Sasharia En Garde (37 page)

Everyone’s attention was distracted by their new partners.
She snapped her gaze back to Jehan and was surprised by a narrow, assessing gaze
that was, for a moment, startlingly like his father’s.

She murmured without moving her lips, “Ananda said to trust
you.”

And heard him draw in a breath.

No more. Already the couple ahead had glanced back, and she
felt the weight of the king’s gaze behind her. She turned her attention away
from Jehan, smiling vapidly into the room as they trod the measures until the
next chord change, half a key up the scale.

Again they changed partners and direction, leaving her
facing a man her own age. She recognized a duke from what used to be the west,
before Locan Jora forced a treaty onto Khanerenth, dividing the kingdom into
two. Thus truncating most of the duke’s land. His spare form was barely in
costume, more of an old-fashioned court outfit. The “mask” was the visor of his
helm, which he’d lifted.

Obviously he was only paying lip service to the masquerade
rules. Being a duke, he could. Atanial remembered the unspoken but iron-strong
custom: if someone of higher rank broke a social rule, you could too. But you
didn’t do it first.

It was up to the duke to choose whether he would speak to
Atanial or to Maleficent. She wasn’t really a princess, not with the
Zhavalieshins deposed. It was a mere courtesy title, her privilege (or lack of
same) dependent entirely on the king’s whim.

“Is Prince Math alive?” he asked, his brows bristling.

“I don’t know.”

“You trying to find out?”

Step, step, dip—step, step, dip. The music changed, but the
duke gripped her hand. “Are you?” He let her go and growled, “Never mind. I
think I have my answer.” He turned away.

Atanial also turned, not really seeing her next partner.
Nausea bubbled in her gut at the certainty that the duke believed she had
forgotten her husband and was angling for a king. No time to consider anything
except that, so far, the masquerade was a disaster.
I’m a failure without having spoken ten words
.

Her next partner asked who she was.

“Maleficent.”

She did not know the man, but he was polite, asking one or
two suave questions about Maleficent that were easy to answer, and the dance
whirled him on.

The next two partners accepted Maleficent at face value, and
embarked on light flirtation with this fantasy wicked queen. She answered in
kind, which was easy, but as the long dance wore on she was more and more aware
of just how badly she had fumbled.

A new partner leaned close as they placed their palms
together. “Do you remember me, your highness?”

She faced him, to encounter her new partner’s mask. Through
the eye holes she made out familiar gray eyes. Heavy jaw. Iron gray hair.

Resisting the impulse to rip aside her veil and his mask so
they could be two real people, she sifted memories. Those eyes. Younger,
browner hair—someone around Canary—yes, one of the captains in his own private
guard during the old king’s days, now obviously titled with land of his own.
For Canardan did not invite mere guard captains to masquerade balls in the
royal palace.

Above her rank? Below it? What
was
her rank in their eyes, anyway?

Whatever. She was not about to frost him by pretending he’d
broken the blasted “rules”. “How nice to see you.” She smiled. “You’ve
flourished, I see.”

“Old count of Shesba died. No heirs. So I am still in the
saddle, but now riding my own lands, so to speak.” The familiar voice brought
back Math saying
 . . . and
he’s one of the quiet, honest sorts, warrior captains who would carry out their
duties no matter who was in charge. If left alone, good, reliable people.

Atanial now remembered Shesba as a difficult area way to the
north, squished between mountains and the vile coastline. She congratulated
him, the music changed again, and she found herself with another partner, this
one tall, old, unfamiliar, their voices blending with the hum of conversation
and the music. Then the entire company sighed as, at last, the unseen mages got
their magic spells working and a breath of cooler air teased her already moist
flesh, followed by a gentle, steady breeze.

Almost everyone visibly relaxed, some faces turning to the
open doorways, through which the mages had drawn their invisible tunnel of
colder air from high in the sky.

The short, stout Chief of the Guild Council was her next
partner, followed by another landowner of some degree. Other men danced with
her after that. Everyone knew who she was, but stayed on their side of the Maleficent
pretense. They were all polite, two or three friendly. But, clearly, the king’s
men. Not allies. And in their eyes, Prince Math’s wife was flourishing here in
her gilded cage.

Step, step, turn, step, step turn, the promenade sped up,
always climbing half a chord. They were nearly at the end of the circle, the
talk the most superficial exchanges of politenesses. Her exchange with that
duke lingered, making her wary. How many of these smiling men thought she’d
abandoned Math to his fate in order to catch a king?

Canardan watched her from across the room. She danced with
those entrancing moves she’d always had. Sometimes she spoke, but judging from
the lack of reaction in her partners, everything was as it should be. Let her
trip prettily around his ballroom and show everyone how well he treated her. He
hoped she’d enjoy it.

Thinking about her was more pleasant than listening to the
obviously rehearsed compliments and broad hints for returned compliments of his
current partner.
Fishing for royal catch
,
Canardan thought sourly. Here he’d invited this baroness—old family, good
lands, good support, rich—because her daughter might be a fallback for Jehan.
He’d forgotten she was a widow.

“May I honor your majesty with a reminder of how famous were
your splendid regattas through the city of Alsais? We still read the poems all
these centuries later,” she whispered, fluttering her fan.

What regatta was she dropping her not-so-subtle hint about?
Because it had nothing to do with Colend’s past glories, not in that tone. Oh
yes.
That
regatta, he thought,
smiling into her eyes. Right before he married Ananda, the last time he’d
dressed up as Matthias the Magnificent of Colend. What his partner hadn’t found
out was that she had been one of three dalliances that memorable night.

So. The women already knew that Ananda wasn’t skipping the
social duty tonight as she usually did, but was gone.
Of course
everyone knew. His worst enemy was rumor, something you
couldn’t fight with a sword. He’d underestimated how quickly they’d come
a-courting.

The music changed, sparing him having to come up with a
reply that was agreeable, but not too agreeable, friendly but not flirtatious.

How was Atanial faring? He had almost completed the circle.
Atanial was maybe eight or ten men away, talking and laughing with one of his
barons. He was aware of Jehan behind him, murmuring something about Sartoran
tapestry weaving, and from the tittering, effusive response, he too was being
courted.

Where was that daughter of Atanial’s? He hoped there’d be a
message from either Zhavic or Randart soon.

The dance ended.

Atanial watched how the grand circle broke into tiny
circles, each revealing in its numbers, in who moved to whom, who collected
company, who stood where.

The biggest circle formed around the king. Of course. But
Jehan’s was nearly as large—moon to his father’s sun—with the younger women
forming most of his group. And if they were all doing their best to attract the
attention of a handsome prince, who could blame them?

Father and son retreated to get something to drink.

On either side of the room, mirror images, had been set
great carved tables bearing rows of tall, fluted glasses containing punch,
water, wine. Water! Atanial located the table on her side of the room and made
a beeline, her veil fluttering behind. She took one, lifted her veil to drink.
Over the rim, glimmering with reflected fire from the chandeliers overhead, she
watched father and son meet to exchange brief words before they were
surrounded.

The musicians struck up a melody, and both heads turned, for
a breathtaking moment poised at exactly the same angle. There was Canardan’s
handsome profile, in his son planed and refined, Jehan’s coloring moonlight and
silver instead of ruddy gold. But one thing for certain from their body
language: they were fond of one another.

And she, Atanial Fatwit Blitherer, had just tipped her hand
to the son.
Why, why, why? Ananda, why
did you do that to me, was it revenge after all?

Jehan chose at random a partner for the new dance. The rest
of the young women drifted by, ribbons fluttering, silks glowing richly in the
candlelight, no one wanting to ask him and risk being turned down in front of
the others, so they eyed him and smiled.

Atanial felt a touch on her wrist and looked up into the
face of one of Canardan’s aristocratic working men, this one the governor of
Vadnais harbor. Numb with self-loathing, she set down her empty glass,
curtseyed and trod with him to the middle of the floor. He chatted with cheery
ease about his racehorses until the dance ended. The seductive triple beat of a
waltz—the first one of the evening—signaled, in straightened shoulders, lifted
chins, laughs and shimmering fans, the electrical impulse of expectation.

So strange, Atanial thought. Not just that they had the waltz
here, but it apparently was far older than it was on Earth. Chicken/egg.

Canardan watched Atanial look around, her profile behind the
veil etched against the wall as she watched—who? Jehan was busy with a very
young lady dressed in a stunning gown made up of fragile silk roses of twenty
graded shades of pink.

Canardan flicked his gaze back. Atanial was lost behind a
long whirling knotwork of dancing couples. When they passed, she was visible
again, over by the refreshments table, nibbling a cake—

“Your majesty,” someone murmured behind him.

He looked down at the short, balding Chief of the Guild
Council, and frowned. No use in hiding behind masquerade nonsense now. His
relations with the guilds were already teetering.

“Your majesty, you have not had time to see me, despite my
petitions sent each day,” the man stated. “But I must and will speak. If I end
up with the Scribe Sharveshin in the dungeon for my temerity, despite its being
my duty—”

Canardan sighed. “It’s not even remotely treason to ask
questions, Guild Chief. Why are you pretending it is?”

“Why do you have a scribe in the dungeon? A scribe! May as
well be a herald! And the Heralds’ Guild Mistress as well as the Scribes’
Master, at my office every day demanding to know why. If it’s whim, who’s next?”

“Asking questions is not treason,” Canardan said. “But
meeting in a cellar and planning overthrow of the government is.”

“Who says they were planning overthrow?” the Guild Chief
stated stubbornly. “There has been no public trial. We did not hear witnesses
against them. As mandated in the agreement between guilds and crown.”

Canardan cursed, mind working rapidly even as his gaze
sought Atanial.

She paid no attention to the king. Or his heir. She finished
her cake and wondered who would be mortally offended if she left. She should
get away before she bumbled even more stupidly—

A flash of blue, and Jehan stepped before her, his partner
having been relinquished to another dancer. Jehan’s blue eyes were no longer as
empty as the sky, but focused. Intense.

It was time, he’d decided, to trust someone. Again, that is.

“I saw her,” he murmured, and passed without turning his
head.

It was her turn to draw in her breath.

To the Guild Chief (having watched Jehan pass Atanial
without stopping) Canardan said, “I will see you after I’ve had a chance to
examine the prisoners myself. Everything according to treaty. But I’ve not yet
had time.”

The Chief of the Guild Council had to bow and accept that.

Three men ranged before Atanial. She put out her hand
somewhat blindly, smiling her social smile, and triple-stepped, neat and light,
with the owner of the first warm fingers that gripped hers.

She did not come within speaking distance of Jehan until the
evening was nearly over. That dance was the Khanerenth version of a quadrille—that
is, a complicated line dance that broke into whirling and braiding twos, fours,
twos, eights, twos, fours, and twos as they slowly moved down the line. One
always came back to one’s original partner for hands across.

The dance, she had already discovered, had changed only in
one regard. There were two dips where there had been two hops, otherwise it was
the same one she and Math had drilled down the long royal portrait gallery on
those soft spring nights, as they talked and laughed about every subject in the
universe.

Once again Jehan appeared abruptly, holding out a hand so
they could step past one another.

“You saw Sasha?” she asked.

They parted. Round, round, step, step, smile, dip, twirl,
hold up one’s hand, traipse in another circle, dip, bow, turn, step step step,
and there he was again.

“She’s gone. I assume she’s seeking Math.”

Twirl. Step. Atanial fought impatience. She could feel
Canardan watching. A quick look showed benign pleasure, but if he saw them
talk, saw them even look serious, that expression could change fast.

I must protect Jehan
too
. She glanced at the white-haired prince’s vacant smile in the next
group over, all four with their hands together in the center as they tripped in
a circle.

He was thinking the same thing. He couldn’t quite see her
eyes, but her manner, the way she’d drawn in a breath—the absence of that
giggle—had convinced him that he’d done at least this much right. So far. But
hurry or furtiveness or even too much said would catch idle eyes, raise
questions. They could only speak for that brief time when they met in the
center of the square, changing places with hands across.