Lessons in Etiquette (Schooled in Magic series)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Thank you,” Emily said, finally. “Do I still have to dance?”

  “Dance the first dance,” Alassa advised. “After that…if you don’t want to dance, don’t let them fill out your dance card. It’s a major insult to refuse a dance once the name is on your card. Unless you’re injured, of course. They’d be expected to understand that.”

  Emily snorted. Far too many rules in the aristocratic world seemed to depend on everyone being perfectly aware of when the rules were ignored, but paying no attention as long as the formalities were observed. Alassa’s arrival at each of the castles in a grubby carriage and traveling clothes could be construed as an insult, but no one royal had actually met her at the door. They knew perfectly well what she’d done–and why–yet they said nothing. The implied insult could be ignored.

  “Or ask Sir Xavier to fill out every dance,” Alassa added. “He hates these balls too.”

  “I like him already,” Emily said. “Is there a reason for that?”

  “Officially, he’s a diplomat,” Alassa repeated–and winked. “Unofficially, he’s a Black Sword–one of my father’s spies. But I didn’t tell you that. I’m not actually meant to know.”

  Emily had to laugh. “How did you find out?”

  “I have sharp ears,” Alassa admitted. “And I was often presented to guests when my father was hosting meetings. They all pretended to admire me–and then ignored me from that moment onwards.” Her face fell. “I should have been paying more attention. And I should have been more…like a princess.”

  “You have plenty of time to make up for what you didn’t learn,” Emily said. No wonder King Randor had been so worried. His daughter should have started learning how the levers of power worked right from birth. Instead, he had allowed her to become a brat. “And besides, you have friends who will help you.”

  “I should give Imaiqah a title,” Alassa said. “I will, when I’m queen. Is it wrong of me to enjoy her company?”

  She shook her head before Emily could answer. “Tomorrow, we’re going hunting in the game preserves,” she added. “You are welcome to come, as are the ladies of the court.” Her lips twitched. “Although most of them will stay back and pretend to faint if they see even the slightest splash of blood. The prince who brings back the most carcasses will be honored by being allowed to sit beside me at table.”

  “I thought you had to treat them all equally,” Emily said.

  “I do,” Alassa agreed. She gave Emily a droll grin. “But I can choose which one sits beside me tomorrow.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Time to get into something less comfortable,” Alassa said, with a sigh. “And to think that Imaiqah is having fun.”

  The door opened, revealing a small army of maids. “Go to the library,” Alassa added. “The maids will find you when it is time to get dressed. And if Nightingale complains, feel free to turn him into a toad.”

  “I think your father would object,” Emily said.

  “I know,” Alassa said, with a sigh. “He certainly complained enough when I did it.”

  “You turned him into a toad?” Emily asked. “Why didn’t they change him back?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE CASTLE’S LIBRARY WAS NOTHING LIKE as interesting as Whitehall’s library, although it did manage to have quite a lot of information on the royal and noble family trees. Emily traced Alassa’s line backwards, wondering if she was actually right after all; there was no direct evidence to prove that the Royal Bloodline was reducing fertility. But it was impossible to deny the fact that there were fewer and fewer children in each generation, until Alassa had been an only child, without even a half-sibling.

  She sat at a heavy wooden table and made notes on a piece of parchment, trying to figure out what–if anything–she could do about it. But the problem seemed largely insolvable, unless someone could figure out what they were actually doing and how to fix it. There was nothing in the library on the precise techniques used to create the Royal Bloodline, yet in the absence of knowing anything about genetics, she doubted that they could deal with the problems they had created.

  Most of the time Earth science is superior, she thought, ruefully. Now there is something here that is superior.

  She was still mulling it over when the maid entered the library and curtseyed to her. “Begging your pardon, Milady, but it is time to dress for dinner,” she said. “There is water already prepared in your rooms.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, gravely. She would never get used to having servants, let alone being pampered all day. Besides, it was only for the summer. If Whitehall had refused to allow Princess Alassa servants, the grandmaster would certainly not allow Emily to hire a maid. “Just let me return the book to the shelf.”

  She put it back and then allowed the maid to lead her back to her rooms, wondering just how long it would be before the printing presses started to mass-produce proper books. Probably not too long, she decided, although it would take several years to master the concept. And then who knew what would happen? Most of the books King Randor kept in his private library were rare, but largely uninteresting. What would happen when they started experimenting with public libraries?

  The Librarians Guild will be pleased, she decided. More work for them.

  It seemed futile to argue with the maids as they fussed over her, washing her in scented water and then fixing up her hair into a neat ponytail. That too was something she definitely didn’t intend to grow to enjoy; how could anyone survive being pampered to the extent that they couldn’t put on their own clothes? Hadn’t there been a royal court on Earth where each and every article of the king’s clothing was supposed to be presented to him by its own set of servants? Given a couple more generations, Zangaria might be like that.

  “You look lovely, Milady,” the maid said, when they had finished. “The young men will be impressed.”

  Emily rolled her eyes as she walked over to the mirror and inspected herself. This time, they’d given her a dress of blue silk that shimmered around her, charmed to remain warm even in the coolest temperatures. Emily dismissed the maids and drew Lady Barb’s dagger out of her previous dress, trying to decide how best to wear it. The sergeants had taught her how to use a dagger, but not how to conceal the weapon. And she knew she couldn’t wear it publicly. The king would have to take official notice of that. Eventually, she strapped the blade to her lower leg and practiced ducking down to draw it.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called, after a quick check to ensure that she was definitely decent. Alassa might be so convinced of her own superiority that she didn’t care about being naked in front of her inferiors, but Emily knew better. “The door is unlocked.”

  The door opened, revealing a tall man dressed in a simple suit. He looked…average, somehow, the sort of person one might pass in the streets and never truly notice. Even his age was hard to guess, although that was true of almost anyone in a world where rejuvenation potions, glamors and hard work could make anyone look older or younger than they actually were. He had brown hair, a shade of two lighter than Emily’s own, and a simple neat goatee, like many of the young men in the court. And he also looked completely harmless.

  “Milady,” he said, in a surprisingly deep voice. “It will be my pleasure to escort you to the dance.”

  He smiled at her and Emily found herself smiling back. “Thank you,” she said, seriously. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. “You will have to tell me all about your service as a diplomat.”

  “I’m sure we can find something to talk about,” Sir Xavier agreed. He nodded to Emily’s trunk, sitting in the center of the room. “Does that really contain a cockatrice?”

  “Yes,” Emily said. “But it is perfectly safe.”

  Word had spread through the castle almost as soon as they’d arrived, with the net result that the maids refused to even look at the chest, let alone try to move it. The spells holding the pocket dimension in place weren’t that weak, Emily
knew, although she would have to have the chest checked when she got it back to Whitehall. She’d probably invalidated the warranty, insofar as there was such a thing.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Sir Xavier said. “Do you intend to turn it into your own personal transport?”

  Emily shrugged.

  “Maybe,” she said, finally. “I haven’t quite decided.”

  Sir Xavier held out his hand. “We can walk down to the hall now, if you please,” he said, politely. “I’m afraid we can’t be fashionably late for a dinner with the Princes.”

  Emily had to smile. Royal protocol for a formal dinner insisted that it had to start at a specific time, when the royal family entered. After that, doors would be closed and no one else would be allowed into the hall, whatever the excuse. And King Randor would carefully note the names of those who didn’t attend, marking them down for future attention. From what Emily had picked up, invitations to the various balls in honor of the princes were in high demand. King Randor was using them as a way of showing favor or disfavor to the lesser nobility.

  She took Sir Xavier’s hand and allowed him to lead her down to the grand hall. It looked very different from when she had first seen it; the servants had brought in tables and chairs for the guests. King Randor’s throne had been concealed behind a curtain; a high table had been placed at the front of the hall for the royal family. Emily realized absently that there were twenty-one tables, each one with a larger chair at its head. The princes would sit there, apart from the lucky one who would be sitting next to Alassa. She wondered if they found it insulting, before realizing that it didn’t matter. They couldn’t all sit at the high table, let alone next to the princess.

  There were little nameplates on each of the tables, instructing the guests where to sit. Sir Xavier must have checked before he came to pick her up, for he headed to their seats without bothering to scan the rest of the tables. The room was filling up rapidly with nobility, including a handful of barons who were apparently seated just below the high table. Emily shook her head as she realized just how carefully the King’s staff had organized the ball. The barons couldn’t be seated anywhere lower or they would take it as a grave insult. Their wives and children, on the other hand, could sit anywhere. One of the children loudly whined about being seated at the rear of the room until his father told him to shut up and take his seat.

  Trumpets blew twenty minutes later, just as Emily was starting to feel bored. The guests rose to their feet as King Randor walked into the room, followed by Alassa and Prince Hedrick. Alassa wore a long white dress, almost like a bridal gown, her blonde hair spilling down her back and shining under the light. Emily couldn’t help wondering if there was a reason protocol insisted she looked like a bride. She couldn’t marry all of the princes…was it just intended to tantalize them? Or was she completely wrong?

  “Be seated,” King Randor ordered. The guests sat down. “We shall now begin.”

  Sir Xavier proved to be a fascinating dinner companion, somewhat to Emily’s surprise. He didn’t say anything about his real work for the king, but he was quite willing to chat about diplomacy in the Allied Lands, allowing Emily to pick up more about the White Council and its role in the war against the necromancers than she’d learned at Whitehall. Apparently, he told her, the near-disaster at Whitehall had concentrated a few minds. All of the Allied Lands would be sending troops to help reinforce the border, while the haggling over who would actually command the force had been much reduced.

  “Not that it will ever go away entirely,” he admitted. “They will always fear giving someone too much power.”

  Emily frowned. “Will troops alone be able to stop the necromancers?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sir Xavier said. He didn’t seem reluctant to talk bluntly to her, unlike some of her other dinner companions. “But if they decide to send monsters raiding over the mountains, we can use troops to intercept them and preserve our magicians for the real threat.”

  Emily nodded. The books at Whitehall hadn’t said much about how the Faerie had created the orcs and goblins, but they had gone into great detail on how the shambling parodies of humanity had been programmed to breed and bow the knee to magicians with enough power to terrify them. Once terrified, they were too stupid to do anything, but remain terrified; Shadye’s forces had launched human wave attacks against Whitehall because they feared the consequences of disobeying him more than they feared death. They hadn’t broken and fled until the necromancer had been defeated.

  But each female orc gave birth to multiple children in each pregnancy. Their society–such as it was–had a permanent overpopulation problem, which was at least partly why the necromancers could make such free use of them. There was no reason why one of Shadye’s fellows couldn’t encourage a few thousand orcs to cross the mountains and ravage part of the Allied Lands, just to remind the local nobility that they existed. If the necromancers didn’t spend so much time fighting each other, Emily knew, they would have won by now. Orcs and goblins were brutish creatures, barely capable of carrying out a plan more complicated than picking a target and charging at it, but there were a lot of them. Human wave attacks worked when the defender couldn’t hold them back any longer.

  “I really can’t stand these balls,” Sir Xavier admitted, changing the subject. “All of the real negotiation happens elsewhere.”

  “And yet the kingdoms hold them anyway,” Emily mused. “Why do they hold them if they’re not important?”

  Sir Xavier grinned. “Because it allows the princess to meet her suitors in a controlled environment,” he said. “Because it allows the nobility the chance to pretend that they have a say in who the princess marries. Because it allows King Randor, long may he reign, an opportunity to show off his daughter.”

  He shrugged. “I was once part of a mission to Heartbreak–that’s one of the smaller islands off the coastline, ruled by a single aristocrat,” he added. “We spent two weeks there and every night we were wined and dined in greater style than here. And it ended without any agreement.”

  Emily winced. The sheer cost of food and drink alone had to be staggering. And then there was the gold and silver plates, the jewelled goblets filled with expensive mead, the fancy clothes worn by the social queens…how could anyone afford even one ball, let alone fourteen of them? Zangaria was a rich country, but was it that rich?

  But would it matter if the country couldn’t afford it? She asked herself. The king needs to put on a show.

  “So,” she said. “How are the negotiations going?”

  Sir Xavier gave her an odd look. “The king and his Privy Council are handling them personally,” he said, as if he had expected her to know that. “Right now, they are keen to preserve as much of the country’s independence as possible, while the other kingdoms want to secure considerable influence for their prince. King Tonal actually wanted to send a few thousand soldiers to serve as the prince’s guard of honor. Completely unacceptable, of course.”

  Emily nodded. No kingdom would be completely happy with any foreign troops on its soil, certainly not enough to make a stand against the kingdom’s army. On one hand, it would give the prince some teeth he could use to support his wife, but on the other hand it would fatally weaken her position. Alassa would be better advised to keep the royal army strong and loyal to her, which might be tricky. A queen couldn’t lead armies into combat, which meant that the army might develop loyalty to her commanders instead of to her personally.

  “Two other princes are being offered without any strings at all,” Sir Xavier added. “That looks too good to be true, so we are left wondering if they have an ulterior motive.”

  “Apart from wanting to get rid of the Prince,” Emily guessed.

  “They don’t say that on the proposed treaties,” Sir Xavier agreed. He nodded towards Prince Jean, who sat at the head of the table. “There’s another reason for these balls, Milady. It allows the king a chance to evaluate their behavior for himself. If they can’t cont
rol themselves in a formal ball, they probably shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the seat of power.”

  Emily shrugged. It made sense–but what stopped the princes from pretending to be nice until they had won the princess?

  “But enough of such talk,” Sir Xavier said. “Tell me about Whitehall?”

  He would have made a skilled interrogator, Emily decided, as she did her best to answer his questions. Some of them touched upon the final battle with Shadye–he wanted to know precisely what had happened, just like everyone else–while others seemed designed to learn more about Emily and her relationship with Void. Emily answered briefly, wondering just who had really organized her companion for the evening. Had it been Alassa, as she’d said, or King Randor? There couldn’t be many people better at drawing information out of an unwilling donor without needing interrogation spells.

  But then, a skilled diplomat–or a spy–would be able to read her expression…and drawing conclusions from the questions she chose not to answer.

  I should have spent more time playing poker, she thought, ruefully. She had a feeling that she’d told him far more than she’d intended. Kingmaker–the local version of chess–didn’t require someone to keep their face blank, at least not unless one player knew that disaster was looming and the other was ignorant of the opportunity that had been dumped in their lap. Maybe she could introduce poker…no, it was impossible. She didn’t know the rules.

  The meal finally came to an end, with bowls of ice cream being distributed along with the dance cards. Emily was puzzled by the large portions–ice cream had been a luxury item in medieval times–until she realized that cooling and freezing spells had probably been used to produce it, instead of icehouses. It tasted better than any she’d had back home, she decided, and managed to finish it all despite having eaten a full meal. Maybe there was another reason for the dancing, she decided finally. They needed to burn off the food they’d eaten.