Lace and Blade 2

by Deborah J. Ross

  “As they were tricked and harmed within my territory, we must make reparations,” the Lord Governor said. “Their future will not be left uncertain for long.”

  “Good,” Orossy said abruptly before he remembered who he was talking to. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And thank you, Master Orossy, for your services.”

  The gratitude surprised Orossy. He met the penetrating silver eyes. “Even if I’m not what you’d hoped?” He gestured to his torn dress. “Forgive me, my lord, for being less than you expected, but you see me as I am. I cannot change for anyone’s sake but my own.”

  The Lord Governor held up a hand. “I said that you were not what I expected,” he replied, “but I regret that you misunderstood. You are all I expected from someone my son would love, and much more, as you have proven tonight. I am proud to accept you into my home and family.” He inclined his head and gave Orossy a slight bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, the fatigue from my travels has caught up to me. I will see you both in the morning.” He stood and bent to kiss his son on the forehead before leaving.

  Feisal used one last touch of dennar on Orossy’s cheek. “Good as new.” He kissed it for emphasis. “I told you. He likes you, dress and all.”

  Orossy held his breath, suddenly nervous. “What about you? I know you love men, but—”

  “I love you, whether you decide to be male or female. Or if you wear dresses or rags or nothing at all.” Feisal framed Orossy’s face in his hand and kissed him, hard.

  Orossy let Feisal take his time, enjoying himself, and then drew back to watch Feisal’s face. “Even if I got myself kicked out of the Infirmary?”

  Feisal’s expression saddened. “Ah. That. Rewenna sent word. You’ll have to appear before the senior Healers and explain yourself. There’s a chance they’ll reconsider your expulsion, but it won’t be easy to convince them. Even then, it’s likely you’ll be put on probation until they trust you not to misuse your dennar again.”

  “That’s fair,” Orossy said. His next words were harder. “I’m going to apologize to Hannik. Maybe talk to him a little more rationally.”

  “Good. That will help. Just promise me one thing,” Feisal said, wagging a finger. “Don’t ever run away like that again. You worried me.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Orossy said, filled with another surge of love for Feisal. “I only wanted to be worthy of you and your father.”

  “Oh, ‘Rossy.” Feisal embraced him so tightly that Orossy found it hard to breathe. “You were always worthy. You never had to prove anything to me. I don’t care where you came from, only that you’re here, with me, right now.”

  “I had to prove it to myself, though,” Orossy said. Jussi had been right. “And I had to stop being afraid. I thought I was going to lose you. It scared me more than Niklis ever did.”

  Feisal eased back to meet his eyes. “Are you still afraid?”

  “No,” Orossy said. “Not anymore.”

  That night, Orossy lay curled in his lover’s arms, warm and happy, dreaming not of loneliness, but love.

  The Baroness’ Ball

  by Pauline Zed

  Pauline Zed studied film, English and astrophysics at the University of Toronto. She spent two years in the wilds of Madison, Wisconsin doing an M.A. in film before returning to Canada. She has a blue belt in Hap Ki Do, is a sometime student of Tai Chi, and was on the U of T varsity fencing team at the grand old age of thirty. Her first job was as a book store clerk, which turned out to be not nearly as glamorous as she’d hoped, and has since worked as a short order cook, a bank teller, an editor, a teacher, an SGML analyst, and a cashier at a racetrack. When not writing, she is the one-woman technical training department at a law book publisher. She has studied Cantonese and Mandarin, attended film festivals on three continents and lives in Toronto with her husband and young daughter, one cat, three swords, and far too many books. Her blog can be found at paulinezed.livejournal.com.

  “The Baroness’ Ball” is Pauline’s first published story. The setting for the story arose from the Latvian heritage of her father, who bestowed upon her both a spirit of independence and an unusual last name that begins with, yes, zed.

  The summer ball of the Baroness Ulmanis was not the high point of any social season. The baroness was of a respected but faded line, and both her ballroom and her guests reflected that fact. The room’s furniture was just a little worn, its wall coverings just a little frayed, its chandeliers just a little dimmed. There were no famous beauties or infamous rakes amongst the young women and men who paraded on the dance floor and preened around the banquet tables. Those in attendance were of good families, but not the very best, which is no doubt how my aunt had managed to obtain invitations for us at all.

  As I had done for the past two months at any such function, I lurked at the edges of the dance floor, ignoring the not-quite-whispered comments about how out of fashion my dress was, and avoiding the sight of the many mirrors in the ballroom. I am no gargoyle, but neither am I a great beauty, and I never catch sight of a looking glass without the voices of my mother and sisters enumerating my many faults sounding in my ears: the unruliness of my too-wild hair, the commonness of my too-tanned skin, the stature of my too-tall frame. My one point of pride was the necklace my father had given me before we set out for the capital, delicate drops of amber strung on silver threads, an ornament I would not have surrendered for a cascade of diamonds.

  Unlike my sisters, I was not made for garden parties or fêtes, preferring the cool comfort of my father’s library or the exhilaration of a stolen afternoon spent on horseback in the woods of our estate. In such a room as this, with an atmosphere as airless and stifling as the people within it, all I could think of was the insistence of my mother that I find a husband I did not want, and the resolve of my aunt to find a candidate that would suit the family, if not me. I looked across the room and saw a gaunt young noble that my aunt had declared “an unpleasant young man from a family of no great reputation.” An unease prickled my skin as I wondered if he was the manner of man I was destined to marry, and I cast about for an illness I could feign to convince my father, the Baron Arkadijs Rozkalni, and my aunt, the widowed Countess Ilze Berzins, to leave the ball early.

  And then two men strode into the stuffy ballroom, and it was as if a cool, autumn breeze had caressed my face and stirred my blood.

  They were clearly not nobility, not fashionable young men searching for wives to please their families. There was their age for a start. Though they were by no means infirm, they were past the age at which young nobles seek wives, perhaps as old as thirty. Then there were the circumstances of their attire.

  The first man was handsome. His hair was, against the current mode, close-cropped and jet black, encumbered by neither powder nor wig. His eyes were framed by the longest lashes I’d seen on any person, man or woman. His expression had a haughty turn, but I fancied I could see a tendency to wry humor in the corner of his mouth. His frame was tall and muscular, his clothes well-tailored, if not entirely in fashion, and his sword, a simple rapier in the Frankish style, was clearly meant more for fighting than decoration.

  The second man was breathtaking. More in keeping with current men’s styles, he had longer hair, but such hair as I had never seen on any person. It ran riot with chestnut curls and was kept in the barest control by a thin emerald ribbon. His eyes were almond-shaped and feline, his mouth full. A dueling scar ran down one cheek, a mark that heightened his beauty rather than marred it. The sword at his side was even more common than his companion’s, and clearly forged by a local smith rather than a more stylish foreign weapons master. Its scabbard was battered, its hilt wound in simple leather rather than silver wire. His clothes, however, were spectacular. Not the sort of attire this assembly of social climbers in imported silks would appreciate, but stunning, all lace and leather and linen, thrown together in a way that suggested the capital’s bohemian quarter rather than the drawing room.

  My curiosity p
iqued, I sought out my father to learn what he knew of the baroness’ extraordinary new guests. I found him drinking punch with my Aunt Ilze.

  “Perhaps they are entertainers?” he suggested, a possibility even he seemed to think unlikely.

  “Bodyguards,” Aunt Ilze pronounced with a definite sniff. “And rather common, by the look of them.” Her assessment of the men reminded me yet again why I considered her one of my most disagreeable relatives.

  Neither answer seemed to hit the truth. The pair of them projected a sense of danger beyond the artifice of mere acting, and they had a look that contained more of the hunter than usually found in those hired to defend the softer members of the aristocracy.

  Then one of my father’s more pleasant acquaintances, the Count Klavina, appeared and solved the mystery.

  “They belong to the prince’s Kavalieri, I believe.” “Soldiers, then,” my father said.

  “Ruffians,” my aunt said with a sneer.

  I said not a word, but I observed these two interlopers at the baroness’ ball with even more interest.

  The Kavalieri had been created by our ruler, the Prince Andris, in response to increasing threats on our realm and on the prince’s life. It was a new sort of elite corps, one that relied on subtlety rather than brute force. Members of their ranks, men and an increasing number of women, were not only trained in the disciplines of both war and diplomacy, but also instructed in the ancient art of espionage. There were even murmurs that certain individuals in their ranks possessed a thread of the old, wild magic that even now was only spoken of in whispers. Magic that, if discovered, would have resulted in their deaths in earlier times.

  What was more, it was said the Kavalieri were only seen when there was danger in the air, danger of the sort that I had read about in a few dusty tomes found in dark corners of our library, but never encountered. Looking around a room filled with shallow girls and insincere men, none of whom seemed capable of formulating a plan of any sort, let alone one it would take the Kavalieri to combat, I could only think that they must be here on some entirely ceremonial mission.

  Whatever the reason for their visit to the ballroom of the Baroness Ulmanis, I could not help but stare at them, trespassers on genteel respectability. I had never before seen a member of the Kavalieri, but rumors of their exploits had penetrated even our obscure corner of the country. I wondered which of them was the better fighter, wondered if one or both of them possessed the old magic. Not for the first time, I wished I’d been born in different circumstances, free to choose my own path instead of bowing to family pressure to marry, free to petition the prince to join the ranks of the Kavalieri as my brother, Edvards, had been alowed to join the prince’s cavalry.

  But if I couldn’t join their ranks, at least I could talk with a member of the Kavalieri.

  Knowing neither my father nor my aunt would condone such social intercourse, I simply left their company and made my way to the second man by the most circuitous route I could devise. He was standing at the periphery of the dance floor, his cat’s eyes scanning the crowd as if examining the perfumed dancers for deadly threat. His companion had stationed himself at the banquet table across the room, his stance similarly vigilant, though I did notice him cast a longing eye at the heaped plates of pîrâgi and platters of herring and pickled mushrooms laid out for the guests.

  I reached his side, and curtsied to gain his attention.

  “Lady Astrida Rozkalni,” I said, introducing myself, since I knew no other would be willing to do so. I began an internal calculation of how long it would take my aunt to notice my inappropriate behavior and drag me away before my reputation was damaged beyond repair.

  “Shouldn’t you have waited for a formal introduction?” he asked, though the sparkle in his eyes spoke more of amusement than censure.

  “I should have waited forever, and then I would have been deprived of your charming company,” I said, mischief making me bold.

  “Then I am pleased at your initiative, Lady Astrida.” His voice was a charming baritone with a hint of pleasing roughness; his accent seemed to belong neither to the upper classes nor the lower. He was, of course, no fit candidate for a husband, but I began to wonder with a delicious thrill what it would be like to lose my maidenhead to such a man as this, hoping no such thoughts were visible on my features. “I am Pavil Holte,” he said with a bow.

  “A delight to make your acquaintance, Lord Pavil.” I tilted my head at the exact angle that my oldest sister, Elizabete, used when she wanted to drive one of her many suitors mad with desire, and batted my eyelashes. “I don’t suppose you would care to fetch me a glass of champagne?”

  “Pavil will do,” he said with a laugh, a delicious sound that carried straight down to my toes. “You’re an impertinent youngster, make no doubt.”

  “I am neither impertinent nor a youngster.” I rallied my indignation around me. Bad enough to be condescended to at any time. It hurt worse coming from this man, one whose good opinion I suddenly and inexplicably craved.

  “I meant no disrespect, Lady.” He bowed once again, his face serious, but with traces of humor still dancing in his eyes. “My usual companions would have recognized that as a rather poor joke.”

  “Is he one of your usual companions?” I asked, looking across at the dark-haired man, who was even now aiming a suspicious look in our direction.

  “Talis is more than a companion. He is my partner.” He smiled at this Talis, who only scowled back. “If I went about fetching champagne for striking young ladies such as you, it would only make him jealous.”

  I laughed at his comment and tried not to blush at his compliment, but noted with interest that he seemed quite serious. I looked back at Talis, his expression as dark as his hair, and wondered if Pavil was jesting, or if the rumors about the nature of the bond that sometimes formed between members of the Kavalieri might have a basis in fact.

  “Would your partner be jealous if you honored me with a dance?” Amongst my class, it was scandalous for a young woman to ask a man of any age for a dance, but I didn’t care. I was willing to breach all laws of etiquette to spend more time with this captivating man, partner or no.

  “Intensely jealous,” he said with feeling. “But once my duty here is done, I might convince him he has nothing to be jealous of.”

  “I think I might have much to be jealous of in him,” I said, but my words were swallowed in a tumult that engulfed the ballroom, and any response he might have made was lost in the commotion.

  As I watched, Prince Andris himself was announced and entered the salon. Suddenly the presence of two members of the Kavalieri at this most ordinary of balls was explained. As displaced from court as I was, I had still heard of threats to our prince’s life, rumors of dissatisfied nobles intent on taking his place, mutterings of the Frankish realm to our south preparing to invade our land. Pavil and his partner scanned the room, their stance wary, huntsmen heedful of any threat to their master. As the prince strolled through the room, charming his subjects and sending more than one pretty, silk-clad girl into a paroxysm of giggles, I stood back from the throng surrounding our ruler. I put myself in the place of a member of the Kavalieri, tried to see the room as Pavil and his partner must, a throng of people that might hold a possible threat.

  But then I caught a flicker of movement across the dance floor and suddenly my game was no longer simply an amusing diversion. I turned toward the movement to see that strange young man moving in the direction of the prince. The unease I’d felt when I’d observed him before grew now to a crawling across my skin, the same sort of feeling I’d had once as a young girl, when I had been too close to a tree struck by lightning. Only this time the lightning came not from the sky, but from deep inside me, a red lit, pulsing core I had never before suspected lurked in my breast.

  I looked over at Pavil in panic, wanting someone to tell me I was imagining it all, that everything was as it should be, but what I saw was far from comforting. The lighthearted expressi
on had vanished from Pavil’s features and I saw the beginnings of a pale blue light suffusing his skin, creating an aura of power surrounding him, an aura that seemed to call to the power building within me.

  I opened my mouth, whether in horror or confusion or simply in awe I’ll never know, because a tug at the pulsing core within me drew my attention back to the dance floor. I turned to see a writhing purple coil of otherworldly energy rise up from Aunt Ilze’s “unpleasant young man” and form into the shape of a ravening wolf, its sneering muzzle straining toward the prince. From where I stood, I could hear a crackling in the air, could smell a burning that had nothing to do with the candles in their chandeliers. What astounded me most was that no one else seemed to see the danger, not even the prince himself. They were all laughing and chatting and simpering as if their evening’s entertainment had not been visited by such a nightmarish vision.

  I turned back to Pavil, hoping he, at least, could see the peril that threatened our ruler. He was staring at the dance floor with a frown, as if straining to see something hovering at the edge of his vision. In frustration, and out of all propriety, I grabbed his wrist and pushed at his mind with my own, willing him to see the terror in our midst.

  See, he did. He drew in a great hissing breath, and I could feel his muscles go taut in my grasp.

  “Talis,” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the din surrounding the prince. All music and chatter halted abruptly and all eyes drew toward him. All eyes but those of the young man whose strange powers threatened the prince and whose eyes remained fixed on his target.

  Whether he could see the spectral wolf or not, at least Pavil’s partner recognized from whom the peril sprang, and moved toward him. The young man ignored Talis, ignored the disconcerted crowd, ignored everyone but the prince. But then after a few seconds that seemed an eternity to me, the young man did finally turn from the prince. Whether he felt a stirring in the power he drew upon or simply felt our gaze upon him, I do not know, but he shifted his attention to us.