The Tears of the Sun (64 page)

She picked at the crusty yellow scab again and Huon made a wordless sound of impatience and took her wrist.

“Leave your cheek alone! You'll scar if you pick at it! What happened?”

“I fell onto the embers. My wrist still hurts, too.”

Huon scowled and released it at once. “Has the chirurgeon come?” he asked.

“No, why? I haven't asked for him. Do you think . . .”

The thirteen-year-old boy strode to the door and pounded on it.

“Ho-la!” he yelled, his voice deep and then cracking. “Guard, to me, to me, the Guard!”

The door jerked open and two feet of steel poised its point on Huon's breastbone.

“What?” asked the man-at-arms, gruffly, his face hidden behind the visored sallet helm.

“My sister was injured and nobody has bothered to send a chirurgeon to her. Her wrist and her face need attention! And put that blade down and your visor up! Don't you know better than to draw on a gentleman, and in the presence of a lady, you mannerless barking dog?”

Yseult held her breath as the barely visible eyes studied her brother and then her. Abruptly the steel was withdrawn and the man showed his face before the door slammed. There was no doubt that
Huon
was brave!

He turned, frowning. “Sister, tell me again about Mama and what they did to her when they took her prisoner.”

When she was done he began to pace, frowning; some corner of her mind noticed that he took fewer strides to cross the strait confines of the room.

“Laudanum?” he said, half-incredulous. “A straitjacket? And she never used to have hysterical fits. I wonder . . .”

The chirurgeon came, a middle-aged man with a short grizzled beard. He clicked his tongue angrily when he saw the neglected burns and wrist.

“The wrist will need exercises. I'll talk with Gallardo; he can add it to your morning routine. I wish he'd told me, he's supposed to report on your condition.”

“I didn't tell
him
, it's not his fault,” said Yseult. “I didn't know it mattered.”

The chirurgeon snorted. “Any injury that doesn't heal is a problem, and it gets worse if untended, young mistress. The face is a problem now. It's impetigo. Luckily we don't seem to have brought any serious diseases like MRSA through the Change but it's not good. I'm going to soak it, gently debride it and then paint it with Gentian violet. You will wear gloves all day, and keep your hands completely away from your face. Young Master Gervais, will you go to your chamber?”

Huon jerked out of his reverie. “Why?” he demanded imperiously; the man was a commoner.

“Because this will hurt your sister. I can't have you hit me because I hurt her,” said the chirurgeon impatiently.

Huon glared at the chirurgeon and sat down next to Yseult and put his arms around her. “Hold on to me, sister, we'll weather this together.”

 

“Oh, that
was
awful!” Shawonda Thurston said.

Yseult jerked a little, wrenched back across the years. She used an exercise one of the Sisters had taught her, thinking about a candle burning before the altar, to relax her mind; the muscles of her shoulders followed, and the pain in her knee faded.

“What happened after that?” Shawonda said.

“Do you want that last piece of the apricot tart?” Janie added.

Yseult laughed at her angelic expression.
I wish I'd had some sisters. We were always such a small family, just the three of us youngsters, and I was the only girl.
She realized that she was going to enjoy being a lady-in-waiting again, once things settled down. It had been the first time in her life she could be one of many of her own sex and age, and she wanted that again for a while.

“Go ahead,” Shawonda said. “What happened?”

“Then . . . then I saw the Lady Regent, a few weeks later.”

“Weeks?”
Shawonda said indignantly. “How could she be so cruel to you, leaving you in that little hole? For weeks!”

“It wasn't so bad after Huon came. I knew
he
was all right. And I had my books and . . . well, the Lady Regent isn't cruel.”

“She's kind?” Shawonda said ironically.

“No. She's, this is with ordinary people, you understand . . . she's neither. She's just . . . clever. Patient, and very very clever.”

The elder Thurston girl shivered a little. “Sounds scary.”

“
Oh
yes,” Yseult said, her mind traveling back. “You have no idea.”

Yseult struggled with the cote-hardie. The voluminous folds kept getting hung up. Three weeks of physical therapy and exercises had helped her arm, shoulder and wrist. But she still didn't have the full range of motion back. With an annoyed exclamation she ducked her head down and bent her body, shaking herself and wishing for Carmen Barrios or Virgilia. The slubbed silk slowly slid off her arms and over her head.

Huon knocked on the door. “Ysi, Ysi, what's taking you so long? It's almost time!”

She looked at the pools of sunset orange silk on the floor, hesitated for the tenth time and then set her lips.

“Huon, please come help me. I can't get the dress on with my arm still injured.”

“Help you!” Huon suddenly squeaked, a thirteen-year-old boy again, not a man impatient with female fripperies.

Yseult caught her breath on a sudden laugh. “Huon!” she chided. “I'm wearing the chemise and underclothes. I could get those on and laced up by myself. It's just the court cote-hardie. It's so tight and I can't lift my left arm enough. I'm perfectly decent.”

She opened the door to the sitting room and looked at Huon and approved.

“You're going to be as much of a popinjay as Odard!” she said. “That looks really good on you. Now come help me keep up the reputation of House Liu!”

His cheeks were as red as the crimson shirt under his plain gray houppelande of fine merino wool. It was belted over parti-colored hosen in black and a darker crimson. The belt, with its empty dagger sheath, was one of Odard's; an elaborate affair of fifteen five-inch-wide black enameled plaques in a filigree pattern, set with lapis lazuli cabochons. It had a matching state chain over the shoulder that picked up the dark sea-blue of his eyes, like the Pacific off Astoria on a sunny day.

“I approve,” she said. “Where are the shoes and hat?”

He waved a hand aimlessly at the window and said, “Shouldn't I send for a tirewoman?”

“We don't have enough time . . . and, Huon?”

He looked at her, inquiringly. She hesitated and shrugged.

“I think this is a test.”

“Test?” he frowned. “Of what?”

“Resourcefulness and ability to think on our feet? Who knows; do you want to get into a who's-the-clever-one contest with the
Spider
?”

“St. Michael, no! I'm thirteen!”

“I don't either, and I won't when I'm thirty!”

A startled expression crossed his face. “I never thought of that! And, in that case, will you help fix
my
stuff, too?”

“Of course! I wouldn't have let you out of the room like that!”

“Why? What's wrong?”

She giggled, suddenly. “You might be heading towards brother Odard's dandyism, but you've got a long way to go yet! It's all in the details. I'll take care of it in a minute.”

She picked up and shook out the sunset-colored cote-hardie. “I'm going to crouch a bit and you throw it over my head and get my hands into the sleeves. Then you have to help coax the sleeves up each arm and make sure the skirts fall without getting tucked up at the waist.”

Huon looked appropriately solemn as he carefully cast the many yards of raw silk slub over her head and they worked together on coaxing the tight sleeves into place.

“Your chemise is showing,” he fussed.

She waved a hand at him. “No, it's supposed to show. I'm too young to be showing off my pitiful assets. It needs to be absolutely even all around, though.”

She shrugged and lifted the collar of the complex dress while he walked around and around and carefully tucked and tugged at the delicate pink silk chemise. Then she reached under the skirts and deftly pulled the hem of the chemise. The wrinkles at the neckline slowly vanished. The chain and saint's medal were lightly outlined by the silk, but that was acceptable. She shook herself making sure the gown moved freely and moved into the sitting room and studied herself in the better light. Huon followed her out, carrying the rich caramel-colored sideless surcoat.

“Wouldn't it have been easier to just unbutton the buttons and then do it up?”

“The buttons are just for show,” she said absently, carefully pulling the seams of her sleeves straight.

The obsidian buttons were burin-carved in a cloud pattern, each one slightly different; they marched their way up to the elbow.

“And the front ones—if I did that it would button up all crooked. Some of the court ladies wear theirs so tight they actually have to sew themselves into them. Buttons would gap, do gap, these are for show, too . . . It looks very, very . . . ummm, when they do them too tight.”

She felt her cheeks heat up. Huon laughed a small laugh that reminded her he was old enough to start looking at women
that
way.

“I've seen it. Like they painted themselves in silk, and nothing left to the imagination.”

She nodded, still a little pink. Huon shook out the sideless surcoat, found the front and flung it over her head. It settled neatly around her and a few tweaks set it in place. The front and back had been cut out, too, and then lightly laced, to show off the cote-hardie itself.

“Where are your jewels?” asked Huon.

“Under the prie-dieu.”

He brought out her belt and state necklace, pearl set copper, and helped her get them set just right. She swallowed a bit at the sight of the empty dagger sheath at her belt. She and Huon wore the sheaths as tokens that they were Associates; they were empty in token of the accusations against them.

She found the veil, gauzy wild pink that picked up the brilliant color of her dress. Huon carefully combed the disordered strands of her braided hair smooth and draped the veil. The copper and pearl diadem fixed it on her head.

“Doesn't this make your skin go green?”

“No. It would, but it has a lining of silver on the inside. That might make my skin go black. But it's a lot slower to tarnish than copper . . . Huon! I'm so scared!”

She saw his throat work and was sorry she'd spoken. “But, you're with me. We're House Liu! We can do this.”

Huon's face firmed. “Right, Ysi. Our father came out of the Change a baron. There's strength in our blood.”

“Come here and let me straighten out your houppelande and state chain . . . no, first put on your shoes and hat! Let me comb your hair . . .”

Fussing over Huon steadied her and she saw her brother relax and smile a bit and relaxed herself. The clash of spears thumping the hall warned her that it was time. She walked, quickly, but carefully back into her bedchamber, holding up her skirts. She gulped and touched the porcelain of Bernadette and the picture of the Virgin.

“Give me strength, but also, give me smarts. This is going to be very scary!”

She slipped the rosary under her belt and heard the door open. She walked out and gasped. Jehane stood there between the spearmen, lord Chaka's youngest sister, and looking very grown-up now, her smooth brown face inscrutable.

Oh! I wish I could smile and dance up to her and hug her like I used to do. She was always so nice to me; but she looks . . . so, so . . . magnificent and so solemn! And she's the Lady Regent's amanuensis, now. I have to be careful. Some days I wish I didn't
have
to grow up. Life was simpler back then.

Jehane nodded with regal calm. “Come then, young mistress, young master. The Lady Regent will examine you in this matter of the treason of House Liu.”

Yseult shot a quick look at Huon and straightened her back. Her fingers pinched a small fold of the sideless surcoat and the cote-hardie under it and lifted it, a scant inch from the floor. She glided forward and followed Jehane out of the room.

Two large men-at-arms in black armor stood at the door like the legendary metal men of the ancient world except for the faces under their raised visors, others beyond, in the corridor.

Things may have
seemed
simpler in bygone days,
thought Yseult.

Even then she couldn't help admiring Jehane's magnificent pale green ermine-trimmed cote-hardie with the elaborate dagged sleeves faced in silver silk, black marks echoing the ermine. Either she had perfect taste, or the Lady Regent did and insisted on it for her immediate staff, or both. Probably both.

Probably her father had as well, and her mother had helped. It was the play of great lords, the game of advantage.

The audience chamber to which they were escorted in the Dark Tower was an uncomfortable room despite the handsome stone of the floor and walls and the roof of carved plaster arabesques. Harsh light from the bare high windows fell in spears on the spot before a large desk of carved walnut on the slightly raised dais. The Lady Regent sat there, wrapped in a great cloak of priceless black-and-white ermine. Two Associates' daggers lay on the desk before her, points towards the accused, their bright edges glittering against the dark silky wood.