Faris looked puzzled. “What figure from history?”
“Joan of Arc,” Jane guessed. “She is supposed to have had red hair. Though I never heard she was particularly tall.”
“The error was ours.” The king thawed slightly. “We did not think for an instant that Faris portrayed Joan of Arc. However, there was a red-haired woman intimately associated with the history of this very building. She was exceedingly tall. We fear we reached a faulty conclusion.”
Faris drew herself up to her full height. “If you think that I consider my grandmother Prosperian suitable matter for a masquerade with the likes of Columbine and Harlequin, you are mistaken.”
“Our apologies. We confess we are relieved that you did not wish to remind us of the woman who nearly burned this entire castle to the ground. Yet we think it was an understandable mistake. Your uncle sees nothing amiss in masquerading as a more remote relation. He was announced as Ludovic Nallaneen, Duke of Galazon. Our daughter, of course, is St. Agnes.”
Faris followed the king’s gaze to where Brinker, wearing Uncle Ludo’s armor, his great sword slung at his back, was looking on with Agnes, who resembled an early Christian martyr of the most grimly respectable kind. “Perhaps my uncle is feeling a bit mistrustful of crowds.”
“Saladin,” the grand master of ceremonies called. “Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
“If we don’t, we’re sure he needn’t.” The king looked down at his costume with unmistakable satisfaction. As he did so, Faris realized that the small bird perched on his shoulder was a stuffed lark, firmly pinned in place against the velvet. She suppressed a shudder of distaste.
“We wished to come as something a little out of the ordinary,” the king continued. He hitched up his silken rope belt slightly. “It’s fairly comfortable, too. An important advantage at this sort of thing.” He was even ruddier than usual. It seemed as if he had been celebrating longer than the other guests. He seemed to be having a little trouble seeing through her veil, for his heavy-lidded eyes scarcely left her face.
As the orchestra struck up the next dance, Jane and Tyrian slipped away. Faris put her fingertips back on Reed’s sleeve. She didn’t want to be left alone yet, particularly not with the king. “You seem to know all about this sort of entertainment. I’ve never been to a fancy dress ball before.”
“We prefer them, really. Far more comfortable than the usual entertainment, if you know how to choose the right costume.”
“No hair shirt, then, I take it?” Reed asked cheerfully.
Very gently, without taking her eyes from the king’s, Faris stepped on Reed’s toe.
The king gave no sign that he had noticed Reed’s existence. “You will save all the waltzes for us, won’t you?” Dexterously he marked Faris’s dance card. “We’ll have to greet a few dozen more guests but then we are yours. Yours entirely.”
Faris kicked Reed’s ankle cautiously and they withdrew together toward the center of the chessboard. Before Faris could speak, Reed led her out into the polka that had just begun.
“You won’t save all the waltzes for him, will you? It might give him the wrong idea.”
“Night and Day,” the grand master of ceremonies called.
“Discussing his choice of—his hair shirt might give him the wrong idea, too. How dared you bring that up?”
Reed grinned at her. “How dare you? That’s no way for a lady to talk.”
He was quite correct. Faris held her peace and concentrated upon the dance steps. Reed was an accomplished dancer, and made the swift whirl of the polka graceful, as well as effervescent.
As the polka ended, the Spanish ambassador claimed her for the galop. Reed surrendered Faris to his punctilious entreaties and found another partner—Columbine. Faris was pleased by, and a little surprised at, Reed’s social grace. If only he doesn’t discuss details of costume with her, she thought.
“Thomas of Bedlam,” the grand master of ceremonies announced, with no bored indifference whatsoever. The Spanish ambassador drew Faris out of the press of dancers so they could both take a good look at the newly-arrived guest. Many of the other dancers followed the example he set.
Faris could see nothing very extraordinary about the newcomer. He was a slim young man, tall and dark, in evening dress remarkable only for its excellence of material and tailoring. In no way did he appear to be in costume. He did not appear to notice the interest the other guests took in him. After a casual glance around the cavernous room, he made his way toward the king.
The Spanish ambassador was appalled. “What impudence.”
“Why? Because he forgot to wear his costume?”
“Istvan Graelent comes of good family. He has had an excellent education. He cannot plead ignorance. His presence here tonight cannot possibly be excused.”
“Why not?”
“He is uninvited.” The Spanish ambassador stiffened. “And now the insolent puppy has given his majesty the cut direct. He walked past the king as though he did not even see him. This is an outrage.”
The young man had indeed strolled past the king without a glance. He seemed far more interested in the champagne than in his unwilling host. Faris could not help but admire the graceful ease with which he ignored the stir he was creating.
“Does this sort of thing happen often?”
“Certainly not. Surely his majesty will have the young jackanapes removed at once.”
The king, however, was listening to Julius Caesar, who was speaking earnestly in his ear. After a moment, the king nodded. He caught the grand master of ceremonies’s eye and shook his head. That gentleman relaxed visibly and waved away the guard he had summoned to his side. The king spoke to Julius Caesar, who withdrew looking relieved.
Oblivious to all this, Graelent secured a glass of champagne and began to look calmly around for the nearest tray of lobster patties.
The Spanish ambassador was mystified by the king’s forbearance.
“Perhaps the king prefers not to disturb his invited guests by drawing undue attention to the young man,” Faris suggested. “If we ignore him, perhaps he will go away.”
“He is a political figure of sorts,” the Spanish ambassador conceded. “Perhaps his majesty is wise not to give Graelent’s followers any reason to believe their leader is persecuted. Though prison would be the best place for him.”
“A young man of good family and excellent education? Surely not.”
“You must not let the veneer of good behavior he has adopted tonight mislead you. Though he claims to represent a political faction, he is in sober fact a gangster. His followers are drawn from the most disreputable circles in Aravis: peddlers, students, even the poor. They are little better than a gang of thugs.”
“How curious. Don’t they call themselves Monarchists?”
“They may call themselves Christian Democrats, or anything they please. The name does not change the fact that they are radicals of deepest dye. Revolutionaries who demand the restoration of a corrupt, deposed regime.”
Dryly, Faris inquired, “Which regime might that be?”
Abruptly, the Spanish ambassador remembered whom he was speaking to. He was still trying to repair his diplomatic lapse when the orchestra drew the galop to a close.
After the galop came a waltz. The king was still greeting his arriving guests, but Faris did not lack a partner, for Tyrian appeared beside her. His courtesy matched the Spanish ambassador’s desperate gallantry.
Faris put her hand in Tyrian’s, grateful that her gloves concealed the dampness of her palms. His touch at her waist was light and impersonal. She tried not to clutch his shoulder in sheer nervousness.
They danced in silence at first. Tyrian was not as accomplished a dancer as Reed. Faris welcomed the fact. She did not feel capable of any flights of high style on the dance floor. Tyrian’s touch made her so self-conscious she could hardly remember her steps.
“I don’t see Jane.”
“She’s gone to deal with the lions. As soon as this
dance is over, I’ll check her progress. When she’s ready, I’ll return and give you the signal.”
“Champagne.”
“Right. I wish this mask had larger eyes. It’s hard to see you.”
Faris glanced ahead as they waltzed steadily on. “If you can’t see, how can you dance?”
“No, don’t look ahead.” Tyrian’s muffled voice held an unmistakable note of command. As Faris, surprised, looked back at his mask, he continued more gently. “If we look where we’re going, the other dancers won’t make way for us. This way, they sense our purpose and let us pass without realizing they’re doing so.”
“So we may dance where we please, as long as we don’t betray our blindness. Fair enough. I won’t look ahead.”
“Nor will I.” Tyrian spoke so softly that Faris scarcely caught the words.
For the first time in her life, Faris found herself an adult in an assembly of adults who were enjoying themselves. Paying attention to her, she discovered to her own amazement, was part of enjoying themselves. And so, despite the task ahead of her, Faris found herself enjoying the ball. As the music buoyed her from partner to partner, she danced on without looking ahead.
The king claimed the fourth waltz. Before Faris could accept, she heard a young man’s voice at her elbow.
“I beg your pardon, your majesty,” said Istvan Graelent in her ear. “Pray allow a madman to pay homage to you.” He swept her a deep and graceful bow. When he straightened, he looked into her eyes. Faris realized he was at least an inch or two taller than she. It had been so long since she had to look up at anyone, the sensation startled her.
Beside her, the king lifted a hand. From all quarters, guards began to gather. Graelent watched their approach with interest. “Are you going to throw me out now? I wondered when you would.”
“If you give us the slightest provocation, young man, you’ll find yourself in a cell.”
Graelent’s dark eyes danced. “My bonny mad boys wouldn’t like that, would they? I suppose I’d better behave myself.”
Faris turned to the king. “Will there be time to ask him a question before the guards escort him out?”
“By all means,” the king replied. To Graelent, he said, “Should you offer the slightest impertinence to this lady, it will be our great pleasure to make you regret it.”
Graelent inclined his head. “I could never offer impertinence of any sort to my true monarch—whether she is literal or figurative.”
While the king mulled that over, Faris asked, “Why did you choose an English song for your party anthem? Have you no suitable songs in Aravill?”
Graelent seemed happy to be asked. “Tom o’Bedlam, your majesty, is a universal figure. It was merely our good fortune to learn the English version of the song from scholars who came to collect our folk songs. How fitting that we should have one of their songs in return for so many of our own.”
The guards encircled Graelent. At a sign from the king, they drew him away. He made one last obeisance to Faris and departed.
The king stopped one of the guards and said, “Go tell the orchestra we want another waltz. They’ve nearly finished this one.”
Despite his costume, he cut an impressive figure on the dance floor. Faris complimented him.
“It isn’t every king that can risk simplicity. Imagine the German kaiser at a fancy dress ball. He’d come as himself. And he wouldn’t have to dress up to do it, either. Those uniforms—pshaw!—pure comic opera.”
Faris could not quite see what distinction there might be between pure comic opera and his peacock blue cutaway, but she answered as diplomatically as she could. “Yet in Aravis there are a great many uniforms, and if you’ll forgive me, some of them are purest comic opera. The palace guard, for example. What is that thing on their helmet? It looks like a scrub brush.”
“That’s quite a different matter. Military men insist upon uniforms. A king should wear whatever he pleases. It worries us that so many kings are unable to think of anything more pleasing than a military uniform.”
“And does St. Francis’s vow of poverty please you? You are a rare king indeed, then.”
The king said patronizingly, “It’s a fancy dress ball. Does your costume imply that you would be pleased to end up as a wisp of smoke?”
“That’s different. As I am not a king, I don’t claim the right to wear whatever I please.”
The king did not seem to notice the amusement in Faris’s voice. Instead he tightened his embrace and spun her into a turn that showed her gown to excellent advantage. “You could if you wished.”
Faris considered his tone, his eyes, his expression, and decided he must have had more to drink than she’d thought. “But I don’t.”
The king drew her still closer. “But you could.” He allowed the music to carry them into another turn and then another, more sweeping still.
Faris followed his steps precisely, determined to reveal no sign of comprehension. The turns required concentration. She put her entire attention into them. Let him turn until daybreak. If she ignored him, perhaps he would go away.
“You’re blushing.” The king let the last elaborate turn melt into the final figures of the waltz as the orchestra finished. His voice carried well enough to make heads turn all around them.
“I am not.” It took all Dame Brachet’s training to keep Faris from staring down at her slippers in embarrassment.
“Then you’re flushed.” He drew her arm through his. “Come sit down and catch your breath. We know the perfect spot. Have we shown you the library yet? No? We’ll go there. It’s very quiet.”
“I don’t need to catch my breath, thank you very much.”
“You must, you’re more flushed than ever. Let us think a moment. We have it. We’ll take the air.”
“I don’t want any air.”
“Yes, you do. We have marvelous air here.” The king turned toward the stair, Faris still firmly in his grasp. “Let’s go look at the lions.”
Faris started to refuse, then saw Tyrian over the king’s shoulder. He was holding a full glass of champagne, useless to a man who wouldn’t remove his mask. It was time, then. Duty called.
Faris looked up into the king’s pouchy dark blue eyes. “By all means,” she said, with chilly dignity Dame Brachet herself would have applauded, “let us go see the lions.”
14
World’s End Close
It was a simple matter for the king to slip away from his own ball. He led Faris through a room off the ballroom, where white linen-covered tables held silver trays of crab puffs and lobster patties, and into the corridors beyond. Together they strolled freely to the upper reaches of the castle, toward the lion-guarded ruins.
To Faris, the trip was nerve-wracking. She had a good enough grasp of Jane’s floor plan to guess at the progress they were making, but she had no way to know where Jane was or what she was doing.
Tyrian would certainly be close at hand, ready to do whatever he thought necessary about the king’s presence. But what about Reed? Was he still dancing with his Columbine? Or had he followed her from the ballroom? Could he be trusted to wait for orders from Faris before he popped out from behind some tapestry to interfere? And what would be best to do with the king? Let Jane perform some magic, if she had any to spare from the lions? Or let Tyrian keep him quiet? Or take him along to the rift?
In addition to these concerns, Faris was distracted by the route they took through the castle. The king was leading her up stairs and along halls which reminded her of her dreams. The twisting passages seemed endless.
“How much farther is it?”
“Oh, not far at all. You aren’t tired, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“You aren’t frightened, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Try to be slightly frightened. However well we feed them, they are lions, after all. Slaves to their nature, as man is a slave to his.”
Faris doubted that anyone was ever ent
irely a slave to his nature, unless perhaps one counted Brinker. But she thought it would be as well not to discuss it with the king. “Why lions?” she asked instead.
“Why keep lions, do you mean? Purely to protect visitors to the ruins, rest assured. The throne room fire in 1848 left the upper reaches of the castle in some disrepair. It would be quite possible to meet with an accidental injury there. The lions prevent anyone from wandering freely in the ruins.” The king lowered his voice to a nasal murmur. “We will be quite undisturbed.”
Faris kept her tone one of bright, though obtuse, interest. “Why not simply repair the damage, instead?”
“Do you see where the windows used to be? That’s modern brick work in the arches. We have repaired much of the damage in the upper reaches of the castle.”
“But why not repair the throne room itself?”
“Forgive our frankness. Your grandmother left a poor impression on those who knew her. The idea of reclaiming the room in which she made such a dramatic end fills us with distaste. And even if we wished to, which we certainly don’t, we doubt that we could find anyone willing to make the repairs.”
“Fascinating. You will show me the precise spot, won’t you?”
“We can’t. Remember the lions.”
Faris did not have to counterfeit disappointment. “Oh, of course.” She accompanied the king up a steep flight of steps and into a narrow hallway. The lamp-lit corridor held a draft of fresh air, very welcome after the long sequence of stairs and hallways that had brought them here. “Has someone left the door open?”
Surprised, the king looked closely at her. “We take pains to keep the doors locked in this part of the castle.”
“Of course. How silly of me.”
The corridor turned sharply and stopped at a heavy door. While the king bent to unlock it, Faris studied the masonry. Around the door, traces of a much larger arch remained, now painstakingly bricked shut. She swallowed hard.
The king turned back to Faris. “Curious. It wasn’t locked after all. Someone has been rather careless.”
Faris wondered if the lock had given Jane much trouble. Or had Tyrian opened it for her?
A College of Magics Page 29
