Trouble with Kings (7 page)

I won’t describe our ride down the mountain trails, pretty as it was. The scenery is there, unchanged, for anyone to see who wishes. Our trail paralleled a stream, sometimes crossing. At first we could only hear it, overhung as it was by the lovely willow and blue spruce and very old alders that grew profusely in the mountains. Also heard were birds and the occasional large animal—deer, elk.

We talked about a variety of things: romance, dancing, clothes, families. Our mothers. I had no memory of mine, but I knew my brother had vague memories of her languishing voice, her lack of interest in him. She had been seventeen—wraithlike, pale of eyes and hair, like a ballad princess—when my father, late in life, made a journey to Narieth and fell suddenly and violently in love. No, not in love, for they had absolutely nothing in common, but even my father, wise as he was, mistook that violent attraction for love. As for my mother, from what my great-aunt told me later there was no love or even attraction. She married to become a queen. However few in Carnison’s court liked her.

When, not long after I was born, she’d tried intriguing one of the coastal dukes and was refused, she’d threatened to drown herself by walking into a river in full ball dress. My great-aunt had maintained she’d only meant it as a dramatic gesture, and had been taken by surprise. She had no idea how heavy a water-sodden ball dress could be, and since she’d never learned how to fasten or unfasten her own gowns, down she went before anyone could get to her.

Jewel listened with sympathy. “At least yours wasn’t drunk all the time. My mother was horrid! But.” She turned around on the horse, looking at me with her wide eyes. “She was not nearly as nasty as our father, who was legendary for his temper. Which I inherited.” She spread her hands. “You
need
a temper, to survive
my
family. But I have never, ever, ever beaten anyone or had them beaten. I promise!”

I laughed. “I believe you.”

“Oh, I don’t want to remember Father. I think Jason is exactly like him. Worse, if you ask me, because he never raises his voice. It’s
inhuman
. Father was a bellower—like me. Ugh. Let’s talk about something else. Like food.”

And so we did, keeping ourselves entertained until we decided to stop.

The air was summery, pure, sweet, and only cold after sunset. We huddled into cloaks, making a campfire in a secluded grotto. Jewel had brought some of the outlaws’ journey-bread, their staple on long runs, and some fruit. Bard was not the least sweaty, having ambled at a slow pace, so he just needed unsaddling and a brush-down, and he found plenty of grass to eat. We slept and continued on in the morning.

The second day’s ride brought us into the lower reaches of Drath, above the border to Lygiera—and so we rode past ancient tiers of grapevines, tended by countless generations, to produce the gold and yellow wines that were justly famed.

Later that day brought us to flatter land and our stream began to meander, sometimes rushing over rocky falls. The trail finally met with a road and took us within sight of habitation—farmland, mostly. We were now in Lygiera.

Since two of us rode one horse, we did not proceed at any dashing pace. Slow is steady, and by the time the sun was westering beyond the far mountains, we had reached a market town. Jewel guided us to the inn as we talked about our roles. It seemed an adventure to play the part of the maid.

The inn lay at a crossroads on the outskirts of town. Jewel sashayed inside to order her room and dinner. It fell to me to take the horse to the stable and carry the bags upstairs. There I discovered I was expected to make the bed ready.

Jewel had warned me that she’d give orders and not listen to see if I understood them, but what I hadn’t expected was that the innkeeper, and her daughter who ran the stable, would do so as well. No one was cruel—not like Garian’s exquisite sarcasm. They looked at me as an adjunct to the work. They issued an order, then turned away assuming it would be done.

Maxl had seen to it when I was a child that I knew how to care for any horse I rode, so it was no difficulty to curry down Bard and see him fed. The innkeeper’s daughter glanced once or twice, gauged the amount of feed, and then left me alone. Once I got inside, the innkeeper, who was harassed with many customers, clearly expected me to fetch and carry from the kitchens and I had no idea where to find anything.

After the fourth trip upstairs—the last time with a heavy tray—I trod back downstairs. Finally it was my turn to eat.

I was given a plate of cooked beets, boiled potatoes and a small amount of spiced fish-and-rice, which was apparently the preferred dish of the paying customers, so there wasn’t much left for us. A cup of ale or water was my only choice for drink.

Stiff from the long ride and the labor after many days of forced inactivity, I chose the ale, hoping it would help me sleep. Once I had my plate I discovered there was no table set aside for servants. They sat wherever they might around the kitchen, staying well away from the place where the cook and his two helpers worked.

I spotted a stool by the roasting-fire. No one else seemed to want it, so I sat down there.

A dark-eyed young woman said scornfully, “What are you? Lady’s maid come down in the world?”

“What?” I looked around—to discover everyone eying me.

For answer she got to her feet and minced over to the ale pitcher. She poured out a fresh cup, her movements so finicky, her nose so high, that several in the room laughed. “Swank,” she said over her shoulder.

My face and ears went hot. “Way I was trained.”

A man snapped his fingers. “Dancer. Right?”

I nodded, relieved. And it was true enough: though I wasn’t a professional dancer, I’d been tutored by one ever since I was small.

“I knew it.”

The dark-eyed maid shrugged, looking a lot less confrontational. “I heard dancing is a hard life, unless you get some patron or a permanent placing.”

“Or unless you can act as well. Or sing,” said an older woman dressed in faded livery.

“I can’t sing,” I said. “But I’ve played the lute all my life. And the harp. Um, as well as dancing.”

“Dancing has to be a better life than a mistress who’s too fond of the stick,” someone else spoke up, causing nods and mutters of “That’s right.” “She beats you, that black-haired weaver’s wench?” He touched his eye.

Jewel was right. They do notice things.

“It wasn’t she.” I wildly considered different explanations, for we’d forgotten to account for my fading black eye.

But it was clear no one had any real interest. An old man cackled. “My auntie said, if they hit you, hit ’em back. You’re like to either be turned off or else you’ll teach ’em some manners. Her lady came to be known as the mildest in two provinces, after auntie was through with her.”

They all found that funny. I smiled, sipping my ale.

“All those weavers, they think they’re royalty,” the older woman grumped.

“Silk-makers are the worst.” Another woman waved a dismissive hand.

The old man grunted. “All of ’em the same. No more idea about how food gets onto their plate, and the costs during famine or fine weather, than a lord. Of course
they
get paid by the piece, come bad times or good.”

“That’s true enough,” the cook spoke up, jabbing the air with his carving knife.

Several agreed, and I suspected I could name who had come from farm folk and who hadn’t.

Hoping to steer the gossip, I said, “There’s some I’d never hit back. Leastways successfully.” My heart slammed; would that raise suspicion?

No suspicion, but general interest.

“Talking of your weaver?”

“No, but a cousin of mine was up in Drath, at G—the prince’s castle.”

The old man whistled. “Now, he’s a bad one, and no mistake.”

“Pays well,” said the dark-eyed young woman. “But you have to have a laced lip—you don’t dare make a peep. My sister knows the cook’s girl. She can afford to dress like a countess, but she daren’t say a single word, lest the prince find out she was talking, my sister says. Servants who blab have a way of vanishing.”

The other young woman stretched, then flipped back her red braid. “No thanks. Me, I’d rather take my mistress’s old gowns, and listen to her chatter about her little dogs, and have my fun at festival time, with no shadow of a stick over my back. Or worse,” she added, with a gesture toward the one with the dark eyes. “People who vanish don’t turn up again, not if the likes of the Prince of Drath makes ’em vanish.”

Several murmured agreement, and that ended the subject.

When I was done eating, most of them had left. I went up to Jewel’s room and found her yawning. “Oh, good. It’s so boring, sitting here! But the parlor is all men, except for those two old women, and all they talked about was their children. So I came away. How did you do?”

“Fine. Except for being accused of swanking.” I demonstrated. “Do I really move like that?”

“No. I told you before, you move like a princess—like a toff.” She pursed her lips, considering. “It’s probably invisible to you, all those stylized gestures, the gliding walk, where you stand in relation to other people. You expect them to give you space. You’ve been trained to use fine posture and to move like a princess ought at all times, ever since you were little. It stands out, here.”

I frowned. “I hadn’t been aware.”

She grinned. “I wasn’t either, until I joined Jaim’s gang. But your training far surpasses mine. Besides you really do move well, when one actually watches you.”

I shook my head. “That is so strange to hear.”

“Why?” Jewel put her chin on her hands, her eyes narrowed in a way that brought her brothers unexpectedly to mind. “I know. You’re a watcher. Not a doer. Is that it?”

“I’m not used to it. I’ve come to see myself more like, oh, a piece of furniture. Proper, in its place, but silent. Noticed when someone wants it.”

Jewel snorted. “I think court is going to be ver-ry interesting. So. Did you hear anything of use?”

“Garian’s servants don’t talk, according to the gossip. People are afraid of him.”

Jewel fluttered her hands. “I am not surprised.”

I looked at her tray of dirty dishes, and sighed. “I guess I’d better take that back down again.”

“At least you don’t have to sleep on the floor, or up in the attic.” Jewel gave me a grin of sympathy.

We climbed into the bed, which was a lumpy hay-stuffed mattress, but there was plenty of room for two. Jewel blew out the candle with an exasperated whoosh.

“Something wrong?” I asked, trying to find a position that would ease my stiff back.

“I started wondering. My situation is going to—well. You know, my brothers are, um. Well, one really is a villain, and the other one, it seems has, ah, had a disagreement or two with your family.” She coughed, and I looked away, trying hard not to laugh. But the urge vanished when she asked wistfully, “Will that make me not welcome?”

“I’ll tell Maxl that you escaped too. And if need be, we can always make up some mysterious foreign alias.”

“An alias! That sounds romantic.” Her voice dropped back into seriousness. “But what if your father doesn’t like me?”

“Oh, he will. You’ve only to behave with good manners, and he’ll treat you the same. He’s good and kind, and has always been very wise about trade and treaties, but in recent years he’s become, um, somewhat unworldly. It’s Maxl who is slowly beginning to rule, though Papa reigns.”

“What if Maxl doesn’t like me?”

“He likes everyone. My brother is known for his good nature.”

“Is he courting anyone?”

“No. Not really. He
gets
courted, especially by that horrible—” I thought of Gilian Zarda, shuddered, made an effort to dismiss her from my mind.

“Horrible?”

“Just a court predator,” I said firmly. Then smiled at the image of Gilian, who worked so hard at her dainty and sweet image, hearing herself likened to a predator. “My brother hasn’t been romantic with anyone since he made his trip to Dantherei when he came of age, and he fell instantly in love with the crown princess, Eleandra-Natalia ru Fidalia. It’s the only silly thing he’s ever done, but he hasn’t swerved from his devotion. I guess he’s like father in that way. And since the kingdoms have to remain friendly, she’s been officially considering his suit for four years. I think it all pretense—though I don’t know her and haven’t been there.”

“Eleandra-Natalia,” Jewel repeated. “Where have I heard her name before? I mean, besides her being Crown Princess of Dantherei and apparently the most beautiful female ever to walk in the world. I am certain I’ve heard her name in the context of some import, but what? Well, no doubt I’ll remember it some day, when it’s least needed.” She yawned again.

We went to sleep.

Chapter Seven

Next morning we rose early, and again I had to toil up and down the stairs to get breakfast. After that I got Bard saddled and bridled. By the time I was done I was warm, and all the stiffness had worked out of my muscles.

Then I hefted up our bags and trailed behind Jewel, mindful of my walk. What was considered “swank”? Not since my first experiences with the girls of court, and Gilian Zarda’s sweet-toned nastiness, had I been so self-conscious. As I slouched behind Jewel, hiding my face behind our armload of gear, I recognized that I’d tried to become invisible as a kind of defense since those painful early days.

In any case Jewel was determined to draw attention from me. She sashayed out to the stable, her nose up, her hips rolling so that her skirts belled from side to side. She exhibited enough airs and graces for a dowager duchess at a grand ball—a duchess with a splendid figure. The male stablehands never gave me a second glance.

We mounted Bard and rode out at our sedate pace.

And the next few days passed in much the same manner. The weather was so warm and sunny we put on bonnets to keep the sun from our eyes, me wearing the worn, limp one with the faded ties. We crossed westward over farmland, past meandering rivers and rice beds, and through villages and small towns, avoiding the larger ones, where hostelries tend to be more expensive. As I learned my role, I thought of my own maid, Debrec. A woman in her forties or fifties, she was quiet, mild of voice and meticulous in her work.