Nearer at hand, a group from Rimany, born of the Ice-Race called the Arysk, sat like a row of lilies or plumy white birds, wearing the feathers of albino peacocks and ibis. Ivory of skin were they, their locks of pure white silk framing grave faces and eyes of palest blue. Like the trows, they favoured silver for adornment, and as for apparel, they chose only white silk and gauze and cloth-of-silver, ice blue or sea gray. Sudden blood-red, like a stab wound, was the only bright hue of their decoration, deepest carmine velvet edged with sable. They kept to themselves—Rohain had only been introduced to one of their number, the Lady Solveig of Ixtacutl. The candlelight had described in her eyes ice-pinnacles tinged by a flame of sunset.
Blood having been shed, the swordfighting event closed in time for the ensuing dish, which appeared to consist of a bloated ox. In roasted state, surrounded by glazed worts, parsley, nasturtiums, and sausages, the beast was wheeled in on a golden cart drawn by skittish reindeer, to be presented at the High Table. As the cart halted before the dais, Roxburgh stood up. His voice roared out across the Hall. A horrified silence fell abruptly over the assembly.
‘What’s this? An ox for dinner at Imbrol? And look at it! Is this fit to be presented to His Majesty? Has it not even been gutted and stuffed? Are we to chew entrails? Bring the Master Cook. We’ll see him hanged for this incompetence!’
The Royal Cook was dragged sniveling and groveling from the kitchens. On his knees before the High Table he begged for mercy, rolling his eyes hideously.
‘Your Majesty! Your Highness, Your Graces, have pity! I did my best, but there was no time—’
‘Silence!’ roared Roxburgh. ‘I’ll see you gutted instead!’
‘But sir,’ said the Cook, ‘I’d rather show you the beast’s innards than mine.’
With that he drew a long knife from his side and in one easy movement slashed open the ox’s stomach. A cheer went up from the diners as an entire roasted cow rolled out. A slash along the cow’s abdomen revealed a baked doe. Inside the venison was a nicely cooked sheep, stuffed with a pig, crammed with a turkey that contained a pigeon packed with forcemeat. By now the audience was applauding madly. The Royal Cook capered. Roxburgh threw back his head and made the Hall ring with his laughter—of course, it had all been a jest, and planned from start to finish. The Dainnan Commander threw a purse to the Cook. A tribe of footmen rolled away the Seven-In-One to be operated on by a bevy of Carvers.
The next course was roasted peacocks, brought forth with wads of burning camphor and wool stuck in their beaks, spitting flames, to be paraded in their jewelled plumage and then devoured. After that, files of liveried servitors triumphantly brought forth pies which, when their pastry lids were cut, released live birds to fly around the hall.
Barring dessert, there could not have been a more complete repast. Many a noble waistline bulged. Pages, footmen, butlers, cup-bearers, all were kept busy scurrying back and forth at the whims of their masters and mistresses. As the last sanap was removed in preparation for the final collation, all entremets disappeared and an orchestra played soft music from the gallery. The musicians gleamed with their own perspiration. Like a field of burning goldenrod flowers, feverish candles blazed, stuck in wrought brackets attached to the sheet-music stands.
The courtiers murmured expectantly.
The Royal Bard rose from his chair. Beckoning to a group of half a dozen boys who had been waiting in the wings, he strode down from the dais to a golden harp that stood there, its frame formed like a giant fish with waves streaming from its scales. All fell silent once more.
‘I sing “The Holly,”’ he announced, seating himself at the harp.
Backed by the harmonies of the youthful choir, the Bard sang a traditional song of Imbrol. All those assembled raised their voices to join in the last verse, and a grand swelling of sound it was—it seemed to rock the walls and lift the very ceiling.
Thomas of Ercildoune waved the choir away and once more touched the strings of his Carp Harp. In a voice both rich and mellow, which carried clearly to all those seated in the Hall, he began a serenade:
‘My love, though I should never wish that we
Should even by a hair’s breadth parted be,
There shall be times when we must dwell apart—
Then would I keep some emblem to my heart;
A token of thee, lady whom I cherish,
That of the lack of thee I may not perish—
A part of thee which no one else could make,
And yet, that would not harm thee for to take;
A pledge of thy return, a treasured thing
More tender than a portrait or a ring;
A part of thee which of thee shall remain.
Thus, sundered we shall never be again;
So if beside thee, love, I cannot be—
I pray thee, spare a lock of hair to me.’
Tears brimmed in Rohain’s eyes. She forbade them to fall. Had Thorn kept the twist of hair he had stolen from her, or had he tossed it away? The Bard bowed to the High Table and was commended on his performance.
‘My apprentice, Toby,’ said Ercildoune, ‘has been practicing some epic these last days, methinks. Let us hear it now, Toby.’
‘If it please Your Majesty, I shall play “Candlebutter”,’ said Toby, bowing low. The courtiers stirred appreciatively. It was one of those old, well-known songs that, although the words bore no relevance to the occasion, was always thought of as indispensable to Imbrol.
‘For those who are not aware of the manner of speech used in some regions, candlebutter is an archaic or rustic name for gold,’ said Toby in a clear voice. ‘The ballad is made upon the true story of the Dark Daughter, as happened, they say, in days of yore. ‘Tis an ancient song and many a minstrel has passed it down through the years. Now it is my turn. I shall try to do it justice.’ Taking up a lyre for accompaniment, Toby half sang, half chanted a long, strange ballad. As the last liquid notes of the lyre trickled away, the singer bowed. His audience remained, for a time, under the spell of the curious old song.
Hardly had they begun to applaud when a loud explosion and a wizardly cloud of purple smoke from the lower doors heralded the arrival of the Puddings. Upon matching gray steeds, in rode twelve masked equestrians outfitted to represent the twelve months of the Year. Wearing sildron bracelets to bear up the weight, they held aloft flaming spheres of compacted suet, peel, Sugar, brandy, and fruits, whose purpose was to resemble the burning sun in a half-serious attempt to lure the real one back from its Winter retreat in the north. All who viewed these triumphal orbs did so with the anticipation of being fortunate enough to find within their portion one of the lucky silver tokens hidden there. These apparitions jogged once around the Hall, pausing to genuflect to the High Table, the horses having been trained to do the same. They deposited their guttering burdens on the sideboards for subsequent butchery and departed in another burst of smoke and noise.
‘La! Uncle never did things by halves!’ commented Dianella, covering her ears.
The uncle mentioned, being the Lord High Wizard, Sargoth the Cowled, commenced his customary Imbrol Spectacle directly after dessert. The fame of this man had reached to all the corners of Erith, even to the Tower at Isse, where he had been spoken of with awe and excitement. Rohain soon saw that his reputation had not been overpraised. He demonstrated each of the Nine Arts with utmost skill and aplomb, revealing himself as a true Master of Wizardry. Compared with Sargoth, Zimmuth of Isse Tower seemed but an apprentice.
Servants went around snuffing out candles. The darkened Hall became the scene of wizardly lightning, flame, sparks, and smoke. Between thunders the orchestra played. On the dais below the High Table Sargoth transformed maidens into wolves, wolves into tyraxes, and tyraxes to watch-worms. He sawed men in half; the halves walked around by themselves and were rejoined later. He chopped men into little pieces and restored them to life. He made them disappear, only to reappear where least expected. Inanimate objects came to life. In his ungloved
hand, water turned to fire and fire to water. He levitated without a sildron harness. He seemed aflame, he walked through fire unscathed. He performed feats of gramarye that left his audience gawping. In short, he was astounding.
A bell tolled eleven. On the eleventh stroke, the wizard vanished for the last time, leaving a rain of gold, silver, and scarlet sparks to descend slowly into the foggy Hall. A cheer went up—it was time to prepare for Misrule. Footmen scurried to relight the candles. Their radiance, leaking through the haze, showed that the High Table had already been half-deserted. In order of importance, the courtiers now absented themselves from the Banqueting Hall, repairing to their suites to dress for the Midnight Ball.
With a rustle of silk, Dianella, attired in the costliest of fabrics cut in peasant style, entered Rohain’s boudoir. She was followed by her lady’s maid.
‘Are you almost ready, Dear Heart?’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘The night wears on! Allow me to help you with your coiffure. Servants do not know how to prosecute such affairs successfully. Besides, I have been told your maid’s sight is impaired.’
Biting her lip, Viviana stepped back. Rohain allowed Dianella to rearrange her curls.
‘Like this, see?’ said Dianella, teasing out loose strands. ‘A little messy, like a maid who’s forgotten to tidy herself—’twould be true to type, I ween. What a capital costume—it does show your figure to advantage! I see your skivvy-girl here is wearing the one of your gowns I most admire, oh, I could almost be jealous! Yet breeding will tell—the most gracious of raiment cannot enhance a low-born face. What’s this?’ She peered closely at Rohain’s hair. ‘What have you done to the roots? Why, I declare! Griffin, get out of here. You too.’ She rounded on the two lady’s maids, who hastily removed themselves.
Rohain drooped, wine-befuddled, before the looking-glass. ‘What is the matter with my hair, Dianella?’
‘Only that the roots are beginning to grow out gold. How entirely fascinating! Come, come, what are you hiding from us?’
‘I hide nothing! If I am Talith, what of it?’
‘Of course. What of it indeed! Nobody of any consequence wears their hair yellow these days—only old quizzes like the Dowager Marchioness of Netherby, and cold fish like Maiwenna. Verily, it is out of style. You had better have it seen to quickly—Griffin shall dye it for you on the morrow; she is taraiz adept. There’s not a moment to lose. Contrasting roots are so out of favour!’
She held up a strand of Rohain’s hair between finger and thumb.
‘La! What emulsion have you used, Heart? Your hair positively glows. Most of the usual black dyestuffs coarsen the tresses something storfenlent.’
‘I do not know what it was called. My hair was dyed for me by a carlin in White Down Rory.’
‘I must know her name, this adept witch of the hairdressing!’
Only half attending, Rohain said, ‘She is called Maeve One-Eye. Shall the ladies of the Court dance with the Dainnan tonight?’
Dianella laughed her silvery tinkle.
‘The ladies of the Court may do many things on this night of the Year. All of Roxburgh’s stalwarts are sofine and unco’ gallant—dare I surmise that your eye has rested upon one in particular, es raith-na?’
A gong sounded the call to the Ballroom. Dianella glided to the window and peered out. In the darkness below, torches flared.
Rohain rose unsteadily from her seat by the dressing-table.
‘Do you know of a Dainnan by the name of Thorn?’
‘Thorn?’ Dianella paused, without turning around. ‘Nay, I think not. Nay, I am certain I have not heard that name. Have you asked anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Well it would be best not to, Dear Heart. It does not look so well, you understand, a lady in your position asking after one of the King-Emperor’s hired men, dashing though they be. I am sure you will see this man again, by and by.’ She lifted from her chatelaine an ivory mirror-case depicting a tournament. Knights jousted while nobles watched from a high gallery. Ivory heralds sounded long trumpets. After a quick glance at her reflection, she snapped it shut. ‘Is he very much in love with you?’
‘I hardly know him.’
‘But of course! You would be saving yourself for a viscount, at the very least! I am sure your Dainnan loves you from afar, in truest chivalry, with most ardent and untainted passion. Cai dreambliss! Have you your dance-cards and fan? Come now, take my hand—let us away to the Ball. We must be there before midnight. That is when the best fun begins!’
A great stillness fell, near and far.
In the gardens and courtyards of the palace, bonfires flared, inviting the Winter sun’s return. A band of well-wrapped musicians sustained the circles of dancers around each conflagration. Some maidens ran, screaming ‘Bogles in the hedges!’ Someone, it was reported, had seen them—but it turned out to be a mere folly.
The city bells rang a carillon for midnight.
A mighty cheer went up to the starry skies, and a blowing of horns and a rampage of bells and drums. In the Royal Ballroom, the oboe, the clarinet, the viol, the shawm and hautboy, the serpent, the trumpet, the horn and timpani, the triangle, the gittern, and the double bass struck up.
The Royal Ballroom stood wide and high, its painted, paneled, festooned walls lined with mirrors and chairs, the latter occupied by ladies with fans and gentlemen with snuff-boxes, many of these observers being in various stages of coquetry and flirtation. Dancers packed the floor. It would seem to an onlooker that servant and master, both simple and gentle, mingled without regard to propriety: cup-bearer and countess, minion and marquess, drudge and Dainnan, valet and viscount, laundry-maid and lord, nursery-maid and noble, equerry and earl, squire and seigneur, henchman and high-born lady. With blue glass gleaming at her throat like sapphires, a ragged scullion whirled in the arms of an under-butler with gold-buckled shoes, whose jacket had been turned inside out. A queenly dame in cloth-of-gold partnered an elderly, bewhiskered steward; a kitchen-maid in a stained apron trod the boards with a velveted duke while a baroness danced with a pastry-cook. The Yeoman to the Royal Wine Cellar footed it with the Countess of Sheffield, and the Master of Robes trifled with a gardener’s daughter in damson silk and a golden chatelaine. It was all bewildering in the extreme, which indeed was the intention, for the period between midnight and sunrise on Littlesun Day was a dangerous time when anything might happen.
On this the longest night, dark-loving eldritch things roamed abroad—in particular, unseelie entities out to do harm to mortals—and if they should be led astray by appearances, if they should not be able to identify those upon whom they spied, then there was a chance that they would have less power to wreak mischief upon them during the coming year. With reversal in mind, acrobats walked about on their hands, their feet waving in the air, wearing gauntlets over their shoes. Jesters, dressed as birds and butterflies with stars on their heads, toddled here and there; others, wrapped in swaddling to represent the worms of the soil, glissanded near the ceiling.
The lowliest drudge, a young, uncomely maid whose distasteful daily duties included the emptying of chamber-pots, presided over the Ball. Smiling in genuine glee, this Queen of Misrule sat on one of the King-Emperor’s very thrones, with a paste-and-paint crown stuck askew upon her curls and glass baubles winking on every joint. Ercildoune, who loved such occasions, made great show of falling upon his knees before her, offering tray after tray of sweetmeats and wine. In his joskin’s garb, he looked quite the yokel, although rather rakish. His performance, however, was soon eclipsed by Goblet-As-Footman. His powdered wig on sideways, his long-toed shoes tripping him up at the slightest provocation, the Royal Jester fell on many people—judiciously selected. He fell into the lap of the Queen of Misrule and was mortified and begged forgiveness, but, unforgiven, tried to hang himself with a noose whose frayed end he held high in his own hand. When suicide failed, he implored pardon again; she kissed him, and he was so elated that he cut a caper, tripped on his shoes, and la
nded in her lap once again. In disgust, his fellow jesters heaved him up by the hands and feet and threw him into the multitude, whereupon he was passed from hand to hand over their heads around the room. None scorned to join this activity, least of all those of the Set. In all seasons Goblet was deemed fashionable by the Set, even though he was, by choice, not part of it. His scathing tongue could strip face and facade from those he chose to mock; as jester, he was licensed to lampoon; none bar a very few would not give way before him, and most would not wish to do so. He was popular despite his acerbic wit and because of it; Goblet could say and do almost anything and get away with it. Furthermore, it was deemed lucky to touch a jester on New Year’s Eve.
When next seen, Goblet was wearing an elaborate farthingale, with two slightly lopsided puddings squeezed into the bodice and two more in the bustle. In this finery he skipped through the crowd, having perfected the knack of appearing at people’s elbows, then kicking up his heels and disappearing with an arch wink before they had time to collect their wits. A trail of children endeavoured to follow him.
In the adjacent room, the White Drawing Room, a take-as-you-please supper had been laid out. Gold glittered everywhere; encrusted on the walls and the heavy frames of the paintings that adorned them, on the embroidered chairs, the ornate ceiling, the solid gold firescreens. About the walls, cabinets inlaid with semi-precious stones housed objets d’art. Tall doors gave on to the torchlit gardens. Before these portals posed graceful marble statues and tall ivory vases overflowing with white lilies. Overhead hovered a breathtaking tiered crystal chandelier. The floor was thick with priceless purple and gold carpets that flowed out beyond the White Drawing Room into the length of the red-and-gold East Gallery.
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 64
