by Hilari Bell
Arisa wouldn’t have taken the prince for a morning person. And she was nothing like him, in any way that mattered. “You don’t have to get up just because he does. Or is that part of being such a good little courtier?”
The sour note in her voice made her flinch.
But the gaze Weasel turned on her was thoughtful, and only a little wary. “I don’t have to. I’m just providing… moral support. Just because I’m friends with Edoran, that doesn’t mean you and I can’t still be friends. Does it?”
“Of course not,” said Arisa hastily. “I’m not as… as petty as that. I just don’t like him.”
“If you dislike Edoran so much, then why are you here?”
“To learn to fence,” Arisa told him. “Besides, I wanted to talk—”
The crack of metal on wood drew her eyes to the bout. The prince stood, disarmed, his foil still skidding across the floor.
“Weak,” said Master Giles curtly. “That’s what comes of a weak grip, Your Highness. Pick it up.”
Edoran did, but the moment the bout started again, Giles’ sword flashed past his guard and struck the prince’s wrist. Arisa wondered how much of the blow was blocked by the canvas. Not all of it, she thought.
Master Giles pushed Edoran down the room as easily as he had Arisa, making comments she couldn’t hear over the crash of steel. Judging by the prince’s set expression she doubted he was hearing any praise. On the other hand, there wasn’t much about Edoran’s fencing to praise.
“His grip is weak,” Arisa murmured. “And his footwork’s… Wait a minute. Edoran’s left-handed, isn’t he? Why’s he fighting right?”
The sword was in the prince’s weaker, less dexterous hand. No wonder he—
Giles’ blade snapped against the prince’s ribs. “Cover that side!” he ordered crisply. But he didn’t tell the prince how to adjust his guard to cover it.
“Giles insists that Edoran fight right-handed,” Weasel told her. “He says that all the moves, all the defenses, are designed for right-handed people.”
Arisa stared at him. “That’s not true with knife fighting. The man who taught me said that left-handed people have an advantage, because right-handed people aren’t used to fighting against them. They have to modify the moves, of course. He even taught me what to watch out for if I came up against a left-handed fighter.”
Weasel frowned. “That’s not what Giles said.”
Arisa watched the fight. Master Giles was pushing Edoran even harder than he’d pushed her. The fencing master’s blade slapped the prince’s down and then swept through to strike Edoran’s ribs again.
“Is it always like this?” Arisa asked, troubled. “I mean, he never explains anything.”
“He explains some,” said Weasel. “When he gives me exercises. But not much. I think… I think maybe that’s how noblemen are taught.”
“Rot,” said Arisa crudely. “No one could learn from this.”
A blow to the elbow sent the prince’s sword flying. He went to pick it up more slowly this time, stealing a moment to catch his breath.
“All his lessons are like this,” Weasel told her. “Oh, not physically, but the same style. ‘The treaty of Maranus was signed on the fourteenth day of Luric, in the fourth year of the reign of King Ambrose, Prince Edoran. As I told you quite clearly just last month!’”
“You’re joking,” said Arisa. “Or exaggerating, at least. You must be!”
“Not much,” said Weasel. “But since all his tutors are like that…” He shrugged.
Arisa frowned. “My etiquette teacher’s like that. And my dance and music masters are too, though not as bad. My embroidery teacher’s not like that at all. But I never had formal lessons in anything before, so I thought… Maybe all teachers are like that.”
“I wasn’t taught that way,” said Weasel. “Not in the church school, and not by Justice Holis.”
“So maybe that is how nobles are taught,” said Arisa. “Though, if that’s true, it’s a miracle they ever learn anything.”
“Maybe,” said Weasel. “But I don’t trust anyone who knows how to hurt without leaving a mark.”
“What?”
“He hit your knee.” Weasel gestured to Master Giles, who was backing Edoran into the corner Arisa had avoided. “And it hurt, right? Still stings?”
Arisa nodded.
“Well, you won’t have a bruise there. Nothing you could show someone, or complain about.”
“It wouldn’t matter if I did. You get bruised learning to fight. That’s part of it.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Weasel. “You’re supposed to get bruised, but not in lessons with Master Giles. Hurting someone without leaving a mark takes a lot of practice.”
“So maybe Giles is really good,” said Arisa. “Good enough to pull his blows exactly the right amount.”
Weasel’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”
Arisa returned to her room, sweaty and depressed. Sweaty because when the prince had neared collapse, Master Giles had abandoned him and set Weasel and Arisa to practice simple thrust patterns. While they exercised together, Master Giles “worked” with the prince. Worked the prince over was more like it, Arisa thought grimly. If this was how nobles were taught, she’d have to show them some sympathy in the future. Or did you owe someone sympathy when they did something crazy on purpose?
Though “crazy” was the same word Weasel had applied to her desire to find the lost sword, and he was right; in two hundred years it probably had been thrown into a lake, or buried in someone’s grave, or broken and melted for scrap.
But she’d promised to try.
And Weasel had agreed to ask Prince Edoran about the historical records, which meant that she didn’t have to.
Arisa pulled open the door to her room and walked right into the full force of her maid’s glare.
“Mistress Arisa, what are you wearing?”
Arisa looked down at herself with exaggerated care. “Let’s see. Boots, stockings, britches, a shirt and a jacket. What do you think I’m wearing?”
Katrin’s eyes flashed. “What you wear, Mistress, reflects not only on you but on your lady mother. You do realize that, don’t you?”
It also reflected on her maid, and the servants’ rivalry about whose mistresses’ clothes were the best was even more passionate than the ladies’ rivalry. Katrin lost face when Arisa wore britches, so Arisa swallowed her first sharp answer. And the second.
“My mother has given me permission to share the prince’s fencing lessons,” she said. “I have to wear britches for that.”
“If your lady mother says you must learn to fence, then I shall be pleased to find you clothing for the sport that is also suitable to your station,” said Katrin, not looking at all pleased. “My family has been connected to the palace for six generations, and I know what’s proper far better than you can. Which is why your lady mother put me in charge of dressing you! You simply must allow me to select…”
Arisa washed herself, ignoring Katrin’s scolding. Why did servants think that if they politely called you “Mistress” they could go on to insult your intelligence in every possible way? Arisa didn’t understand why anyone would be proud of six generations of helping useless peacocks become even more useless, but Katrin was. She wasn’t alone in that attitude either—palace servants had roughly the same social status as master craftsmen. And Katrin did know more about gowns and fripperies than Arisa ever would or wanted to, so Arisa resolved to let the maid have her way…
… a resolve that lasted no longer than Katrin’s third tug on her corset strings.
“That’s too tight!” Arisa yelped. She clung to the bedpost, because if she hadn’t, Katrin’s tugging would have pulled her off the tottery heels.
“It’s not tight enough,” said Katrin. “A lady needs a slim waist.”
“No, she doesn’t,” said Arisa. “Half of them are fat! It wasn’t this tight yesterday.”
“I’ve been leaving you a bit loose,�
�� Katrin told her, “because you’re new to lacing. But now it’s time…”
The corset cinched down and Arisa gasped.
“… to dress as a lady should!”
The bones cut into Arisa’s flesh, and she couldn’t squeeze a speck of air into the lower half of her lungs. Her corsets had never been this tight and she’d fit into her gowns just fine. Maybe her britches had embarrassed Katrin, but this was too much!
“Loosen them,” Arisa ordered. “Now.”
Instead Katrin tied the laces, finishing the job. Arisa already knew she couldn’t reach the knot—she’d tried several times in the past.
“There you go, Mistress,” Katrin chirped. “I’ll get your petticoats.”
Perhaps this was how nobles were taught. Arisa thanked the Lady that she wasn’t a noblewoman.
“Katrin, loosen these laces. I’m not joking.”
Katrin turned from the wardrobe, her arms full of frothy underskirts. “Perhaps the green gown today? Or would you prefer the pink with rose ribbons?”
Katrin was ignoring her. Katrin thought she couldn’t get out of her corsets by herself, and that she was too modest to go into the corridor in her chemise and demand the nearest footman’s aid. She might have been right about that. At least Arisa would have thought twice. Fortunately, there was a better way.
Arisa stalked to the bureau, dug into the top drawer, and pulled out the knife she’d taken from one of Weasel’s enemies a few months ago.
She turned toward Katrin, and the maid backed up a step.
Arisa smiled, inserted the knife into her corset—blade side out—and pushed it down. The taut fabric screamed as it gave way. Air flooded Arisa’s lungs. The sharp point cut the underlying chemise in several places, but Arisa didn’t care. Even though she’d worn them only a few seconds, the corset bones had printed red stripes on her skin. That corset had been much too tight, and her maid had known it.
Arisa turned the knife thoughtfully, making the blade flash, and Katrin gasped.
It was tempting, but fighting an unarmed maidservant with a knife was hardly fair. Arisa grinned tightly and stuck the knife into the top of the bureau, ignoring the damage to the polished wood.
She walked over to the long windows, threw them open, and stepped onto the balcony. She’d wanted a room that overlooked the sea, but those were reserved for important people, and her view of the park was pleasant enough. A lady might have objected to looking over the stable yard, but Arisa didn’t mind— particularly today.
The bright winter day made her skin tingle beneath her thin chemise. Or perhaps it was returning circulation. Or perhaps it was fury. Arisa was so angry she didn’t even care when the stable boys, who were exercising their charges in the muddy yard, began to whistle and clap.
Arisa spun her corset over her head and hurled it as far as she could. It wouldn’t have reached the horse pen if the obliging breeze hadn’t caught it, whisking it over the graveled drive and the fence, and laying it neatly in a big puddle of mud and manure.
The stable boys cheered.
Arisa almost responded with a rude gesture, but then she had a better idea. “If you can get a horse to trample that,” she shouted down to them, “I’ll come back out tomorrow!”
She turned and went inside. She wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to keep her promise, but Katrin’s scarlet face and bulging eyes made it all worthwhile.
“There,” said Arisa. “That settles that.”
“Well,” Katrin huffed. “Well, I never… I never… Your mother will hear about this!”
CHAPTER 3
Time: the past creating the present.
Arisa chose a gown that laced in front, and managed to dress herself perfectly well, though she had to tie her hair into a ponytail instead of piling it up with hairpins.
Despite her success she was late for her embroidery lesson, rushing breathlessly into Yallin’s snug parlor.
The gray-haired seamstress eyed her shrewdly. “It’s not being late that’s got you so flustered. Plain stitching today, my girl. It’ll soothe you.”
Arisa didn’t like plain stitching either, but it was better than fancy embroidery, and when you mended the hem of a kitchen maid’s petticoat, no one cared if your stitches were crooked.
This morning Yallin passed her a worn sheet, while the seamstress herself settled in to mend cuffs and collars and things that would show… at about three times the speed with which Arisa stitched.
“You’re so good at that,” Arisa said ruefully. Yallin’s small stitches were perfectly even, too. And though Yallin was usually mending, Arisa had seen Yallin produce embroidery that passed from decoration into art.
“It’s my job.” The creases around Yallin’s eyes deepened, though her mouth stayed quiet. She was the only person Arisa knew who could smile with just her eyes. “When you’ve had a lifetime of practice, you’ll be good at it too.”
Arisa shuddered at the very thought, and Yallin laughed.
“Don’t let it worry you. The future comes as it will, despite any plans we puny humans make. What’s got you so rattled, this early in the day?”
“I had a fight with Katrin,” Arisa admitted.
“What, she didn’t take to those britches of yours?”
Arisa stared at her, startled. “How do you know about that?”
Yallin gave her a use-your-brain-girl look, and Arisa sighed.
“The servants are gossiping about it.”
“Of course they are, and by luncheon they’ll have passed it on to their masters. The palace is like a small village—everyone knows everything, soon enough. I’m told you looked quite fetching, if a bit raggedy.”
“Who cares what you wear for a fight?” Arisa asked. “It’s just going to get torn up….Yallin, you’re a tutor in the royal palace.”
Yallin’s brows rose. “I’m the head seamstress, who got tapped to give a lesson where it was needed. But I’ve heard rumors that Master Giles is… strict with the prince.”
“I suppose you could say that. Is that really how nobles are taught?”
Yallin’s gaze was on her busy hands. “It’s what Regent Pettibone commanded. And most folk here were hired by the old regent.”
“Then I’m sorry for Edoran,” said Arisa. “Even if he is a spineless little—um.”
Yallin glanced up from her stitching, her old eyes sober. “Do you know that Prince Edoran once ran away?”
Arisa blinked. “From the palace, you mean?”
“When he was seven,” Yallin confirmed. “He evaded the guards for more than two weeks before they found him. He’d been living in an alley, down by the docks, running errands for tin nothings and eating scraps from the market dump.”
Arisa stopped sewing, which was small loss to the sheet. “Edoran did that?”
“He did. I’m told he was so dirty when they brought him back, it took four tubs of hot water to get him clean. And his valet had to shave his head to get rid of the lice.”
“But… Hmm. I wonder if that’s when he started thinking that Regent Pettibone killed his father.”
Watching Yallin’s face, Arisa saw that the prince’s obsession was known to the servants. Though she had yet to see Yallin surprised by anything.
“Maybe it was,” the old woman agreed. “Or maybe it was something else. The servants speculated at the time, but no one knows. They watched him like hawks after that, for the old regent made it clear that if he vanished again, every one of us would be hunting a new job.”
Arisa frowned. “But he could have run away again. There’s always a chance, sooner or later. If I thought someone had killed my father, I wouldn’t run. I’d find evidence against him and see him hang! Or make up evidence, or find some other way to destroy him!”
Yallin’s brows rose. “As I understand it, Regent Pettibone did kill your father.”
“And I helped my mother avenge him,” said Arisa. “If I’d tried on my own, I’d just have gotten in her way. Besides, the one thing P
ettibone didn’t do was kill the king. There were a dozen people watching when his horse went down, and the investigation found no evidence of tampering. But if I was Edoran, I’d still have found a way to fight.”
“There are times,” said Yallin softly, “when a body can’t fight. Or at least, you can’t win.”
“I’d have tried,” said Arisa stubbornly.
The skin around Yallin’s eyes crinkled. “I’ll wager you would. But that’s your nature, girl. Some folks are wiser than that.”
Dancing was the usual disaster. The dancing master explained more than Master Giles, but he never gave Arisa enough time to practice a move. She turned right when she should have turned left, tripped in the quicker steps, and never once got through a set without messing it up.
A kitchen maid brought luncheon to her room instead of Katrin, and Arisa was bored, despite the excellence of the food. She could have eaten with Weasel, but Weasel ate with the prince and she saw more than enough of the crowd that surrounded Edoran during evening court.
Watching her teachers as the day went on, Arisa realized that the music master had tried in the beginning, and then given up hope when he’d seen she had no talent at all. Her slaughter of the simple tune pleased neither of them, but at least he didn’t harass her about it.
The mistress of etiquette had clearly heard about the britches and taken Katrin’s side. Arisa spent the whole hour walking around with a book balanced on her head, repeating after the mistress all the reasons why ladies must dress as ladies. That an ox might mistake her for a man and charge at her was the most ridiculous of the lot.
By the time she was free to join Weasel, the fair morning had become a cloudy afternoon with thunder grumbling in the distance. Afternoon rain was more common in the winter than clear skies were, but in Arisa’s present mood it seemed to be the final straw. If the weather had been good, she could have asked a groom to saddle up a horse and she could have ridden off her temper. As it was, she had nothing to do except go to meet Weasel and the prince when they emerged from their final lesson.
