Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 16

  “Since I’ve known you forever, yes I do,” Amily laughed, as the servant hid a smile. “Really, Lydia, you should stop apologizing. There are plenty of things you excel at; you shouldn’t be expected to be a paragon at everything.”

  Lydia’s dressing-room was adjacent to the bedchamber she shared with the Prince. It was a very small room; the clothing closet attached to it was actually larger than the room itself was—the dressing room was just barely big enough for Lydia, her handmaiden, and Amily. This evening was the Midwinter Reception of the full Court; everyone was going to be here—or at least, representatives of every notable family were going to be here, since inviting all of the cousins and uncles and aunts would fill the Palace five times over. As it was, the festivities were going to spill out all over the public rooms of the Palace. Not just the Great Hall, but the Throne Room, the Lesser Throne Room, the Greater Audience Chamber, the Lesser Audience Chamber, the Feast Hall . . . and the Royal Family was expected to mingle.

  Needless to say, just in case of trouble, there were Guards in practically every alcove. After years of dealing with the Sleepgiver assassins, no one was taking any chances on anything going wrong.

  Not that Lydia—and, for that matter, the King and the Prince—couldn’t take care of themselves. Lydia had been taking lessons in fighting for much longer than Amily, and the King and the Crown Prince were both Heralds so it was a given that they knew how to defend themselves. Still, it was better to be safe, and as a consequence, not only were there Guards everywhere, there were plenty of Heralds in Formal Whites, instructors at the Collegium and the Heralds serving Haven itself, circulating in the areas where one of the Royals would be as well.

  Technically, Amily should have been with the King. But the Healers had finally allowed Nikolas some more freedom to move about, and he had taken his customary position by Kyril’s side, which suited Amily just fine. Most of the people here were used to Nikolas as the King’s Own. Kyril was used to having his old friend at his side, and this was not the best time to change that arrangement. And, last of all, there were plenty of people here who would probably be confused at seeing a young woman where they expected Nikolas. Anyway, she was getting the far more interesting job of helping her dear friend Lydia remember just who in the nine hells she was talking to when total strangers came up to her, rather than just standing at Kyril’s elbow and trying to look as if she actually belonged there.

  :All that studying in the Archives is proving to be useful,: she observed to Rolan with amusement.

  :This is something Nikolas never needed to deal with,: Rolan replied, with equal amusement. :The King has a ridiculously encyclopedic memory for the important people of his realm.:

  This would be the first time that Lydia had performed this particular duty of the Princess Royal, and she was understandably nervous. Last year, as a newlywed, she had been able to stick by her husband’s side and merely smile and nod as needed. This year, however, she had to play her part alone, seeing and being seen, with a pleasant word to anyone who approached her. And, possibly, being asked to put in a very political comment or two . . .

  That would be via Amily and Rolan. Rolan was watching through Amily’s eyes, and if something needed to be said, he would prompt Amily, who would murmur in Lydia’s ear.

  “We’ll do fine,” Amily said reassuringly. “When have you ever known me to miss a question when we played ‘guess who that guest is’ at your father’s parties?”

  “Never,” Lydia sighed. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t that hard,” Amily confessed, as Lydia stood up. “No one ever paid attention to me at any of your parties, which gave me plenty of opportunity to study them. And anyone who was a stranger was someone you generally mentioned beforehand, so I knew who to watch for. And now, well, I have Rolan to prompt me if I don’t recognize a family device.”

  “I wish I did,” Lydia said ruefully. “All right then, time for my performance.”

  Almost any other young woman would have asked “How do I look?” and probably with some anxiety. But not Lydia, which was one of the things that endeared her to Amily. Not that Lydia was indifferent to her appearance; she knew she was attractive, and she enjoyed wearing lovely things. But she didn’t get obsessed with them, and when, as now, she had the services of a servant whose entire job was to make her look like the Princess that she was, she assumed that the servant would do that job and dismissed her own appearance from her mind in favor of more important things—like her duties.

  “The King is relying on you and Sedric to keep Lord Kaltar and Lord Leverance apart,” Amily reminded her. “That’s far more important than remembering whose name is what, and it’s something I can’t do. You, on the other hand, have high rank and an amazing command of pure charm. You’ve been assigned Lord Leverance, and the plan is to try and keep him in the Throne Room. If need be, and he acts as if he thinks he needs to go elsewhere, you can take him on a personal tour of the Long Gallery. Sedric will keep Lord Kaltar away from both rooms.”

  “I will certainly do my best, if I have to seize his arm and drag him away by force,” Lydia said firmly. “All right, let’s go take up our station.”

  The formal receptions for each of the guests had taken place over the past several days, both to keep certain parties separated—there were other folks who had disagreements going, though none so prone to bloodshed as the one between Leverance and Kaltar—and to keep from exhausting people with long receiving lines. This meant that each member of the Royal Family could just take up his or her place, and remain within a relatively small orbit. And unless someone was absolutely determined to greet every member of the Royals, there was no particular reason to leave the room to which he’d been sent by the doorkeeper.

  That was the theory, anyway. In practice, while there would be musicians and Bards everywhere, there would only be dancing in the Great Hall, so anyone who wanted to dance would have to go there. A potential problem, but fortunately, one that had already been solved in at least one case.

  For as it happened, both Lord Kaltar and Lord Leverance had been rather vocal about not wanting to dance; Amily had learned Leverance’s preference through his dog, and Mags had learned Kaltar’s through eavesdropping. Probably the three girls would want to, and possibly Brand, but they were all counting on Brand’s youth and inexperience—and the presence of the Guards—and the presence of the Royal Family—to keep him from making any sort of fuss if he encountered Leverance’s girls or their mother. Not that he’d likely recognize them, but he might recognize the embroidered lions they wore. The mobs of cousins had not been invited, and had not expected invitations. But there were other Midwinter parties being held for those who did not have a coveted invitation . . . and . . . well, Amily had a pretty shrewd notion that Flora’s, The Compass Rose, and other establishments down in Haven would be busy.

  For that matter, the cousins might well host a pair of impromptu gatherings themselves, at the two manors. After all there would be no supervising eyes to monitor the food and drink, and none of the servants would dare contradict their orders.

  Lydia and Amily entered the Throne room from a private corridor that connected it with the Royal Suite, and the sound, the scents, and the blaze of light practically struck them in the face as a Guard opened the door for them. In fact, the Throne Room was so crowded that it didn’t really need much heating; the sheer press of bodies was making it warm. Lydia threaded her way gracefully toward the Throne with Amily right at her elbow, since the dais made a good place for her to take up a stand and gave her some clear space at her back. As soon as she was in place, people began making their way toward her.

  As she smiled and said pleasantries, smiled and spoke compliments, and Amily kept a sharp eye out for Lord Leverance, Amily reflected that she didn’t envy her friend at all. If this is being a Royal . . . it is an honor I can very much live without.

 
—

  Violetta stood a little behind her older sisters and looked out over the Great Hall of the Palace, feeling breathless. This one room alone was half the size of their entire manor here in the city! The ceiling was hidden in shadows, it was so high, even though the room blazed with light from all the candles in sconces mounted around the room. And the press of people was enough to take her breath away. She felt very much the country-girl, and did her best not to gawk. She couldn’t imagine how Brigette and Aleniel were managing to look so serene and unimpressed.

  The air was thick with perfume, and the sight of all of the gorgeous gowns and jewels left her dazzled. She had been persuaded to leave her little dog Star behind, and now she was glad she had; the poor little thing would have been in danger of being trampled in the crowd, and obviously if she was going to dance—and oh, how she hoped she would be asked to dance!—she couldn’t carry her muff to keep him safely in. Still, she wished she had the comfort of his dear little warm body, because at the moment she was feeling significantly overwhelmed.

  She had been half-terrified that none of the dances would be anything that she knew. After all, they lived out in the country, and like fashions, dances changed and the change began here, at Court. But she was relieved to see that their dancing-master actually did live up to his boast of “being able to teach every popular step,” because she’d watched three dances so far, and they were all ones she knew so well she could do them sleepwalking. Just now, the dance was a stately pavane, and the partners swirled and bowed, turned and paced, separated and rejoined in patterns she knew by heart.

  Mother was standing beside them like a veritable dragon, with Lady Dia beside her, whispering in her ear every time a young man approached Brigette or Aleniel. All it took was a single warning glance to send the “unsuitable” away before they even got within greeting distance. But after three young men had been sent packing, a fourth proved to be worthy, and was beckoned onward with a smile and a nod.

  Knowing who he had to placate, he bowed over Mother’s hand. “If I might have the pleasure of your daughter’s company in the dance?” he asked politely, as the pavane ended, and the musicians paused before starting a new number. “I believe it will be a gigue, if that is permissible?”

  Mother smiled and gestured, and he offered his hand to Aleniel. Brigette looked faintly disappointed, but a moment later a middle-aged fellow in tawny velvet, with a Guildmaster’s chain around his neck, appeared as if conjured, and begged to take Brigette onto the floor. She beamed at him, he beamed at her, and Mother beamed beatifically at both of them.

  No one came for Violetta by the time the music started. I suppose I look too young, she thought, doing her best to hide her disappointment. The gown that she’d chosen was the best she owned, a lovely red brocade over an embroidered saffron chemise . . . but it did hide her breasts and made her look as slender as a boy. But if she had chosen any of the other gowns in her chest, Mother would not have approved. Either they were not grand enough for an occasion like this, or they had defects that would be readily visible in this light, or their necklines were cut lower and the bodices tighter than Mother thought proper for this particular occasion.

  “Mother, may I get some water?” she asked, interrupting a conversation between Mother and Lady Dia, which seemed to be centered about the middle-aged man who was partnering Brigette with reasonable skill, if not much grace. There were tables with ewers of cold water and goblets along the windows that formed one wall of this room, and suddenly she was feeling much too warm.

  “Go ahead dear,” Mother said absently. “Do not get out of my sight, and do not accept any invitations to dance. If someone asks you, send him to speak to me.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she sighed with resignation, and wound her way through the crowd until she could reach one of the tables. A servant there handed her a goblet of cold water before she could ask for it, and she turned, sipping it, to watch the dancing from this vantage.

  And that was when she saw him.

  He was . . . beautiful. He looked like a poet. He danced as gracefully as a deer. He was dark, broodingly handsome, and could not be more than two or three years older than she. He was, in every way, exactly the sort of young man she had dreamed of. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, and when at the end of the dance he bowed over his partner’s hand, escorted her back to her waiting mother, and then headed straight for her, she thought she was going to faint.

  And then . . . he addressed the servant, asking for water, without even glancing at her.

  He downed the goblet in a single gulp, handed it back, murmured a polite, “Excuse me,” to everyone around the table, and went back to the crowd at the edge of the dancing, taking another girl out for the next number.

  Not her.

  He had never even noticed her.

  Of course he didn’t notice me! The last girl he had danced with, and the one he was dancing with now, didn’t look like children! She felt herself blushing hotly with acute embarrassment, even though nothing had happened, and he hadn’t actually snubbed her, he’d simply not seen her. But oh, it hurt. It hurt desperately.

  She clutched her goblet and sipped at it to ease her parched throat, and watched him dance. Who is he? she wondered. I must know.

  She listened as carefully as she could to the gossip among those standing near her. The young man was certainly attracting a lot of attention; she overheard more than one person wonder aloud who he was. But no one around her seemed to have any idea, although the few girls without their mothers certainly were not backward in their open admiration of him.

  “He dances like a dancing master,” murmured one. “I wish he’d ask me.”

  “He must be one of the people just here for Midwinter Court,” said her friend, sounding disappointed. In the next moment, she revealed why. “With so many of us here, you and I probably won’t even find out his name until after he’s gone.”

  “If I were wedded to him, I wouldn’t even care if I was stuck in some damp, cold manor in the back of nowhere,” confessed another.

  Violetta nursed that goblet of water for as long as she dared, before her mother’s increasingly frequent and commanding glances turned into a stare. With regret she handed it back to the servant, and returned to her mother’s side.

  Her sisters kept getting satisfactory partners, at least by Mother’s standards, and she kept getting none. Most of them were decidedly not handsome or young, but Mother was radiating maternal satisfaction every time Brigette and Aleniel stepped out to dance, probably due to what Lady Dia was whispering in her ear.

  All last night, her dreams had been about herself doing the dancing, and not just her sisters. And yet, now that she had that beautiful young man to watch, she was not completely discontented with her lot.

  She tried to reason out what he must be like, watching him closely and analyzing everything he did. She wished she could hear what he was saying, but from the reactions of his partners, it was probably all the usual polite blandishments. Still, he was careful with his partners, watching them and matching his steps to theirs. He never seemed to overstep his boundaries. Out there on the dance floor there were men who were too forward, or indifferent, or careless; she could tell it by the reactions of the ladies they were dancing with. But he was none of these things.

  He must be here, like we are. Looking for a wife—or at least, his parents are looking for one for him. Which meant, if his rank wasn’t too high, she had a chance. Even if he hadn’t noticed her, she still had a chance. If only, oh, if only, he was a younger son with no chance of an inheritance! Because if Brigette and Aleniel married well, that meant that it would be her husband that would inherit, if he agreed to take the name of Raeylen. That inheritance would be nothing to sneeze at, especially not for a younger son with no prospects of his own.

  She hated thinking like that . . . it was so cold and unromantic . . . but it gave her h
ope.

  She filled her gaze with him, feeling feverish; his dark eyes flashing in the candlelight. His black hair, falling like silk to his shoulders. The face of a melancholy poet. He was dressed simply, but elegantly, in a parti-colored tunic of brown and saffron, with matching trews that fit him so closely they were nearly hosen, and soft brown boots. He was wearing no jewelry. Did that mean he was of limited means, or that he was indifferent to show? She couldn’t tell.

  In her head, she was writing a letter to him, although at the moment it was a tumble of confused phrases. He will never see me in this crowd, but if I can get his attention with my words . . . there might be a chance. She wished she could slip away to some quiet place, write it all out, and somehow get it into his hand. . . .

  Mother noticed, at long last, how quiet she was, and turned to her. “Violetta, are you overtired? Feverish?” She put the back of her hand to Violetta’s brow, somewhat to Violetta’s embarrassment.

  “It’s just . . . very loud, Mother,” she said, untruthfully. “And I feel lost among all these people. Is there someplace quiet I could go for a little, do you think?”

  Her mother pursed up her lips a little, but then it seemed to occur to her that Violetta wasn’t getting any dancing partners anyway. Violetta could almost see her thinking, calculating. After all, if Violetta left for a bit, that would be less competition for Brigette and Aleniel, and it would be much easier to keep track of two girls than three.

  Mother turned to Lady Dia.

  “My Lady, can you keep an eye on the older girls for a moment?” she asked, with just the proper amount of humility. “I would not ask, but it seems Violetta is a bit overheated, and would like to find somewhere to sit quietly—”