by Jean Winter
Lyra stood stock still. Six khari'na were gathered at the two sink and mirror sets. She recognized three from the caravan and even remembered helping one of them with her hair this morning. The hostility irradiating towards her, however, was evident. They stood silent and glaring.
“Uh, eh-excuse me,” she stammered. “I just need to ….” Lyra nearly dove into the first available curtained stall.
Whispers started—accusing whispers. Swindler. Two-faced. Slut. Lyra tried her best to block it all out. She wasn't very successful.
Fortunately, they didn't stay long, and when all was quiet, she emerged to wash up. She ended up swallowing back a lump in her throat a few times as she scrubbed. Really, was a simple, friendly smile or accepting gesture too much to ask?
Upon entering the dining room again, Lyra caught sight of J'Kor across the way, in profile, leaning casually against a marble column, one foot propped against the smooth, carved surface, and engaged in flipping a large coin rather expertly back and forth between the knuckles of one hand. Then, his hand rotated a certain way and the coin suddenly disappeared into thin air. Oh! J'Kor looked up.
He quickly straightened when he saw her, readjusting the lay of his jacket, a grin lighting up his face. Lyra clenched her teeth and ducked her head, tugging at her glove irksomely as she went to him.
“Heavenly Father,” she muttered, “you have got a sick sense of humor. The understanding, friendly face I want is not supposed to be this slave-owning, emotionally complicating, ex-examination officer with whom I will be forced to share a bed tonight.”
J'Kor read her body language. “Did something happen?”
“Oh,” Lyra tried to sound more exasperated than hurt, “I got a less than warm and fuzzy reception from a few other khari'na. That's all.”
Impulsively he reached for her hand. “Oh. I am sorry about that, but I do no' suppose one can expect much from a bunch o' ignorant, unrefined females who have no' been brought up in the ways o' proper civility.”
Lyra huffed darkly. “Forgive me, my lord, for my naive insolence, but one of your 'refined' ladies gave me no better compliment, either.”
“Oh.” Nonplussed, J'Kor dropped her hand. “Well, I hope you do no' mind that I took the liberty o' ordering one o' my favorite dishes for you. And I thought while we waited, the both o' us might avoid more annoying interruptions … if we were together on the dance floor.”
His intonation indicated that it would be okay for her to decline, but honestly, despite her aching arches and knowing that dancing would require being close to him, Lyra decided it was the lesser of two evils. She couldn't stand the thought of sitting at that table again with nothing to do but graciously endure more ogling faces.
“Er, J'Kor, is it?” A heavyset lord with a prominently styled mustache bowed formally and introduced himself as Lord Candorwyt, an associate of Highwurt Import Enterprises. Lyra blinked at the business name. That was Maehan's first lord's family.
“I am terribly sorry to interrupt you on a pleasurable night such as this to talk business, but I saw you here and could no' resist a quick consult.” Candorwyt waited for J'Kor's nod to proceed. “Well, you see, Highwurt Enterprises is wishing me to expand a small sister company devoted to the manufacture o' domestic spun fabrics. We are trying to finalize some decisions in the next few days, in fact, regarding our choice o' wool suppliers.”
“My Lord Candorwyt, I would be happy to meet with you this week to discuss a possible business contract, if that is what you are implying.” J'Kor sounded strangely enthused.
“Well, my lord, I would very much prefer to speak to you right now, so I have something to take to the board in the morning. We will be reviewing contract options at that time, you see.”
It became clear. If J'Kor wanted a chance to compete for Highwurt Enterprises' business, he must vie for his bid here on the spot while given the chance.
“I see.” J'Kor pursed his lips. Then he said, “Return to our table, 'Na Lyra, while I discuss some business with this gentleman.” He squeezed her hand briefly before letting it go, but the condescending attitude was evident.
Coolly, Lyra curtsied—“Immediately, my lord.”—and walked quickly away. Yeah. Lowly khar.
Finding their table empty, Lyra sat by herself to the strains of the orchestra playing a stately march. A lot of couples were on the dance floor. They skipped and twirled in a regal, coordinated promenade, the men and women facing each other in two long lines. Lyra eventually spotted Mejhisk paired with a particularly graceful companion, moving together in perfect tandem. His poise and finesse were impressive.
The last chord resounded. Appreciative applause followed and Mejhisk flirtatiously kissed the hand of his dance partner. She appeared to be enjoying his attentions greatly. He wrapped an arm round her waist and they spoke quietly together in smiles and giggles as they waited for the orchestra to strike up their bows again.
The next selection was a flowing waltz that Lyra recognized from her colony's extremely humble collection of coilspring recordings that the children delighted in playing on their dilapidated, hand-cranked player. The first of three movements.
“May I have this dance?” a congested, stuffy voice said.
A narrow-hipped, slim lord with wiry, dirt brown hair stood before Lyra, holding out a hand.
“I—” Was she allowed to turn down a lord's request to dance? Was it okay to dance with anyone other than her owner? The man waited confidently and expectantly, like she should be honored for the invitation. Lyra decided it must be her place to oblige. Unfortunately. “Why yes, my lord. Thank you.”
As he led her proudly onto the dance floor, Lyra prayed in gratitude that she was at least fairly familiar with this dance. The lord didn't bother to introduce himself, but just took her—a little too tightly—at the waist, and danced her around the floor in a circuitous manner. She tried to smile and anticipate his blunt physical cues while he just looked down his nose at her, smiling arrogantly back.
About the time they had circled the floor once, a gentleman cut in and Lyra was soon twirling about under the chandelier in the arms of a husky lord with very dark, dry skin. He held her more gently and even had the courtesy to give his name, but Lyra soon felt his hand slithering down the small of her back. Again, they only got once around the floor before she was passed off to a third lord asking for a spin. This one held her very close and Lyra feared it was only a matter of time before someone's foot got stepped on.
A fourth lord cut in—very tall, aging, but eager to have his turn and impress her with his footwork. As he whirled her energetically through the spaces between couples, Lyra caught a glimpse of Mejhisk dancing with his partner nearby. On her next spin she managed to catch his attention and give an imploring look. Help!
The final grand measures of the “Waltz of the Leaves” played. Lyra's partner dipped her nearly to the floor, and in that veritable horizontal position where there was a real possibility that the guy might lose his balance, Lyra saw Mejhisk give his partner a parting bow, one concerned eye on her. The man managed to muscle her back up (barely).
Lyra, a little dizzy from the exertion, stress, and relief at not having ended up on the floor with a Caldreen'n socialite on top of her, swiftly broke from his grasp to offer a curtsy and thank you. Mejhisk was on his way. With a curt, farewell smile, Lyra spun to meet him—and collided with a starched, white, buttoned collar suddenly standing in her path. Her hands instinctively flew up to cushion the blow and horror flooded through her when she realized she had inadvertently grabbed hold of the wide, red sash running diagonally across the regal chest on which it hung.
“May I have the pleasure,” a resonant voice with impeccable diction intoned, “o' taking the next turn with you?”
Lyra's eyes slowly lifted to the strong but well-proportioned features of the government official who had been watching her in the holding room. Oh stars, the politician!
“I am so sorry, my lord!” Lyra sputtered, “I-I didn't se
e you there.”
Her fingers released his insignia like red, hot coals, but she couldn't pull away. He had caught her at the waist so she wouldn't fall and as yet, had not loosed his hold. A desperate glance toward Mejhisk proved disappointing. He had halted, his hands going to his pockets, his features drawn up in an apologetic grimace.
What? Was there some first come, first served rule he had to follow?
The music began again.
Without waiting for any actual verbal answer, the lord smoothly lifted Lyra's right arm to his shoulder in formal dance position. The second movement, “The Flower's Blush,” was slower. Romantic. He danced her in a wide figure-eight pattern around and through the other couples, holding her respectfully. It was obvious the man was quite skilled in leading and he allowed her a minute to become comfortable with his cues before he spoke again.
“Is this your first time visiting our fair city?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And may I inquire o' your first impressions?” He watched her with deep blue eyes. His short, thick, black hair had a slight wave to it and he smelled of fresh laundering with a hint of clean shoe polish.
“It is magnificent, my lord,” Lyra admitted, although she wasn't about to say anything negative anyway, “—a marvel of architectural ingenuity and planning.”
He directed her in a slow twirl before resuming their normal step pattern. “Indeed,” he agreed. “Has the food agreed with you, as well?”
“I really cannot answer that, my lord. I only arrived with the caravan yesterday and have not had opportunity yet to sample authentic Caldreen'n City fare.”
“Well then, may I suggest you try the hookgill in rum butter sauce at your first opportunity. It is a noteworthy house special o' The Vishke, and my personal favorite.” He smiled cordially with pleasant, full lips above a trimmed goatee.
“I will be sure to remember that thoughtful suggestion. Thank you.”
There was a moment of silence, watching her, before he continued. “So, Lyra o' Flantilly,” he said. What? He knew her name? “That was quite a spectacle on the stage today with the boiler steam.” Oh no, not that again! “An interesting coincidence I presume.”
Oh.
“Well, yes, my lord, it certainly was. The escort and I were prepared to wait for it to clear, but the technician told us to go ahead. I feared it was bothering people.”
“Hmm,” he nodded in understanding. “I would like to apologize for the uncouth behavior o' my fellow citizen, Lord Malig'ahnt, by the way. I am afraid he has a bit o' a temper. Although, from what I could see, it seemed he had more to fear than you.” Under his inquisitive gaze Lyra just shrugged her shoulders innocently and remained silent. He went on, “I sincerely hope that his treatment o' you has no', in effect, brought your condemnation upon the rest o' the many good lords here.”
“Certainly not, my lord.” Lyra said, taken aback by his consideration. “I have already been privileged to make acquaintance with several decent people of this city who have treated me with kindness.”
“That is good.” He smiled again. “I imagine your contact with citizens has been severely limited in the isolation o' your last household with the family … Pruk'wist, was it?”
Lyra faltered in her step at the mention of the fake family name Maehan had written in her file. He had checked up on her!
Well, until he gave some indication that he knew no such family existed, she supposed she ought to maintain the fabrication. “Yes. They appreciated the isolation and privacy of the foothills beyond the town. They were rather eccentric at times.” She smiled becomingly.
Okay, he's had his few minutes, now would be a great time for another cut-in.
Lyra quickly glanced around in hopes of seeing Mejhisk, or even another lord, looking like they were preparing to ask for her. Unfortunately, she beheld no such intending body.
“Were you born and raised in Flantilly? I must admit, I am having trouble placing a region to your accent.”
“No, my lord. I grew up quite remotely out of the way of any other sizable town. We farmed and harvested natural resources from the land, but made trips into Flantilly several times a year for supplies we could not make or grow ourselves.”
The names of the nearest towns had frequently changed throughout her life, but the last several years spent within two days' walking distance of Flantilly had allowed her some familiarity with vendors in the market district—should he ask questions to verify her claim. She even knew several of them by name and occasionally made small talk with a couple of the more friendly ones, at times, while things were being loaded.
“Yet, your speech indicates at least some degree o' formal education,” he stated.
“I had good parents who thought it prudent to home-educate their daughter from a young age.”
“Ah, it sounds like you were lucky to be raised among some forward thinkers.” He regarded her with increased interest. Then his lips pressed together as if in concentration. “And, what was the name o' your remote, authorized settlement?”
Lyra's heart thumped harder in her chest. Someone cut in NOW!
“Oh, I am sure you have never heard of it, my lord. A tiny, dump of a place, really. We were hardly worth the Republic's notice—”
“Try me, 'Na Lyra,” he encouraged. “It is part o' my work to stay abreast o' all our nation's collateral hamlets and outposts.”
The last strains of the waltz sounded in Lyra's ears and she breathed a nearly audible sigh of relief. Thank you, Father!
She reclaimed her hands as quickly as politely possible. “Thank you, my lord, for the dance,” she said, speaking fast. “It was very nice to meet you. I am afraid we shall have to continue our conversation another time as I believe I have a friend who is waiting for me now. Good moonrise, my lord.”
She curtsied low and Lyra barely gave the man opportunity to bow in return before she rushed from him in desperate search of Mejhisk—her only “friend” in this whole place. He was nearby, waiting for her, and she practically threw herself into his arms before anyone else could get in the way.
“Ask me to dance the third movement, now,” she commanded.
Mejhisk quickly obliged and the orchestra began again.
“'Na Lyra, you need no' command me so urgently,” he said playfully as he led her in a line away from the floor's perimeter. “No' in a lifetime, could I resist the advances o' a beautiful woman such as yourself appearing so utterly joyous to fly into my arms.”
Lyra ignored his flirting while she took a few moments to let her blood pressure stabilize. Then she lifted an assertive chin. “Why didn't you cut in to let me get away from that last man sooner? Everyone else was doing it before!”
He laughed, gazing on her in affection. “'Na Lyra, one simply does no' 'cut in' on the Supreme Chancellor's son.”
A shudder swept through her from head to toe and Mejhisk's grip on her firmed up in response.
“Ho, there. Stay with me, little lady,” he joked.
THAT was Devor D'Pendul? The very devil's son?
The man still stood in nearly the same place, conversing with a couple gentlemen. He glanced her way. Lyra quickly took to staring at Mejhisk's chest.
“What are you so worried about?” Mejhisk said. “He was polite to you, was he no'?”
“Yes. Yes, he was.” Lyra shook her head to clear it. “I just … didn't know,” she finished lamely.
Should she be worried that a man of such power and influence had taken a personal interest in her?
Yes!
She wouldn't even kid herself for a second that he didn't already know that the Pruk'wist name was nonexistent. That was probably why he was so intent on discovering her roots. Lyra shook her head again—this time in agitation. If she was the kind to use foul language, she would have uttered a curse right then.
Mejhisk suddenly spun her out then pulled her back in close for a long, romantic dip. “So, what happened to Kade, by the way? He should be the one making
love to you on the dance floor. It is no' like him to leave his lady alone for so long.” They continued dancing.
“Oh, we were going to dance, but then some guy came along wanting to talk business.”
“Did you happen to hear what this 'business' was regarding?”
“Something about a contract for wool with Highwurt Enterprises. Does Lord J'Kor do ranching on the side?” She still hardly knew anything about him.
“Ah,” Mejhisk said, like he finally understood. “Well, aye, but I will let him tell you all about his boring personal life, himself.” He winked. Then, “I think by the time this suite is over our orders should be ready. Have you worked up a hearty appetite?”
“I wish to have my turn with the khar, my lord,” an oily voice requested.
Lyra looked into a pair of thickly lidded eyes surrounded by pasty white skin, dark, thinning hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a greasy smile. She gripped Mejhisk's hand harder, but, he, with reserve, passed her off to the newcomer. Argh! Stupid social conventions!
“I will see you at the table immediately after,” he told her, encouragement written on his face.
Lyra shot fierce daggers back before turning to greet her new partner with a felicitous smile. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Khari'na,” the lord returned simply, raspingly. He pulled her way too close and slowed their steps completely out of tempo. Holding her smack dab in the middle of the crowded dance floor, his hand began to make rubbing motions up and down her spine. The presence of alcohol was readily apparent on his breath just inches from her face.
“Did my lord make the auction today?” Lyra said, trying for some distracting small talk and desperately hoping for another quick cut-in.
“Aye. I bid on you for a little while until the price got too high.” His gaze blatantly dropped to the loose gathers of fabric at her breast.
Lyra's temperature rose. “I am flattered. Did my lord come away with a different satisfying purchase instead?”
His mental undressing of her body continued. “No. I will be traveling home alone tonight.”