Fortune and Fate

by Sharon Shinn

  Much of the time he stayed on the sidelines, acting the genial host. He was usually to be found in a conversation with some of the local men, discussing what looked like serious business, or laughingly enduring the interrogations of the older women. He only danced a few more times that Wen observed. Once with Katlin Seiles, who appeared to be a little in awe of him. Once with Serephette, who danced with the same majestic poise with which she did everything.

  Once with Demaray Coverroe.

  Wen stayed to watch the whole of that dance, which both participants seemed to be enjoying mightily. Demaray smiled up at him the entire time, except when she dissolved into laughter. Wen was not conversant with the rules governing social behavior in the highest circles, of course, but it seemed to her that Demaray clung a little more closely to Jasper than she really needed to. Even Edwin and Katlin were not hugging each other so obviously, and they, too, had paired up for this particular number.

  Not that Jasper seemed to mind. He was gazing down at Demaray with that lurking smile that meant he was both interested and amused. Something she said made him throw back his head and laugh, loudly enough to cause others on the dance floor to look their way. When the music came to a dramatic conclusion, Jasper retained one of Demaray’s hands and offered her a very deep bow, which she returned with a curtsey that brought her almost to the floor.

  Well, she was a widow and he a widower, both Thirteenth House nobility with daughters of their own and each with a young girl to raise. They had a great deal in common—and they liked each other. Wen supposed there was hardly anything to be surprised about in that. No doubt he considered her at least as much a friend as he considered Wen—a more suitable one by any criteria. The thought did not make Wen feel especially cheerful.

  The orchestra slid easily into another tune. Demaray surfaced gracefully from her curtsey and made an excited comment to Jasper. Wen guessed at the words. Oh, I love this song! One more dance, please! Whatever she said, Jasper smilingly acquiesced. Wen didn’t stay to watch them perform. She already had a fairly good idea of how well they moved together.

  Back through the lower levels of the house, back through the kitchen, back through the gardens and up to the front gate. All quiet, except for the muted strains of music drifting from the house.

  “Is it as pretty inside as it sounds like from here?” asked Amie, one of those who had been stationed at the gate.

  “Prettier,” Wen said. “Go take a look. I’ll keep your post here for a while.”

  That offer being accepted with alacrity, Wen then felt compelled to make the same bargain with the other guards so they could get a chance to see the nobility at play. It was another forty-five minutes before she returned to the house, and enough time had passed that she felt compelled to check on the ballroom again.

  Karryn dancing with Ryne, Serephette dancing with an older gentleman, and Jasper standing with a knot of men, watching one of them tell a story that demanded a great deal of gesturing and explanation. Nothing here to be concerned about.

  Wen headed upstairs to prowl through the corridors leading to the more private parts of the house. Everything fine on the second story; nothing disturbed on the third. She descended the back stairs and paused in the kitchen again to snatch a few more mouthfuls of food. Ginny was busy scrubbing pans, but she grinned at Wen and said, “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Delicious,” Wen replied.

  After polishing off her hasty dinner, Wen stepped into the servants’ hall to check the ballroom from a different vantage point. She had just arrived at the low, discreet door set into the wall when it opened, and Jasper Paladar stepped through.

  “Ah, there you are, Willawendiss,” he said. “Not watching us from the main door this time, but skulking around at the back.”

  The light was low—only a half dozen candles lit this whole snaking length of corridor—and his face was almost entirely in shadow. Still, she would have recognized his deep voice even in utter darkness.

  “Were you looking for me?” she asked. She tried so hard not to sound shy that she sounded almost belligerent instead.

  Nothing in his voice indicated that he felt self-conscious about this unlikely encounter. “Indeed, I was. I’ve caught sight of you a dozen times tonight, but never for long enough to come over and speak.”

  “I’ve been staying on the move,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. How about from your perspective? Any trouble?”

  She shook her head. “Everything is calm. It appears to be a most well-behaved crowd.”

  “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  She laughed. “Of course not! Relieved.”

  “But all that effort wasted.”

  “All that effort is merely what you pay us to do,” she said. “A guard spends far more time training to fight than actually fighting. The more well-prepared we are, the less likely we are to engage in real combat. Anytime your enemy knows you’re strong, he hesitates to attack.”

  “Well, I’m glad we have no enemies here tonight,” he said. He stepped back a little to survey her in the poor light. “Is this one of the new uniforms that Serephette and Karryn were so keen on designing? It looks very smart.”

  Wen raised her arms and did a half-turn from side to side as if to model some of the features of the outfit. It was nice to have him looking at her, even if he was only admiring her clothing. “Yes, all the guards are quite pleased with them. Functional and attractive. It is never a bad thing to instill a sense of pride in your regiment with such small things—easily overlooked, but they mean so much to the soldiers.”

  “I will remember that if, in the future, I have cause to outfit a troop,” he said. He was looking down at her with the same half-smile he had given Demaray, warm and intimate. “But I must confess, I was wondering if you had ever had cause to wear something even more formal than this uniform.”

  Only another uniform, even more striking than this one, she thought. “More formal in what way?”

  “I meant, perhaps, a dress?”

  She grimaced. “I haven’t worn a dress since I left home,” she said.

  “Even for fancy occasions? To attend a wedding, perhaps?”

  Now she laughed. “I’ve only been to a handful of those,” she said, “and everyone else was in uniform as well.”

  “None of your siblings married? Neither Elisa nor Altaverra asked you to stand up for her?”

  Wen was silent a moment, momentarily taken aback by the fact that he had remembered her sisters’ names. But then, she imagined Jasper Paladar remembered most details of that conversation the other night. She certainly did.

  “I’ve made it home for three out of the five weddings my brothers and sisters have had so far,” she said at last. “And I wore my Rider uniform each time. No one, not even my mother, asked me to change into something else. You must not understand me very well if you think this is a persona I put on and take off as the mood strikes me. I’m a soldier. A fighter. All the time.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I am beginning to realize that. Pure to the core.”

  She almost laughed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Pure in essence,” he amended. “Unadulterated.”

  She let that pass, not entirely certain what he meant. He seemed to consider a moment, while, through the half-opened door behind him, the orchestra sidled into another melody, this one rather plaintive and slow. Jasper smiled.

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose a woman can waltz in trousers just as well as a man can. Will you dance with me, Wen?”

  For an instant, she was both speechless and paralyzed. She found her voice at the same time she recovered the power of movement, for she stepped back from him and demanded, “Are you mad?”

  His smile intensified. “I don’t think so, no. Does that mean you won’t?”

  “Lords don’t dance with members of their personal guard.”

  “You’re Karryn’s guard, not mine,” he said.
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br />   “It’s the same thing.”

  He came a step closer and, when she did not pull back, laid his right hand gently on her shoulder. “Here,” he said. “In the hallway. One dance.”

  She forced the words out. “I don’t know how to waltz,” she said.

  He leaned forward to pick up her right hand in his left one. “It’s simple enough,” he said. “A count of three. Step-step-step. Step-step-step. Let me guide you through the motions.”

  He waited, as if for a protest, but she was beyond the power to resist. The gods take pity on her, she wanted to dance with him—feel his hand sliding down from her shoulder to rest on the curve of her waist, pretend she was dressed in floating silks, imagine she was Demaray Coverroe, all fine skin and smiling fairness. It was not something that had even occurred to her to dream about, and yet here she was, suddenly convinced she would die if she did not tread out a few measures of music with this unpredictable man.

  He tugged her a few inches closer and suddenly they were dancing, small, cautious steps this way and that in the close confines of the dark hallway. He was right; the beat was unmistakable, the motions simple enough to pick up with only a little concentration. She was used to mastering physical skills with a minimum of trouble. Dancing wasn’t really that hard, if she wasn’t expected to be showy. Jasper was smiling broadly, apparently pleased at her deftness, and he pulled her into a wider turn, a more energetic sequence of steps. She couldn’t hold back a laugh; the motion of the dance was joyful enough to elicit that kind of response. He laughed back at her, but neither of them said a word. Around them, the music continued its jaunty swirling and Wen mentally counted out the beats. One-two-three-one -two-three-one . . .

  The music ended with a flourish, catching both of them off guard, and they were left standing there, hands still clasped, staring at each other, in a world gone suddenly silent. Well, of course, there was the sound of voices from the ballroom, the more distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen, but in this hallway, between these two people, there was a deep and utter stillness.

  Jasper broke it. “There, you see? Not so difficult at all.”

  “No,” Wen replied, and could not think how to embroider her answer.

  He dropped the hand that was at her waist, but kept his other one wrapped around her fingers, and now he drew this hand against his heart in a courtly gesture. “Thank you, Captain,” he said. “I believe that was my favorite dance of the evening.”

  She could not drop a curtsey, so she bent in a creditable bow. “Thank you, my lord,” she replied. “It was my favorite as well.”

  That made him laugh, and she was able to retrieve her hand without seeming to be in any big hurry to pull it away from him. “It is a pity,” he said, “but I fear I must return to my guests or be branded the most lax and unforgivable of hosts.”

  “And I should be circling the house again, making sure you have attracted no intruders.”

  “Then go,” he said. “We will talk tomorrow.”

  But he made no move to retreat through the door and Wen found it impossible to leave first. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, shut it, then gave a sighing little laugh. “I never know what is calculated to frighten you away,” he said. He kissed his fingers and laid them against her lips. “And that’s even worse than dancing with your guard,” he said.

  She was so shocked she could not move, not to retreat, not to fling herself in his arms. He gave a crooked smile, offered another very slight bow, and pulled the door all the way open. She caught a brief bright glimpse of color and motion before he slipped across the threshold and shut the door behind him.

  Wen was left standing in partial darkness, staring at an afterimage of revelry. Her body was motionless; her face was set like marble. Anyone looking at her might believe she had been bespelled by a mystic whose talent was turning flesh to stone. But she stayed so still merely to contain her inner riot—the clamor in her ears, the thrumming in her bones, the surging of her blood moving in a syncopated waltz of its very own.

  Chapter 26

  RAPPEN MANOR WAS ALL DECKED OUT TO RECEIVE THE royal visitor. Flags from each of the Twelve Houses flew from the turrets of the mansion—which was more properly a fortress, Ariane Rappengrass always being prepared to defend her own. Interspersed among the House flags were two to represent Ghosenhall: the traditional black-and-gold banner and the modern version featuring the red raelynx nestled beside the gold lion. Danalustrous and Brassenthwaite flags had been given slightly greater prominence, indicating that someone had informed Ariane that Kirra was still riding with the entourage.

  “Or that Ariane likes my father and your brother more than she likes the other marlords, which is just as likely,” Kirra remarked as the coach pulled up in front of the splendid main doors of the fortress. “Gods! It will be good to stop traveling!”

  They had been on the road nearly two weeks, though Senneth knew the trip between Gissel Plain and Rappen Manor could be made in less than half that time if the travelers were motivated to keep moving. Some days they had not covered more than ten miles, and most of that on foot as Cammon insisted on walking through some of the smaller towns. She couldn’t imagine what the journey would be like if Amalie herself ever attempted to tour the country. It would take her a year just to make it from Ghosenhall to Forten City.

  “It will be good to see Ariane again,” Senneth remarked.

  In fact, the marlady was waiting for them when Senneth followed Cammon and Kirra out of the coach. Ariane was in her sixties, Senneth supposed, a stern and formidable presence, with her imposing height, strict carriage, square face, and unmistakable intelligence. Just at the moment, her expression was softened by a rare blinding smile.

  “Three of my favorite people in all of Gillengaria, arriving together!” she exclaimed, taking Cammon in a tight hug, then pulling back enough to scan his face. “All is well at the palace? How’s Amalie?”

  “She’s fine and she sends her love,” Cammon replied. “She wants you to come visit soon.”

  “Tell her to have my grandchild and I will be there so much she will banish me back to Rappengrass,” Ariane said.

  Senneth traded a look of amusement with Kirra. The whole country was obsessed with the notion that Amalie should produce an heir as soon as possible—preferably several—but only Ariane would phrase the idea so bluntly.

  “You have plenty of grandchildren,” Cammon said with mock sternness. “You don’t need to be pestering Amalie on the subject.”

  Kirra pushed Cammon aside to bestow her own embrace on Ariane. “Indeed, do you give Darryn this kind of grief? He and Sosie haven’t produced any offspring yet, either, as far as I know.”

  “Darryn’s children, while I would love them greatly, might not be as essential to the well-being of the realm,” Ariane said tartly. “How are you, Kirra? You look beautiful, as always.”

  “I’m a shiftling,” Kirra replied. “I intend to look beautiful forever.”

  Ariane laughed and turned her attention to Senneth. “I must say, domesticity agrees with you,” the marlady observed. “I never thought to see Senneth Brassenthwaite looking so settled.”

  Senneth laughed and hugged her. “Kirra is beautiful but I’m matronly?” she demanded. “What kind of insult is that? I should set your house on fire to teach you that I am not so tame.”

  “I understood that your power was not rebuilt to such an extent that I had anything to fear from you,” Ariane replied.

  Senneth offered her a fiery handshake and Ariane, unafraid of magic, instantly laid her palm in Senneth’s. This was sorcerous flame, pretty but harmless. “I am recovering slowly,” Senneth said. “I don’t know that I will ever regain my full strength, but I could conjure up a fairly impressive blaze if I had a compelling reason.”