Some of the Best from Tor.com: 2015

by Nino Cipri

  Annette stood apart from the scene, dimples worn shallow. A line of worry wrinkled her brow. Her fan drooped from her elbow. No coy signals tonight, just a bare nod and a slight tilt of her eyebrows. Sylvain followed her gaze to the ermine-draped figure of the King of France.

  The two sisters had captured the king’s attention. He was ignoring Cardinal de Fleury and two Marshals of the Empire, gazing down from the royal dais to watch his mistress and her sister with obvious interest, plumed hat in his hand, gloved fist on his hip, alert as a stallion scenting a pair of mares.

  Sylvain moved out of the king’s view. The ladies were on display for one audience member alone, and Sylvain was not about to get between them.

  “A fountain in my hat,” Mademoiselle de Nesle repeated. “My dear sister says you are a magician.”

  Sylvain bowed deeply, hiding his expression for a few moments. A ridiculous request. The woman must be simple. Did she think he could pull such a frippery out of his boot?

  “The fountain will have its naissance at the peak of my chapeau, providing a misty veil before my eyes.”

  “But mademoiselle would get wet,” Sylvain ventured finally.

  “Yes! You have grasped my point. My dress is gauze, as you can see. It’s very thin and becomes transparent when wet.” She smoothed her hands over her breasts and leaned toward her sister. “Do you not think it will prove alluring, Louise?”

  Madame caressed her sister’s hands. “No man would be able to resist you, my dear sister.”

  Mademoiselle laughed. Her voice was loud enough for the opera house. “I care for no man. Only a god can have me.”

  The king took a few steps closer to the edge of the dais, the very plumes on his hat magnetized by the scene.

  Across the room, the Comte de Tessé approached the fountain with the careful, considered step of a man trying to hide his advanced state of drunkenness. The comte waved his crystal cup under the blossom spouts, letting the champagne overflow the glass and foam over his hand. The cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the fountain’s base. The comte sputtered with laughter.

  “Do you not think it would be the finest of chapeaux, monsieur? A feat worthy of a magician, would it not be?”

  The comte was joined at the fountain by a pair of young officers, polished, pressed, and gleaming in their uniforms, and just as drunk as the comte but far less willing to hide it. One leaned over the fountain and tried to sip directly from a blossom spout.

  “I think it would be a very worthy feat,” Madame said. “Monsieur, my sister posed you a question.”

  The officers were now trying to clamber onto the fountain’s slippery base. The comte laughed helplessly.

  “No,” said Sylvain.

  Madame blinked. Her ladies gasped.

  The officer grasped a blossom spout. It snapped off in his hand. His friend slipped on the fountain’s edge and fell into the basin. His gold scabbard clanged on the ice. Two women—their wives, perhaps—joined the comte to laugh at the young heroes.

  “Excuse me, mesdames.”

  Sylvain rushed back to the fountain. One snarl brought the two young officers to attention. They scrambled off the fountain, claimed their wives from the comte, and disappeared into the crowd.

  The comte’s gaze was bleary. “Well done indeed, Monsieur de Guilherand. The palace is ablaze with compliments. But remember it is I who gave you this kingly idea in the first place. As a gentleman, you will ensure I receive due credit.”

  “You can take half the credit when you bear half the expense,” Sylvain hissed. “I’ll send you the vintner’s bill. You’ll find the total appropriately kingly.”

  The comte turned back to the fountain and refilled his cup, pretending to not hear. Sylvain plucked the cup from the comte’s hand and poured the contents into the basin.

  “You’ve embarrassed yourself. Go and sober up.”

  The comte pretended to spot a friend across the room and tottered away.

  Sylvain examined the broken blossom. Its finely carved petals dripped in the overheated air. The broken branch gushed champagne like a wound. Had the little fish felt the assault on the fountain? Had it frightened her? He tried to see through the dark green ice, watching for movement within the reservoir.

  “Perhaps we ask too much,” said Annette, “expecting soldiers to transform themselves into gentlemen and courtiers for the winter. Many men seem to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. One wonders why you can’t, Sylvain de Guilherand.”

  She posed at the edge of the fountain, fan fluttering in annoyance.

  “Perhaps because I am a beast?”

  The reservoir ice was thick and dark. In bright sunlight, he might be able to see through it, but even with thousands of candles overhead and the hundreds of mirrors lining the gallery, the light was too dim. He should have left a peephole at the back of the fountain.

  “I speak as a friend,” said Annette. “Madame is insulted. You have taken a serious misstep.”

  “Madame has made her own misstep this evening and will forget about mine before morning.”

  Annette’s fan drooped. “True. She has made a play to keep the king’s interest, but I fear she’ll lose his favor. Maîtresse en titre is an empty honor if your lover prefers another woman’s bed.”

  “She’ll be naming something vile after her sister next,” said Sylvain.

  Annette coughed. “You heard about Polish Mary, then?” Sylvain nodded. “It’s her way of insulting those she despises. It makes the king laugh.”

  A shadow moved in the fountain’s base, a flicker of a limb against the green ice just for a moment. He should have given the little fish a way to signal him if she was in distress.

  “I begin to perceive that my conversation is not engaging enough for you, monsieur.”

  “I beg your pardon, madame.” Sylvain turned his back on the fountain. The little fish was fine. Nixies spent entire seasons under the ice of glacier lakes. It was her element. The fact that the champagne continued to flow was perfect evidence that she was not in distress. He was worrying for nothing. Offending Annette further would be a mistake.

  He swept a deep bow. “More than your pardon, my dear madame. I beg your indulgence.”

  “Indulgence, yes.” She looked over her shoulder at Madame and her sister. “We have all indulged ourselves too much this evening and will pay for it.”

  He forced a knowing smile. “Perhaps the best practice is to let others indulge us. Although a wise and lovely woman once mentioned that most ladies prefer a long period of suspense first. It whets the appetite.”

  The empty banter seemed to cheer her. Her dimples surfaced and she snapped her fan with renewed purpose.

  “Would you join me in taking a survey of the room?” He offered his arm. “I don’t beg your company for myself alone but in a spirit of general charity. If all this indulgence will lead to a morning filled with regrets, at least we can offer the king’s guests a memory of true beauty. With you on the arm of a beast such as myself, the contrast will be striking.”

  She glanced at Madame. “I was sent to scold you, not favor you with my company.”

  “You can always say I forced you.”

  She laughed and took his arm. He led her through a clot of courtiers toward the royal dais. The king had returned his attention to his most favored guests but displayed a shapely length of royal leg for the two sisters to admire.

  “Much better, my dear Sylvain,” said Gérard as they approached. “I hate to see you brooding over that fountain. My wife strokes her great belly with the same anxious anticipation. You looked like a hen on an egg.”

  Sylvain dropped his hand onto the pommel of his sword and glared. Gérard barked with laughter.

  “Your friend the Marquis de la Châsse can’t manage civil conversation, either,” said Annette as they moved on.

  “Gérard doesn’t need to make the effort. He was born into enough distinction that every trespass is forgiven.”

  �
��You sound jealous, but it’s not quite accurate. His wealth and title do help, but he is accepted because everyone can see he is true to his nature.”

  “And I am not?”

  “A bald question. I will answer it two ways. First, observe that at this moment, you and I are walking arm in arm among every person in the world who matters. If that is not acceptance, I wonder how you define the word.”

  “I am honored, madame.”

  “Yes, you most certainly are, monsieur.”

  “And your second answer?”

  “You are not true to your nature, and it makes people uncomfortable. Everyone knows what to expect from a man like the Marquis de la Châsse, but one suspects that Sylvain de Guilherand would rather be somewhere else, doing something else. Heaven knows what.”

  Sylvain closed his glove over hers. “Not at all. I am exactly where I want to be.”

  “So you say, but I do not believe it. Our well-beloved king toasted you this evening. Many men would consider that enough achievement for a lifetime, but still you are dissatisfied.”

  “We discussed my character before. Remember how that ended?”

  A delicate blush flushed through her powder. “I am answering your question as honestly as I can.”

  “Honesty is not a vice much indulged at Versailles.”

  She laughed. “I know the next line. Let me supply it: ‘It’s the only vice that isn’t.’ Oh, Sylvain. I can have that kind of conversation with any man. I’d rather go home to my husband and talk about hot gruel and poultices. Don’t make me desperate.”

  Sylvain stroked her hand. “Very well. You enjoy my company despite my faults?”

  She nibbled her bottom lip as she considered the question. “Because of your faults, I think,” she said. “The fountain is successful, the king is impressed with you, and you have my favor. Take my advice and be satisfied.”

  Sylvain raised her palm to his lips. “I will.”

  They walked on, silent but in perfect concord. As they circled the gallery, the atmosphere seemed less stifling, the crowd less insipid, the king’s air of rut less ridiculous. Even Madame’s poses seemed less futile and her sister’s pouts less desperate. Sylvain was in charity with the world, willing to forgive its many flaws.

  The guests parted, opening a view of the fountain. A girl in petal-yellow silk reached her cup to one of the blossoms. The curve of her bare arm echoed the graceful arc of the fountain’s limbs. She raised the cup to her lips and the crowd closed off his view of the scene just as she took her first sip.

  “Nature perfected, monsieur,” said a portly Prussian. “You must be congratulated.”

  Sylvain bowed and drew Annette away just as the Prussian’s gaze settled on her cleavage. The king rose to dismount the dais and the whole crowd watched. Sylvain took advantage of the distraction to claim a kiss from Annette, just a brief caress of her ripe lower lip before they joined the guests in a ripple of deep curtseys and bows. The king progressed down the gallery toward Madame and her sister, his pace forceful and intent as a stalking hunter.

  Annette slid her hand up Sylvain’s arm and rested her palm on his shoulder. A pulse fluttered on her throat. He resisted the urge to explore it with his lips.

  “I suppose it is too early to leave,” he whispered, drinking in the honeyed scent of her powder.

  “Your departure would be noticed,” she breathed. “It is the price of fame, monsieur.”

  “Another turn of the room, then?”

  She nodded. They moved down the gallery in the king’s wake. The African cat gnawed on its harness, blunted ivory fangs rasping over the jewels. Its attendant yanked ineffectually on the leash.

  “Poor thing,” said Annette. “They should take it outside. This is no place for a wild animal.”

  Sylvain nodded. “I have not thought to ask before now, but how is the monkey? Happier, I hope, than that cat?”

  “Very well and happy indeed. My maid Marie coddles her like a new mother. They are madonna and child, the two of them a world unto themselves.” She glanced up at him, a wicked slant to her gaze, daring him to laugh. He grinned.

  “And what name did Madame give the creature?”

  The color drained from her cheeks. “Is that the viceroy of Parma? I would not have thought to see him here.”

  “I couldn’t say. He looks like every other man in a wig and silk. Are you avoiding my question?”

  “Show me your fountain. I haven’t had the chance to admire it up close.”

  The crowd parted to reveal three young men in peacock silks filling their cups at the fountain. One still kept his long baby curls, probably in deference to a sentimental mother.

  “There!” Annette said. “Not quite as delicate a tableau as the girl in yellow, but I think I like it better. You must make allowances for differences in taste, and I have always preferred male beauty.”

  “I am sure you do. What did Madame name the monkey, Annette?”

  “She is called Jesusa. It is a terrible sacrilege and my accent makes it bad Spanish too, but what can I do when I am presented with madonna and child morning, noon, and night? God will forgive me.”

  “Madame didn’t name the monkey Jesusa.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Madame is even worse a Christian than I am.”

  “Very well. I’ll ask her myself.”

  Sylvain strode toward the Salon of War. The crowd was thick. The king was with Madame now. The tall feathers of the royal hat bobbed over the heads of the guests.

  Annette pulled his arm. “Stop. Not in front of the king. Don’t be stubborn.”

  He turned on her. “Answer my question.”

  The jostling crowd pressed them together. She gripped his arms, breath shallow.

  “Promise you won’t take offence.”

  “Just answer the question, Annette.”

  She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “She named the monkey Sylvain.”

  He wrenched himself out of her grip and lurched back, nearly bowling over an elderly guest.

  “It is a joke,” said Annette, pursuing him.

  “Does it seem funny to you?”

  “Take it in the spirit it was intended, just a silly attempt at fun. It isn’t meant as an attack on your pride.”

  “Madame thinks I am a prize target. Did you laugh, Annette?” His voice rose. Heads turned. Guests jostled their neighbors, alerting them to the scene. “Who else would like to take a shot at me?”

  “Sylvain, no, please.” Annette spoke softly and reached out to him. He stepped aside.

  Sylvain paced in a circle, glaring at the guests, daring each one of them to make a remark.

  “I have done more than any other man to make a place for myself at court. I’ve attended levees, and flattered, and fucked. But worse—I’ve worked hard. As hard as I can. You find that disgusting, don’t you?”

  “No. I don’t.” She watched him pace.

  “I’ve worked miracles. Everyone says so. The magician of the fountains, the man who puts thrones throughout the palace. Everyone wants one. Or so it seems, until everyone has one. Then it’s nothing special. Not good enough anymore. Take it away. Come up with something else while we insult you behind your back.”

  “Madame is difficult to please.” Annette’s voice was soft and sad.

  “Nothing I do will ever be good enough, will it? Even for you, Annette. You tell me I try too hard, I’m a striver, and I’m not true to my nature.” He spread his arms wide. “Well, this is my nature. How do you like me now?”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it without speaking. He stepped close and spoke in her ear.

  “Not well, I think,” he said, and walked away.

  The crowd parted to let him pass, opening a view to the fountain. Two of the young men were leaning over the basin. The boy with the curls crouched at the side of the reservoir. Sylvain broke into a run.

  The boy was banging on the ice with his diamond ring. The reservoir rang like a drum with each impact.
/>   Sylvain grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck.

  “There’s something in there, monsieur,” he squealed. “A creature, a monster. I saw it.”

  Sylvain threw the boy to the floor and drew his sword. The boy scrabbled backward, sliding across the marble. The two friends rushed to the boy’s side and yanked him to his feet. They backed away, all three clinging to each other. Behind them a crowd gathered—some shocked, some confused, most highly entertained. They pointed at him as if he were a beast in a menagerie.

  Several men made a show of dropping their hands to the hilts of their dress swords, but not one of them drew.

  The fountain sputtered. A blossom crashed into the basin, splashing gouts of champagne.

  Gérard shoved through the crowd, wig askew, slipping on the wet floor. He skidded into place at Sylvain’s side.

  The fountain sprayed champagne across their backs and high to the ceiling, snuffing out a hundred candles overhead.

  “Go to your wife. Get her out of the palace,” said Sylvain.

  Gérard ran full-speed for the door.

  Sylvain raised his sword and brought it crashing down on the fountain. Ice limbs shattered. Champagne and ice vaulted overhead and fell, spraying debris across the marble floor. He shifted his grip and smashed the pommel of his sword on the side of the reservoir. It cracked and split. He hit it again and again until the floor flooded with golden liquid. Sylvain threw down his sword and shouldered the ice aside.

  “Papa?”

  The little fish was curled into a quivering ball. Sylvain slipped and fell to his hands and knees. He crawled toward her, reached out.

  “It’s all right, my little one. Come here, my darling.”

  She lifted her arms. He gathered her to his chest. She burrowed her face into his neck, quaking.

  “Noisy,” she sobbed. “Too loud. Hurts. Papa.”

  Sylvain held her on his lap, champagne seeping through his clothes. He cupped his palms over her ears and squeezed her to his heart, rocking back and forth until her shivering began to subside. Then he pulled himself to his feet, awkward and unbalanced with the child in his arms.