While Mr. Benson went through the order of service, I only half-listened, for surprisingly enough I did know what to do. The Refector of Morrowlea had been a noble family’s Master of Etiquette before the Fall and insisted that every student in the university know all the points of a formal dinner party, from the various perspectives of the host, guests (of many ranks, since the university held that anyone, of however humble a beginning, could rise to any position by their intellectual merits and personal accomplishments), and servants of all stripes. On two occasions I’d been a footman, and on one of them the Duke and Duchess of Erlingale had come to visit the Chancellor of Morrowlea, so I was well prepared, all things considered.
I was rather more concerned that my garb be put on properly and sufficiently thickly to disguise me. Since I was still not sneezing more than anyone else at all the powder and perfume in the room, I had tentative hopes that even though the first step of my plan was already foiled, the rest of it would proceed acceptably.
Thus it was that an hour later six footmen stood in a row across from six maids in matching garments, ready for a ballad or a period painting or what I sincerely hoped was not going to turn out to be a Late Bastard Decadent style orgy. I surveyed my reflection in the long mirror set in the hall outside the main dining room, and was both deeply satisfied and utterly horrified.
We footmen were wearing well-polished ankle-high black shoes with golden buckles, and above them tights in a shimmery gold silk, tied with black velvet ribbons just below the knee. Above these, the breeches were pink satin with gold stripes down the outside seams. The fitted jacket with wide rolled-back cuffs was also pink satin, with black and gold piping and buttons, the inside of the cuffs black and gold striped satin. White gloves—which hid the ring I had managed not to be divested of. Best of all, a thoroughly powdered and rouged face, topped off with an elaborately shaped white periwig adorned with pink, gold, and black ribbons.
The women were wearing black satin gowns with pink aprons, gold ribbons, powdered and rouged faces, and beehive periwigs powdered with gold dust. Their gloves were white and their shoes polished black, their waists cinched tight in corsets.
I blinked at the row, wondering if any were Alisoun Artquist, but I could barely tell one apart from another by height and physique, let alone identify one from an inarticulate lover’s description. Then one of them tilted her head just slightly at a word from her neighbour, and as I saw the motion I thought—
Violet.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“but where is your brother, Mr. Dart?” a strange woman in eye-watering yellow and blue clothing was saying. “His absence is quite throwing off the table.”
We were lining up against the inner wall with our libations—I was holding the black-lacquer and gilt decanter of golden wine that would be used for the invocation to the Emperor—and as we shuffled into position I lost track of which of the pink maids was Violet.
What the hell is she doing here? I asked myself; and then thought: well … the same thing as me? Except—what game was she playing? What was she doing?
This is a game of Poacher, I told myself. You’re good at Poacher, Jemis; you’re your father’s son.
“Oh,” Mr. Dart replied, “the river’s in spate from all the rain. He had to attend to some matters at home, Mrs. Figheldean. Since I sprained my wrist I couldn’t be of much use.” He gestured vaguely at his stone arm, which he’d outfitted with a rich aubergine sling to match the rest of his clothes (aubergine and cream and gold; I resolved to mock his purples), which went rather better with the room (which we servants matched, featuring as it did an awful lot of pink, black, and gold) than did Mrs. Figheldean’s egg-yolk and blue caftan.
“And the Justice is still away, and my poor dear brother-in-law Sir Vorel in bed with a catarrh …” Mrs. Figheldean surveyed the group. I blinked and followed her lead. I knew everyone but for a strange young woman, pleasant-featured but sickly-looking, whom I took to be her daughter.
Unfortunately the only certain ally I had was Mr. Dart; depending, of course, on what game Violet was playing.
Mrs. Figheldean smiled coyly. “You ought to have brought your friend from Stoneybridge.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who’s that very elegant young man you’ve been gallivanting around with this week? A friend of yours from Stoneybridge, I’m sure.”
Mr. Dart smiled, a touch mischievously. “No, that’s Mr. Greenwing. Major Greenwing and Lady Olive Noirell’s son. He’s just come back from Morrowlea.”
Mrs. Figheldean attempted, not very well, to hide her surprise. “That’s Jemis Greenwing?”
“In the flesh.”
“Not quite as I’d heard him described … He’s filled out well,” she added hastily. “I met his father once, years ago. He doesn’t favour him. I hadn’t thought he’d return to town, though.”
“Whyever not, Mrs. Figheldean?”
“Oh, he isn’t quite …” She trailed off delicately. “All that fuss with his father … his grandfather gambling away the holdings before dear Sir Vorel could redeem them …”
Mr. Dart looked properly scandalized and interested, but, alas, she was interrupted by Mr. Benson entering with a silver bell to ring the libations to the Emperor and the Lady. These were done in due course, with luxurious slowness and slightly excessive fervour about the Emperor, and everyone sat down.
The invocation to the Lady passed without incident, although I saw that one of the maids heaved a great sigh of relief when Dame Talgarth finished the prayer. It might have been Violet—but then again it might not have been. Dominus Alvestone looked smug.
As was to be expected, the Talgarths had a Bastard Decadent table, a vast rectangle of mirror-polished black marble, the stone just visible between the three pieces of pink-and-gold brocade running lengthwise down it. They had compromised with chairs rather than the reclining couches that would have been used in the central Empire (and which, I’d learned after a Central style dinner party at Morrowlea, were excruciatingly uncomfortable for those of us unused to them).
The centre was decorated with gilt epergnes laden with various glass fruit and sweet pea blossoms, illuminated with Collian fretwork mage-lamps. In every other household in the barony those would have been wrapped away for when magic became socially acceptable again, but here they had pride of place.
I realized I’d been breathing normally for the entire service so far. I frowned. They were definitely mage-lamps, the light gleaming pink, green, gold. The sweet peas kept distracting my glance; they looked subtly wrong. Dark pink and white, pale mauve and a deeper crimson, clustered in loose globes of blossoms, scent sharp and piercing as a nail. Yet I wasn’t sneezing, when in the open air of the garden I’d near perished from convulsions.
Miss Figheldean was placed beside Mr. Dart; the Honourable Miss Ragnor was on his other side, across from Miss Woodhill and the Honourable Rag. Lady Flora, Domina Ringley, a woman in purple and green I took to be the wizard attendant, Mrs. Figheldean, and Dominus Alvestone rounded out the top of the table, with Dame Talgarth at the head.
It was rather imbalanced, even for a Bastard Decadent table, which generally ought to have more women than men, at least according to the book. No Master Dart nor Sir Hamish, nor Sir Vorel, nor Baron Ragnor. Nor me, of course.
Dame Talgarth looked a little displeased by something, but as she was glaring at her sister it was perhaps that Domina Ringley had insisted on being seated next to her attendant.
I had plenty of time to observe, but little to listen, for in short order I was too busy with serving the many small dishes of the first courses to do more than catch snippets of conversation, little of which was interesting.
Dominus Alvestone, with a predatory gleam to his eye (though that might have been my own doubting vision), asked the Honourable Rag about the quality of deer hunting this autumn. The Honourable Rag said that he preferred boars.
I served rabbit in sorrel and cream, blackberries adorned w
ith borage flowers, fried dumplings, and then a bowl of water scented with the same floating blossoms as filled the epergnes on the table. Domina Ringley’s attendant spent most of her time staring at the wall opposite her and playing with her emerald pendant necklace.
Conversation centred mostly on the weather, my reprobate character, Dominus Alvestone’s researches (which apparently were on riverside plants), and rumours of illegal distilling in the Arguty Forest. At one point Mrs. Figheldean suggested I might be behind the distilling, which started a round of discussion about my grandfather’s love of whiskey, horses, and gambling, my father’s ill-fated career, my mysterious absence over the summer, and speculation about whether Mr. Buchance had in fact disowned me or not.
Mr. Dart gallantly defended my character, supported—to my surprise—by the Honourable Rag, who kept giving backhanded compliments about Morrowlea. I did my best not to dump food onto anyone.
Somewhere in the middle of the fourth course Domina Ringley’s attendant stopped me in the process of removing an empty platter with a hand on my arm.
I leaned over her courteously, trying not to look her in the eyes. She drew me close, close enough for me to smell the rich floral perfume she wore and see the fine wrinkles hidden by a smooth powder on her face. She wore kohl around her eyes, which were the same green as her pendant. Her voice was low and controlled, the same one I’d heard in the gardens the other night.
“I’m expecting a messenger,” she breathed into my ear, her hand sliding off my arm to follow the line of my tunic to my satin breeches. She smiled as I tried to edge away from the touch, evidently enjoying my discomfort as her hand wandered. “Go to the sally door and let in the one who comes.”
I glanced towards Dame Talgarth, but she was talking loudly to Miss Figheldean, and the wizard slipped her hand a little further over. I crouched lower in embarrassment at my instinctive
response. “He will give you a gift,” she said, and began fondling my ear with her tongue.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Domina Ringley smiling at me; no one else seemed to notice what the wizard was doing. After a few damp and ticklish moments she added, “Take it.”
She released me and I stumbled out the door and down the main stairs before realizing I should be going by the serving passages, but I didn’t know the house and couldn’t find any of the hidden doors. I tried to straighten my garments with shaking hands, but it didn’t help.
I ended up outside the kitchen, where the magisterial Mrs. Figgery materialized in front of me. “What are you doing down here?” she asked disapprovingly. “It’s not time for the fish.”
“Uh, the, the, Domina Ringley’s attendant asked me to meet her messenger at the, the sally port. Ma’am.”
Mrs. Figgery gave me a long look. Behind the rouge and powder I was flaming scarlet, I was quite sure. I stuttered out, “D-dame Talgarth didn’t say anything.”
“She wouldn’t,” Mrs. Figgery said dryly, then nodded her head at a plain wooden door down the hall. “Best get it over with. The Black Dog’s been coming these six months past, and there’s nought we can do about it now.”
I went through the door, puzzling over her words. The door led to a plain whitewashed hallway with plain wooden doors along it. At the end was a flight of stairs leading into a cold stone room with a barred wooden door.
I opened the door, and there before me was the Black Priest, and behind him a silver mist rising.
He stepped across the threshold and kissed me.
***
somewhere between the sixth and seventh courses another footman and I were sent down to the kitchen to ferry up the ninth course, an enormous whole sturgeon stuffed with all sorts of things I didn’t even try to determine under the sauce. It was a full seven feet long from snout to tail, which looked disquietingly like Miss Shipston’s.
I frowned around the kitchen. The cook was sprinkling chopped herbs over the sauce and arranging some frills of purple and green kale decoratively around the edge of the silver platter. My mind felt as if it was splintering. I had been down here—no, I hadn’t been in the kitchen—I’d gone—
“Hey,” said the other footman, who was the same black haired Kilromby islander who had dressed me. “You look like you need some refreshment.”
“No,” I said, my voice coming out squeakily, and I cursed under my breath and coughed. He laughed genially, and took the bottle one of giggling kitchen-maids passed him. I said, “No, no, I’m fine.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, and waved aside my hands and my protests to pour a good slug of whatever-it-was down my throat.
It was thick and sweet and tasted like perfume. The footman, obviously an expert in the matter, tipped my head back until I had perforce to swallow or choke. I swallowed.
“Oh, well done, Corwil!” said a kitchen-maid, and everyone started giggling madly. I smiled foolishly back at them.
“Good lad,” he said, and pulled out a little pot of rouge to fix my appearance. I could feel the thick sweet potion working its way down and along my veins.
The ring was blocking the magic, I thought muzzily, and then Corwil’s kitchen-maid came up to peer at me, and without a moment’s thought I kissed her heartily.
“There we are,” said Corwil, while the kitchen-maid giggled again and pulled her friend over for a repeat. “There’s your Miss Carlin for you.”
I blinked at him. He nodded meaningfully at the undercook, a sallow-faced young woman with sharp eyes who was not joining in the merriment. The sallowness didn’t bother me—probably she had to spend most of her days in the kitchen, poor woman, cooking the elaborate Astandalan meals the Talgarths demanded, which even on an ordinary day would run to several courses more than anyone else served. Her features were pretty enough, or could have been, if it were not for the sly expression and the pinched mouth and the fact that her fingernails were dirty.
I kept staring at her hands, unable to help myself once I’d noticed the dirt. Her hands looked as if they belonged to a different person, with loose skin and freckles that looked unfortunately like liver-spots.
Corwil took a long slug from the same bottle he’d given me. He seemed very pleased with himself. “I hear she’s got more dirt on the mistress than on her hands.”
“Mm,” I said. My mind and my body seemed to be moving at two different speeds, or perhaps it was directions. My thoughts were plodding down the track of drugs … sweet peas … wireweed from Kilromby … Knockermen knocking at the door … cult … drugs … My body was interested in other matters.
Another one of the kitchen-maids came up, and again without thinking about it I reached out and swung her around and kissed her. She giggled and shoved me pleasantly away. I bumped into Corwil, who was setting down his refreshment again, and in the absence of a kitchen-maid kissed him.
Since I’d told Mr. Dart the truth, that my interests didn’t run to men, this was actually the first time I’d ever kissed (or been kissed by) one. Except that like the kitchen, it felt unaccountably familiar.
The cook turned around, saw us, and gave us a thorough chiding that sounded so pat I wondered what exactly went on at the Talgarths’ on a regular basis. No one seemed to find the potions or the kissing or the magic at all strange.
It was strange, wasn’t it? I thought doubtfully as Corwil and I met two other footmen at the kitchen door and carried the huge platter upstairs. It was strange that there was so much magic around. That no one minded that we started kissing in the kitchen. That no one had blinked when the wizard started to fondle me.
I clutched at my corner of the platter. That’s right. She had been trying to—had sent me down—I had been sent down to the kitchen for the sturgeon—
No, I thought, trying to make my mind behave. First of all I had been sent down to open the door—
“Come along, Jack,” Corwil cried, “we’re nearly at dessert!”
We got to the butler’s pantry, and Mr. Benson, there to preside over the grand entrance of the s
turgeon, found that I’d let my gloved fingers slip into the sauce.
“Go and get another pair of gloves,” he said in aggravation, and my mind scattered again. He called the next footman out with an exasperated whisper. “I’m disappointed in you, Jack. You were doing so well.”
I nodded shortly and hastened down the hall at his gesture. I only stopped once through the doors when I realized I hadn’t a clue how to get back to the servants’ dressing hall—and that I needn’t feel quite so chastened as all that, as now I had the opportunity snoop around the house at will. Or I thought maybe I should feel chastened, though actually it was very difficult to think, or feel anything but the heat and a nearly irrepressible desire to giggle.
The doors swung shut behind me. Upstairs, I thought; it was up on the fifth floor, and the dining room was on the second. One of the things about Bastard Decadent architecture is that unless the staircases are very grand, they’re hidden. Servant staircases are, obviously, not very grand at all. In a bigger house, even the serving halls would be hidden—it was said that the King’s palace in Kingsford was honeycombed with passageways, and that the Palace of Stars in Astandalas had walls of triple thickness so that servants could come and go with no one ever the wiser.
The Talgarths were not quite so rich as that, so they’d made do by hiding the doors. I giggled and clapped my hands over my mouth to stop the noise.
I peered at the painted wooden panels on the corridor walls, trying to figure out which was a door, and was therefore very close to the wall when one of the panels swung open nearly into my face. I stepped back hastily, hands still across my face, and was about to call out eagerly when I saw that the panel did not open into the stair, but rather into the dining room itself.
Stargazy Pie: Greenwing & Dart Book One Page 24
