Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles (17 page)
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Authors: Katya Reimann
BOOK: Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles
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Gaultry glared, caught by surprise.
That’s ridiculous,
she snapped.
She’s a baby, come to run errands for us. This is not about pairing.
That’s ridiculous,
she snapped.
She’s a baby, come to run errands for us. This is not about pairing.
Melaney smiled up at them both, unaware of their interplay. The
Sharif, in massive good humor, flexed her fingers and rotated the shoulder Sieur Jumery’s woman had fixed. It was giving her less pain than the one which had been popped back by the marketgoers at the bridge.
Of course not. You are a civilized people, with water and bridges. Coupling is the last thing on your minds.
She laughed, a broad open laugh, like the whinny of a horse.
Sharif, in massive good humor, flexed her fingers and rotated the shoulder Sieur Jumery’s woman had fixed. It was giving her less pain than the one which had been popped back by the marketgoers at the bridge.
Of course not. You are a civilized people, with water and bridges. Coupling is the last thing on your minds.
She laughed, a broad open laugh, like the whinny of a horse.
Melaney cast Gaultry a doubtful look, understanding that some sort of a joke had been made, and sensing that it was at her expense. “Are the two of you speaking?”
“Oh yes,” Gaultry said dryly. “That’s Father Andion’s blessing on the Ardanae Sharifs—speech without words. Watch what you say before her—she has only a little of our language but she understands more words than she can speak. Worse, if she comes to trust you, she’ll be able to half-pick the thoughts from your brain.”
The girl made a tentative bow, obviously thrilling to the woman’s outlandish powers. “Melaney Caris at your service, my lady.”
The Ardana, her laughter settling, bowed formally back, respecting the girl’s air of innocent seriousness. “I am Sharif of the Ardain,” she said, “and of Gautri Blas. No other title, mine.”
“Has she no name?” Melaney asked.
Gaultry shook her head. “It went when she fell in battle. That’s the way of her people. They never capitulate, not even involuntarily. Warriors who surrender become paraiyar—outcasts. Our Sharif had what she considers the bad luck not to have bled to death on the battlefield. The enemy took her prisoner while she was unconscious—but that makes no difference to her people.
“She is still a Sharif—the title recognizes her ability to mind-tie, and that’s not gone. But her name—she can’t reclaim her name until she returns to Ardain and fulfills her obligations to the families of the warriors she failed to lead to victory.”
Gaultry could tell from the girl’s reverent expression that she already worshipped the woman and her proud warrior traditions. It made her obscurely jealous—which, much to her embarrassment, she knew that the Sharif would sense, and all too easily at that.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Melaney had brought them a huge hamper of food from the Duchess’s pantry, complete with chops of greasy uncooked meat for Aneitha and Tullier’s dog. Gaultry, after checking Tullier, who was sleeping peacefully and not ready to wake up, left the girl alone with the Sharif to set about the business of feeding the
big panther. With all that lay ahead for her at court, mediating between her companions was too exhausting.
big panther. With all that lay ahead for her at court, mediating between her companions was too exhausting.
B
y midday, Gaultry’s spirits had risen. She had new clothes on her back—a blue dress with braided cord decoration that she was able to purchase, already made up, from a tailor’s stall. A visit to the laundrystones had left her with a wet but fish-free bundle of clothing.
y midday, Gaultry’s spirits had risen. She had new clothes on her back—a blue dress with braided cord decoration that she was able to purchase, already made up, from a tailor’s stall. A visit to the laundrystones had left her with a wet but fish-free bundle of clothing.
Under the light of a new day, Princeport had taken on a more prosperous air. Everywhere the young huntress looked, she saw children wearing grass and cornflower wreaths, familiar from her own village’s Midsummer customs. It was evident now that much trading had been completed in Princeport during the past two days, and that full-hearted celebrations for a successful Midsummer Market were to follow. The perfectly clear sky and gentle heat made it easy to relax.
Down on the harbor quay, fishermen’s children clamored for coins from a good-humored crowd. By now everyone knew the story of their own Prince of Tielmark’s introduction to his bride: years past, Lily had been one of these screaming children, leaping boldly off the dock to retrieve thrown coins from the water. Benet, after watching her swim for a time, had intervened to protect her from some bullies who had tried to half-drown her before taking the coins she had retrieved.
Manners had improved somewhat since those days. With Benet’s example before them, the coin-throwers no longer publicly incited fights among the children.
Though of course today there was no scarcity of coins to fight over.
Gaultry was amused to observe that since her last visit to the harbor, older girls had begun to join the young in the water. The quixotic interest Lily’s story inspired among the court’s fashionable young gentlemen probably had made that inevitable.
Two sisters, clad in near-transparent shifts with strings of blue and white flowers in their hair, were receiving the most attention. As Gaultry—and the rest of the crowd—watched, a hopeful young gallant pressed one of the pair for a kiss instead of a dive. Fixing her eye on the coin in another man’s hand, she laughed and brushed the offer away. “I’m the Sea King’s bride today, not your’n!” The silver coin, flashing in the sun, cut a bright arc in the air. In a splash of foam and wave, the girl disappeared into the water to retrieve it, leaving the young man, a little abashed, to be heckled by the crowd.
Gaultry had come down to the docks to look for the sails of the Prince’s ship. The crowds made that impractical from the main quay, so she walked out onto one of the long piers that extended into the harbor. At first the glare off the water was so strong she couldn’t distinguish any shapes, then her eyes adjusted and she made out the tops of the distant buoys which marked the harbor’s entrance. The carved, brightly painted sea-sprites warned sailors of the rocky shoals.
Beyond them, far out past Murciel’s Point, a tiny point of azure, deeper than the sky, paler than the sea, trended toward the shore. “Excuse me.” Gaultry stopped a passing sailor. “How long do you make it for that ship to come in?” She pointed.
The burly, sun-reddened man raised his hands to shield his eyes. “That’s Benet’s ship,” he said, and made the Great Twins’ sign. “They’ll bring it in to Little Harbor, not here.”
“How long?”
“She has a good sail-master.” The sailor grinned, tracing the ship’s course with an outstretched finger. “Look how tight to the wind she’s moving. Shouldn’t be long.”
Gaultry nodded—although, even if she had been able to see the trim of the sails from where she stood, she would have been no more the wiser as to how well they were managed. “How long?”
“This offshore wind will hold them back a time, but they’ll touch quickly once the sea breeze rises.”
Gaultry thanked him, and began to turn away. A thought struck her. “Who is the Prince’s sail-master?”
The sailor waggled his beard, disgusted by her ignorance. “It’s Benet himself,” he said, “and who better?”
Gaultry stared at the speck of color. The news that Benet enjoyed sailing had passed her before, but she had not understood the extent of his interest. So far as she knew, Tielmark had never had a seafaring prince. “I wonder if they like that at court,” she said softly.
The sailor cast her a strange look. “That’s not for them to say, is it?”
“No,” she said. “It’s not for them to say.” Thanking him, she hurried on.
The foot of the terraced avenue was even more crowded than the docks around the divers. Unlike the dock crowd, which had been mixed working folk and gentlemen, many of the people here wore their best clothes, finished already with their day’s business and set to enjoy the
holiday. Gaultry, needing to pass up the steps and also curious, pushed her way to the crowd’s front.
holiday. Gaultry, needing to pass up the steps and also curious, pushed her way to the crowd’s front.
A troop of itinerant puppeteers had erected their traveling theater on the avenue’s bottom step, where there was a widening of the street. From the intensity of the crowd’s attention, the entertainment was something beyond the ordinary.
The boards of the gaudily decorated front of the theater had been painted and repainted for many seasons. Worn shadows of past years’ figures were still evident beneath the fresh coat of this year’s paint—a parade of horsemen marching toward the purple outline of a mountain.
She had missed the show’s opening. At first she could not follow the action’s meaning. The talent of the puppeteers seemed more important than the plot—if it could be called a plot.
A mouse-prince danced with his lady, the two figures set twirling in an energetic caper. Their strings tangled and snarled, wound and unwound, constantly threatening to render the wooden figures immobile, but always the puppeteers above kept the strings loose enough that the figures could continue hopping, skipping, and waving their arms. It was astonishing to see, even without the dialogue.
“I love you to distraction!” squeaked the Prince. He dropped onto one knee and threw wide his little hands. By magic or the highest skill, the Princess puppet ended up posed on his lap in a lover’s embrace.
“Darling!” she cooed.
“You will always be with me,” he said, touching the painted ring on her finger. “What the gods bring together, no man will part.”
It was not until this moment that Gaultry realized that the mouse-prince was meant for Benet. She drew in a half-angry breath. A mouse was not how Gaultry imagined Tielmark’s tall, serious Prince. The crowd, however, seemed to find it hilarious.
“No man will part us?” The Princess mouse inclined her head, coquettish. “Is it a woman you fear then? Just wait until the cat comes home. Ah me! Come that you’ll love your hidey-hole more than you’ll love me!”
The crowd laughed, completely captivated. “Answer your lady!” a sailor crowed.
“Sieur!” The mouse-prince lurched up to confront his heckler, carelessly dropping his lady off his lap. “Think you I am in a tangle? Pshaw!” He gestured into the wings with a flick of his miniature hand. “I have advisors enough to free me from worse than this!”
With a drumroll and a noisy crash, a wooden green tabby cat thumped
down from the theater’s ceiling. It landed on top of the mice, sending them sprawling. “Did somebody call for an advisor?” the cat asked. It had a purring woman’s voice, comically dispassionate as the mice struggled to untangle their strings and stand up. “Here I am, ever ready to provide assistance!” Even without the goddess-green paint, the animal was an obvious parody of Dervla.
down from the theater’s ceiling. It landed on top of the mice, sending them sprawling. “Did somebody call for an advisor?” the cat asked. It had a purring woman’s voice, comically dispassionate as the mice struggled to untangle their strings and stand up. “Here I am, ever ready to provide assistance!” Even without the goddess-green paint, the animal was an obvious parody of Dervla.
“Haven’t you done enough?” the mouse-prince asked. He staggered backward as the puppeteer above twisted his arm strings into those of his legs, tripping him up.
“Enough?” purred the cat. “Just look, you can’t stand even without my help!” She turned to the audience. “Who but I can make the Prince stand free? Who but I, indeed!”
Wooden claws extended from the puppet’s paws, and it sashayed over to the mice. Waggling its claws, it made the appearance of untangling them.
“No knotting, no untying!” The hinge of the cat’s jaw opened, giving it a toothy smile. “Are you so sure, my Prince, that you were ever bound together?” The wooden claws made a last flicker and retracted, and the two mice flew apart. The mouse-prince’s puppeteer made him land inelegantly on his wooden rear.
“Princess!” The puppet-prince sprang to his feet, arms reaching for her.
“Husband!”
The cat moved, almost lazily, between the smaller puppets. It batted the princess-mouse with its tail, as if inadvertently, sending her tumbling toward the wings. To Gaultry’s dismay, the crowd’s reaction to cat-Dervla’s manipulations was mere nodding, amused recognition. If this puppet-show was to be regarded as a true mirror of the Prince’s court, she did not understand why people were not more upset. “Oh me!” the little princess squeaked feebly. “Who’ll rise to protect me now?”
The next scene offered little more to encourage her. A pair of dog-puppets with silly painted smiles marched on, clomping their wooden feet. They helped the little Princess up—terrifying her with their clumsiness, and making imbecile comments. These puppets were crudely carved, painted a sort of gingery-orange. Once they had the Princess on her feet, they sat back on their haunches, an obscurely vulgar posture, somehow out of place with the other figures, and settled to watch the remainder of the show passively.
Gaultry’s cheeks reddened. She did not need to hear the strong southern
accents to understand that these figures were intended to represent her sister and herself. But she and her sister were not alone in being satirized. She watched, with mounting indignation, as more wooden animals still were trooped on stage. Most disturbing was a bed-bound crow, squawking doom, that could be meant for none other than the Duchess of Melaudiere. The old woman’s illness must be serious indeed, for news of it to have spread into this puppet entertainment.
accents to understand that these figures were intended to represent her sister and herself. But she and her sister were not alone in being satirized. She watched, with mounting indignation, as more wooden animals still were trooped on stage. Most disturbing was a bed-bound crow, squawking doom, that could be meant for none other than the Duchess of Melaudiere. The old woman’s illness must be serious indeed, for news of it to have spread into this puppet entertainment.
After a while she could not tell if the other animals had been introduced merely to heighten the ridicule, or if they symbolized specific court figures. The reactions of the crowd supported the latter guess. A bleating nanny goat, blundering onstage and knocking into the cat, was greeted with a hearty cheer; an aggressive weasel, noisy boos. There were many buck-toothed courtier rabbits. One in particular, to the crowd’s amusement, birthed a bewildering succession of baby rabbits—simple carved blocks, painted in bright colors, each jerked along on a single string—out of a small hatch in its belly. That rabbit trailed miserably across the stage in the mouse-princess’s wake, begging her weepily to maintain the “economical management” of her household. A songbird, overshadowed by a piebald cuckoo three times its size, came next, chirruping of chains and lost freedom.
Soon the stage was so full of jostling figures that it was beyond comprehension how the puppeteers were able to keep them all moving. Yet the wild motion continued, the figures at one moment appearing hopelessly tangled, the next wildly isolated.
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