by Helen Gosney
Zara looked at her gratefully.
“Would you? Oh, thank you, Bella. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, we’re late enough as it is…”
They were, too. They should have already left for the Commandant’s cursed Ball, Zara knew. She should feel pleased to be going, but she’d only got back from Thallassia yesterday and truly, this was the last thing she felt like doing. But she’d been away for nearly twelve months, travelling with her silk merchant father and her mother, and Bella had raced around to see her today all excited about going to the Ball and in a weak moment she’d said yes, she’d love to go too. So here she was in her friend’s parents’ home, getting ready.
Bella gathered the long silken curls in her hands and looked at them helplessly.
“Gods, Zara, I don’t know what to do with it either. How about if I braid it…?”
“Do you think that’d be all right? We haven’t got much time. Is the Commandant’s Ball a very grand affair?”
Bella laughed as she set to work. She deftly parted Zara’s hair down the middle and started to braid one side close to her head. Mama always said you had to be very beautiful to wear your hair parted in the middle, or else so plain that it simply didn’t matter. She looked at her friend’s lovely face in the mirror and thought that she wouldn’t need to worry about the severity of the style.
“The Commandant thinks it is! But, no, it’s not too grand really. To be truthful, the best part is dancing with the handsome young Guardsmen.”
“Papa said poor Captain Johan was killed while we were away…”
“Oh! He was, poor man. He fell off his horse and just, just died. The troopers were devastated. The new Captain is that Siannen fellow, Ro-Hahn… no, Rowan… Rowan something or other. Oh, you know how complicated those Siannen names are! And to be truthful, I’ve never actually met him. He’s almost never at the Balls and Galas and things, and when he is, they say he seems to be kept busy by all the old crones. He’s said to be very handsome though, and a beautiful dancer. Papa says he’s very young to be Captain of such a big garrison, young to be a Captain at all.”
Bella prattled happily on as she deftly wove her friend’s hair into something that at least looked like it had had some time spent on it. She’d done the sides and thought she might plait the back and sort of loop it around… A heavy knocking at the door stopped her though.
“Come on, you two! Get a move on. Your mother’s already in the carriage, Bella!” Her father’s voice shouted anxiously.
“Yes, Papa. We’re coming, er… right now!”
“Don’t worry, Bella. Just tie a ribbon around the ends, perhaps a nice red one if you’ve got it, and leave the back loose. If the Commandant or the crones don’t like it, that’s their problem.”
“You’re a wicked woman, Zara! Gods, I’ve missed you.”
The two friends hugged quickly and headed for the door; small, pretty Bella with her blonde hair piled fashionably on her head, her flounced and be-ribboned blue gown exactly matching her big blue eyes and tall, slender Zara, painfully aware that her hair was curling madly down her back and that her plain black silk gown was hideously old-fashioned.
**********
They arrived at the big oak doors at almost the same time as a pair of Guardsmen who seemed to have an oddly furtive look about them. They were both tall and handsome in their black uniforms. The darker-haired, perhaps slightly shorter of the two bowed gracefully to their party, wished them a good evening in a soft lilting voice and stepped back further into the shadows so they could enter first. He elbowed the big blonde fellow surreptitiously in the ribs. This one jumped slightly, and then bowed and stepped back in his turn. The two Guards slipped through the doorway behind them as they were announced and disappeared into the crowded room.
“Dammit, Rowan! I was just about to…”
“Too slow, Fess. Too slow. Who were they, do you know?”
“Them?” Fess looked back at the little group still coming down the steps. “That’s the Mayor and his good lady. The pretty little blonde is their daughter, Ysabella. Hmm, I don’t know who the brunette is…” he frowned thoughtfully.
“Never mind, it’ll be the crones and hags for me, as poor Johan always said. At least the Commandant hasn’t noticed we’re, er, slightly late,” Rowan looked around carefully. No, they’d made it safely inside. He sighed. Now to just get it over with and get back to his peaceful barracks.
“Zara, Zara! That was the new Captain of the Guard, I think. I told you he was handsome, and so is his friend,” Bella whispered excitedly.
“Which one, Bella?” Zara asked without much interest. She truly hadn’t taken that much notice and the Guards seemed to have been lurking in the dimmest lit part by the door anyway. Besides, she’d really rather be safely back at home in her own room, getting ready for bed.
“The dark one. He’s supposed to have red hair, though, I thought. Look, there he is with old Lady Melissa. Oh! Look at all his medals!”
The Guard Captain was tall and handsome and oddly exotic with his braided hair and beard. He led a simpering old crone out onto the dance floor, his expression pleasant but revealing nothing and as he passed under a chandelier his hair glowed a dark auburn. What beautiful coloured hair, Zara thought absently, but it was wasted on a man. Rowan danced away, light-footed and elegant with his ponderous partner.
The evening wore on. The Guardsmen did their duty with good grace as they danced with the fine ladies the Commandant had gathered together for the Ball and they cheered up noticeably as they finally managed to dance with the some of the young women who sat impatiently with their families around the hall. Most of the Guard were good dancers, but a couple of the younger ones were a bit apt to tread on toes, Zara found. Still, at least she was enjoying herself more than the hapless Captain of the Guard. He was still stuck with the, er, older and larger ladies, as Bella giggled to Zara irreverently. He’d even introduced himself to the Mayor and asked for permission to dance with his wife. That good lady was gushing as she sat beside her daughter and Zara.
“Oh, my dears, he’s so handsome. And so pleasant and easy to talk to. He’s not arrogant at all, even with all those medals. And he hasn’t lost his charming accent! Oh, and he’s such a wonderful dancer…” she’d broken off, watching thoughtfully as Rowan piloted old Miss Caroline back to her seat. He bowed to the old lady, smiled at her, and disappeared among the rest of the Guards. Suddenly he was there in front of them. He bowed and turned to the Mayor.
“I wondered if I might dance with your lovely daughter, Sir, with your permission?” He’d smiled charmingly at both girls as the Mayor nodded. He moved towards Bella as she started to rise.
“Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist at your service, my lady,” he said as he bowed over her hand. Bella blushed prettily as she took his arm.
Zara watched Rowan and Bella whirling around the floor. He really was a very good dancer, she thought, as light and quick on his feet as a cat. They made a striking couple among all the rest: he tall, lean and elegant in his black uniform, his thick auburn braid swinging almost to his waist, and sweet, pretty blonde Bella in her lovely blue dress. As she watched them he raised his head and winked cheekily at Zara.
Zara stared at Rowan’s retreating back as the dancers spun away. No, she must have imagined it. For a start, nobody would be looking at her when Bella was around. She was used to this and didn’t resent it at all. She knew she wasn’t exactly ugly herself, far from it to be completely honest, but for some reason blonde blue-eyed Bella had always been the one the lads had flocked around. Probably because she herself was too outspoken, she thought ruefully. Her father, Gods love him, was always telling her off about it.
Rowan escorted a glowing Bella back to them, thanked her for the privilege of the dance, bowed again and turned to the Mayor.
“Perhaps I might dance with your other beautiful daughter, too, Sir?”
Zara heard herself start to speak. Shut up, Zara, shut up, she thought in horror, but she
was too late to stop herself.
“He’s not my father.”
Unfazed, Rowan smiled happily at her.
“In that case, my lady, I shall ask you. My name is Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist, Captain of this garrison, and I would be honoured if you might allow me to dance with you.”
“I, er… ah…” she dithered and looked up into his laughing green-brown eyes. What a strange colour they were. Quite beautiful though. “Thank you, I shall be, er…”
“The honour is mine, my lady,” he said, carefully helping her to her feet.
“Who is your father then, my lady, if not that esteemed gent yonder?” Rowan asked as they danced lightly away.
“His name is Marlon Piret, Captain d’Quill, er, del… Dammit! Why do Siannen names have to be so bloody complicated!”
Rowan tried very hard not to laugh as the sheer dreadfulness of what she’d said dawned on her. He smiled down at her flushed face and moved one foot a little before her too-hastily planted one squashed it.
“Rowan, Lady Zara… just call me Rowan. ‘Tis my name after all. Or I suppose you could call me ‘Red’ as the men do when they think I can’t hear them, but truly I do prefer my own name to that. But as to the rest of it, well… There’s a method to all the madness. The name tells you all you need to know about someone without having to ask awkward questions or make boring small talk. We’re very practical people, us Siannens and truly, no Siannen ever born has been better than useless at small talk.” Not like these long-winded Wirrans, he thought to himself, they could talk the leg off an iron pot. He smiled at Zara again. She seemed a bit less embarrassed now. He kept going. “Let me see… well, in my case… Rowan, that’s me; and d’Rhys tells you my father is named Rhys; on my Guard papers is d’Rhuary for his father too and some other bits and pieces, but I don’t use all that else it could go on forever, and the del’Quist bit tells you where I’m from: Borl Quist. ‘Borl’ only means ‘town’ or ‘town of’ anyway, so it gets left out in the interests of, er, brevity. And my braid tells you I’m forester-born. It will even tell you my clan if you look at it closely and ask it nicely. ‘Tis easy, my lady, truly.”
She considered it. Yes, it was easy after all, when it was explained properly. She looked up at him, grateful for his skillful handling of her stupidity. He really was very handsome, she thought, and the Mayor’s wife had been right about his soft beguiling accent and beautiful manners. She hadn’t mentioned his easy smile or his wicked sense of humour though. Truly, this man was a charmer, even though he seemed to be completely unaware of it himself. Thank the Gods for that, she thought fervently. Too many good-looking, charming men were simply insufferable, but not this one.
“And which clan would your braid tell me if I were to ask it properly?”
“Forest Giant, my lady. The six-strand braid is Forest Giant clan; most of us are in the northeast of Sian, as most of the Forest Giants are.” Rowan looked down at her puzzled face and smiled again. “No, Lady Zara, not the sort of giants you might be thinking of. The Forest Giants are trees: huge, beautiful trees, which are said to be the tallest and biggest in the world. They only grow in Sian, and not everywhere there either. They’re wonderful things, full of birds and possums and lizards and insects and, and little beasties that scamper up and down and around them. When they’re in flower they’re filled with so many noisy parrots that you can hardly hear yourself think.”
He paused and for a fleeting moment he looked sad.
“You miss them, don’t you?” Zara said softly.
He nodded slowly.
“Aye, my lady, I do. I miss them very much.”
Lately he’d thought that it was very nearly time for him to take his two stallions and go home to join Griff in their long-held dream of breeding and training horses. If only that damned pest Rollo of Plait would go away, he felt he could go with a clear conscience.
He frowned suddenly at something that had caught his attention across the dance floor.
“I’m so sorry, my Lady Zara, but I must just set that lout straight,” he said as he steered them quickly across to a befuddled young Guardsman who was dancing with a rather portly matron. The poor lad seemed to have developed two left feet, Zara saw.
They hovered close by as Rowan apologised to the long-suffering woman for the interruption and then spoke very softly into the Guardsman’s ear. Zara couldn’t hear what was said, but the young man reddened, then blanched suddenly and looked horrified.
“Aye, Sir! I’m very sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again, Sir. Er, er, your pardon, Sir,” he stammered.
“You might just mention it to the other lads too, please, Jason,” Rowan said pleasantly, “And it’s this good lady you should be apologising to, not me.” He turned to the portly lady and smiled at her. “I do beg your pardon, Lady Mirielle. Truly, some of these young lads aren’t safe to be let out in polite society.”
She dimpled at him, waving away his apologies. The young Guardsman’s footwork had improved markedly as he hastily steered his rotund partner away.
“What on earth did you say to him? I thought he was going to faint for a moment there,” Zara said in amazement.
Rowan raised an eyebrow at her.
“Who, Jason? Oh. I just told him I’d seen working bullocks that could dance better than him, and if he didn’t improve very bloody smartly, er, your pardon, very smartly, he’d be mucking out the stables from now until MidWinter Festival.” Rowan grinned suddenly. “But I think it wasn’t until I mentioned that if he’d not made good progress by the time you and I have reached that column over there, then he and the next two clodhoppers I see will be entertaining the Commandant’s wife for the rest of the evening, that I really did manage to encourage him to change his ways.”
Zara had almost forgotten that her softly spoken, light-footed partner was indeed the Captain of the largest and most important garrison in Wirran, ultimately responsible only to the Commandant. And the Commandant was widely spoken of as being next to useless at anything except for organising Galas and Balls. She looked at him again with new eyes.
He carried his authority lightly, but it was undeniably there though he looked not all that much older than the fast-disappearing Jason. She was surprised to recognise a couple of his medals too. They certainly didn’t hand those out just because a man had a fascinating accent and turned up to morning inspection on time. She smiled at him.
“Which one is the Commandant’s wife?”
“Bertha? Sorry, Lady Berthilde, I meant to say. She’s the lady over there, next to the Commandant. The ample one in the dress that looks like a yellow blancmange. And the one on the left in the dung-coloured, er, garment, is their daughter, Lady Therese.”
Zara stifled a giggle as she saw a large, terrifying looking woman who was sitting next to a sour, dyspeptic old Guardsman. Her greying, mousy-blonde hair was scraped back severely from her scowling face to end in an excruciatingly tight bun. The style only served to highlight her long, thin, high-bridged nose and really did her no favours at all, Zara thought. The woman’s slightly bulbous pale blue eyes were narrowed and her prim mouth pursed in disapproval of something that Zara couldn’t see. And her very unflattering and far too ornate yellow gown did indeed resemble an overdecorated pudding.
Zara hardly dared to look to the left a little. Sure enough, there was a sour-faced younger version of the Commandant’s wife. She was wearing a most unfortunate heavily flounced and beribboned gown in a shade that could truly only be described as, er, dung-coloured. There was simply no other word for it that she could use.
Rowan’s bluntness and yes, honesty, was stunning, but refreshing after all the meaningless compliments she’d heard bandied about tonight. Of course she knew he could do that too, when need be. Even so, this was the first truly interesting man she’d met for… well, too long.
“Oh. Yes. I see them,” was all she could manage without laughing.
“Aye, she has all the lads terrified, you know.”
“But not you?”
He shrugged.
“No, not me. Her bark’s worse than her bite. And she likes me for some reason, Gods help me. ‘Tis probably because I make an effort not to leave her poor feet black and blue when I dance with her.” He shook his head. “ Some of the men are hopeless, truly. You can’t blame the poor woman for being a bit grumpy with them. And how any of them expects to be a good swordsman when they can’t dance is beyond me. But enough of all that… What were we talking about before that idiot Jason, Lady Zara?”
“Well, I was about to tell you that I’m not a Lady, but I fear you’ve already realised that,” Zara said, watching his face carefully. He seemed unconcerned. “My father is a silk merchant from Thallassia, though we live in Den Siddon. And my mother is Wirran.”
That explained her glorious hair and flawless pale olive skin then, Rowan thought. And her mother must have contributed her height and slim build; otherwise she’d be short and stocky like most Thallassians. He laughed.
“That’s all right then,” he said cheerfully, “My father is a timber cutter and proud of it as he should be. My mother was from a forester clan in northern Sian, the Cloud Forest clan; I’m not a gentleman either, thank the Gods, and never will be. Don’t be fooled by my winning Siannen ways.” He laughed happily. “ Just ask the Commandant. I could introduce you if you’d like, he’d be only too pleased to tell you...” He looked across to where the Commandant was glaring at him. The man looked furious. Rowan gave him a wide, cheerful smile and was rewarded with a truly horrible frown.
You miserable old bugger, he thought, what the hell do you want from me? My beard isn’t hurting you, and it and everyone else’s will be gone in another day or so, as you well know. And I’m here at your cursed Ball with my damned medals and Spurs all bright and shiny, I’ve danced with every bloody dowager and crone for a hundred miles around and I’ve been bloody charming to the lot of them. I’ve fielded three subtle and two not-so-subtle attempts to marry me off to some poor lasses who’d probably faint if I looked at them sideways, and you’re still not happy with me. What the hell else am I supposed to do?
