The Trouble With Kings

by Sherwood Smith

  “You would have to ask my brother.”

  “But he’s not here.” Another dimpled smile. “And Princess Jewel is your guest.”

  “She is a royal envoy. You were at her Presentation. Jewel finds her stay agreeable,” I said finally. “I find her company enjoyable. Maxl feels her presence aids the progress of the trade talks between Lygiera and Ralanor Veleth.”

  “Dantherei is said to be a charming place,” Gilian lisped sweetly. “She would probably do quite well there, with her style of being an envoy.”

  She made her way with dainty steps to where a clump of the older generation watched the skaters. I stared after her. Had Gilian Zarda just made a threat? Yes she had.

  I didn’t talk to Maxl about emotions, but this was a political matter.

  It was time to get ready for Maxl’s masquerade ball.

  Debrec was finishing with my hair when a knock came at the door. Jewel entered, looking dazzling in sky blue and gold. She walked around me, nodding in satisfaction. “Maroon really is your color,” she stated. “And you look graceful as a swan with all those loops and loops of ribbons and lace. Are those silk roses holding up the flounces?”

  “Yes.” I spread my skirts in an extravagant curtsey.

  She curtseyed back, then added with a brilliant smile, “Maxl’s getting ready. We passed in the hallway.”

  “I knew he’d return on time. This is his party.”

  “I don’t understand why he had to tour the eastern border this week.” Jewel sat with care on a hassock. “I trust Spaquel is not making some kind of trouble.”

  “Contrary, Maxl says he’s been as deferential as can be. I love your gown.”

  It was a great bell of delicate tissue, artful drapes bound up in lace. A sash at her waist set off her lovely figure. Her mask dangled from her fan-cord, a pretty confection of blue and silver; her hair was elaborately done up with pearls and silver threads braided through. She put her head to the side. “I hope there is no great danger that the troublesome envoy from trouble-causing Ralanor Veleth cannot hear about.”

  “I don’t know either. Honest. Maxl said only that it was state business, could not be postponed, and when I admitted to my worry that Garian was planning something nefarious and Maxl was protecting me from the knowledge, Maxl promised it was nothing dire. You know he talks at his own time and in his own way.”

  “He doesn’t talk at all,” she said with a catch in her voice.

  “But he laughs.” I turned around to face her. “You made him laugh and laugh the night before he left. He hasn’t laughed like that in months. It’s so good for him.”

  “Any fool can make people laugh,” she muttered.

  “But not every fool is witty. You are.”

  “No, wit is well read,” Jewel said. “Wit quotes poems and plays and all I do is make exaggerated jokes that bind one subject to another.”

  “That’s a form of wit. And Maxl likes it. He doesn’t like cruel wit, and he gets bored with the studied competition of quotation-capping.”

  Jewel groaned. “Oh, Flian, how I wish it were true!”

  “Come. Let’s go to the lair. He ought to be ready. The three of us will go down together, how’s that?”

  “No. He doesn’t need the social grief.” She drew in an unsteady breath and rustled out, shutting the door quietly.

  Maxl knocked only moments later. I wondered what had happened during that meeting in the hall.

  He came in, looking his best in an old-fashioned long robe with a baldric and sash.

  “That suits you,” I said.

  “And that gown suits you as well. Let me guess—great-great, how many greats? Many-great grandmother Angel, famed for her harp compositions.”

  I smiled. “No one will recognize this gown, which I copied from the portrait upstairs, but I liked the idea.” I wondered if I ought to tell him about Gilian’s threat, then I decided to wait. His brow was tense, his hands restless.

  “Shall we?” he asked, holding out his arm.

  I picked up my mask, which was entirely made of lace and ribbon, and we walked out together.

  Maxl was silent until we reached the great gallery above the grand ballroom. Along one side were the windows; beyond them lamps flickered and flared as guests’ sleds pulled slowly up to the terrace below the carved doors. Foot servants ran back and forth, torches streaming.

  Maxl slowed, and I obligingly slowed as well. He looked down through the window. “I arranged a surprise,” he murmured. “I hope it is something you will like.”

  I thought of Sartoran musicians. “I am certain I will.”

  “Though you’ve been an excellent help, you have not been happy.” His manner was odd—restless yet hesitant. I could see why Jewel had been upset. Something was definitely wrong.

  “Neither have you.”

  He exhaled slowly. “No, I haven’t. Time will tell. For us both.”

  With that he pulled on his mask, and I did as well. He squeezed my hand with gentle pressure, and we walked down the curving stairway where so many of our ancestors had once walked, and as always I wondered, what had they thought? Had they approached their own grand evenings with trepidation? With pleasure? With anticipation, triumph, secret sorrow?

  We reached the first landing, and the trumpets pealed out the king’s fanfare. Down we trod, in time to the music, as I scanned the room, which was already filled. Gorgeous costumes from a variety of eras graced the guests’ forms. Some were instantly recognizable, some not. I found Gilian right away, gowned all in white and gold, tightly corseted. What queen did she emulate? It didn’t really matter; the costume enabled her to wear a crown, even a false one, but that was enough for her—and though she was no longer the youngest, she still had the tiniest waist in the room.

  Then we reached the marble floor, the herald announced the promenade, and as we were all masked, the guests formed up in any order. My excellent musicians’ horns echoed from one side of the ballroom to the other in heart-racing trumpet calls, and the dancing began.

  There is little to report about the beginning of the evening. People danced, flirted, laughed, ate and drank. Some tried to find out who others were. After the first dance with Maxl, I danced with Yendrian, and then with Althan. And after that I chatted with Yendrian, who had been corresponding with Ersin, and reported the latest on his search for a queen. When Riana appeared, begging Yendrian to partner her, I drifted over to listen to my musicians. My idea was to sneak out once the ball was going successfully and sit up in the gallery where I could hear the instruments better.

  But as I made my way through the swirling couples, I became aware of Maxl moving parallel to me. I lost sight of him as my way was blocked by a chattering group. I sidestepped, and almost ran into a tall male figure. I was about to go the other way when the man held out his hands to me.

  Puzzled, I stepped back, surveying the dark blue velvet tunic and long trousers tucked into blackweave riding boots, the fine gold embroidery down the arms of the tunic. An arresting presence; the mask was dark under a wide-brimmed, plumed hat, his dark hair simply clasped back.

  He did not move. His hands were out, palms toward me. My brother reappeared a few paces away. He nodded to me, one hand open in a brief gesture of encouragement.

  So I stepped into the waiting man’s embrace and felt the cool grip of his right hand clasping my left. His other hand slid gently round my back.

  We were not the fastest couple. There were no fancy dips or swirls. Yet my feet were leaf-flight, my senses alert as we whirled straight down the middle of the floor.

  That hand. Warm, the palm rough as if from years of sword-work. I looked up, to be met with the barrier of the mask. But behind it the jaw-line was square, a familiar line that sent tingles along my nerves. I leaned close enough to sniff his scent, a complex scent that was familiar, so familiar, making my heartbeat tattoo its rhythm faster than the dancers whirling around me, bringing me an internal flare of lightning, of joy.

  Th
is time I perceived the faint line of mustache at the edge of the mask.

  Jason.

  Did I speak? I might have stumbled, but his grip tightened, steadying me. I said, numb with shock, “Why are you here?”

  “To see you,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I caught sight of Maxl again. He danced with Jewel, but his mask was turned in my direction.

  Maxl’s surprise! So he knew.

  I looked up again—to find that mask once more walling me from seeing Jason’s face.

  Jason murmured, “Objection?”

  “Only to the mask.” I managed not to squeak.

  “Have we not masked ourselves hitherto?”

  That low voice. The quiet irony, so familiar, so unexpected. Again tingling swept through me, and I felt myself tremble.

  “I have to know,” I whispered. Braced myself. Looked down. “Is this yet another plan for securing my fortune?”

  “I made you a promise about that once,” he replied, just as softly. “I am here only at your brother’s invitation, or I would have kept that part of my promise as well.” A slight hesitation, then he added, “And one word from you will send me back again.”

  Whatever the word was, I did not speak it. I dared not speak at all.

  Turn, step step, turn, whirl, step step. The music spun its enchantment around us. My thoughts reeled, directionless, between physical sensations and emotional reactions. Comprehension came, like our progress down the room, in sidesteps.

  Jason was here. That meant he had left his kingdom to come all the way to Carnison. He was here in my home, wearing a costume, dancing on our ballroom floor, his arms around me, instead of tending to the countless chores of kingship in a difficult kingdom. He had chosen to be here, in circumstances I would never have ascribed to him.

  I could not think past those facts; my mind seemed to whirl in endless circles as our bodies twirled in slow progression round the room.

  But the music ended, and so did the dance. Jason’s hands lifted away from me, and he stepped back. My childhood friend Daxl, stolid, humble, stood at my shoulder. He spoke, but I was too distracted to hear the words. I was being invited to the next dance, a prospect I found impossible to address.

  Jason said, “I’ll wait.”

  And so the evening sidestepped yet again, and then whirled me on through time.

  No one but Maxl and I knew who Jason was. My comprehension ventured out by degrees: Maxl had planned this evening with precisely this result in view. He had gone himself to meet Jason and bring him back to Carnison.

  Jason had willingly returned with him.

  We danced again—three more times. No conversation took place in that crowded room. Too many people gathered round, for Maxl and I were not anonymous, though we left our masks in place, signaling that there would be no official unmasking. Some unmasked after midnight anyway, laughing and flirting as they willed. The teens were fast turning the masquerade into a romp.

  I cannot name any of my subsequent partners, and though they must have spoken—and I am certain I responded—I cannot recall their words. I cannot recall if Gilian got Maxl to dance with her, or Jewel’s partners—Corlis—Jantian—I forgot them all.

  Our last dance occurred when the ballroom was almost empty. Once more I felt his arms around me, my body alive with joy, though my mind was too tired to think.

  My brother appeared at my shoulder.

  “Bring him up to the lair, if you like. I’ve ordered something to drink.” He vanished into the crowd again.

  “This way,” I said to Jason when the dance was over, feeling intensely self-conscious. And when we reached the quiet hall above, I pulled off my mask, though as yet I couldn’t even look up at him to see if he’d removed his. The moment—the symbolism—overwhelmed me.

  By the time we had reached the back way upstairs, my senses were sharp and distinct: the pools of yellow light, the scent of burning candles; the sounds of our breathing, the hush of my gown over the floor, his almost silent step on the woven carpets. His proximity.

  We had reached our hall when I heard a quick step and a familiar rustle, and we were face to face with Jewel.

  “Flian? I hoped we could—” Her eyes rounded in horror. “Jason?” She gasped, and then she began to scream, “How dare—”

  Jason moved quickly. One hand clapped over her mouth and the other held her. She struggled violently for a moment or two, as Jason looked over her head at me. “Flian. Do you want me here?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  Abruptly he let Jewel go. She yanked violently at her gown, which had twisted out of line through her efforts.

  “I’m sorry, Jewel.” Jason reached to disentangle her fan from a lace flounce, but she slapped his hand away and gave us an angry, confused glare. “But it won’t help Maxl if you start screeching and bring half that court pounding up here.”

  “Flian, you must be sick,” she stated with fierce loathing and marched down the hall.

  When the last of her train had twitched out of sight, I sighed. “Maxl’s lair is this way.”

  Soon we were inside, to find that Maxl had already arrived.

  “Coffee?” he asked, as if this were a normal day—and a normal time, instead of right before dawn. “Few but Flian and I like hot cocoa.” I sat on the couch, and Jason seated himself at the other end.

  “Coffee. Black,” Jason said.

  “Thought so.” Maxl flashed a quick grin.

  Their calm familiarity, the homeliness of the task, intensified my sense of unreality.

  Maxl poured out hot coffee first, then chocolate into porcelain cups for us. Still with that weird sense of detachment, I watched his slender hands. Jason’s were longer and stronger as he took the coffee cup; firelight glowed along his fingers, outlining tendons, knuckles, and highlighting the whorls on each fingertip. At the thought of those hands clasping round me again I shivered inside and closed my eyes.

  “Is Jewel a problem here?” Jason asked.

  “No.” Maxl shook his head, his eyes turning to the fire.

  I opened my eyes. The time had come to think—to risk words instead of leaving the risk to others. “Gilian wants her gone. I believe her request, uttered today at Jewel’s skating party, was more in the nature of a threat when she said Jewel would ‘do better’ in Dantherei.”

  Maxl lifted his head, scowling.

  Jason leaned back, the cup in both hands. “That’ll be the Zarda heir, yes?”

  “Not the heir.”

  Both turned to me. “Zarda has refused to declare an heir. As far as I knew,” Maxl said.

  “Then I am gossiping. I—overheard someone close to her remarking on it.” I thought of Corlis, who had happened to let the fact drop during a conversation about music the week before.

  “The heir has to be Gilian,” Maxl said, looking skeptical. “Zarda despises his son Vadral as a dullard, too much like his mother.”

  “It’s the opposite, actually. What we didn’t know was that her father apparently told her after Papa died that she will never be heir to Zarda, that she’s smart enough to find her own fortune, and double the family’s power. Vadral is good enough to stay home and act as steward to the family holdings. Leaving Papa Zarda free to spend.”

  Maxl lifted his hands. “Explains a lot.”

  “But doesn’t amend your problems.” Jason gave Maxl one of those ironic smiles. “I take it you don’t favor the easy solution.”

  “What, assassination?” Maxl’s tone matched Jason’s irony. “If anyone is to have the pleasure of strangling her, it would be myself. No, let’s say I suffer from moral constraint.”

  “Then you use her weaknesses against her. Exactly as she does you.”

  “Weaknesses,” Maxl repeated. “Yes, the Zardas would see me as weak.” He stared down into the fire again. That was the first time Maxl had been so forthcoming about Gilian.

  Jason said, “So shall I remove my sister? If she contributes to your diffic
ulties, I can bring her visit to a close.”

  Jason did not know about their attraction, then. To spare my brother having to answer, I said, “Please don’t. Jason, what you saw in the hallway was only her temper—I’ll wager anything she thought you were here to take her away. She loves it here so much, and she does not make problems. Quite the opposite—she’s been wonderful. Maxl, Jewel saw Jason and me coming upstairs—and misunderstood. There was no time to explain.”

  Maxl finished his cocoa in a gulp then rose. “I’ll go make things right. If you’ll pardon me?”

  He was gone a moment later.

  I was alone with Jason Szinzar, right there in Maxl’s lair. We sat at opposite ends of the couch, the fire crackling merrily two paces away.

  I poured more chocolate just to keep my hands busy. “Who rules in your stead?”

  “I straight-armed Jaim into taking on some tasks, and Markham rides rein on the army,” Jason replied, the fire reflecting in his dark pupils.

  He set aside his coffee and rose, his back to the fire, his attention wholly on me. I sat silent as a stone, staring up at him.

  “I don’t express myself well,” Jason said. “I suspect that you don’t either. Not unless it’s self-defense.” He gave me one of those Szinzar smiles.

  “You mean not unless I’m angry,” I said, trying to find my way to the truth. Once pride had kept me silent, and he had turned away from me. “When you were angry with me, you were direct enough as well.”

  “I’ve never been angry with you.”

  I shook my head. “Perhaps you don’t remember. But I do—in fact I have never stopped thinking about it. It’s why I—”

  “Why?” he prompted.

  My face heated up to the tips of my ears. The truth, I thought. Silence left you sitting alone in your room. “After Garian’s ambush. And that fire. You told me I’d regret it if you lived.”

  “Oh. I’d hoped you wouldn’t remember that,” he said with a wry smile, his hand making an apologetic gesture. “The idea seemed right at the time. Either you killed me or I would come courting you. Even though you’d just stated how much you loathed and despised me.”