Crown Duel by Sherwood Smith
She flushed right up to her hairline, a rose-red blush that made her look like a young girl. “As his supplicant? I bow to your expertise in wielding the hiltless knife.” And she swept a jerky curtsey, her hands shaking.
“Life! I didn’t mean that,” I said hastily. “Yes, I think I can see it’s a bad idea. All right, how’s this: You and I go out for a walk. Right now. You don’t even have to talk to me. But wouldn’t that shut up all the gossipmongers—leastwise pull the teeth of their gossip—if we seem to be on terms of amity, as if last night was merely a very good joke?”
Again her posture eased, from anger to wariness. “And in return?”
“Nothing. I don’t need anything! Or what I need no one can give me, which is wisdom.” I thought of my mistakes and winced. Then said, “Just let things go back to the way they were, except you don’t have to think of me as an enemy. I’m not in love with Savona any more than he is with me, and I don’t see myself changing my mind. If I did, I don’t believe he’d like it,” I added, considering the elusive duke. “No, I don’t think I could fall in love with him, handsome though he is, because I don’t accept any of that huff he gives me about my great beauty and all that. I’d have to trust a man’s words before I could love him. I think.”
She took a deep, slightly shaky breath. “Very well.”
And so we went.
It wasn’t a very comfortable walk. She hardly exchanged five words with me; and every single person who saw us stared then hastily recovered behind the remorselessly polite mask of the true courtier. It would have been funny if I had been an observer and not a participant, an idea that gave me a disconcerting insight into gossip. As I walked beside the silent Tamara, I realized that despite how entertaining certain stories were, at the bottom of every item of gossip there was someone getting hurt.
When we were done with a complete circuit of the gardens and had reached her house again, I said, “Well, that’s that. See you at the ball tonight, right?”
She half put out a hand, then said, “Your brother’s wedding is nearing.”
“Yes?”
“Did you know it is customary for the nearest relation to give a party for the family that is adopting into yours?”
I whistled. “No, I didn’t. And I could see how Nee would feel strange telling me. Well, I’m very grateful to you.”
She curtsied. Again it was the deep one, petitioner to sovereign, but this time it was low and protracted and wordlessly sincere.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On the surface, Savona’s picnic was a delight. All his particular friends—except Shevraeth—were there, and not one of them so much as mentioned Tamara. Neither did I.
When a lowering line of clouds on the horizon caused us to pack up our things and begin the return journey, I wondered how many notes would be dispatched before the morrow.
Savona escorted me to the Residence. For most of our journey the talk was in our usual pattern—he made outrageous compliments, which I turned into jokes. Once he said, “May I count on you to grace the Khazhred ball tomorrow?”
“If the sight of me in my silver gown, dancing as often as I can, is your definition of grace, well, nothing easier,” I replied, wondering what he would do if I flirted back in earnest.
He smiled, kissed my hand, and left. As I trod up the steps alone, I was struck again with the fact that he had never really talked with me about any serious subject.
I thought over the picnic. No serious subject had been discussed there, either, but I remembered some of the light, quick flirtatious comments he exchanged with some of the other ladies, and how much he appeared to appreciate their flirting right back. Would he appreciate it if I did? Except I can’t, I thought, walking down the hall to my room. Clever comments with double meanings; a fan pressed against someone’s wrist in different ways to hint at different things; all these things I’d begun to observe and comprehend the meanings of, but I couldn’t see myself actually performing them even if I could think of them quickly enough.
What troubled me most was trying to figure out Savona’s real intent. He certainly wasn’t courting me, I thought as I pushed aside my tapestry. What other purpose would there be in such a long, one-sided flirtation?
My heart gave a bound of anticipation when I saw a letter waiting and I recognized the style of the Unknown.
You ask what I think, and I will tell you that I admire without reservation your ability to solve your problems in a manner unforeseen by any, including those who would consider themselves far more clever than you.
That was all.
I read it through several times, trying to divine whether it was a compliment or something else entirely. He’s waiting to see what I do about Tamara, I thought at last.
“And in return?” That was what Tamara had said.
This is the essence of politics, I realized. One creates an interest, or, better, an obligation, that causes others to act according to one’s wishes. I grabbed up a paper, dipped my pen, and wrote swiftly:
Today I have come to two realizations. Now, I well realize that every courtier in Athanarel probably saw all this by their tenth year. Nonetheless, I think I finally see the home-thrust of politics. Everyone who has an interest in such things seems to be waiting for me to make some sort of capital with respect to the situation with Tamara, and won’t they be surprised when I do nothing at all!
Truth to say, I hold no grudge against Tamara. I’d have to be a mighty hypocrite to fault her for wishing to become a queen, when I tried to do the same a year back—though I really think her heart lies elsewhere—and if I am right, I got in her way yet again.
Which brings me to my second insight: that Savona’s flirtation with me is only that, and not a courtship. The way I define courtship is that one befriends the other, tries to become a companion and not just a lover. I can’t see why he so exerted himself to seek me out, but I can’t complain, for I am morally certain that his interest is a good part of what has made me popular. (Though all this could end tomorrow.)
“Meliara?” Nee’s voice came through my tapestry. “The concert begins at the next candle.”
I signed the letter hastily, sealed it, and left it lying there as I hurried to change my gown. No need to summon Mora; she was used to this particular exchange by now.
Not many were at that night’s concert, and none of Court’s leading lights. By accident I overheard someone talking and discovered that most of them had been invited to Merindar House to see some players from Colend.
When I heard this, I felt strange. So, I hadn’t been invited. I suspected that this was a message from the Marquise of Merindar, to whom I had given no answer. Either that or she had simply decided I was not worth her attention after all.
Well, what had I done to investigate the rival rulers and how they might rule? Shevraeth’s policies I might learn something of if I could nerve myself to attend Petitioners’ Court sessions. But how to investigate the Marquise of Merindar as a potential ruler?
Before my eyes rose an image of the beautiful and utterly unreadable Flauvic. I felt an intense urge to find him, ask him, even though I had learned firsthand that he was very capable of turning off with oblique replies whatever he did not wish to answer directly.
The problem was, he never left Merindar House, and I had no excuse to visit there that wouldn’t cause all kinds of speculation.
As the singers spun away the evening with lovely melodies, I kept worrying at the problem, until at last I got what seemed to me to be an unexceptionable idea.
When I returned from the concert I wrote, in my very best hand, a letter to Flauvic requesting the favor of his advice on a matter of fashion. I sent it that night, and to my surprise, an answer awaited me when I woke in the morning. In fact, two answers awaited: one, the plain paper I had grown used to seeing from my Unknown, and the second, a beautifully folded and sealed sheet of imported linen paper.
This second one I opened first, to find only a line, but Flauvic’s
The prospect was daunting and fascinating at the same time. Resolving to get that done directly after breakfast, I turned eagerly to the letter from the Unknown:
I can agree with your assessment of the ideal courtship, but I believe you err when you assume that everyone at Court has known the difference from age ten—or indeed, any age. There are those who will never perceive the difference, and then there are some who are aware to some degree of the difference but choose not to heed it. I need hardly add that the motivation here is usually lust for money or power, more than for the individual’s personal charms.
But I digress. To return to your subject, do you truly believe, then, that those who court must find themselves of one mind in all things? Must they study deeply and approve each other’s views on important subjects before they can risk contemplating marriage?
Well, I had to sit down and answer that.
I scrawled out two pages of thoughts, each following rapidly on the heels of its predecessor, until I discovered that the morning was already advancing. I hurried through a bath, put on a nice gown, and grabbed up a piece of fruit to eat on the way to Merindar House.
Again I made certain that no one knew where I was going. When I emerged from the narrow pathway I’d chosen, just in view of the house, the wind had kicked up and rare, cold drops of rain dashed against my face, promising a downpour very soon.
The servant who tended the door welcomed me by name, his face utterly devoid of expression, offered to take my hat and gloves, which I refused, then requested that I follow him.
This time I visited a different part of the house; the room was all windows on one side, but the air was cool, not cold, with a faint trace of some subtle scent I couldn’t quite name. Directly outside the windows lay a flowery hillock, down from which poured a small waterfall that splashed into a pool that reached almost to the long row of windows.
Flauvic stood by the middle window, one slim hand resting on a golden latch. That window panel was a door, through which a person could step onto the rocks bordering the pool. Flauvic’s head was bent; silvery light reflected off rain clouds overhead and the water below, throwing glints in his long golden hair.
He had to know I was there.
I said, “You do like being near to water, don’t you?”
He lifted his chin, giving me a grave regard. “Forgive me for not coming to the door,” he said directly—for him. “I must reluctantly admit that I have been somewhat preoccupied with the necessity of regaining my tranquility.”
I was surprised that he would admit to any such thing. “Not caused by me, I hope?” I walked across the fine tiled floor.
He lifted a hand in a gesture of airy dismissal. “Family argument.” Smiling a little, he added, “Forbearance is not, alas, a hallmark of the Merindar habit of mind.”
Again I was surprised, for he seemed about as forbearing as anyone I’d ever met—but I was chary of appearing to be a mere flatterer, and so I said only, “I’m sorry. Ought I to go? If the family’s peace has been cut up, I suppose a visitor won’t be welcome.”
Flauvic turned away from the window and crossed the rest of the floor to join me. “If you mean you’d rather not walk into my honored parent’s temper—or more to the point, my sister’s—fear not. They departed early this morning to our family’s estates. I am quite alone here.” He smiled slightly. “Would you like to lay aside your hat and gloves?”
“Not necessary,” I said, stunned by this unexpected turn of events. Had the Marquise given up her claim to the crown, or was there some other—secret—reason for her sudden withdrawal? If they had argued, I was sure it had not been about missing social events.
I looked up—for he was half a head taller than I—into his gold-colored eyes, and though their expression was merely contemplative, and his manner mild, I felt my neck go hot. Turning away from that direct, steady gaze, I couldn’t find the words to ask him about his mother’s political plans. So I said, “I came to ask a favor of you.”
“Speak, then.” His voice was a shade deeper than usual.
I glanced over my shoulder. He was laughing. Not out loud, but internally. All the signs were there; the shadows at the comers of his mouth, the brightness of his gaze. He was laughing at me.
I sighed. “It concerns the party I must give for my brother’s coming marriage,” I said shortly, and sneaked another peek.
His amusement was gone—superficially, anyway.
“You must forgive my obtuseness.” He made a slight, airy gesture. “But you could have requested your assistance by letter.”
“I did. Oh.” I realized what he meant, and then remembered one of Nee’s more delicate hints about pursuit—and pursuers. “Oh!” So he hadn’t guessed why I’d really come—instead he thought I’d come courting him? And, well, here we were alone.
My first reaction was alarm. I did find him attractive—I realized it just as I was standing there—but in the way I’d admire a beautifully cut diamond, or a sunset above sheer cliffs. Another person, finding herself in my place, could probably embark happily into dalliance and thus speed along her true purpose, but the prospect simply terrified me.
He touched my arm, lightly, sliding his fingers up to my shoulder, and then under my hair to the back of my neck. His touch made me shiver. I closed my eyes—and gasped when lips met my own.
Heat flooded down my body, replacing the cold shock of his touch. I leaned into that kiss as his hands caressed me. So this was dalliance; this was why the others paired off and disappeared, why the lifted brows, the secretive smiles. It was powerful, mind-numbing pleasure.
But it was not joy.
I knew what would come next, right there in that room, in his house, for no one would stop us. But the last shreds of my consciousness arrowed ahead, and I knew I would not want to find myself lying next to Flauvic when the pleasure had gone, as go it must; I’d seen couples for whom the absence of pleasure made one another a burden to be borne.
Two things caught and steadied my will against the sensory flood: I did not know him.
And: he did not know me.
So what he had been initiating had to be no more than a game. A game, or—
I wrenched my lips away, breathing fast. My fingers trembled as I straightened my gown.
Flauvic was also breathing fast, but he—of course—had more control than I, and he smiled, but made no move of pursuit. “Change your mind, little countess?”
I couldn’t speak yet. I shook my head—nodded—then rolled my eyes and shrugged.
This time he laughed out loud, a soft, pleasant sound, before he touched me again, lightly, enough to guide us back to his window. “It is not merely the sight of water that I find salubrious,” he said. “Its function as a metaphor for study is as…as adaptable—”
“You were going to say fluid,” I cut in, almost giddy with relief at the deft change of subject.
Once again I saw that quirk to his eyes that indicated internal laughter. “I wasn’t,” he insisted. “I would never be so maladroit.”
Forgive my maladroitness— For an instant I was back in that corner room in the State Wing, with Shevraeth standing opposite me.
I wrenched my attention back as Flauvic went on. “As adaptable, to resume our discourse, as its inherent properties. The clarity, the swift change and movement, the ability to fill the boundaries it encounters, all these accommodating characteristics blind those who take its utility and artistry for granted and overlook its inexorable power.”
As if to underline his words—it really was uncanny—the threatening downpour chose that moment to strike, and we stood side by side as rain thundered on the glass, running down in rivulets that blurred the scene beyond.
Then he turned his back to it. “How may I be of service?”
“My brother’s party. I want it to be special,” I said. “I should have been planning it long bef
“So you do not, in fact, regard me as an arbiter of taste?” He placed a hand over his heart, mock-solemn. “You wound me.” His tone said, You wound me again.
Once again I blushed, and hated it. “You know you’re an arbiter of taste, Flauvic,” I said with some asperity. “If you think I’m here to get you to parrot out Nente’s latest fad, then you’re, well, I know you don’t believe it. And I didn’t think you prodded for compliments.”
He laughed out loud a second time, a musical sound that rendered him very much more like the age we shared. It also made him, just for that moment, devastatingly attractive. If he touched me again, I was not so certain I could say no—but through the dazzle of attraction, instinct prompted me to move. Away. If I did not get out of there I would plunge myself into trouble that it would take a lifetime to get out of.
“There’s never any one fad,” he said. “Or if there is, it changes from day to day. A current taste is for assuming the mask of the past.”
“Like?” I watched the rain streaming down the windowpanes.
“Like choosing a time from history, say six hundred years ago, and everyone who comes must assume the guise of an ancestor from that time.”
“Well, my mother was a Calahanras, but it seems to me—and I know I’m not exactly subtle—that it would not be in the best of taste to assume the guise of royalty for this party.”
“But you have your father’s family as well. For example, Family Astiar and Family Chamadis have intermarried, ah, twice that I know of. One of those was a love match, almost three hundred years ago. Your brother and prospective sister would be charming in the guises of Thirav Astiar and Harantha Chamadis. It would also be a compliment to Nimiar, for it was her ancestor Harantha who considerably boosted the family’s prestige by her part in the Treaty of the Seven Rivers.”