“I do beg your pardon,” I said, startled. It seemed ridiculous to bleat that I hadn’t seen him there, since he filled the chair very obviously, his long legs stretched out in front of him; but I really hadn’t seen him. “Shall I leave?”
The man stiffened, his head jerking back a little as if he were also startled, but he said quietly: “Not at all.”
His voice was velvet like his waistcoat, deep with slightly rough edges, but now that I had a chance to really look at him, I found that there was something unnerving in his face.
To give myself time to ruminate on the sense of unease, I said: “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
He cocked his head and leaned a little forward. “Most people don’t notice me when I don’t want to be noticed.” He said it more with interest than annoyance.
“I see,” I said quietly; and I did see. I saw two things: one, that this man was a magic user, and that was why I hadn’t seen him at first; and two, that my feeling of unease came from the fact that he was wearing a mask beneath a mask. The lips of it moved, but stiffly, and with imperfect synchronicity. What sort of a man wore a mask beneath a mask?
I said: “Lord Pecus, I believe?”
He laughed at that; a low, warm laugh as enthralling as his voice, and removed the green velvet mask. “You have the advantage, my lady.”
“Lady Isabella Farrah,” I said, inclining my head grandly, just as if I wasn’t curled up in a regrettably informal way. I offered him my hand, and he kissed it in the old fashioned way, cold porcelain against flesh. “I believe we have a mutual friend: Lady Quorn.”
He looked at me piercingly, and I added with mendacious helpfulness: “The one who stumbles.” I was enjoying myself immensely. I thought I saw a gleam of answering humour in Lord Pecus’s eyes, but it was difficult to tell through the magical mask.
“I think I would like to see your face,” he said thoughtfully. “Would it stretch politeness too far to ask you to remove your mask?”
“After you, my lord.”
I thought he laughed at me, but again it was hard to tell. “I don’t think I understand you, my lady.”
I looked at him steadily for a moment, my chin propped up in my palm. “Forgive me if I seem rude, but I think you understand me very well.”
He sat forward again, leaning his forearms on his knees. His bulk was so considerable that this maneuver put his face only inches from mine, and I found his eyes uncomfortably piercing. “Very well, my lady. Remove your mask, and I will remove mine.”
I was burning with curiosity that was tempered by a touch of self-satisfaction that I was about to accomplish something that even Delysia had not been able to accomplish, but I untied my mask with fingers that were steady enough.
“Well, my lord?”
“Charming,” he said softly, deliberately misunderstanding. I found myself blushing for the first time in many years. It was annoying to know that he’d intended as much. “How old are you, Lady Farrah?”
“Very nearly thirty, my lord,” I told him composedly, ignoring the rudeness of the question. “And a confirmed old maid, so you’ve no need to waste your compliments on me.”
“What brings you to the Ambassadorial Ball?”
“The proposed militia merger, my lord; and I believe you’re stalling.”
He gave me a slow, considering smile, and I wondered if the face beneath the mask was smiling also. “Is that so? Are you sure you want to see my face?”
Courtesy compelled me to say, albeit with reluctance: “Not if you’re unwilling, my lord.”
Lord Pecus sat silent for a moment as if in thought, his mask unreadable.
“Hm. I don’t believe I am,” he said at last, as if he had surprised himself. “Try not to scream, my lady.”
If he had said it with the slightest theatricality, I would have laughed and gone back to the ballroom, content not to know what his face really looked like. But he said it unemotionally, a plain warning; and I had to take myself firmly to task for the quickly accelerating beat of my heart as he removed the charms that kept his mask in place. I settled my chin a little more firmly in my palm and waited, watching the process with some interest. I had not much talent for magic, and my knowledge was almost as slight: my training had mostly to do with international policy and diplomatic processes.
At last he seemed to be done. He raised both hands to remove the mask – beautiful hands, strong and bare of rings – and it came away cleanly. For a moment I thought he had yet another mask beneath: firelight played on tawny brown hair – no, fur!- in a face that looked like the worst parts of wolf and bear mixed. I blinked once, realising in that instant that it was his face, his real face, and no mask. His mask must be magic indeed to have hidden that snout under the pretence of a plain common-or-garden human nose.
“I see,” I said into the silent warmth of the room. I dropped my hand back to the arm of the chair and let a small sigh escape. “That explains a good deal.”
Lord Pecus gave a short, startled laugh. “Does it?”
“I learned of an obscure, legendary curse in my study of Glausian history some years ago; a curse that passed from father to son.”
“Not legendary,” Lord Pecus said shortly. I wondered how he spoke with that snout; it didn’t look suitable for human speech. More magic, perhaps? He asked briefly: “Do you find me repulsive, Lady Farrah?”
“I’ve seen uglier,” I said coolly. “Lord Morsten, for instance. He has very unpleasant eyes, and of course he has nothing like the splendid facial hair that you do. I don’t tend to look for beauty in faces.”
His green eyes narrowed at me. They were the only part of his face that looked remotely human, and I found it easier to read his face if I looked into them. At the moment they were speculative, and a little sceptical.
“I suppose you’ll tell me that beauty is found inwardly, and that you never look at appearances.”
“No, my lord. I tend to look more at shoulders. I like nice broad shoulders in a man. Many a man with an ugly face has been rendered attractive by a good set of shoulders. Besides, the courtiers with the most beautiful faces are invariably the ones who are the most inopportune.”
I saw that he was looking rather startled, and explained kindly: “They get spoiled, you know.”
Lord Pecus threw back what I really must call his muzzle, and laughed out loud. “Lady, will you marry me?”
Many young men had said the same thing to me in jest, and I had grown adept at laughing it off with a satirical look. But when I looked into Lord Pecus’ green eyes, about to do the same, I found with something of a shock that he was serious. There was no smile in his eyes, just a kind of silent intensity.
So I was serious as I said: “No, my lord. I’m honoured, but my father can’t do without me.”
“I see.” Lord Pecus’ tone was thoughtful, but I saw no abatement in the determination in his eyes. Used to reading a room of courtiers at a glance, I found that this particular gleam worried me. “Who is your father, who can’t do without you?”
“The Ambassador of New Civet,” I said, in the no-nonsense tone I use on the younger courtiers. I swept my feet to the floor grandly as if I had not just sat half an hour with them curled beneath me, and slipped them back into my thin dancing shoes. I fancied I saw a gleam of amusement – or was it appreciation? – in those emerald eyes of his, but chose to ignore it as the diplomat I was.
“Good night, my lord. I should rejoin the dance now; my father will be wondering where I am.”
Lord Pecus rose to bow, replacing his mask. It looked distinctly mechanical now that I knew what it was.
“Good night, Lady Farrah. I hope we meet again.”
I curtseyed with my hand on the doorknob, and said with rather more sincerity than usual: “I look forward to it, my lord.”
Chapter Two
By a fortunate coincidence midnight had passed away quietly while I lingered in the library, and everyone was beginning to remove their masks by the ti
me I re-entered the ballroom. I had quite forgotten to retie mine, and after looking vainly about my person for it, I was forced to the conclusion that I must have left it in the library. I hesitated, but couldn’t bring myself to turn around and walk back into such a tiny room simply filled with Lord Pecus. His less than human face had startled me more than I cared to show and his proposal had thrown me further off balance: leaving me, on the whole, unpleasantly jarred. I gave the mask up as a loss, and merged with the crowd.
I was strongly tempted to find Delysia again, and let drop casually in the conversation that I had talked with Lord Pecus, and Oh yes, I saw his face, my dear! But that would necessarily lead to explanations that Lord Pecus had not authorised me to make, and (if I read him aright) would dislike very greatly. In any event, had Delysia known her own country’s history better, she would have been aware of the curse. It was no part of my function to educate her as to her country’s peers. It might, however, be just as well to let her know that Lord Pecus’ mask was magic, and that it was no good trying to jostle it off. No doubt Ambassador Quorn would thank me for that as much as Lord Pecus would.
Father was still talking animatedly with the Bromian prime minister when I caught sight of him. They had not moved away from the refreshment table, but Father was still holding the same half-eaten pastie that he had been working on when I saw him last. If I had a guess, I would say that he hadn’t taken a bite of it in the entire time I had been gone. I smiled to myself and made my way through the crowd to the refreshment table for a fresh cup of punch: no doubt Father hadn’t sipped his dangerously tilting tumbler of punch either.
Navigating the refreshment table at any kind of a ball is very like bullfighting: you might manage to get through each danger by an elegant turn without spilling a drop, or you might promptly be gored by any number of elbows that jostle your drink all over the front of your dress. It is a sport simply fraught with peril. This time I managed the thing with two elegant twirls, narrowly avoiding a fat lady with an enormous corsage of Glausian spineflowers and a young buck who insisted on wearing a ceremonial sword to the imminent danger of passers-by; and arrived whole, if rather breathless, at Father’s side.
The prime minister favoured me with a precise bow, but did not stop talking. I inclined my head to him with a twinkle in my eye and gently removed both punch and half-eaten pastie from Father’s hands, supplying him with the fresh cup I had bought. Father looked pleased to find himself with a free hand and able to gesticulate more freely, but did not otherwise acknowledge my presence. I cheerfully took this to mean that he did not require or desire my presence, and made my way down the room once more, disposing of the pastie and cup into the hands of an obliging footman. I was admiring the dance from a conveniently back-set windowseat when Lady Quorn accosted me with a crease between her beautifully arched brows, demanding to know what I had done with Sir Raoul.
I was obliged to bite back a smile at the thought that anyone could do something with Sir Raoul. The head Guardsman of Civet was tall and muscled, with a determined jaw and a surprisingly acute mind; and neither force nor argument could sway him to any course of action he had not thought over.
“I danced with Raoul earlier in the evening,” I said in amusement. “But if you suppose I have him concealed in my pocket, you’re very much mistaken, Delysia.”
Lady Quorn sighed in vexation. “Where can the man have got to? Missing his dance with me was bad enough, but now his party is ready to leave, and he’s nowhere to be found! Be a darling, Isabella, and find him for me! I’ve got three half-drunk junior guardsmen kicking their heels in the great hall, swearing that they’ll walk if he doesn’t show up soon.”
“The walk might sober them up,” I said tartly, rising to my feet again. Knowing Raoul, he might simply have decided that he was tired of standing on ceremony with a pack of courtiers, and wandered off into the night by himself.
“Oh, but Isabella! You know how they are when they’re drunk! They’re as likely to box the Watch or set off fireworks in the back allies as they are to go home, and if you think that the first really successful day of negotiations is the best day to bail your junior guardsmen out of jail, I suggest you think again!”
I grimaced, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “Send the guardsmen home in the carriage. I’ll find Raoul and send him along after them; and serve him right if he has to walk!”
“¬Thank you, Isabella!” Delysia squeezed my hand and bustled off in a relieved rustling of pink netting. I moved leisurely after her, threading my way through the knots of conversing guests that had formed now that masks were off, and went to find another footman. Footmen are very useful people. They stand to attention nearly everywhere in the house, as unmoving as statues, and notice simply everything. If anyone knew where Raoul was, they would.
I collared an obliging young footman who was standing to attention by the great doors. He moved to open the door for me, his eyes averted in polite deference, but I forestalled him with one raised finger. Like the well trained little automaton that he was, the footman went back to attention, arms stiffly by his sides, and regarded the middle distance with avid interest.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Lady Quorn is anxious to know where Sir Raoul is,” I said. I was prepared to describe Raoul, but this footman knew his job thoroughly.
“I believe you will find Sir Raoul with the Earl of Horn, my lady,” he replied, without pause and without emotion. “They were conversing together a quarter of an hour ago- heading toward the orchestra, I believe.”
I thanked him, and though he was too well trained to betray by the smallest smile his pleasure, I saw a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. I left him to gloat and proceeded up the room once more. I was beginning to feel rather crossly as if I were a weaver’s shuttle, going back and forth, back and forth. Of course, Raoul was no longer by the orchestra, with or without the Earl of Horn; and that was just like him, I thought irritably. The night had passed into the wee hours of morning, and I was beginning to feel my tact slipping. Raoul was fully head and shoulders taller than anyone in the room except perhaps Lord Pecus, and he should have been visible by now. I was inclined to think that he was doing it deliberately.
As I scanned the crowd, I saw Lord Topher pushing toward me with an eager smile on his face. I hastily averted my eyes and lengthened my stride: I had not the slightest wish to deal with calf-love at this time of day. I wondered where the beautiful little blonde had gone, and regretted her absence. Unfortunately, Lord Topher’s stride was longer than mine, and despite my care not to look in his direction, I very soon found myself unable to ignore him. It is very difficult to pretend not to see someone when they have planted themselves directly in front of you.
I summoned up a welcoming smile from the remaining dregs of my politeness, and said with bright insincerity: “Lord Topher! How nice to see you again.”
“I’ve been looking for you!” he said ingenuously. His eyes were overbright, and I guessed he had been drinking. In Glause, drinking laws prohibited the drinking of alcohol up to the age of twenty years, and it was possibly the first time he had tasted wine. “You disappeared after our dance, and I didn’t have time to ask you for another one.”
“I would love to dance with you, Lord Topher, but Lady Quorn has sent me in search of my countryman, Sir Raoul.”
“He’s the tall one with the red sash and rapier, isn’t he?” Lord Topher said eagerly. “If I tell you where he is, will you dance with me?”
I laughed, but agreed. By then I would have kissed him if it removed the necessity of walking up and down that room again. “Very well. Where is Sir Raoul?”
“He was talking to the grand old gentleman with big whiskers, something about battle strategies, I think. Then Sir Raoul went away through the blue saloon and the old gent went back to glaring at the dancers.”
That must be the Earl of Horn, I thought satisfied. He had a daughter over whom he kept an eagle eye. No doubt he was engaged in fright
ening away beaux.
It was beginning to look as if I were right about Raoul: the blue saloon was a small antechamber quite often used to set up the card table, with two elegant glass doors leading out to a small terrace. There was no card table tonight, and it would be the easiest thing in the world for Raoul with his long legs, to simply step over the terrace railings.
Bother the man! I pursed my lips and glared at the door to the blue saloon as if it were Raoul himself. Why couldn’t he call for his carriage like a civilised human being? If he was not in the saloon, I thought, adopting a somewhat militant stance, it would be very much the worse for him the next time I saw him.
Lord Topher, eyeing the martial light in my eyes with some trepidation, said meekly: “You don’t have to dance with me if you don’t want to, Lady Farrah. It was just a joke.”
“Oh, I’m not cross at you,” I said, quite cheerfully. The thought of wreaking revenge on Raoul had had the effect of turning my mood. Besides, Lord Topher really was rather a sweet boy. “I’ve no intention of reneging on our dance.”
“I feel sorry for Sir Raoul,” he said candidly. “What they say about redheads must be true after all.”
“What do they say about redheads?” I demanded.
He actually grinned. “Nothing, my lady. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you.”
I smiled back, liking him a little better. “Very well. But I warn you, he most likely won’t be in the saloon, and I shall probably send you to Lady Quorn to say so while I sit and rest my feet.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lady Farrah,” he said cheerfully. I had a moment’s misgiving that I had been too kind to him, but he didn’t look amorous, and I dismissed the feeling as he opened the door for me, his eyes bright and mischievous as though we were up to no good.
Masque (The Two Monarchies Sequence) Page 2