A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  A bevy of servants, all wearing uniforms of pure white, moved unobtrusively through the crowd, holding carved gold platters aloft. Some of them passed what looked like small treats, barely a bite each. Those servants were largely waved off by gloved or glittering hands as they passed. Most of the servants offered flutes of golden, shimmering champagne. Those servants were the ones hailed with a careless wave or a sharp snap of soft fingers.

  In the far corner, a ten-piece symphony played a haunting, beautiful melody that carried up to Samiris like dandelion fluff on the wind.

  “The Lady Samiris Vanover Orellana,” the crier called out above the crowd, and Samiris’ heart clenched.

  She looked at the doughy little man, who was a full head shorter than herself, and through a jaw clenched so hard she thought it might break, said, “It’s just Orellana.”

  “Par.. pardon me, my lady?” he stuttered.

  Samiris was aware of the line behind her, of the milling crowd below, but she did not budge from her position at the top of the dais.

  “My name is Samiris Orellana,” she muttered, in a low, dangerous tone.

  “But my lady, it says right here, that your mother was Alrive Vanover,” he said, offering up the rolled parchment for her inspection.

  “My mother gave up the Vanover name when she married my father,” Samiris said, her eyes narrowed. “It is just Orellana, now.”

  The Vanovers had abandoned her mother many years ago. Samiris would not claim them now.

  “It is tradition, you see, to announce both the maternal and paternal sides of a lady’s family,” he said, still apologetic, still holding out the scroll for her perusal.

  “You announce me properly, or I shall do it myself,” Samiris hissed.

  From the lift of her chin, and the set of her shoulders, the cryer must have known she meant it.

  “The Lady Samiris Orellana,” he called, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than he had the first time.

  Samiris stepped carefully down the stairs as gracefully as she could manage with all the skirts that flowed around her legs. Trying to walk with all these layers reminded her of fishing in the marshes of the lowlands. Her skirts were like the seaweed that entangled her limbs, her bejeweled heels the squelching mud that tried to capture her feet with every step.

  Now that Samiris was on the ground floor, she could smell the delicate fog of perfume that hung over the throng. Men in dress breeches and formal coats mingled with the ladies, each of whom was a riot of wealth and color. Samiris could not believe the elaborate width of some of the gowns.

  Her outfit, which had seemed scandalously overwrought in the seclusion of her bedroom, now paled in comparison to the finery worn by the women who studiously ignored her front yet whispered behind her back. Samiris was a daisy in a grouping of roses, a hillside poppy thrust into a vase of rare orchids. She set her jaw and took a deep breath.

  “That was a fascinating point to make,” Cyra murmured to Samiris when she had finally navigated the stairway.

  “Small victories,” Samiris said, capturing a glass of champagne from a waiter who skimmed by, “are all we can ever win, here.”

  “Don’t be so certain about that,” Cyra murmured, in a tone that made Samiris turn.

  But before she could more than open her mouth to ask for an explanation, Narcise was upon them, with Ladonna in tow.

  “I suppose you think that was very clever of you,” Narcise snapped, “to be introduced twice.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Samiris said, scanning the room to avoid eye-contact with Narcise. “I was only properly introduced once, just the same as everyone else.”

  “Like any of us believe that,” she seethed. “In this game, everyone is looking for a leg up, everyone is looking to stand out. And any little thing could make the difference.”

  “Who ever told you that this was a game?” Samiris said, her eyebrows drawing together to form a crinkle between them.

  Narcise’s face reddened further, but she did not reply.

  “And if it is a game,” Samiris continued, “you are welcome to it. I have no wish to play.”

  Narcise sneered at Samiris and Cyra in turn. “Don’t try and make a fool of me. We are all here for the same reason.”

  “Oh, I doubt that very much,” Cyra murmured to herself, so quietly that Samiris barely heard.

  But Narcise had said what she had come to say, and she swept off in a flurry of silk and scowls, Ladonna at her side.

  Lady Elise bustled over. “I’m to introduce you to some important people,” she said, her chest heaving with the responsibility. “Just try and do your best. If in doubt, just smile and nod. And for goodness sakes, don’t embarrass me.”

  She herded them over to a small group of people who had oriented themselves around a short, mustached man wearing a velvet dinner suit the color of an overripe plum.

  “Lady Samiris, Lady Cyra,” Lady Elise intoned in a nasal voice, nodding to the man in the suit. “May I present the Marquess of Brizelle, Carlin Montberg.”

  “Please,” he said, waving a hand weighed down by a gaudy ring on each finger. “That is too long. You may call me Marquess. I will answer to that.”

  Samiris smiled and nodded.

  “Are you enjoying your time at court, Lady Samiris?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” It was the only polite thing to say, but Samiris fidgeted under the weight of the lie.

  “And why wouldn’t you?” he simpered, the ends of his waxed mustache waggling with every syllable. “Our court is the loveliest place to be. We have the very best wine, the very best music, and the most beautiful women in the world.” After a moment he added, “Yourself included of course.”

  Samiris nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment, false as it may be.

  “This is my favorite part of the season,” he said, gesturing with his goblet at the people in attendance. “You ladies are lucky that you get to witness it.”

  “Lucky?” Samiris couldn’t help but blurt.

  Lady Elise frowned at the outburst, but the Marquess of Brizelle didn’t seem to notice Samiris’ tone.

  “Why, the Crown Prince’s Championship itself is a spectacle. Added to the balls, dinners and exhibitions that you will be a part of, I would consider yourself very lucky indeed.”

  “You do realize that at the end of every Choosing season, a lady dies, right?” Samiris clenched the stem of her champagne glass so hard she thought it might crack.

  Cyra took a small step back from Samiris’ side.

  “Well, that is unpleasant, yes...” The Marquess’ voice and expression had cooled considerably, and he would no longer meet her eyes, instead gazing past her face at the kaleidoscope of colors beyond her.

  “Unpleasant,” Samiris repeated, her voice flat, ignoring the nonverbal dismissal that the Marquess of Brizelle had just given her.

  “Lady Samiris, perhaps you should find some refreshments,” Lady Elise said, nervously. “You look a little pale.”

  Samiris frowned at the Marquess, although he seemed to feel that she was no longer worth his notice. After a tense moment, she left Cyra with Lady Elise and the Marquess and strode over to one of the tables so heavily laden with appetizers that she was surprised it hadn’t buckled under the strain. She heard Lady Elise making profuse, nearly hysterical apologies for her to the Marquess as she went.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Artem asked from her elbow.

  Samiris had just stuffed an entire eclair into her mouth, so it took a second for her to recover enough to answer.

  “No,” she said, although her sharp reply was somewhat muffled and softened by pastry and whipped cream.

  “I see you’ve met the Marquess of Brizelle,” Artem said, chuckling as he watched Lady Elise flutter around the man across the room as if she were a bee and he a flower.
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  “I have,” Samiris said coldly, her eyes narrowing again at the Marquess.

  “I can also see that you made an impression on each other. What is your opinion of the man?”

  “He’s a pompous jerk, and if he likes the Choosing so much, he should volunteer to stand at the end and profess his love for the Crown Prince himself.”

  “I agree,” Artem said smoothly, taking a sip of his champagne. “He is one who had very little before the curse took hold. But with skillful maneuvering and by taking advantage of the desperate less fortunate, he has increased his holdings tenfold.”

  “No wonder he wasn’t sad that a lady dies every year.”

  “Sad? The curse is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

  Samiris gaped at him. “How can you say that? How can anyone think that?”

  Artem’s dark eyes met hers. “The workings of a court, of a nation, are varied and complex. But the one thing that you can count on is that for every good, generous person out there, there are at least two that only care about themselves. The Marquess is such a man.”

  “Then why allow him at court at all?”

  “If we kicked out everyone whose methods or motives strayed from our own, this would be a very empty palace.”

  “But he took advantage of people,” she protested. “You said so yourself.”

  “And he broke no laws in doing so, unfortunately.” Artem’s jaw clenched. “But I am watching him carefully. The second he crosses that line, I’ll see him hang.”

  Samiris blinked in surprise at the vehemence of his words.

  Artem smiled ruefully at her. “Did I offend your delicate sensibilities?”

  “I was actually thinking that’s the first thing you said that I completely agree with.”

  “Happy to finally please you, Samiris.”

  “For the moment. Don’t get used to the feeling,” she grumbled.

  He chuckled.

  Samiris’ eyes were on the grouping around the Marquess again. Narcise and Ladonna had joined them. Narcise wore a lilac-colored dress the width of a small wagon with thousands upon thousands of tiny white bows upon it, an elaborate layered cake shaped hat upon her head.

  Ladonna stood next to her, a veritable wall of pale pink tulle roses. Her hat was a terra cotta clay pot with real roses growing out the top. Samiris could not imagine how much a hat like that weighed, and as she watched, Ladonna winced a little. Samiris was surprised to see that Cyra was smiling at them and joining in the conversation. Thinking again of Cyra’s cold behavior toward her this morning, she frowned.

  “Samiris?” Artem said.

  She turned and blinked. “Yes?”

  He smiled. “You didn’t even hear me, did you?” The idea seemed to amuse him.

  “No, sorry. My thoughts were elsewhere.”

  “That answers my question, then. I asked if you would forgive me for leaving you alone. The Crown Prince is arriving.”

  “Yes, fine,” Samiris said, waving her hand, distracted. “Enjoy your evening.”

  Artem chuckled. Samiris barely noticed as he gave a slight bow before making his way through the crowd toward the Crown Prince and his retinue on the dais.

  Why had Cyra been so distant since they arrived?

  Samiris sipped her champagne and watched the parade of overdone, ridiculous outfits silently. She barely noticed the women themselves. They faded in comparison to their dresses and hats. There was a grey dress edged in white feathers with a hat of a huge stuffed white chicken sitting on a nest of ribbons. There was a yellow dress, edged in orange and red, with a hat that looked like the sun. There was a green dress with a birdcage hat filled to overflowing with flowers.

  Samiris giggled at one point when a plate of preserved fish, glassy eyes and mouths gaping, glided by on a woman’s head. Then her aching neck reminded her that she had a sailing ship attached to hers and she sobered immediately.

  Cyra glided over and stood beside Samiris. They were close enough to speak, but Samiris noticed that Cyra had left an arm’s length between them. If anyone looked across the room at them, it wouldn’t appear that they were standing together.

  “When did this hat thing start?” Samiris said, trying to banish the awkwardness that lingered between them. “Who started this horrific trend?”

  “Apparently the Duchesses Trent and Gilford began a sort of a hat battle twenty years ago, and it stuck.”

  “Twenty years?” Samiris hissed. “You think the Empress would have put a stop to it long ago. I would have, if I had any power.”

  “The Empress and her court look like they quite enjoy the tradition,” Cyra said serenely, nodding to a cluster of women toward the front of the room.

  The Empress was wearing a gold gown. The way it shimmered in the candlelight, it appeared as if her dress might be made out of tiny gold links. On her head was a massive arrangement of golden fruit upon a platter.

  Lady Evanora was no less impressive in a huge white gown with an enormous bouquet of white roses upon her head. She, at least, managed to look as if she were wearing her gown instead of the other way around. As Samiris watched, Lady Evanora turned her head sharply. Samiris followed her gaze to the Crown Prince. He was smiling, Artem at his side.

  “They don’t have to wear hats,” Samiris grumbled to Cyra, frowning at the men.

  “They’re men,” Cyra said blandly. “Rules usually suit the ones who write them.”

  Artem glanced up and met Samiris’ gaze. He gave her an approving nod, which only made Samiris frown deeper. She did not know what it was about him, but his acceptance rankled her, made her feel like she was an obliging ox fit with a constraining yoke. Samiris wasn’t used to conforming to others’ expectations, and she found she disliked the feeling. Why was she wearing this stupid hat that made her neck ache, anyways? Because everyone else here was? She released a disgruntled sigh.

  Before she could further evaluate her emotions, someone rang a bell, and the crowd turned toward the table all together. It reminded Samiris of a crowd of pigs when the farmer rattled the slop bucket.

  “Come on,” Cyra said. “I found our spots earlier.”

  Very carefully keeping her hat level, she followed Cyra. They were down at the end, surrounded by lesser soldiers and dour matrons, although Cyra was two spots nearer to the center of the table than Samiris was. The table was sumptuous, and the food hadn’t been served yet. A black silk tablecloth was offset with hundreds of thin silver candlesticks, each holding a slender taper that was lit. Low silver bowls cascaded with navy blue sprays of flowers, white roses, and silver-leafed lambs ear.

  Even with the grandeur before her, Samiris found the dining setup ridiculous. The ladies’ chairs had to be set with three feet of space on either side to accommodate their exaggerated crinoline hips, and with their massive hats perched precariously on their heads, they could not lean to the side to hear what their dinner companions were saying. This produced a very loud dinner table, as everyone tried to speak at a volume that their neighbor could hear.

  The first course was an amuse bouche of a prawn artfully arranged atop a salted cracker and surrounded by curly greens. It was barely a mouthful, but it was fresh and lovely, and tasted of the sea. The second course was red carrot soup.

  Samiris looked at the bowl in front of her and frowned. The porcelain bowl had a huge white rim decorated with delicate gold leaves and flowers. The depression that held the actual soup was no more than three inches across and two inches deep.

  No wonder these women eat dinner before dinner, Samiris thought.

  Samiris had taken a spoonful of the carrot concoction up to her mouth when she became distracted by the intense stare that Lady Evanora was shooting Artem, further down the table. Samiris’ spoon listed, and a few drops of red soup fell onto her light blue bodice. Samiris gasped silently, and without thinking, bent h
er head to assess the damage.

  Which would have been fine, except for the hat.

  The massive ship pitched forward as if it were in a violent storm upon the sea, carrying Samiris’ head with it. With a huge effort, Samiris jerked her head back to keep from lighting her feathered ship sails in the candles or face-planting in her soup. It was an unfortunate overcorrection that sent her head reeling backward, slamming her back into the seat. The momentum was too much for the delicate chair, and Samiris tilted back. For a single, teetering moment, while balancing on two chair legs, her arms outstretched, Samiris thought she would be able to correct the motion.

  But the legs of the chair wobbled, then Samiris was tilting over, her legs flying up overhead in a flurry of tulle. The smack of the chair back against the marble floor, as loud as a thunder clap, jolted the air from her lungs in an audible ‘whoosh’. There was a collective gasp, then there was silence.

  Samiris was in the dark; her face was being smothered by one of her many underskirts. But she still heard the first tittering laugh break the shocked silence like the first bird at daybreak. Samiris recognized that cackle. It was Narcise.

  Within moments, others joined in. Samiris felt strong hands at her elbows, then her skirt was smoothed down off her face. Artem’s concerned face leaned over her. He pulled her up gently with one hand, the other hand supporting the monstrous hat that had caused the disaster in the first place.

  The laughter at the table had reached a rolling boil now, and Samiris felt her cheeks redden. She caught a glimpse of Cyra’s horrified expression, of the mean amusement on several other faces. She smoothed down her skirts.

  “Do you feel well enough to return to dinner?” Artem murmured.

  “I don’t think so,” Samiris said, averting her eyes from his gaze.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Artem took her elbow and led her out of the dining hall.