The Hunt for the Three Roses

by Jason Hubbard

  It was easily the largest ballroom Sean had ever seen, complete with not just one but two balcony levels that overlooked the dancefloor. Majestic tapestries and paintings portrayed people at festivals and other ballrooms, and the architecture made of cream-and-white marble was like a never-ending competition of smooth surfaces and hard angles. The flooring was an array of scarlet circles trapped within gold squares, and the railings were of wood covered with gold foil. If much of the design was attributed to King Paulson’s supervision, then for a laidback man, he sure had high demands for elegance.

  “Thank you for everything, Count Striver, Lady Striver,” Sean said shortly upon entering the building. “If you may, please go on without us; we shall find you later. May your evening be—”

  “Young man, you will not deny us the pleasure of introducing you to our friends,” Lady Striver said with an upturned nose. “If you truly wish to thank us, you will—”

  “Dear, that’s quite enough,” the count said. “Let them have a moment to themselves before they leap into the fray, as it were. Come now.”

  The count led his wife away who still hung her nose in the air.

  “Taking lessons from her must have been torture,” Callie said.

  “You just have to know how to handle people like her,” Sean said with a shrug. He then led her to a dark corner with empty supper tables and unlit lanterns. An attentive waiter made to seat them, but Sean dismissed him and turned back to Callie. “But do you see how quick to offend she was? I think it’s safe to assume that most of the people here are like that.” He glanced at the dancefloor, which had a pitifully small number of visitors. It appeared to have a max vacancy of four hundred, but only a quarter of that was being used.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll watch what I say, but I’m not afraid of them, Sean,” Callie said in a low voice.

  “But you should be. These people may be all smiles and politeness on the outside, but inside they are schemers and charlatans. They get easily bored, Callie, and business deals and hunting expeditions do not always satisfy them. They are constantly looking for ways to screw each other over without getting caught, especially at a gathering like this.”

  “So it’s a continuous power play.”

  “Of course, but not only that, they view it as a game. Just a game, Callie, with few rules and prohibitions. At best, they try to sell one another a fraudulent artifact at a high price; at worst, they’ll stage a fatal accident or hire an assassin to pick off servants or a prized animal.”

  “Oh God, are they really that petty?”

  “They are. They get hotly jealous, and they hate seeing others who are happier than they are. They are compelled to do something to take that happiness down a notch just for their own satisfaction—just to say that they did it.”

  “Was your father like that?”

  “I … no, I saw nothing that suggested so.” It was a little white lie, yet he felt no remorse for it. He was beyond caring about anything his father did. He sighed and continued: “Look, I’m not saying such backstabbing happens every day, and I’m not saying everyone does it. I’m sure there are many decent people in there that you won’t have to worry about, but it’s best to assume that—”

  He stopped when they were approached by a man in his early twenties with straight blonde hair. His lapel bore a copper-and-silver pin of his family crest. “Pleasant evening to you both. I am Darvon Hayford, son of the Duke of Jensfield. And you are, my lady …?”

  “Lady Calista. Charmed.” She offered a hand which he kissed.

  “Equally charmed. If I may be so bold, it is my desire to be the first—or perhaps the second—to stamp your card.”

  “Oh, you mean this?” Callie pulled from a fold of her skirt a card made of rare, stiff material from an alchemy lab. As Count Striver should have explained to her, gentlemen early in the evening pursued dance partners by asking to stamp ladies’ cards with their signature brands, thus making appointments for later. “I don’t know. I mean, we haven’t even talked yet; we barely know each other.”

  Feeling as if his head might pop open, Sean said, “What she meant to say is, she’ll be delighted to receive your stamp.”

  “Oh, yes, of course I would. I would be delighted.” She offered her card, and Darvon stamped it with a brand of blue ink.

  “I look forward to our dance,” Darvon said, though his smile had faltered and he rose an eyebrow by a hair.

  “I as well,” she said with a curtsy, then turned to Sean once her first suitor headed away. “Sorry. I really messed up there.”

  “That could have gone better, but I’m sure he’ll forgive you if you laugh at any stupid jokes he makes.”

  After they had a good nervous laugh at that, Callie said, “But that was awfully rude of him, interrupting us. Being a duke’s son doesn’t excuse him.”

  Sean shrugged. “He was probably acting on a dare from his friends. Boys will be boys, you know. I recommend you don’t refuse your first offers unless you have a very good reason. Once you have five or so, you can put your card away to show that you’re not accepting any more. During your dances, say little and don’t start a fight. People will talk about you, and you don’t want them to think you’re too proud and opinionated. If people believe you’re thoughtless, then so be it; they could say much worse things about you. Truly, they could make your old dueling opponent look like a saint. Remember, anything you do and say will reflect back on Count Guyver and his family—and to a lesser extent, the King as well. Please be careful.”

  “I will,” she replied, leaving him satisfied with her serious tone. “I don’t think the King did us a favor inviting us here, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t. Let us be off.”

  He took her arm, but she stood her ground and cleared her throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked. He only looked confused, so she presented her card.

  “Oh, right!” He produced a wooden stamp the Royal Tailor had tucked into an inner jacket pocket, then removed the cap and made to grasp the card.

  She yanked it away at the last second. “Nuh-uh, what’s the magic word?”

  “Now?” He smiled at her look of mild outrage then made a formal bow. “My lady, may you please grant me the esteemed privilege of stamping your card for a dance?”

  “I certainly may, my good sir.” He stamped her card, and she did her umpteenth curtsy for the night. “Thank you very much.”

  “The pleasure is mine, my lady.”

  “I’m going to go throw myself off the balcony now.”

  “You go ahead and do that,” Sean replied, hardly perturbed by her comment, and at last, they linked arms and stepped into the light among the revelers.

  To Sean’s right was the small orchestra playing a melody he was unfamiliar with but quickly grew to love. He had many bad experiences at balls, but one thing he always loved about them was the music which was so full of life and spirit, encouraging romance and excitement among the attendees whether they were dancing or not.

  He and Callie found Count Striver and his wife, and they suffered through Lady Striver’s excessive introductions to her friends, for she made it sound as if she had done so many favors for them. One would think she changed our cloths when we were babes, Sean thought.

  “Don’t look now, young man, but the crown princess is here,” the count muttered in Sean’s ear.

  Sean scanned the crowd but didn’t see anyone who particularly stood out. “My apologies, but which one is she? I’ve never seen her before.”

  “There, in green, talking to two boys: Crown Princess Alyssa.”

  He saw her: A young woman just coming to age with permed blonde hair and pink lips. Her gown was two shades of green, her skirt an elaborate pattern of petticoats, lacing and tassels. Sean didn’t know whether to be relieved or not that the princess had no pancake powder. If she saw Callie without any either, w
ould she see that as a message that Callie was her equal? And would she take it as a threat or challenge?

  Dammit, it’s no wonder I don’t miss being a noble.

  “She’s only sixteen, and she’ll dance with anyone who catches her eye,” the count said. “And she’s very possessive. Don’t let her sink her claws in you, or she’ll use you for one night and throw you away.”

  Sean nodded. From the way Alyssa was desperately trying to lead the conversation with wide hand gestures, he could believe it.

  “I’ll give you fifty silver if you go and stamp her card.”

  Sean looked at the count as if he’d gone crazy. “After you just warned me?”

  “It’ll be money well earned,” the count replied, his eyes full of mirth.

  “No thank you. I believe I am allergic to claws.”

  The count laughed and encouraged Sean to stamp some cards. Sean boldly asked two of Lady Striver’s friends for dances, raising a curious eyebrow from the lady herself. He and Callie then mingled with two other groups, introducing themselves only as representatives of Count Guyver and gaining dance appointments. Darvon Hayford then approached in between songs and asked for Callie’s hand.

  “Have fun,” was all Sean said before he saw her off, unable to keep the worry out of his eyes. She clearly had disdain for the peerage, and while he couldn’t fault her for that, he fervently hoped she would keep her feelings to herself. Just one misspoken word or a perceived slight would be reason enough for someone to seek petty revenge on Callie and the count whom she served.

  As Sean began dancing himself, all the old memories came flooding back, as well as the disappointments. He had tried to impress women as a younger man, but he had been too gaunt, too awkward to make a lasting impact. Not even his status as the next in line to the seat of Ester Barony was enough to hold anyone’s interest. But that was all in the past, so he set those memories aside and focused on the present.

  His partners were mostly older married women, which suited him fine since he didn’t want to look as if he was courting anyone. His first partner naturally wanted to know all about him, so he stuck to the story of him being a shoemaker’s son who was also a mage. When asked how he had met Count Guyver, he let slip that he had fought in the war and came across the count as the two of them were fleeing a battlefield. He hoped it would lead to a meaningful conversation about the war, so he was alarmed when the lady’s mouth opened to reveal a most conceited opinion:

  “Oh, this Goddamned war is ruining the city’s trade. I ordered a custom-made rug and dinnerplates on my trip to Rocco, but since the sea routes are blocked, they haven’t come yet! I wrote a letter to the King himself, but he never responded and the routes are still closed! Isn’t that the most dreadful thing?”

  Sean came frighteningly close to stopping the dance and yelling that he had seen countless men and women lose their lives in battle, many of them in gruesome fashion—and yet all she cared about were new rugs and dinnerplates?

  Instead, he took a deep breath and shut his eyes till the anger subsided.

  “Ow! Why are you holding my hand so hard? What’s wrong with you?”

  “My apologies, madam. I am sorry to hear about the trade routes. War can bring such tragedy. There are so many good people dying in the fields even as we speak.”

  “Yes, they’ve been taken away from us, and while they’re away, they don’t pay taxes. In fact, we pay them. Sounds backwards if you ask me.”

  Which I wouldn’t, Sean thought with clenched teeth.

  Future dances didn’t fare any better. He confessed to each partner that he had seen battle, and without fail the partner would turn the conversation to how the war inconvenienced her somehow. They claimed that local tax income was low yet tax demand from the palace was up, that many of their favorite horses were taken by the army, and that production of silken and cotton fabrics was either low or halted altogether. One lady couldn’t stop talking about her Pomeranians, and she joked that if her dogs were allowed to fight, their feisty tempers would end the war in a heartbeat.

  Sean merely smiled and nodded, now able to keep his temper in check no matter how dismayed he was. It turned out that Lonsaran nobles were worse than he assumed, and he had no more interest in impressing them. Not that Consarian nobles were better, but at least he didn’t have to presently deal with them.

  His fourth partner suggested he pair up with a younger woman she knew named Celinda. She found Celinda and practically thrust the woman into Sean’s arms. She was a beautiful girl with wavy dark hair and brown eyes. Her nose was a little on the large size, but she had tantalizingly full lips.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” he said as they began their waltz. “This wasn’t my idea.”

  “That’s okay,” she said with a genuine smile. “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you new?”

  He felt his heart melt a little, yet he forced himself not to show too much emotion, giving Celinda only a small, polite smile rather than an interested one. “I am the new apprentice house mage for Count Erik Guyver. He lost his leg in the war and recently returned to the city. We met on the field.”

  “You were in the war?”

  “Yes. I began as a swordsman, though some considered making me a lancer—”

  “Oh, my brother is a swordsman! He trains with that sword of his all the time. Um, what’s it called—an epee? Or a halberd? I can’t remember. He wants me to pick up a sword, too, but those darned things are so heavy, and I can barely lift a needle. I pricked myself with a needle once, and—oh, I shouldn’t say ‘prick,’ it’s a naughty word. I poked myself with a needle, and it hurt so much. If a sword poked me, it would hurt to high heaven, and I told my brother this, and he made fun of me. Can you believe that?”

  Managing to keep his polite smile pinned on his face, he said, “No, I can’t believe it, either.”

  “I know! He can be just the worst sometimes! He’s supposed to be here in the palace, but he stayed at the mansion where he can drink all the wine he wants, and when Father learns of this, he’ll put him up in the stocks as a proper punishment. I swear, all my brother does is play with his swords all day and chase after girls, and he works the serving staff to death and goes into the forest alone, and he—”

  Celinda’s pretty mouth never ceased. It went on and on and on, going from one topic to another while occasionally straying back to her brother’s exploits, and she rarely let him get a word in edgewise. When the song ended, he stepped away from her and wished her a pleasant evening. She begged for one more dance, though, tightly clutching his shoulder with her thumb pressing against his collarbone. He disengaged himself and insisted he needed a break, his tone subtly suggesting he didn’t want to see her again. “Maybe another time?” she asked. He headed away with no response.

  He retreated to a shady dining area, relaxing his eyes from the stark candlelight. He had intended to find a drink of water from a passing waiter, but he grabbed a flute of champagne instead. After suffering through Celinda’s endless monologue, a little alcohol felt like a just reward. But after a while, he felt a little bad for shutting down Celinda like he did. She tried really hard to make a good impression only to come across as awkward. He could sympathize since he had been awkward in previous balls, only in a different way. Still, from the way she grabbed his shoulder, it seemed she had a different kind of dance in mind, one he was unwilling to give her.

  He wandered around the dinner tables awhile, sipping his delicious bubbly, before someone approached him and cried, “Hey!” He turned and felt his heart leap into his throat when he recognized Princess Alyssa, only an arm’s length away. She had her hands on her hips and did not look happy. “What are you doing here?”

  “I, uh …” Suddenly remembering himself, he bowed and said, “Your Grace, a good evening to you. I am honored by your presence.”

  She said nothing once he straightened, o
nly stared at him as if she was upset. He half-expected her to slap him, but she instead grabbed his flute, downed the remaining contents in two gulps, and grabbed his hand while simultaneously slamming the glass down on a table. “Come on!”

  A million questions raced through his mind as she led him to the dancefloor as dozens of eyes tracked them: Did he do anything to offend her? Did she learn of the fifty-silver bet Count Striver offered? Did she notice Callie without any pancake powder and wanted to ask him about it?

  It turned out to be none of the above. The princess only wanted a dance with him—a new face in the crowd—and whenever she wanted something, she would go to the ends of the Earth to get it.

  They danced awhile to a sweetly sad melody that spoke of love luckily gained and tragically lost. He put back on his polite smile while she gave him a rather severe look with her small blue eyes. He admired her pink lips and soft curly hair as he nervously tried to think of a way to break the ice, his years of awkwardness suddenly returning to him. The swish of her skirts was loud in his ears, and he tried hard not to look at the bundle of lacing on her bodice, which was intended to make her breasts appear larger than they really were.

  “Is it true you were in the war?” she suddenly asked. “Or were you making it up?”

  Wow, word sure gets around quickly. “It’s true, Your Grace, I fought in battle just over a month ago.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was initially a swordsman then joined the mages.”

  “How many people did you kill?”

  “Too many to think about.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I am representing Count Erik Guyver, who was wounded in battle.”

  “Why isn’t he here?”

  “He lost a leg and only wishes to be with his family. He sends you greetings.”

  “An empty greeting. He should have come here to pay respects to my father.”