Molly blinked. What did she mean by that?
“I’m a very good judge of character,” the princess said, answering her unspoken question, “in case you were wondering how I knew. And I can plainly see that you’re neither silly nor shallow. You’re tough, and you’re wise, and you’re interesting. That’s why I want you for my friend.”
Molly was momentarily speechless. Were they still playing Gonzalo’s game? Finally she stammered out the best reply she could manage, which also happened to be the truth. “I am overcome,” she said.
“Well, you shouldn’t be. I don’t give my affections lightly, and I never say things I don’t mean. If I have chosen to like and trust you, that’s because I think you deserve it.”
These words were so flattering that Molly really wanted to believe them. What’s more, her instincts kept leading her on—urging her to return Betta’s trust, to believe that the princess really wanted to be her friend, that she truly never said things she didn’t mean, and that she posed no danger to Alaric.
Just then, as if in support of Molly’s intuition, the cat came strolling into the atrium. He stopped and stared at Molly as he’d done the night before, then leaped onto Betta’s lap, landing so heavily he made her gasp.
“Goodness but you’re a monster,” the princess said, scooting back her chair to give him a bit more room and waiting till he’d settled himself. “This is Leondas,” she said. “He’s adopted me, and everyone thinks that’s very funny. He’s such a common, ugly old cat, you know, and so extremely large.”
“We’ve met, actually.” Molly said. “In the garden, last night.”
“Do you like cats?”
“Yes. This one in particular.”
“Well, that’s a relief, because I’ve grown unaccountably fond of him.”
“It’s because he’s so interesting and wise. Probably tough as well.”
Elizabetta laughed. “I knew I was right about you,” she said. “Now pay attention. Your lesson isn’t over yet. The next piece—I’ll bet you can guess.”
Molly studied it. The figure wore a helmet, carried a spear, and rode a very tiny horse. “He’s a knight,” Molly said, delighted. “A funny little knight.”
“Exactly so. And like the bishop, you have two of them. But unlike the bishop, who’s such a pious, proper sort of fellow—everything done according to the rules of doctrine—our knight must adapt himself to the constantly changing conditions of battle. So he never goes straight at anything; he moves in devious ways: one step forward and two to the side, or two steps forward and one to the side—in any direction. He can even leap over other pieces so long as he ends up on an empty square. See—like this. Or this. Or this. Understand?”
“Yes. I do.”
“That’s good, because if people are going to throw up their hands and say chess is too impossibly hard, you usually lose them with the knight.”
A swallow darted in just then. They looked up and watched as it disappeared into the tangle of vines that had grown up the columns and along the beams of the atrium roof. Leondas watched it, too, with hunter’s eyes.
“How long have you known King Alaric?” the princess asked.
Molly didn’t quite know what to make of this sudden and direct change of subjects; but since it concerned Alaric, she went on the alert.
“Are you old friends?” Betta went on when Molly didn’t reply. “He seems to hold you in especially high regard.”
“We were children when we first met,” Molly said. (This was true, but far from the whole truth. At the time, Molly had been a servant and Alaric a prince. He’d been passing through the great hall and had happened to notice that she was staring at him, not looking humbly down at her feet as lowly retainers were supposed to do. He’d responded by telling her, quite unpleasantly, to mind who she looked at—which by no definition of the word really counted as “meeting.”) “But then he was sent away to Austlind. It was only after he came back that we became friends.”
The princess watched her intensely, like a hawk studying its prey. “You are very fond of him,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.
“He’s my king. And my friend.”
“I understand. And Lord Worthington? You are betrothed, I believe?”
She knew this, of course. It had been mentioned the night before.
“Yes. I have also known Tobias since I was a very little child.”
“A love match, then?” She smiled at that.
“Yes, Your Majesty. And he well deserves my love, for he is generous of heart, kind, clever, funny, and brave. He would give his life for me without a second thought.”
The princess sucked in breath. “You are very fortunate, then.”
“I am indeed.”
“With royal marriages . . . well, one seldom has choices in matters of the heart.”
Molly was blunt because she couldn’t help it. “Are you asking me if Alaric is someone you could love and trust?”
Another gasp and a smile of astonishment. “You are direct,” she said.
“Unspeakably rude, I’m afraid. Please accept my apology.”
“I will not, for none is owed. Of course I would like to know what sort of man he is, as he has come here asking for my hand—beyond the obvious fact that he is handsome and that he can be quite charming when he wishes.”
“Well, he is a great deal more than that—as I suspect you already know, as you are such a fine judge of character.”
“But aren’t we all a great deal more than we seem, each in our own different ways?”
“True.” Molly sat quietly for a while, struggling to capture the essence of Alaric. This was surely a chance to help his cause, and to do so honestly. And somehow, words seemed inadequate.
“I’m not a flowery speaker,” she began, “so forgive me if I am plain.”
“Plain is always preferable to flowery, I think.”
“That’s fortunate, then. If I had to choose one word to describe my king, I suppose I would have to say that he is good. But that’s too plain, even for me. And if I had to choose a second word, it would be complicated.
“The path of Alaric’s life was never of his own choosing. He was a third son, so it was assumed he’d never rule. Nor would he inherit much. He’d have to make his own way in the world, as younger sons of all great and noble houses must. And like them, he only had two choices: he could enter the priesthood and become a bishop, or be trained as a knight and go to war. He didn’t want to do either one. So his parents sent him off to Austlind in hopes that his cousin Reynard could make a soldier out of a small, bookish boy who was none too fond of horses.
“I never saw him during that time, so I can’t say how he behaved; but I can guess that it was hard for him—out there in the practice yard day after day, training with swords and lances along with Reynard’s sons. Well, I’ll let you imagine it. They are very unlike, those boys and Alaric. He would have felt like a bird trapped under the sea.”
The princess smiled. “Yes,” she said.
“Then, unexpectedly, he became king. I needn’t tell you the circumstances, as you were there. He was only sixteen and had not been raised to carry such a burden of responsibility, nor did it come naturally to him. Yet I doubt there was ever a sovereign who tried more valiantly to learn than Alaric has and who put aside his personal hopes, and dreams, and desires more rigorously so he could focus his every thought on how best to govern his people.”
“Edmund said much the same of him—that Alaric was true to his ideals.”
“So he is. But it costs him, you know.” Molly touched her hand to her heart.
The princess, seeing this, did the same. “I understand you,” she said, “better perhaps than you might think. Alaric has lost his family. He has lost his freedom. And he has been given a task as difficult as it is important. And though he never wanted it, he has embraced it completely.”
Molly’s eyes narrowed as she studied the princess, who almost seemed to be talking abo
ut herself. “Yes,” she said. “You have it exactly.”
“But under all that devotion to duty, there’s a little rebellious streak.”
Molly’s eyes widened now.
“It fights against that which is inevitable; it seeks a way around the wall that divides one part of himself from another. It yearns. It aches. But he keeps it packed away and only takes it out when he’s alone—or rarely, very rarely, when he is with someone he trusts. Then he shuts it up again, because he must.”
“Merciful God,” Molly whispered. “You are the same.”
The princess struggled to master her emotions, and Molly looked away, giving her the privacy to do it. But she couldn’t resist adding one more thing.
“Perhaps, together, you might break down that wall and be the better for it.”
Betta drew in a deep breath. “Well, Molly, you have answered my question quite to my satisfaction.”
“Rather more than you wanted, I fear.”
“On the contrary. It was very illuminating. Now, if you will bear with me just a little longer, we shall finish with the chessmen. We’re almost done, I promise.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
“These last two pieces in the back row are rooks—you can call them castles if that’s easier to remember. They’re second in power after the queen. And that follows a certain logic, since a king’s castle offers him great protection—more than a knight or a bishop could.”
Molly lifted her little ivory tower and turned it thoughtfully in her hand. Was Betta alluding to the fact that Alaric had been drawn from the safety of his castle? If so, was that a threat or a warning? God’s teeth, but this was a strange situation! One moment Molly was as trusting as a child, and the princess was her intimate friend—and the next thing she knew there came a flood of doubt. She looked at Leondas for guidance or reassurance, but he was comfortably asleep in the princess’s lap. Perhaps that was as good an answer as she was going to get.
“And finally,” Betta said, putting down her castle, “we have a whole row of little lumps that look like gravestones. They are your pawns. They can only move one square at a time, straight ahead—except on the first move, when they can move two. Think of them as foot soldiers, out there on the front lines, where they’ll likely be struck down by the first volley of arrows. That’s why you have so many.”
“Because they’re expendable.”
“Yes. Chess is about the strategy of war, and it’s meant to reflect the true conditions on an actual field of battle. But you know . . .” She paused for a moment, and whatever she was thinking about, it seemed to please her. “Just as in the real world, the pawns—the common folk—sometimes rise above their humble origins and go on to achieve greatness. Not often, but it happens. And so our little pawn, if he manages to survive that first onslaught of enemy fire—and is strong enough, and brave enough, or maybe just lucky enough to keep moving through the ranks of the opposing army till he reaches the very last row on the other side—can be promoted to any piece he chooses. Except king, of course.”
“You mean a pawn could be promoted to queen?”
“Most certainly,” she said. “That’s what most players do—but only if their original queen has already been lost. For even in chess, a king may not have two wives.” The princess was gazing squarely at Molly now. “As in real life,” she added.
In the silence that followed, they could hear Leondas purr.
13
A Matter of Payment
PRINCE RUPERT HAD NOTHING to do that morning, and he was unbearably bored.
His father was in conference with his chief advisers, working out strategy for that afternoon’s meeting with King Gonzalo. Even if they’d invited Rupert to join them—which they very pointedly had not—he wouldn’t have wanted to listen to them blather on anyway. It was all just, “If we offer him this, then what if Alaric offered him that? But we don’t want to seem too eager, so maybe . . .”
Boring.
There was supposed to be a hunt soon, which was something to look forward to. But that was in the future. And right now he thought that if he stayed cooped up in that ridiculous guesthouse for one more minute, he would scream. So he told one of his father’s knights that he was going for a walk and left.
The Cortovans were apparently very keen on gardens, parks, and whatnot. Each of the clusters of villas was surrounded by green space—as if they were in the middle of the woods or something. It was nice, he guessed, but kind of strange. The usual thing was to have a castle with a city around it, and the walls and everything—and then you’d have the park someplace else.
Rupert didn’t care much about flowers one way or the other. There were a lot of them in Cortova too. But then, it was a summery country. Hot and all.
He emerged from the woodsy area that surrounded their villas and came upon another group of buildings. The houses were just like everything else in the summer palace: plain as mush on the outside, no carving or decoration or anything, and open to the weather in the middle. The only difference was that these were smaller.
He heard voices and followed the sound—but stealthily, as if he were stalking a deer, creeping in close for a good shot. What he saw once he’d rounded a corner were the dancers from the other night: the almost-naked ones from that foreign place with the peculiar name.
Only they weren’t naked now. They had on long white robes, like something you’d sleep in on a cold night, and they had skullcaps on their heads. They were arguing with a small group of soldiers. Or at least one of the dancers was; he seemed to be their leader. The rest of them stood behind him with scowls on their faces.
Meanwhile, slaves were coming and going in the background, hauling these big leather trunks out of the houses—probably costumes and instruments—and carrying them away in the direction of the stables.
So the dancers were leaving. What were they arguing about?
Rupert decided that this was interesting. He found himself a place where he could sit in the shade and watch them without being seen.
They were shouting now—the head dancer and the head soldier, each in his own language. Rupert couldn’t understand either one, but he could tell a lot just by watching their gestures.
“Ochorestew!” the dancer cried (or something like that), his left fist defiantly on his hip, his right hand outstretched, palm up. He was asking for something, but not as beggars do. This was a demand, not a plea.
The head soldier, arms crossed over his chest, shook his head and said, “No.” Rupert actually understood that. Yes and no were among the very few Cortovan words he remembered from his lessons.
The dancer pointed defiantly in the direction of the royal compound. Then once again he held out his palm, only now he poked it with his finger with such force that you might think he hoped to drill for water there.
“Gobbledypollywhatever,” said the dancer. “Shukkunokku dogwater.” The rest of the troupe grumbled in agreement. Then all of them pointed at their palms.
Rupert was pretty sure he had it now: they hadn’t been paid!
At all? Not enough? A day late? The king had clearly promised them something, and now they were being sent away without it.
Again the same gestures: pointing to the king’s palace, then to the dancers’ palms.
“Ortollini mooly novotomoto woostoni,” said the soldier, indicating first the dancers, then Gonzalo’s palace, and finally spreading his arms wide and gazing up into the sky, as if to take in the whole world: Once you’ve performed for the king of Cortova, every noble in the land will want to hire you. You ought to be paying us for the privilege!
The dancers, all uncommonly large and muscular men, now began to advance on the soldiers in a menacing manner. Eagerly, Rupert leaned forward. The dancers far outnumbered the soldiers. And though they probably hadn’t been trained as knights, they had these little sickle-shaped swords hanging from their belts; and anyone who’d seen them dance would know how swift and powerful they were.
&nb
sp; The head guard held up his hand: Wait! He did it two more times: Wait, wait! Then as if creeping away from a snarling dog, the soldiers left.
The head dancer watched them go with a mocking smile. But he didn’t move—except to order the slaves to stop carrying out their goods. Then he and his fellow dancers waited, arms crossed, for a fairly long time—certainly long enough for Rupert to grow restless. But he forced himself to stay and keep watching, because he had the feeling that this little encounter was nowhere near over. And if there was going to be a sword fight, he didn’t want to miss it.
So, he thought, either the guards have gone back to get the money, or they are rounding up reinforcements. Rupert would have bet on the latter. King Gonzalo was not the sort to be pushed around by a troupe of naked dancers.
Maybe he’d order his soldiers to chop off their heads! That would be something to see!
All the same, it was an odd business, and there was a puzzle in it somewhere. Because everyone knew it was really bad form for a king—especially one who’s so bloody rich—not to pay those who are “in his hand.” It made him look . . . miserly. Small. Poor. His subjects would despise him. So why would Gonzalo humiliate himself, and get a bad reputation, all over a few gold coins? It made no sense—unless he wasn’t as bloody rich as he wanted everyone to think.
No, surely not!
But then again, the princess hardly had any jewels. Both nights she’d dressed like a . . . like a lady-in-waiting or something. His father seemed to think she’d done it on purpose to show that she was so pretty she didn’t need any ornament. But Rupert found that hard to believe. Ladies liked their frippery. It was a well-known fact.
So. What if they really were poor, except that they already had all those fancy things lying around—the gold and silver platters, and the candlesticks, and those antique glasses his father was so excited about—and they just brought them out to make themselves look rich.
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