Inversions (19 page)

DeWar held his breath. The branch which had tangled in his own bow fell to the ground. Still not taking his eyes off the ort, DeWar watched UrLeyn slowly move one hand to the safety latch on his crossbow. The weapon, its weight supported by one hand, shook. The ort growled louder and shifted its position slightly, side-stepping closer to the stream, narrowing DeWar’s angle of fire so much that one side of its head was now hidden by UrLeyn’s body. Above him, DeWar could hear RuLeuin’s mount breathing. DeWar felt for his bow’s safety latch as he brought it up to his shoulder and took another step to the right to open the angle again.

‘What? What’s this? Where . . . ?’ another voice said from above, to the accompaniment of swishing leaves and stamping hooves. YetAmidous.

UrLeyn gently unclipped the safety on the crossbow and started to move his hand back towards the trigger again. The ort charged.

UrLeyn’s crossbow started to drop, hinging down as the Protector tried to track the animal racing towards him. He began to leap at the same time, moving to the right, obscuring the clear shot DeWar had had of the ort. DeWar released the trigger on the bow just in time, an instant before the bolt would have flown towards the Protector. Suddenly UrLeyn’s hunting cap leaped from his head and went tumbling away towards the stream. DeWar registered this without thinking what had caused it. He started to run towards UrLeyn, leaning forward, pushing off with one foot then the other, holding the bow in front of his belly, pointing to one side. UrLeyn was slipping, the foot he had put his weight on beginning to flick out from underneath him.

Two steps, three. Something whirred past DeWar’s head and left a curl of wind to stroke his cheek. An instant later there was a splash in the stream, the water kicking high into the air.

Four steps. Still picking up speed, each stride more like a leap. The Protector’s crossbow made a cracking, twanging noise. The bow pushed back in UrLeyn’s hands. The bolt appeared in the left haunch of the charging ort, making the animal scream, leap into the air and twist its hips, but when it landed again, two strides from the stumbling, falling UrLeyn, it lowered its horned head and charged straight at him.

Five, six steps. UrLeyn hit the ground. The ort’s snout thudded into his left hip. It reared back and darted forward again, head lower this time, aiming for the fallen man’s midriff as he started to raise one hand in an attempt to fend the animal off.

Seven. DeWar brought the crossbow round as he ran, still at waist height. He took a half-stride to steady it as best he could then pulled the trigger.

The quarrel hit the ort just above the left eye. The animal quivered and stopped in its tracks. The feathered bolt protruded from its skull like a third horn. DeWar was four then three steps away, throwing the crossbow aside as his left hand crossed to his right hip and the handle of the long dagger. UrLeyn kicked, pivoting his lower body away from the ort, which was looking down at the ground less than a pace away from him, snorting and shaking its head while its front legs buckled and it settled to the ground.

DeWar drew the dagger and leapt over UrLeyn as the older man rolled away from the ort, landing between the two. The ort snorted and puffed and shook its head and looked up with what DeWar would always swear was a surprised expression as he plunged the dagger into its neck near its left ear and in one swift movement opened its throat to the air. The animal made a whooshing noise and collapsed to the ground, head tucked in to its chest, its dark blood spreading around it. DeWar kept the dagger pointing towards it as he knelt there, feeling behind him with his free hand to make sure where UrLeyn was.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked, without looking round. The ort jerked, seemed to be trying to get to its feet, then rolled over on its side, legs trembling. The blood continued to gush from its neck. Then the animal stopped shaking, the blood began to seep rather than pulse, and slowly the beast’s legs folded in to its body as, finally, it died.

UrLeyn pulled himself up on to his knees by DeWar. He put one hand on the other man’s shoulder. The Protector’s grip felt shaky. ‘I am . . . chastened, I think would be the right word, DeWar. Thank you. Providence. Big bugger, isn’t he?’

‘Big enough, sir,’ DeWar said, deciding the motionless animal was little enough of a threat to let him risk glancing behind, to where YetAmidous and RuLeuin were making their way down a shallow-sloped part of the earth bank. Their mounts stood on the bank, looking down at UrLeyn and his own mount. The two men approached at a run. YetAmidous still held his discharged crossbow. DeWar looked back at the ort, then stood, sheathed the long dagger and helped UrLeyn to his feet. The Protector’s arm trembled and he did not let go of DeWar’s arm once he had stood up.

‘Oh, sir!’ YetAmidous cried, clutching his crossbow to his chest. His broad, round face looked grey. ‘Are you unharmed? I thought I Providence, I thought I’d . . .’

RuLeuin came dashing up, nearly tripping on DeWar’s crossbow where it lay on the ground. ‘Brother!’ He threw his arms wide and almost knocked his brother over as he hugged him, pulling UrLeyn’s hand away from DeWar.

On the slope above, the sounds of the main part of the hunt were coming closer.

DeWar glanced back at the ort. It looked very dead.

‘And who fired first?’ Perrund asked quietly and without moving. Her head was tipped, lowered over the ‘Secret Keep’ board, studying her next move. They were sitting in the visiting chamber of the harem, towards ninth bell. There had been a particularly noisy after-hunt feast that evening, though UrLeyn had retired early.

‘It was YetAmidous,’ DeWar said, no more loudly. ‘His was the shot that lifted the Protector’s cap off his head. The cap was found downstream. The bolt was embedded inside a log by the stream. A finger-breadth lower . . .’

‘Indeed. And so it was RuLeuin’s that just missed you.’

‘And just missed UrLeyn, too, though I think it was his waist it missed by a hand’s breadth or so, not his head by a finger’s.’

‘Could each bolt plausibly have been meant for the ort?’

‘. . . Yes. Neither man is regarded as a marksman. If YetAmidous really was aiming for UrLeyn’s head then I imagine that most of the people in the court who consider themselves authorities on this sort of matter would judge it as a surprisingly accurate shot, given the circumstances. And YetAmidous did seem genuinely shocked that he’d missed the Protector by so small a margin. And RuLeuin is his brother, for all Providence.’ DeWar sighed heavily, then yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘And YetAmidous, as well as being a poor shot, is just not the type to be an assassin.’

‘Hmm,’ Perrund said in a particular tone.

‘What?’ Only as he said this did DeWar realise how well he felt he had come to know the woman. Just the way she had made that single sound had meant much to him.

‘I have a friend who spends quite a lot of time in YetAmidous’ company,’ Perrund said softly. ‘She has said that he delights in card games played for money. He takes even greater delight in making it seem that he is ignorant of the subtleties of the games and pretending that he is a poor player. He appears to forget the rules, has to ask what to do at certain points, inquires as to the meaning of terms the other players use, and so on. Often he will deliberately lose a series of small bets. In fact he is only waiting until an especially large wager is at stake, whereupon he almost invariably wins, much to his own apparent surprise. She has seen this happen time after time. His friends are wise to him now, and are amused as well as wary, but many a young and smirking nobleman who thought himself in the presence of a bumbling fool ripe for the picking has been lucky to leave YetAmidous’ house with a coin to call his own.’

DeWar realised that he was biting his lip as he stared at the game board. ‘So the man is a skilled dissembler, not a buffoon. That is worrying.’ He looked up at Perrund, though she did not meet his gaze. He found himself inspecting the blonde mass of her gathered-up hair, marvelling at its sheen and perfect fairness. ‘Your friend would not have any further observations or opinions on the gentleman, would she?’

Still not looking up, Perrund took a long deep breath. He watched her shoulders in the red gown, glanced down to the swell of material over her breasts. ‘Once, perhaps twice,’ she said, ‘when YetAmidous has been very drunk, she has thought he revealed . . . a certain jealous contempt for the Protector. And I think he has little regard for you.’ She looked up suddenly.

DeWar felt himself rock back slightly, as though afflicted by the force of the gaze from those blue-flecked gold eyes. ‘Though none of this is to say that he is not still a good and loyal follower of the Protector,’ Perrund said. ‘If one is determined to find fault then looking hard enough will produce reason to distrust everybody.’ She looked down again.

‘Of course,’ DeWar said, and felt his face grow warm. ‘Still, I would rather know such things than not.’

Perrund moved one piece, then another. ‘There,’ she said.

DeWar continued with his analysis of the game.

Master, the masked ball took place six days later. The King still had a slight cold, but the Doctor had given hire a preparation made from flowers and mountain herbs which dried up his ‘membranes’ (by which I think she meant his nose) for the duration of the dance. She advised him to avoid alcohol and to drink copious amounts of water, or better still fruit juice. However, I believe that during the ball he was quickly persuaded, principally by himself, that the definition of fruit juice might include wine and so drank a deal of that during the ball.

The Grand Ballroom of Yvenage is a dramatic circular space half of whose circumference is taken up with floor to ceiling windows. In the year since the court had last visited Yvenir, the windows had been refashioned throughout their lower quarter. The great pastel-green plaster panels had been replaced with a grid of wood holding smaller panes of thin, colourless glass. The glass was almost crystal in its perfection, affording a barely distorted view of the moonlit landscape of forested hills across the valley. The effect was extraordinarily eye-catching and it seemed, from the expressions of wonder I heard uttered and the extravagance of the estimates made within my earshot concerning the cost of such a project, that people could hardly have been more impressed had the new windows been made of diamond.

The orchestra sat on a low circular stage set in the centre of the room, each player facing inwards to watch their conductor, who swivelled towards each section of the musicians in turn. The dancers swirled round this focus like fallen leaves caught within a spiralling wind, the intricate sets and patterns of the dances providing an order within that apparent chaos.

The Doctor was one of the more striking women present. Partly the effect was achieved through her height. There were taller women there, yet still she seemed to shine out amongst them. She possessed a bearing that was in all senses naturally elevated. She wore a gown that was plain by comparison with most. It was a dark and lustrous green, to set off the wide, netted fan of her carefully arrayed red hair. Her gown was unfashionably narrow.

Master, I confess I felt excited and honoured to be there. The Doctor having no other escort, it fell to me to accompany her to the ball, and so I was able to think with some pleasure of my fellow apprentices and assistants, most of whom were banished downstairs. Only the senior pages were permitted to attend, and the few of those not expected to act purely as servants were all too aware of their inability to shine in a company containing so many junior noblemen. The Doctor, in contrast, treated me as her equal, and made not one demand on me as an apprentice the whole ball long.

The mask I had chosen was a plain one of flesh-coloured paper painted so that one half looked happy, with a big smile at the lips and a raised brow, while the other side looked sad, with downcast mouth and a small tear at the eye. The Doctor’s was a half-face made of light, highly polished silver treated with some sort of lacquer. It was, I thought, the best and perhaps the most disconcerting mask that I saw all that night, for it reflected the observer’s gaze right back at them and so disguised the wearer for whatever that was worth, given the Doctor’s unmistakable form better than the most cunning creation of feathers, filigreed gold or sparkling gems.

Beneath the mirror-like mask, the Doctor’s lips looked full and tender. She had coloured them with the red oil-cream that many of the ladies at court use for such occasions. I had never seen her adorn herself so before. How moist and succulent that mouth looked!

We sat at a great table in one of the ballroom’s anterooms, surrounded by fine ladies of the court and their escorts and looked down upon by huge paintings of nobles, their animals and estates. Servants with drinks trays circulated everywhere. I couldn’t recall having seen a ball so well staffed before, though it did seem to me that some of the servants looked a bit rough and ready, handling their trays with a degree of awkwardness. The Doctor did not choose to stay in the ballroom itself between dances and seemed reluctant to take part at all. I formed the impression she was only there because the King expected her to be, and while she might have enjoyed the dances, she was afraid of making some error of etiquette.

I myself also felt nervous as well as excited. Such grand balls are opportunities for much pomp and ceremony, attracting from all around scores of great families, Dukes and Duchesses, rulers of allied principalities and their entourages and generally producing a kind of concentration of people of power and circumstance one sees seldom enough even in the capital. Little wonder that these are occasions when allegiances, plans, alliances and enmities are formed, both on the political and national scale of things and at the personal level.

It was impossible not to feel affected by the urgency and momentousness of the atmosphere and my poor emotions felt tattered and frazzled before the ball was properly begun.

At least we ought to remain safely on the periphery. With so many Princes, Dukes, Barons, Ambassadors and the like demanding his time many of whom he would not see from one year to the next, save for this single event the King was unlikely to concern himself with the Doctor and myself, who were at his beck and call during every day of the year.

I sat there, immersed in the hum of conversation and listening to the distant sound of a dance tune, and I wondered what plots and schemes were being hatched, what promises and enemies were being made, what desires stoked, what hopes squashed.

A group of people were passing us, heading for the ballroom. The small figure of a man at their head turned towards us. His mask was an old one made of blue-black feathers. ‘Ah, the lady doctor, unless I am grievously mistaken,’ came the harsh, cracked voice of Duke Walen. He stopped. His wife his second, much younger than he, and small and voluptuous hung on his arm, her golden mask dripping with gems. Various junior members of the Walen family and their retainers arranged themselves in a half-circle around us. I stood, as did the Doctor.

‘Duke Walen, I assume,’ she said, bowing carefully. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well. I would ask you how you are, however I assume that physicians look after themselves better than anybody else, so I shall ask how you think the King is. How is he?’ The Duke seemed to be slurring his words.

‘The King is generally well. His ankle still needs treatment and he has the remains of a slight’

‘Good, good.’ Walen looked round at the doors leading into the ballroom. ‘And how do you like our ball?’

‘It is most impressive.’

‘Tell me. Do they have balls in this place Drezen, where you come from?’

‘They do, sir.’

‘And are they as fine as this? Or are they better and more glorious and put our sad and feeble efforts into the shade? Does Drezen entirely out-do us in every matter as it does, by your claims, in medicine?’

‘I think the dances we hold in Drezen are rather less splendid than this, sir.’

‘Are they? But how can this be? I had become quite convinced through your many comments and observations that your homeland was in advance of ours in every respect. Why, you talked of it in such glowing terms that sometimes I thought you were describing a fairy-tale land!’

‘I think the Duke will find that Drezen is quite as real as Haspidus.’

‘Faith! I am almost disappointed. Well, there we are.’ He turned to go, then stopped again. ‘We shall see you dancing later, shan’t we?’

‘I imagine so, sir.’

‘And will you perhaps undertake to demonstrate for us a dance from Drezen, and teach it to us?’

‘A dance, sir?’

‘Yes. I cannot imagine that Drezeners share all our dances and possess none that we would not recognise. That is not feasible, surely?’ The Duke’s small, slightly hunched figure turned jerkily from one side to the other, seeking endorsement.

‘Oh yes,’ his wife purred from behind her gold and gem-stone mask. ‘I should think that in Drezen they have the most advanced and interesting dances.’

‘I regret that I am no dance instructor,’ the Doctor said. ‘I wish now that I had been more assiduous in learning how to comport myself at a ball. Sadly, my youth was spent in more academic circles. It is only since I have had the good fortune to arrive in Haspidus that I’

‘But no!’ the Duke cried. ‘My dear woman, you cannot be claiming that there is some aspect of civilised behaviour in which you have nothing to teach us! Why, this is unheard of! Oh, my dear lady, my faith is shaken. I beg you to reconsider. Search your doctorly memories! At least attempt to drag up for us some recollection of a physician’s cotillion, a surgeon’s ballet, at the very least a nurses’ horn-pipe or a patients’ jig.’

The Doctor appeared unruffled. If she was sweating behind her mask, as I was behind mine, she gave no sign of it. In a calm and even voice she said, ‘The Duke flatters me in his estimation of the breadth of my knowledge. I shall of course obey his instruction but I’

‘I’m sure you can, I’m sure,’ the Duke said. ‘And pray, what part of Drezen was it you said that you are from?’

The Doctor drew herself up a little more. ‘From Pressel, on the island of Napthilia, sir.’

‘Ah yes, yes. Napthilia. Napthilia. Indeed. You must miss it terribly, I imagine.’

‘A little, sir.’

‘Having no one of your own kind to talk to in your native language, unable to catch up on the latest news, lacking compatriots to reminisce with. A sad business, being an exile.’

‘It has its compensations, sir.’

‘Yes. Good. Very well. Think on, about those dances. We shall. see you later, perhaps, high-kicking, whirling and whooping, eh?’

‘Perhaps,’ the Doctor said. I for one was glad I could not see her expression behind the mask. Of course, being a half-face mask, her lips were visible. I began to worry how much aspersion a pair of full red lips could convey.

‘Just so,’ Walen said. ‘Until then, madam.’ He nodded.

The Doctor bowed subtly. Duke Walen turned and led his party towards the ballroom.

We sat down. I took off my mask and wiped my face. ‘I think the Duke was a little the worse for wine, mistress,’ I said.

The mirror-mask faced me. My own visage looked back; distorted and flushed. Those two red lips gave a small smile. Her eyes remained unreadable behind the mask. ‘Yes. Do you think he will mind that I cannot provide him with a Drezeni dance? I really am unable to recall any.’

‘I think the Duke was being rather rude to you, mistress. The wine was doing most of the talking. He sought only to well, I am sure as a gentleman he would not seek to humiliate you but he was perhaps having a little sport with you. The detail of the matter was not important. He will probably forget most of what has passed here.’

‘I hope so. Do you think I am a poor dancer, Oelph?’

‘Oh no, mistress! I have not seen you put a step wrong so far!’

‘That is my only goal. Shall we . . . ?’

A young man in a hide and gem-stone mask and wearing the dress uniform of a captain in the King’s Own Frontier Guards appeared at our side. He bowed deeply. ‘Master Oelph? Madam Doctor Vosill?’ he asked.

There was a pause. The Doctor looked at me. ‘Yes!’ I blurted.

‘The King commands me to invite you to dance with the royal party during the next figure. It starts directly.’

‘Oh, shit,’ I heard myself say.

‘We are delighted to accept the King’s kind invitation,’ the Doctor said, rising smoothly and nodding to the officer. She held her arm out towards me. I took it in mine.

‘Please follow me,’ the captain said.

We found ourselves arranged in a figure of sixteen with King Quience, a small, buxom young princess from one of the Sequestered Kingdoms in the mountains beyond the land of Tassasen, a tall brother-and-sister prince and princess from Outer Trosile, Duke Quettil and his sister Lady Ghehere, the Duke and Duchess of Keitz (uncle and aunt to Guard Commander Adlain), their startlingly proportioned daughter and her fiancé, Prince Hills of Faross, the Guard Commander Adlain himself and Lady Ulier, and, lastly, a young lady I was introduced to and had seen about court but whose name escaped me then and now, and her escort, the brother of Lady Ulier, the young Duke Ulresile we had first encountered at the King’s table in the Hidden Gardens.

I noticed that the youthful Duke made sure that he positioned himself in our half of the figure, so ensuring that he would have two opportunities to dance with the Doctor rather than one.

The introductions were made and the dance was named by a very impressively dressed Wiester, wearing a plain black mask. We took our places in two lines, male facing female. The King took a last drink from a goblet, replaced it on a tray, waved away the servant carrying it and nodded to Wiester, who in turn nodded to the conductor of the orchestra.

The music began. My heart was beating hard and fast. I was reasonably familiar with the figure we were engaged upon, but still concerned that I might make a mistake. I was just as concerned that the Doctor might commit a serious misstep. I did not think she had danced so formally complicated a figure before.

‘You are enjoying the ball, madam?’ Duke Quettil asked as he and the Doctor advanced upon each other, bowed, held hands, circled and stepped. I was similarly engaged with the lady Ghehere, who gave every impression through her carriage and bearing that she had no interest whatsoever in conversing with the assistant to a woman who claimed the honourable but un-noble title of doctor, and so I was at least able both to dance without treading on her toes and to attend to what passed between my mistress and the Duke.

‘Very much, Duke Quettil.’

‘I was surprised when the King insisted that you be invited to join us, but then he is most . . . most merry this evening. Don’t you think?’

‘He does appear to be enjoying himself.’

‘Not too much, in your opinion?’

‘It is not my place to judge the King in any aspect, sir, save that of his health.’

‘Quite. I was granted the privilege of choosing the figure. Is it to your taste?’

‘Entirely so, Duke.’

‘It is perhaps a little complex.’