The God-Touched Man

by Melissa McShane

  He tried to quash his lingering resentment toward Tedoratis. She meant no insult in giving him an assignment suited to his more amatory skills, but despite his many flirtations, all of which he and the young ladies involved had thoroughly enjoyed, he’d never set out to charm a woman so…intentionally. He prided himself on the sincerity of his emotions, on his genuine desire to make a woman feel appreciated and admired, but it was impossible, naturally, to feel an attraction to a description on a piece of paper.

  He stacked the last book and squeezed behind his desk to sit in the rickety chair. There was no reason he couldn’t be genuinely charming without involving his heart in any way. And it was certainly true he wanted to make Princess Jendaya feel welcome and honored by Dalanine, so it wasn’t as if he were being insincere. Tedoratis was correct that this would not be easy, but Piercy Faranter had never backed down from a challenge, let alone one that involved charming a lady. He definitely wasn’t going to start now.

  Chapter Three

  Piercy covertly examined his reflection in the mirrored walls. He didn’t feel as confident as he’d like. His tailor had been slow to finish the suit of court attire, a fitted lavender satin frock coat and matching knee breeches, and they were uncomfortable. He felt as if he were trying to shed his skin and it was catching on his shoulders and knees. It didn’t look ill-fitting, though, and he made himself concentrate on Tedoratis’s slightly hunched figure in her panniered silk gown. Hers was ill-fitting, but some of that was because she clearly wished she were wearing something else, probably trousers.

  He’d only been to the palace twice, both times squiring some young society beauty whose name escaped him, and had never been through the Retiring Room, which was more a vast echoing hallway lined on one side with the aforementioned mirrors. Windows above the mirrors draped in red velvet combined with a matching thick carpet hushed the room even when it was thronged with guests as it was now. The mirrors gave the illusion of doubling the width of the hall and made the crowd look twice as big as it was. He caught a glimpse of Claxton Aldenter in the mirror and suppressed a shudder. Two of him was two too many.

  Piercy quickened his step so as not to lose sight of his superior as she passed into the ballroom. His heart was beating too rapidly, as it always did before he embarked on a challenging assignment or an exciting new flirtation. This evening he’d do a little of both.

  Even though the dancing hadn’t started yet, the palace ballroom was warm from so many bodies in proximity to one another. The windows had been flung open wide in an attempt to compensate. The pale blue walls did their best to assist, shedding a wintry air over the gathering, and no doubt the high ceiling festooned with gilded carvings collected as much heat as it could, but in an hour or so this room would be uncomfortable even if one weren’t dancing.

  Piercy took a deep breath to calm himself and immediately wished he hadn’t; the heat carried with it the smells of a thousand colognes and perfumes all competing with each other to make the most olfactory noise. Breathing more shallowly, Piercy continued across the glossy yellow floor toward a dais at the far end, where a couple of high-backed seats had been set. King Deverell IV sat in one of them, rumpled as usual, with his coronet askew on his graying hair. He straightened as Tedoratis approached and said, “Everything’s gone well so far.”

  “Which is to say we haven’t mortally insulted them yet,” said Iriya Gelventer. The Lady High Chamberlain stood just behind the king’s chair, her restless eyes scanning the crowd. She was tiny, almost doll-like, but she held herself as if she were the tallest person in the room. “I hope they won’t take offense at our assigning them minders.”

  “Hosts,” Tedoratis said, her voice icy enough to chill the immediate area a few degrees. Gelventer glanced at her, raised one eyebrow, then looked away again. “We’ve done our research and concluded this is what they’ll see as a mark of respect. Let us do our job.”

  “Let’s not bicker about this when it’s too late to change anything, shall we?” said the king. “I think they’re coming now.”

  Stillness spread through the ballroom from the entrance to the Retiring Room, and the guests parted as if someone were driving a harrow through the center of the ballroom. Two young men garbed in old-fashioned red tunics and white shirts with full sleeves raised long trumpets to their lips and produced a long, intricate fanfare that had Piercy wishing he could cover his ears. “Your Majesty,” one of them said, his voice effortlessly filling the space, probably thanks to a spell, “the ambassador from Santerre, Her Highness the Princess Jendaya Hathakuni.”

  A woman came through the arched double doors, followed by several men and women. She wore a brilliantly white gown that left her right shoulder bare and flattered her ample figure, and stood posed just inside the doorway as if inviting everyone to have a good look at her beauty. The white gown made her dark cinnamon skin seem even darker and more exotic by comparison to the much paler Dalanese on every side. Whoever she really was, she was certainly perfect to play the part of a princess.

  She walked forward, slowly, in a way that indicated she believed herself more than equal to everyone in the ballroom. Behind her, her companions followed at a similarly slow pace. All of them, male and female, wore gowns similar to the “princess’s,” though the men’s were cut off at the knees and all of them were in rich, dark, jewel-like colors rather than white.

  Piercy scanned the group, trying to guess who the real princess was. Of the five women, three wore necklaces of broad gold plaques incised with the symbol of the Hathakuni family, indicating they were in direct service to the princess, and of those three, only one clearly belonged to an ancient noble family. Her skin was very dark, much darker than that of the other women, and her black hair, which was plaited into a thousand tiny braids, was piled high on her head and pinned there with something that sparkled in the brilliant light of the chandeliers. She held her head like…well, like a princess. Did Santerre really think this would fool them?

  Piercy examined her more closely. She wasn’t as beautiful, objectively, as her stand-in; the bones of her face were rather sharp, and she lacked the fullness of lips that characterized Santerran beauty, but she was still very lovely indeed. Not that it mattered to Piercy. When it came to romancing a lady, a beautiful face was no guarantee of a beautiful spirit. You’re not romancing her, you’re just trying to keep her happy, he told himself, but it was hard not to look at her and wonder how she would respond if he courted her in earnest.

  “Dalanine welcomes Santerre,” the king said, standing and approaching the princess with his hands outstretched, the wrists crossed in a traditional Santerran salute.

  The princess responded with the same gesture and clasped his hands briefly. “We thank you for the welcome,” she said in barely accented Dalanese. “We have been made very comfortable.”

  “The Foreign Office is pleased to offer you every assistance,” Tedoratis said, but Piercy’s attention was once again drawn to the true princess, who was scanning the room as if assessing its contents. Her interest made him conscious of the vastness of the room, of the gilding adorning almost every wooden surface so the ceiling, walls, and doors gleamed like burnished gold in the light of the crystal chandeliers. Santerre had suffered greatly in the wars and it was unlikely it had such conspicuous wealth as this. What was she thinking? That Dalanine was flaunting its wealth at the Santerrans, sneering at them for their relative poverty?

  Then, to his surprise, her eyes met his. He managed not to look away in embarrassment from staring at her, and instead smiled and nodded in a friendly way. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then moved on without acknowledging him. Irritation niggled at him, then he suppressed it. Time enough to charm the woman when he could actually speak to her.

  “—and again, welcome,” the king said, and Piercy came out of his reverie to see the rest of his Foreign Office comrades spreading out to address the members of the ambassador’s party. He caught Tedoratis’s eye; she was glaring at him, h
er eyes slightly widened in a gesture that clearly said Stop daydreaming and do your job. Piercy quickly took a few steps to stand in front of—he should call her Lady Caligwe, let them believe they believed the ruse—

  “My lady,” he said, with a bow and a pleasant smile, “my name is Piercy Faranter, and may I add my personal welcome?” Thanks to his expensive Houndston education, he spoke Santerran nearly as well as he spoke Dalanese, but Tedoratis had said Let’s not show them all our cards at once, shall we? and Piercy had agreed with her.

  “I suppose,” Lady Caligwe said in a quiet voice, her eyes downcast as if in shyness. Was it her true personality, or part of her disguise? “My name is Ayane Caligwe.” She had a rather thick accent, but was perfectly intelligible, and Piercy found it charming.

  “Lady Caligwe, I hope you might give me the pleasure of a dance?” Piercy extended his hand to her. She looked at it skeptically.

  “I do not this dance know, sir Faranter,” she said.

  “Mr. Faranter, and I would be happy to teach you.”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then took his hand. Her hand, with its elegant long fingers and dark hue, was striking against his gloved one.

  He led her through the crowds, who whispered as they passed, to a spot near one of the open windows. The faint smell of the pink clematis twining up the wall outside was a fresh contrast to the thicker odor of the ballroom, and Piercy inhaled the cool spring air and smiled again at his partner. She was tall for a woman, but he was enough taller that she was looking up at him now with startling golden brown eyes. “How is this dance done?” she said.

  Piercy arranged her arms around him and put a hand on her waist. “Like this,” he said, and proceeded to demonstrate. She was an awkward dancer, always looking at her feet, but Piercy found himself surprisingly aware of her nearness, of how her hair smelled of jasmine, and had to remind himself he wasn’t there to genuinely woo her. But what if I could? he thought, and at that moment she looked up at him with those golden eyes and said, “Is this right?” and Piercy was seized with a desire to kiss her, right there where everyone could see. You’re an idiot, Faranter, she’s a princess and Tedoratis would take your head off.

  “You are a quick study,” he said instead, and guided her toward where the other couples glided across the floor. She didn’t meet his eyes again, kept her head ducked toward her feet or her eyes focused on his shoulder. Piercy couldn’t help noticing how many admiring looks were being directed at them despite her awkwardness. Well, she was a beautiful and exotic stranger, and he cut a dashing figure, and the two of them together…was it prideful to think they were worth looking at?

  When the dance came to an end, Piercy said, “I think we both need something cooling after such exertion, don’t you?” and upon receiving her nod steered her in the direction of a liveried woman, where he handed Lady Caligwe a glass of punch. The room was, as predicted, becoming uncomfortably warm, and he offered her his arm and led her back toward the windows. “I suppose you’re accustomed to the heat,” he said.

  “It is much hotter in Bellema than in Matra, even in spring,” Lady Caligwe said.

  “The journey tomorrow in the velocitor will be quite comfortable, I assure you.”

  “I do not know what is a velocitor.”

  “It is a magical engine which draws a line of carriages much, much faster than a team of horses can.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I know only a little of the magic that propels it. My good friend Evon Lorantis had a part in building it, but when he explained it to me, I fear my only reaction was to feel as if my brains had been scooped out of my skull, stirred thoroughly, and poured back in.”

  Lady Caligwe laughed and sipped her punch. A fleeting expression of distaste crossed her face. Piercy took a sip of his own cup. It tasted fine to him, but who knew what kind of flavors the Santerrans were accustomed to? He should have gotten them wine instead.

  “I apologize for how this tastes,” he said, taking her glass from her with a smile. “Though as I did not concoct the beverage, perhaps I should be apologizing for the person in the kitchens who will likely be unemployed tomorrow.”

  Lady Caligwe gave him a smile. “You will bring me something else?” she said.

  “Of course, my lady.” Piercy bowed and walked away. Something light, not this thick purple-red beverage. He deposited the glasses on one of the tables dotting the walls that bore those drooping ferns—pouring the stuff onto the plants would be cruel—and went looking for someone bearing wine glasses.

  This was much easier than he’d expected. Lady Caligwe was lovely, and sweet-tempered, and found his charms appealing, and—no, he wasn’t going to court her, but he could certainly enjoy teasing those shy smiles out of her and showing her the best Matra in spring had to offer. The zoological garden expedition tomorrow, that would be pleasant, and the velocitor was the only one of its kind…yes, these two weeks would be no hardship at all.

  Bearing two wine glasses in one hand, he returned to where he’d left Lady Caligwe. She was gone.

  Piercy cast about him for a moment. Definitely no longer there. She was too distinctive to be able to hide herself even in the mass of dancers, but he circled the ballroom just to be sure. Lady Caligwe was nowhere in the room.

  The refreshing rooms, he thought, and made his way across the ballroom to the small doors leading to the water closets. Now, how long could he stand outside the little rooms without looking strange? He smiled and nodded at a pair of young women who passed him with admiring glances. Just a few minutes, probably, but then how long would the princess need to refresh herself? The young women emerged and gave him rather more skeptical glances. He must look like a fool, hovering around the water closets with wine glasses in hand.

  More time passed. He was drawing more glances, ranging from skeptical to outright irritation. He checked the time by the giant clock in the wall above the king’s seat. Ten minutes. That was more than enough. Lady Caligwe was not in the refreshing room. She’d given him the slip.

  Piercy walked away, set the glasses down on a table, and cursed himself. He’d let himself be fooled by her sweet smiles and those golden eyes. What had Tedoratis said? That the princess would no doubt try to roam where she shouldn’t go? She’d drawn him in, made him believe she was nothing but an innocent young woman, just so he would do exactly what he did—let his guard down, be charmed by the very person he’d been set to charm.

  Embarrassment turned into anger at himself and annoyance at her. She’d thought she could charm Piercy Faranter? The legendary wooer of women himself? Well, she was in for a surprise. No doubt she thought herself proof against his charms, but he hadn’t even been trying, and he was going to win her over if it took all night to do so.

  Piercy took another look around the hall. Aside from the short hallway that led to the ultra-modern water closets, there were three doors: one led to the Retiring Room, another opened on a long glass-ceilinged gallery, and a third, much smaller door was currently closed. The gallery ended at a flight of stairs that led to the gardens. The Retiring Room led only to the great front doors of the palace. That left the small door, which led the Gods knew where. Piercy made his way nonchalantly around the room, opened the door, and slipped quickly inside.

  The hall was lit by lamps in sconces along the walls, the first of which was a good twenty feet away, and Piercy stood for a moment letting his eyes adjust to the dimness before venturing forth. There were no other doors, nothing but portraits of people he didn’t recognize lining the walls and staring down at him in disapprobation. Pity he couldn’t ask them where Lady Caligwe was.

  His feet made almost no noise on the soft carpet, not that he couldn’t have been nearly as silent on hardwood, and all he could hear was the soft thrumming of blood in his ears like distant waves. If he weren’t wearing the lavender satin, he’d be virtually unnoticeable.

  He came upon a cross-corridor that extended about thirty feet in each direction. There
were four or five doors along each hall, and Piercy carefully tried each; all locked. He moved on and found another corridor. Some small sound alerted him, and he stopped before stepping into the intersection. He peeked around the corner just in time to see a dark shape in a dusky red dress go through one of the doors.

  Piercy stepped back into concealment and weighed his options. If he confronted her, that would be the end of her ruse, and Santerre couldn’t pretend any longer they weren’t distrustful of Dalanine—and they would no doubt turn on Dalanine for being so distrustful of them as to set a spy on their spy. That might mean an end to the diplomatic embassy and would certainly—well, maybe not certainly, but there was a good chance Tedoratis would terminate Piercy’s employment as a result. He didn’t want the latter and cared enough about his country that he didn’t want the former, either. However, he couldn’t allow Lady Caligwe to keep poking around, even if they didn’t have anything to hide.

  He waited, listening, until the door opened again and shut, quietly. Then he strode past the hall, stopped, and said cheerfully, “Lady Caligwe, there you are! I apologize for making you come looking for me. No gentleman should keep a lady waiting like that. This is a rather dull part of the palace, isn’t it? Please allow me to escort you back to the ball, and I would be honored if you would dance with me again.”

  In the face of Piercy’s rapid-fire enthusiasm, Lady Caligwe forgot her shy smiles and looked at him with astonishment. “I am not looking for you, Mr. Faranter,” she said with a stammer. “I am looking for—it is a private thing.”