Delia of Vallia (11 page)

“There is no need for this, Thalmi. I know what you imply. My family. Yes, well... My son Drak will be the emperor. That is arranged. And then, my dear, I shall be free to follow my own inclinations. I welcome the day.”

“If I did not know you better, I would call this ingratitude and you an ingrate.”

“If I am, then I am.”

“Who else do you see — do you
feel
— to be right?”

“That is not for me to say.”

“Everyone else will have their say — and you will, too.”

“Probably.” And Delia laughed.

“But, sister, you are in error.” Thalmi waggled her forefinger — the forefinger of her right hand. The left hand clutched a goblet brimming with a first quality Gremivoh. “Just because you shuffle off the position of empress — no doubt your son Drak will marry Queen Lush in due time—”

“I think not.” Delia spoke sharply, very stiff.

“No? Well, no matter. The point is, whether you are empress or not has no bearing on your duty with the SoR. And, you know that well!”

“That is what I have believed for a long time. Part of me still believes. But I have changed. When I was a girl the idea of being the empress escaped me, for everyone talked of the emperor my father, and of the emperor my grandfather. My mother — we used to call her Lela, out of love — was never, in my eyes at least, an empress. And I truly do not think she ever thought of herself as one. She married my father out of mutual love and was content to be with him. He did not really recover from her death.”

Delia would not go on to say that she had felt the joy so strange to herself that her father had, at the last, found a new affection from Queen Lushfymi of Lome. It was because of Queen Lush’s genuine love for the emperor that Delia did not think the ambitious queen could truly love Drak. Anyway, it was planned for Drak to marry Silda, Seg’s daughter. That would take careful thought and preparation, by Vox!

Again, she did not care to mention that Vomanus, her half-brother, had been born of her mother’s first marriage. There were too many worries and too many tangles. If it boiled down to being mistress of the SoR and nothing else, then she would accept nomination leading to almost certain election. Otherwise, she wanted only to be with her husband, and let the SoR manage without her for a little time.

She rubbed her right hand along her left arm, up from the wrist to the elbow, and back, in a smoothing and soothing rhythm of which she was barely conscious. Thalmi noticed, and smiled again, her teeth white.

“You do not practice enough.”

“I suppose you will cite that as another dereliction of my duty!”

“I could.” Thalmi sipped her wine and — lo! — the glass was empty. She reached out her hand for another goblet. “It is all one. You keep your Claw here. Have you no others at home?”

With a bitterness that shocked herself, Delia burst out: “Home? What I kept of my own possessions at my home — at my home! — is lost, gone, destroyed. I start again, and a revolution or a war or damned reiving flutsmen fly in and burn and steal! I had a Claw in its balass box in the palace at Vondium. Where it is now Opaz alone knows.”

“Drink some wine.” The pro-marshal proffered a glass.

“Very well.” Delia understood she had overreacted. But every time she thought of the way the homes over which she had slaved had been despoiled it made her blood rise up and demand a safety valve, as the headwaters of a dammed lake used the safety-valve overspill. “At least, my home in Djanguraj is still unspoiled.”

“And Strombor—”

“I have some ling furs there, soft and long and silky white, that are tatty now and need attention. I would not like to see those white ling furs stolen.”

“Possessions are chained weights about our characters.”

“You quote and it is true. But sometimes I know I have changed from the girl who accepted everything the SoR taught.”

“I believe it, to my sorrow.”

“If you remain true to me, I shall remain true to you.”

“Never think otherwise.”

Delia sipped her wine. “Then take from me the gift you and others are so eager to press upon me.” She lifted her left hand, still tingling from that reflexive massage, and waved. “And here comes Wilma so I suppose she will call the Conclave now.”

With the inevitability of their natures there ensued a certain amount of jockeying for positions as the women entered the Conclave Chamber, a certain amount of giggling and stern rejoinders, of quick whispers, and of meaningful glances. The majority maintained a dignified mien. They had work to do and they meant to do it and have done with it.

Thinking back uneasily to those last few exchanges with the pro-marshal at the bar, Delia wished, now, that she had not made so obvious a point about the “remaining true” business. If you had to keep on proclaiming undying friendship then one might suspect that the friendship was in need of continual sustenance. She had made many friends in the outside world and her husband’s blade comrades were her blade comrades. Every now and again some little vow, some small indication of the depths of feelings that existed between them might be in order.

Taking her seat in the comfortable but plainly furnished chamber, Delia rubbed her wrist and waggled the fingers up and down. No doubt about it. She was out of practice. The knack of using the Claw was taught at Lancival at an early age and the skill multiplied over the years of continual practice. This applied to most other weapons, of course — most, not all.

Some twenty women gathered in the Conclave Chamber. Those who had made their marks with Delia on her arrival, the various officers of the Order, and short-sighted Nandi ti Rondasmot who wrote down an account of what was said, they sat to their task each in her own individual fashion. Most took the duty seriously; some were conscious of their superiority; some wanted to have the thing over and done with and others wished to go on talking all night.

Rosala, with two novices there to help her unobtrusively, gave her report on the mistress. No change.

“Thank you, Rosala. We are all grateful for your devoted care of the mistress. Now you may leave.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And,” added the Lady Almoner, “make sure you get a good night’s rest, Rosala!”

A number of items on the agenda demanded attention. Of all the women there, Delia fancied that she alone experienced this unwelcome sense of distancing. Of course, what they did here and what was decided was of vital importance. The Sisters of the Rose wielded power. But, all the same, Delia was overwhelmingly conscious of her responsibilities in the outer world.

Natilma na Stafoing in her robust way was saying: “And so we must deal with these Sisters of the Whip. Deal with them harshly as they deserve.”

Lansi ti High Ochrun pushed her copper hair back from her forehead. Softly, she said, “We refer to these Whip women freely and openly, here in Conclave and in Lancival. Might not it be wiser to treat them in the same way we treat that
other
Order, whose name we do not use openly?”

Everyone knew which Order Lansi referred to.

A number of sororities possessed names beginning with S: Samphron, the Sword, Silence, Sensibility, so that their abbreviations took notice of this fact. The Order to which Lansi referred considered themselves a cut above the rest. The old antagonism remained, ridiculous though it was, like two bitches fighting over the same bone in a dusty village street. The rivalries between male Orders were, often, of the same intensity.

This rival sorority had chosen to saddle itself with the title of The Grand Ladies Order of Gratitude. Out of disrespect and mirth, the SoR sometimes called this
other
Order the Grand Ladies. They were, of course, well aware that the GLOG meant that the Order, not the Ladies, were Grand. The GLOG habitually wore green leathers, were stronger in the north of the country — although that in normal times had no significance — and had done good work for the poor and sick, and had fought against the invaders of Vallia. They maintained what was probably a stronger force of Battle Maidens, Jikai Vuvushis, than the Sisters of the Rose. They did not use the Claw but were cunning with the Whip.

Delia’s eyes closed. She opened them with a jolt of surprise. The women talked on around her. More than one sister had suggested that they referred to the GLOG euphemistically as the
other
Order because they were frightened of them and their influence. If you don’t say his name the bogey can’t get you.

In her clear voice, she said: “Let us treat the Sisters of the Whip as just another Order. Are they then so fearsome?”

As she listened to the various answers, reasoned, hot-tempered, cautious, her eyelids dropped down.

As a small girl learning about the Grand Ladies, she had said, “Who are they grateful to?” and had been surprised at the ladylike bellows of laughter from her tutors at the sally.

Rose Mandeling had said, beaming, “Oh, they are grateful to Opaz, of course. But it is truer to say they are grateful
for
all their worldly possessions and positions.”

Delia managed to open her eyes. The chamber swam in a blue haze. She was tired — and as a hairy graint of a clansman was in the habit of saying: “Tiredness is a sin.”

Well, she was sinning like mad right now, and unable to do a single thing about it.

Some items of the agenda were dealt with. Delia sat, exhausted, eyes closed most of the time, joining in when she could. Nothing was decided about the Sisters of the Whip, about the mistress, even about the new curtains for the refectory.

When, at last, the Lady Almoner brought the meeting to a close, everyone felt restless with dissatisfaction. They recognized that, just at the moment, there was precious little they could decide. Some of the women had used great skill in steering any discussion away from consideration of just who was to be considered for nomination to the position of mistress.

That suited Delia.

She smiled and said the remberees, and trailed off to Velda’s Room. A thorough wash, an attention to the necessities of the toilet, an abstention from any further food or drink, and a swift and thrashing kind of onslaught on her hair, and she could fall into the narrow bed, think of all those she could not sleep without thinking of, and then drop down into nothingness.

Chapter eight

Delia Rides the Gale

In the small cabin situated in the stern of the airboat Delia pulled down the top of her russet tunic over her breast. She tucked her chin in and squinted down. She had always had nice skin, smooth and unblemished, and now this — this monstrosity — squatted nastily on her chest like a furry grub. The patch was as big as her thumb. When she looked more closely she could see tiny yellow pimples peppering the angry red of the rash.

She did not much care for rashes and she disliked pimples.

The beastly spot did not hurt. It did not even sting. She could feel nothing even when, distastefully, she prodded it with a finger.

The hateful thing just erupted on her skin, growing larger, sitting there like an obscene grub above her breast.

The flap of the door covering quivered, and a beringed hand showed, about to pull the curtain aside.

A voice bellowed: “Majestrix! I would crave a word with your puissance, your humble servant craves entrance.”

Delia made a face.

She slapped the tunic up and latched it and said in a small yet firm voice: “Come in, Lathdo.”

The man who entered — he was apim with brown hair — bulked in the tiny cabin with its bench seat and folding table. He wore armor. He carried swords. He bore the insignia of a Jiktar. He half-crouched under the cover and was clearly ill at ease.

“Yes?”

“A storm, majestrix. Since we quitted Delphond the weather has been kind. But Jordio swears he can smell the Riders of Notor Zan about to enfold us.”

“We must descend, then, Lathdo. Is Mimi there?”

“Your orders are to be obeyed without thought, majestrix.” He half turned his head, the tendons straining in his neck above the gilt rim of the corselet, and bellowed: “Mimi!
Bratch
!”

Delia did not jump. She’d called in to Vondium to see if any letters were waiting for her, and had read all the mail and no letter from him at all, and taken the opportunity to re-equip with a fresh set of clothing and necessaries. No letter from Vomanus probably meant he was as cross with her as she was with him. Most of the urgency to reach Delka-Ob had now passed, of course, since the marriage had already taken place.

She would have to go to see her half-brother and congratulate him and wish Nyleen well. She just hoped she would find her brother’s new wife amenable and nice, so she would not have to lie through smiling teeth.

Drak was still prancing around in the southwest of Vallia; the country was still untidy in the view of a girl who had been brought up with the empire as a unit, the factions still plotted and the damned revolutionaries and secessionists still badgered away. The army was very thin in Vondium, what with the strong forces sent into Hamal, others into the north of the country and still others with Drak. The Lord Farris had insisted in his patient way that she must take a bodyguard and added: “Your news of flutsmen so active in Vindelka is worrying, majestrix.”

“I suppose you are right. Both Yzobel and Sosie must be about their business.” She could not tell a man that they were off about business of the SoR; but that was patently clear. Farris, a loyal friend for as long as she could remember, was the Crebent Justicar for the emperor, and ran things when Drak was away.

“Jiktar Lathdo the Eager has recently been promoted. He is zealous, and a good fighter. He will—”

“Yes, yes, dear Farris. You are right. Mind you send word to me the instant you hear from the emperor.”

“Have I ever failed you in that?”

“I am sorry. No, never. Just that...”

“And it was remiss of me to mention it.” Farris was of the quality of men of whom an emperor could never have enough. His loyalty to Delia personally was beyond question. The only serious trouble with the Lord Farris was that he was approaching old age.