“His wife was the one who told me. She was carrying their youngest.” Haelyt’s eyes were bright.
Mykella could sense that the older clerk had been taken by surprise and that he was truly disturbed. That both reassured and concerned her. “We need…to do something for her.”
“Shenyl had been here ten years, Mistress. She will get a widow’s stipend. It’s not much, but…”
“You’ll make sure she gets it? If you have trouble, let me know.”
“Thank you, Mistress Mykella.” Haelyt swallowed. “He was a good man.”
“Thank you.” Mykella inclined her head, then turned.
“…wish she were Finance Minister…”
The murmur had come from Wasdahl, Mykella thought. Much as she believed she could do a far better job than Joramyl, that would never happen.
She walked down the corridor, then up the main staircase and to the right to the Finance study.
As she closed the outer door behind her, Maxymt looked up from the pile of ledgers stacked beside him. “We have had an unfortunate occurrence, Mistress Mykella…”
“Yes?”
“You may know that the Southern Guard accounts and ledgers were kept by Shenyl. He was most accurate and dependable.”
Mykella wanted to scream—or slip a dagger between the lizardlike clerk’s ribs. Two weeks before, Maxymt hadn’t even known who Shenyl was.
“Unhappily, he was assaulted and murdered the other night, and we will need to find another entry clerk.”
“I’m very, very sorry to hear that. He was among the best.” Mykella paused. “What about his family?”
“He had a wife. Of course, we’ll have to pay a widow’s stipend.”
“That’s only right,” Mykella said as she moved to her table. “He served loyally for more than ten years.”
“In the future, it might be better to require a fifteen-year service…”
“That is something that the Lord-Protector must address.”
“Of course…of course.”
“From where do you plan to obtain a replacement?” asked Mykella, trying to keep her voice idle.
“I have not talked to Lord Joramyl about it. He will have to make that decision. He hasn’t come in.”
“They have clerks in the Southern Guards,” observed Mykella. “Some of them might know enough about the accounts.”
“That is possible.”
From the feelings behind the acting chief clerk’s words, Mykella knew he had someone in mind, someone who wasn’t in the Southern Guards. That didn’t surprise her, but she just nodded as she adjusted the high-backed stool.
Even by late afternoon—after Mykella had made her weekly trip to the Great Piers, earlier in the day than usual, as much to get away from Maxymt as anything—when Mykella and Maxymt were finishing for the day, Joramyl had not appeared, not even during the time she had been gone. Mykella made no observations about his absence. For the moment, she didn’t want to deal with her uncle’s snide observations and insinuations. She’d have enough of those to face during the reception and formal dinner to come.
She’d barely reached her chamber when Rachylana hurried up, followed by a harried-looking Zestela. Behind Zestela was Wyandra, the assistant dresser.
“What are you wearing?” asked Rachylana.
“The green dress isn’t ready, I’m told,” Mykella replied. “So it will have to be one of the blue ones, an older one most likely.” The Derekan envoy wouldn’t have seen it, and whether the others at the dinner had wouldn’t matter. “And you?”
“Something red-maroon.”
Mykella nodded. The red-maroon didn’t really suit her redheaded sister, but that was doubtless exactly what Rachylana had in mind, something not totally tasteless, but just off enough so that she looked less striking and less poised…and perhaps not able to handle appearances before the entourage that would surround the Landarch-to-be. That approach also held risks, because, in the end, Rachylana could end up being matched to some secondary cousin in someplace worse than Deforya.
“Mistress Mykella,” offered Zestela, “Wyandra can help you…”
“Thank you. That would be fine.” In more ways than one, reflected Mykella, since it would keep Wyandra away from Rachylana and her touchiness, and Rachylana away from Mykella.
Mykella gestured for the assistant to follow her toward the narrow chamber that held formal gowns. In the end, Mykella ended up wearing a deep blue dress, with an ankle-length skirt that allowed her to wear the special formal boots she’d had made a year earlier. She would have preferred a formal jacket and trousers or even an elegant split riding skirt, but trying to wear those would have risked her father’s anger and his insistence on some lower-cut dress that would have been even worse, not that her figure wasn’t adequate for such, but she would avoid being paraded as a broodmare or cow as much as she could. Some women, like Rachylana, when she wanted to, could use their sexuality as a weapon. That approach bothered Mykella.
Once she was dressed, she walked to the family parlor to wait until she was summoned. Salyna was already in the parlor, dressed in a pale green dress that made her fair complexion look slightly washed out.
“Quietly tasteful, I see,” offered Salyna.
“Tastefully pallid, I notice,” returned Mykella with a smile. “Not enough for it to be that obvious to Father or Eranya, I’d wager.”
“I’d rather not go to Dereka.”
“Who would?” asked Rachylana, entering the parlor and closing the door behind her. She studied Mykella. “You’ll do. The envoy will choose you.”
“Did that make you feel good?” Mykella asked mildly.
Rachylana stiffened, then laughed. “It’s not about feeling good. You could survive Dereka. I couldn’t, and Salyna would end up murdering her consort.”
Before Mykella could think of an appropriate rejoinder, Uleana opened the parlor door. “The Lord-Protector wishes to know if you ladies are ready.”
Salyna and Mykella nodded, and Mykella led the way out into the corridor and to the top of the main staircase.
There Jeraxylt stood waiting, arrayed in the dress uniform of an officer of the Southern Guards. His eyes raked over his older sister. “Rather plain, don’t you think?”
“It suits me.”
“You’ve always been understated. That’s not a virtue when you’re looking to be matched.”
“Perhaps not.” That assumes I want to be matched and shipped off to Dereka.
Rachylana and Salyna halted behind their brother and sister. Then Feranyt and Eranya walked from the Lord-Protector’s private apartments and took their places behind the two youngest daughters.
A short trumpet fanfare echoed from the entry foyer below, and Jeraxylt escorted Mykella down the steps, past the Southern Guards stationed at the top and bottom in their dress uniforms of cream and dark blue. Once clear of the stairs and the three trumpeters, Jeraxylt and Mykella turned right until they reached the doors on the west side of the wide corridor.
The two then stepped through the open double doors of the small receiving room off the grand dining hall. The reception before the dinner was small, and less than thirty people had gathered there, but all turned to watch the Lord-Protector’s family enter. Jeraxylt escorted his sister toward the right side of the room, but well short of the table behind which servers clad in blue stood, waiting to resume offering various vintages to the Lord-Protector’s family and guests.
Among those waiting, Mykella noted Joramyl and Cheleyza, as well as Arms-Commander Nephryt and Seltyr Porofyr. Several others had to be ministers. She thought she recognized both the chief High Factor and the First Seltyr of Tempre before she and Jeraxylt turned to watch their sisters—and then their father—enter the receiving room.
As soon as Feranyt and Eranya reached the center of the room, another short trumpet fanfare echoed from the corridor outside, then died away.
“Welcome to all of you,” called out Feranyt. “You can certainly resu
me what you were doing.”
Jeraxylt nodded to Mykella. “I’m going to get something to drink. Father’s headed toward you anyway.”
“Enjoy yourself,” she said, turning as her father approached with a slender, angular, and gray-haired man, with an equally gray square-cut beard, attired in dark green trimmed in silver.
“Mykella,” said the Lord-Protector cheerfully, “this is Sheorak of Aelta. Not only is he the Envoy of Landarch Fialdak, but he is also the Landarch’s cousin and trusted confidant.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Envoy Sheorak,” offered Mykella pleasantly, noting that her father had stepped back and eased away.
“Not so pleased as I am to meet you.” Sheorak bowed slightly.
Mykella had to concentrate to understand his words, because his pronunciation and word cadence were so different from what she was used to. “Then we are both pleased.” She finished her words with a smile. She knew, once she ran through the pleasantries, that she could never play someone simpering and compliant, and beyond that, there was always the danger that the Landarch was looking for a consort for his heir who was just that.
“Indeed,” replied the envoy.
“What is the Landarch-heir’s name?” asked Mykella.
“Only his closest acquaintances call him by name…but he is Aldakyr, Heir of Light.”
“Aldakyr…” mused Mykella. “That does sound distinguished. Is that a family name?”
“It is indeed.” The Most Honorable Sheorak smiled politely.
Mykella could sense that he resented being questioned, and while she needed to learn more, it would be easier without too much hostility. “Are all Deforyans as distinguished as you?”
Sheorak laughed politely, and the sense of resentment diminished. “I would like to think so, Mistress Mykella. Certainly, Aldakyr is much more distinguished. He is also rather younger than I.”
“That is doubtless why you are here, and he is not. You would not have been chosen to come here, I think, were you not distinguished and your judgment not respected.”
“How can I dispute that?” Sheorak shrugged broadly.
“You should not.” Mykella smiled, trying to project warmth. “What can you tell me about the Heir of Light?”
“There is much to tell, but I will try to be brief. He is accomplished in all the manly arts, and he has completed many studies. This is possible because there is a fine library in the Landarch’s Palace, and many of the volumes date from before the Great Cataclysm. He is of moderate height, and possesses great discernment…”
Nodding politely, Mykella encouraged the envoy for close to a quarter glass before she smiled once more and said, “You have obviously put much thought into everything that you do, and, with such fore-thought, you must have also consulted with many about Tempre and when best to arrive…and doubtless many missives were exchanged, which must have created much work for you.”
“Oh, indeed. There was much correspondence.”
“Someone must have told you that winter-turn is a time when we are more festive. We are, you know.”
“That, I had not heard.”
“You will see, then. And I suppose various ministers all offered advice and pleasant comments?”
“Not so many. Your uncle the Finance Minister was most helpful.”
“Yes. Uncle Joramyl can be very helpful. He understands a great deal.”
“Your father is fortunate to have such an able brother.”
“Yes, Uncle Joramyl is most able.” If not in ways for Father’s best interests. “You seem to know him well.”
“Not so well, I think, as I would like. He was the one who suggested that your father might be amenable to…my arrival.” Sheorak studied Mykella casually.
She could sense more than casual interest—more like intense scrutiny of her possible reaction. “Father has been most clear that it is time that we consider appropriate matches.” That was true enough. “And he and Uncle Joramyl are quite close, as brothers should be.”
Sheorak nodded.
Mykella could sense that the envoy was pleased about something, but what she could not tell. She could also see her father approaching with Salyna. “It has been most enlightening and enjoyable talking to you, Envoy Sheorak, but I see my father and sister approaching.”
“Most enlightening for me as well.” Sheorak bowed slightly, and his eyes raked over her appraisingly.
Mykella smiled pleasantly and stepped back. He’s looking for an intelligent broodmare for the heir.
“Ah…I wanted you to meet my youngest daughter, Salyna,” said Feranyt.
Mykella slipped over to the sideboard, hoping for a moment alone, where she wasn’t sensing the feelings that swirled around the receiving room like smoke from a fire burning too-green wood.
“Mistress?” asked the server. Even his apprehension jabbed at her.
“The amber Vyan Grande, please.”
After she received the goblet, Mykella stepped away, only to see Cheleyza angling toward her. She smiled. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Mykella. You talked a great deal and rather animatedly with Sheorak. Don’t you think he is distinguished and charming?”
“He is…but aren’t envoys supposed to be?” asked Mykella lightly, trying to ignore the insistent curiosity bubbling out of Cheleyza.
“Not all of them are. There was one from Southgate who came to Harmony…” Cheleyza shook her head. “And the Reillies…”
Mykella sipped her wine and listened, trying to ignore the barrage of feelings emanating from her aunt, feelings as scattered as the words they accompanied.
“…think that some of them had never seen a wash basin or a tub…and those awful plaid coats…women wear them, too…Squawts might be worse, from all that I’ve heard…Joramyl says that the nightsheep herders wear black all the time…the way you…well, it looks good on you…and what’s the point of the white shimmersilk the Southgate Seltyrs affect, and it really is an affectation…” After a time, Cheleyza stopped and sipped her wine, then asked, “Do you think that Rachylana’s wearing red-maroon will matter in the slightest to the envoy? Joramyl says he’s one of those men who doesn’t see colors.”
Mykella couldn’t help smiling slightly. “Even men who can discern colors often don’t seem to notice.”
“You’re so right, there. My brother was far more interested in what was in the dress than what color and shade it might have been.”
“Isn’t that true of all young men? Even Jeraxylt and Berenyt?”
Cheleyza laughed softly. “They’re bright enough to say kind words….”
Before all that much longer, the sounds of a set of chimes echoed through the receiving room, and the doors on the north end opened, revealing the grand dining room and the long table, set with crystal and silver, all illuminated by the soft light reflected from wall lamps and the shining brass mirrors behind them.
Mykella slipped toward her place at the long table, marked not by anything obvious, but by the blue crystal goblet with her initial upon it.
Once everyone was seated, the Lord-Protector turned to the envoy, seated to his right. “Would you like to offer a blessing, Envoy Sheorak?”
“I would offer our traditional prayer, Honored Lord-Protector.” Sheorak paused, then spoke. “To the Time Eternal, to the One Who Is and to the Unknown, as all three are and have been forever.”
Mykella hoped, vainly, she knew, that the dinner would not be so long and tedious as the reception that had preceded it.
27
Although she had been more than careful to limit herself to three glasses of wine over the entire evening, Mykella’s head was pounding when she dragged herself out of bed on Novdi morning. But then, it had been pounding before she went to sleep. Why? she asked herself as she sat on the edge of her bed. Had it been the wine? Or the food?
Or the bombardment of feelings swirling around her?
Her Talent encompassed more than one ability—but she felt as though non
e of those abilities were what would help her most. Even traveling the Tables had led her to dead ends…and to Dereka, where she might well end up anyway. More and more, she could sense what people felt, but the only way to use that ability, so far as she could see, was to lie and scheme in order to play on people’s feelings. She could move unseen, but that appeared useful for stealth—eavesdropping and theft. All of those abilities could easily push her into being the sort of person she really didn’t want to be—more like Rachylana or Cheleyza. When she’d tried to use them to bring matters to light, she had only caused death to innocents.
Her eyes burned.
Then she swallowed, blotted her eyes. She would find a way out of the situation in which she found herself. She would, and feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help anything. With that resolve, she washed up, and dressed in her normal black nightsilk garb. Then she hurried toward the breakfast room.
Not surprisingly, since it was an end-day, she was the first there, although Salyna appeared moments after Mykella seated herself.
“You made quite an impression on the envoy,” offered Salyna.
“Oh?” Mykella took a sip of the tea Akilsa had poured into her mug.
“He kept looking at you while he was talking to me.” Salyna smiled wryly.
“I asked him too many questions. I don’t think young women are allowed to question men in Dereka, especially older and distinguished men.”
“That might be…but he still kept looking at you.”
“Well…that’s good for you, I suppose.”
Salyna glanced to the door, as if in warning, and Mykella turned to see her father walk into the breakfast room. She sensed a certain lack of color in her father, not to her eyes, but to her senses. Should she say anything?
“Good morning, daughters. It was a good dinner, wasn’t it? I thought the boar was tasty, and no one seemed uncomfortable.” Feranyt settled into his chair at the head of the table.
Akilsa hurried in and filled the Lord-Protector’s mug with hot spiced tea. Mykella could see the steam rising—unlike her own tea, which was barely more than lukewarm.
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