. Is there any bird drabber than a sparrow?”
“I wasn’t talking about your face,” the Falcon told her.
“I just don’t fit here,” said Arisa.
“Not in court, perhaps,” said the Falcon. “I’ll make you another deal. I’ll tell Katrin no more corsets if you keep trying with the rest of it. Especially with the prince. All right?”
Arisa’s whoop of joy wasn’t at all ladylike.
CHAPTER 5
The Two of Waters: discovery.
The appearance of something unexpected, or sometimes, recovery of something that was lost.
Having lost the great corset battle, Katrin avenged herself by laying out the stiffest, heaviest gown Arisa owned, and lacing it very tightly. But even the dark-brown velvet, with its stiff brocaded front panel, was better without corsets than the lightest gown was with them. Arisa spun, nimble in her stocking feet, making the heavy skirt bell and sway. Perhaps she would dance tonight—one of the simple dances.
“Stop that,” said Katrin sharply. “The prince will arrive at court soon; you’ve no time to prance about.”
Arisa didn’t care who engaged the prince’s attention, but she knew her mother would care, so she stopped twirling and allowed Katrin to dress her hair, fasten a necklace, and slip high-heeled shoes onto her feet. When she looked in the mirror, she forgave her maid for battles past. The rich brown brought out red lights in her hair, and the wide stripe of gold brocade that ran down the front of the bodice and skirt brightened the somber color.
“I look very fine, Katrin,” said Arisa. “Thank you.”
Katrin sniffed. “Even the scullery maid goes laced.”
“Then the scullery maid can neither move nor breathe,” Arisa retorted. If Katrin wanted to be miffed because the gown looked wonderful without corsets, then that was her problem.
Arisa’s uncorseted state didn’t draw a glance from anyone, even when she reached the gold salon, where the prince was “taking his ease” this evening.
Though her mother could move in her corset, Arisa noted. The Falcon was dancing with a man in the blue coat and white britches of a naval officer, his feet light in his polished boots. Only army and naval officers wore their uniform boots to court. Low-heeled boots. Arisa wondered if she was the only one who envied them.
The Falcon, always alert, saw Arisa watching and flashed her an approving smile. Because she was there? Because the gown looked so nice?
Arisa sighed. She’d have to approach the prince tonight, to keep her part of the bargain, and the Falcon would doubtless prefer to have it happen sooner. So why didn’t she cozy up to the brat, Arisa wondered crossly, instead of flirting with sailors?
But the officer didn’t look like he was flirting, his expression far too serious for someone dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room. Of course, Arisa reflected, she was also the deadliest.
Arisa wove through the crowd, which would grow denser as she neared the end of the room where Edoran sat on one of the few chairs. At least she had no fear that her mother would suddenly introduce her to a stepfather; she’d loved Arisa’s father too much for that. He had been hanged, when the old regent purged the navy of all the officers who’d been loyal to the admiral who had challenged him. The Falcon had watched the hanging, one of her mother’s men had told Arisa, her hand gripping the locket he’d given her and her face as hard as stone… except for the tears pouring down and down. She’d never cried since, they said, and Arisa couldn’t prove otherwise.
The Falcon had worn that locket when she’d st
olen a load of gunpowder from a naval depot, or guns being shipped to the army troops who patrolled Deorthas’ borders, or especially when she’d relieved one of the king’s tax collectors of his strongbox.
She hadn’t worn it for the “ordinary” jobs, when the tax money was gone and the Falcon’s men robbed coaches to feed themselves and their families. Only when she struck an important blow against her enemy did the locket come out.
Arisa would probably never see that locket again, and she wasn’t sure whether she felt relief or regret. With the old regent finally dead, her mother was free to build a real life for herself— and her daughter, too, Arisa supposed.
But why did she have to do it at court?
No, Arisa told herself firmly, this was better—court and all. Perhaps one day her mother would introduce her to a stepfather. That would be another good, healing thing, though it would certainly feel odd.
“Why are you standing there, staring into space?” Weasel asked. “People are walking around you, like a statue in a town square.”
“I’m putting it off,” Arisa admitted. Weasel knew her well enough to understand what “it” was without being told. “Remember what happened last time?”
Weasel’s grin held as much sympathy as amusement. “Well, you can’t put it off any longer. Edoran sent me to fetch you.”
“Is he in arrogant mode, or weird mode?” Arisa asked.
Weasel frowned. “That’s not fair.”
Arisa waited.
“Weird mode,” Weasel sighed. “He’s still looking off to the south and he won’t tell me why. The last time I saw him like this, we heard later that a heavy snow had come down on a couple of mountain villages. Collapsed several buildings. But he says it’s not the weather.”
“Definitely weird,” said Arisa.
“Coming from Mistress I-Have-Withe,” said Weasel, “that’s a bit much. Don’t tease him about it. I think the servants used to, or someone did.” He turned and led her through the crowd.
“Withe isn’t like that,” said Arisa, following. “Lots of people have withe, some much stronger than mine. But I won’t tease him if he’s sensitive about it.”
Weasel smiled.
“No matter how weird he is.”
Weasel choked down a laugh, and Arisa grinned. But she’d keep her promise. It would be hard to have a… a gift of weather sensing that no one else believed in, especially as a child. She could all but hear some nurse saying, “Now, you stop making things up, Prince Edoran.” Or even worse, “Stop telling lies.”
No, she wouldn’t tease him. No matter how weird he was.
In fact, now that she was accustomed to reading that blank expression of his, Edoran looked more bored than weird. No wonder, that; most of the men and women around him were old enough to be his parents. In some cases, his grandparents.
The most important, most powerful shareholders paid their respects to the prince early in the evening, Arisa’s etiquette teacher had told her. These people must be them. And Edoran wanted her to interrupt them? He must be bored to madness.
But she was there—too late to run.
Weasel stepped up, right in front of Edoran’s chair, and bowed. “May I present Mistress Arisa Benison to Your Highness’ attention?” He could do an excellent noble imitation when he wanted to.
All eyes turned to her—impatient, critical, powerful eyes. Arisa stiffened her spine and stepped forward, careful in the awkward shoes. This time she wouldn’t fall. This time she would make her mother proud, instead of being scraped, scarlet with embarrassment, off the polished floor.
She took the final step and sank into a deep, graceful curtsy. And as she sank, she felt the stitches at the top left side of her bodice break—snap, snap, snap.
The sound was so soft no one else could have heard it. Arisa might not have heard it, if the sudden loosening of her dress hadn’t given it away.
She clamped her arm tight to her side, spoiling what her etiquette mistress called the “line” of her curtsy. Even so, two more stitches popped as she rose to her feet. The stiff front panel of her bodice started to gape, and she swept her forearm up to hold it in place, striving to look graceful, or flirtatious, or like she was going to scratch her chin—anything to hide the fact that her clothes were falling off. She stood perfectly still, afraid even to breathe. Her only chemise that was sufficiently low to accommodate this low-cut gown was far too sheer for modesty. Arisa had complained about transparent underwear the first time she’d worn it—but it was the fashion and no one was ever going to see it anyway.
The whole court would be seeing it, if any more stitches gave way.
Weasel’s eyes were wide with alarm, but he was as frozen as she. Arisa offered a heartfelt prayer to the god of the affairs of men to get her out of this.
Edoran made a soft choking sound and stood. His eyes weren’t wide, but narrowed in amusement—curse him. When he spoke, his regal voice gave nothing away. “I’m pleased to see you here, Mistress Benison. I wanted to thank you for… for your assistance with my research this afternoon. But alas…”
No one said “alas” in real life, not even in court. Arisa scowled. What was he up to?
“… I have no token suitable to repay a lady.”
The prince’s gaze roved over the crowd and settled on an elderly dowager.
“Lady Varent, may I beg the gift of your pin? I need a favor to bestow, but I have nothing to hand. You’ll be repaid for it from the royal vaults, severalfold.”
The dowager managed to look puzzled and simper at the same time. “Of course, Your Highness. Anything to assist your”—she glanced at Arisa, clearly not seeing her as courtship material— “your need.”
She pulled on the oval of rubies and gold that sprang from the middle of her bodice, and it proved to be attached to a pin. A beautifully, blessedly long pin.
Arisa closed her eyes and expanded her prayer to include the Lady, the Lord, and any other of the old gods that might care to take a hand.
She heard a light footstep, and opened her eyes. The prince stood a bit to one side, his body shielding the rent in her dress from the rest of the crowd.
“Accept a royal favor, with royal thanks.”
“Sure,” said Arisa faintly. “Whatever you say.”
His light hands pinched the top of the seam together. He inserted the pin and began to weave the point though the layers of cloth, neat as a tailor. His lips were only inches from her ear.
“Walk out with your head up,” Edoran murmured. “And if those catty girls try to delay you, say you’re on an errand for your mother and can’t stop.”
“Why are you doing this?” Arisa whispered. “Everyone will think you’re flirting with me, and those catty girls will tear me to shreds before I reach the door!”
“So tell them you are flirting,” said Edoran. “And that if they don’t get out of your way, when you’re queen, you’ll set them to scrubbing the privies.”
“I’d rather marry a toad,” said Arisa. Then she realized that might not be the brightest thing to say to someone who could still take back his pin.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Edoran drove the point through the final fold of fabric and stepped back. “There. It looks well on you.”
The rubies probably did look good, glinting between dark velvet and pale skin, but all Arisa cared about was that it felt secure.
“Thank you,” she said, with such sincerity that several courtiers’ brows rose.
“You’re welcome,” said Edoran. “You may go.”
He turned back to his chair, drawing the crowd’s attention with him, and Arisa fled.
She made it out of the salon without any of the girls trying to stop her, which was a sure sign that they didn’t know what had happened.
What almost happened, Arisa thought, hurrying down the corridors to her room. She owed Edoran for this, no question.
There was also someone to whom she owed a different sort of debt, and she wanted to pay it right now—b
ut when she reached her room, Katrin wasn’t there.
Arisa strode to the door that connected her room with her maid’s, and threw it open so hard that it banged against the wall. Katrin had been sitting in a chair, reading, the very image of a loyal maid waiting for her mistress to return.
“You set this up!” said Arisa furiously. “You sabotaged my dress. Deliberately!”
Katrin laid down her book, rose, and walked calmly toward the door. Arisa stepped into her own room, and Katrin closed the door behind her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mistress Arisa. Was something wrong with your gown?” Her voice was innocent, but malice gleamed in her eyes.
“Rot!” Arisa was so angry her hands shook. She balled them into fists and began to pace, fighting down the temptation to pound them into Katrin’s trim stomach. Not because she was averse to punching Katrin, but because she was so angry now that if she started, she might not be able to stop. The part of her that liked that idea, that wanted Katrin bloody and moaning on the floor, scared Arisa more than anything Katrin could do.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Arisa told her. “So stop pretending. Coward. Witch!”
Katrin’s eyes rested on the pin. “Why Mistress, did that seam rip? How embarrassing. If only you’d worn your corsets.”
Fury boiled in Arisa’s gut. She pulled the pin from her bodice, holding it like a dagger. “Get out. Get out of my room. I never want to see you again, not in here, not in the palace, not anywhere in the realm! You’re fired!”
“We’ll see about that,” said Katrin coolly. But when Arisa stalked toward her, she backed to the corridor door and then through it, closing it behind her.
Arisa looked down at her sagging bodice and knew she couldn’t follow the maid, even if she wanted to. Her whole body was shaking now. She sat down on the floor and burst into tears of rage and humiliation. Then she wept because the whole last month had been so horrible, and her life was horrible, and she felt horrible too.
When her sobs finally eased, Arisa discarded her soaked handkerchief and poured cold water into a basin to soothe her burning cheeks. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen. Her heart felt raw, empty of everything except determination— Katrin would pay for this. But if she was going to convince her mother to fire the woman, she needed proof.