Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  She went to sit on the edge of her bed. You decided to follow the customs of this country, she told herself. Remember, you chose this. And you’re still yourself. She didn’t feel much like herself tonight. She felt like an Imogen who’d been dressed up to be an ambassador, a responsibility she still wasn’t sure she understood. Talk to people. Ask them about themselves. Tell them about the Kirkellan. Be polite. Dance. She sighed. Of all of tonight’s chores, dancing would be the most difficult.

  Elspeth had already drilled her on entering the reception room, how she would be announced and then have to make the long, slow descent down the broad stairs to the floor below. It had felt very far below when they’d practiced the day before; it would feel even farther away tonight. And now she would be wearing the too-thin dress that showed off every inch of her figure while hundreds of people stared at her. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, her face, not her body. She’d refused the offer of cosmetics, feeling they were unnecessary, and now she looked at her unadorned face and made herself smile. She ran her hands over the gown again, feeling the soft contours underneath, looked at her familiar curvy shape, her plump arms, and the smile felt more real. She liked her body. This was just a different way of showing it off.

  Someone knocked at her bedroom door. “I think we’re ready to go,” Saevonna said. She wore a full-skirted gown of blue and gold and an unfamiliar expression.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Kionnal and Taeron are complaining about how uncomfortable their clothes are, but I think everyone else is resigned. It’s just…this is so far outside our experience, Imogen. We’re not going to understand anyone there…are you sure we have to come?”

  “You’re my retinue, according to Elspeth, and all the other ambassadors will have attendants. At least I know my attendants are capable of killing anyone who tries to molest me.”

  “You’re capable of killing anyone who tries to molest you.”

  “I know. I’m just not sure how appropriate that would be.” She stood and smoothed her skirt again.

  “You do look extraordinary in that gown, Imogen.”

  “Thanks. You’re beautiful too, you know.”

  “I do. I’m embarrassed to say I like Tremontanan clothing. I feel…I don’t know. Different, but I can’t really say how.”

  “You don’t feel like you’re losing yourself?”

  “No. More like discovering there’s more to me than fighting.”

  Her words echoed Mother’s so closely they raised goose pimples all up and down Imogen’s arms. “Let’s go, then,” she said, and let Saevonna precede her out of her rooms.

  The tiermatha were gathered in the foyer, looking like Tremontanans with varying degrees of success. Revalan was never going to look like anything but a Kirkellan warrior no matter how he dressed, and Dorenna…. “Dorenna, hand it over,” Imogen said.

  “What?” Dorenna looked suspiciously innocent.

  “Whatever blade you have strapped to your thigh.”

  “You don’t want me to be able to defend you?”

  “They have guards for that. You don’t need any kind of blade to kill someone. And it makes you walk funny.” Imogen held out her hand, and Dorenna hiked her skirt up and unstrapped a seven-inch-long dagger from her thigh. Kionnal whistled appreciatively and Areli elbowed him hard in the stomach. Dorenna slapped the sheathed knife into Imogen’s outstretched palm, scowling. “Thank you.” Imogen set it on one of the ubiquitous tables, and said, “This is going to be difficult, I think, so remember to stay in groups of three or four with someone who speaks some Tremontanese in each group. And try to enjoy yourselves. At least you don’t have to worry about remembering who is who.”

  “Am I allowed to ogle?” Kallum asked.

  “As long as you keep it discreet. If you know how to do that.” Imogen took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s go.”

  They fit into three medium-sized carriages, Imogen sitting opposite Areli, who spent the journey looking out the window. Imogen would have believed Areli calm and relaxed if she hadn’t seen the death grip she had on Kionnal’s hand. She felt guilty, dragging her tiermatha into this, guilty because she felt so much happier knowing they were present even though they really weren’t prepared for this. But then, neither was she. She faced the window, closed her eyes, and told herself it would be all right.

  The herald at the top of the stairs looked astonished when the thirteen of them assembled to make their entrance, but announced them as “Imogen, ambassador of the Kirkellan” and left it at that. A hush fell over the room as Imogen descended at the point of a triangle that mimicked their fighting formation. If people were going to stare, she was damn well going to give them something worth staring at. They reached the floor, turned to the right, and split into groups to wander the room. Imogen watched the tiermatha go and felt bereft. She straightened her spine. She was a Kirkellan warrior and she would show these people no fear.

  The people near her smiled and nodded and went back to their conversations, leaving her uncertain as to what to do or where to go next. A man wearing Tremontane colors swept past with a tray and offered it to her; she took one of the mysterious bits of food on it and bit into it, not very gracefully. Juice spilled over her fingers and almost onto her dress. She shoved the rest of the thing into her mouth and sucked her fingers, afraid of what the juice might do to her dress if she wiped her hand on it. The servitor looked at her with a bland, nonjudgmental expression, but she was sure he was laughing at her inside. “Where is it I can wash?” she asked, determined to act as if spilling food on oneself was perfectly normal at grand receptions.

  “There is a door between those potted trees, if madam needs to refresh herself,” he said, inclining his head to the left. Of course pointing would be undignified. Imogen moved as quickly as she could in the indicated direction, holding her sticky hand away from herself just in case. She found the room, which was lined with sinks and private stalls for the miraculous chamber pots that rinsed themselves, washed and dried her hand and hurried back out.

  She had missed Jeffrey’s entrance with Alison, but was just in time to see Elspeth stand with Owen at the top of the stairs, glowing with the applause of the crowd. She was beautiful and she was happy, and she wasn’t dead of lung fever or trapped in Hrovald’s house with his vile son, and Imogen’s heart filled with joy. She turned her head away. The way Owen looked at Elspeth, that caressing, intimate look, made her feel as if she were intruding on a private moment. For the first time in her life, she wondered if anyone would ever look at her that way. It was a disturbing thought. She had always assumed she would have a lover or two, get married, have children, but the reality of what it might be like to be in love had never struck her until just now, watching (or trying not to watch) Owen and Elspeth in their private world. Areli and Kionnal’s relationship was far more casual; whatever tenderness existed between them, they expressed it in the privacy of their bedchamber. She told herself it was just homesickness, but she suddenly wished she had someone to share those private looks with.

  “Madam ambassador,” someone said, and she turned with relief to see a man at her elbow. He was shortish and fattish and blondish and wore a brown dress coat over a black waistcoat. “Maxwell Burgess, Foreign Relations chief,” he said, offering his hand. “I apologize for not greeting you sooner, but I only returned from Eskandel yesterday evening. I trust we’ve treated you hospitably?”

  “I am very happy to be in Tremontane,” Imogen said. “Thank you for asking.”

  “We are glad to welcome our neighbors from the north,” he said. “May I introduce you to your counterparts?” Without waiting for her assent, he took her elbow and steered her through the crowd to an ordinary-looking man dressed in the most extraordinary combination of colors Imogen had seen that evening, pale peach waistcoat with a peacock blue frock coat that fitted him much better than Burgess’s did him, bright green trousers and shoes with brass buckles that shone as if he had someone followi
ng him around just to polish them. He bowed to Burgess, then looked at Imogen with great admiration.

  “My lord prince, this is Imogen, ambassador from the Kirkellan. Milady, Prince Serjian Ghentali of Eskandel.”

  “What pity it is,” said the princeling, “I was to ask you join my harem, you are woman of great remark.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissed the back of it gently. His accent was even thicker than hers, which made her happy; at least one person here was more obviously foreign than she was.

  “I thank you for the great compliment,” she said. Alison had explained about Eskandelic harems, that they represented the consolidated power behind the thinly-veiled fiction that the princelings ran the country, and being invited to join one was an honor even if it did mean sharing your bed partner with four or five other women. “How do I call you? Prince?”

  “Ghentali is given to me as a name and it called am I,” he said. “Eemogeen is hard to speak in my mouth, so I may call you madam ambassador, yes?”

  “Excellent,” Burgess said. “I see some people I must speak to, madam ambassador, but I hope you will reserve me a dance later? I am very fond of dancing, and I hope to make you feel welcome.”

  Imogen’s heart sank. “I know few of your dances, but I would be glad to dance one of them with you,” she said. She watched Burgess walk away, turned back to Ghentali, and found herself instead facing a redheaded woman whose gray eyes looked up at her with amusement. “You have met our husband,” she said. “What do you think of him?”

  Imogen thought quickly. “He seems friendly,” she said, “and he likes his clothes.”

  The woman smiled. “If often you converse with him, you will find there is not much more to him than his love of the clothes. But he is kind and speaks well in public, and those characteristics are in a Prince of the most value. My name is Serjian Giavena. Please meet my sisters.”

  The Serjian harem turned out to be a group of intelligent, well-spoken women of whom Giavena was the leader. “I am the vojenta,” she explained, “and I tell Ghentali what he should say after we decide what that is. We have made Ghentali one of the foremost in Eskandel of his peers.”

  “I know not much about Eskandel.”

  “Our countries are too far apart to have much to each other to give,” said Giavena.

  “But we are interested in how you live,” said another woman, Donia. “We gather knowledge and preserve it. Our libraries and museums in the world the best are.”

  “I am interested in you too,” Imogen said. “The matrian told me I am to tell others about the Kirkellan so we are not a mystery again—it is to say, anymore. And I think you should not be a mystery to us.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Giavena,” Burgess said, arriving at Imogen’s elbow, “but the Veriboldan ambassador has arrived and it’s important madam ambassador meet with him immediately, so as not to cause offense.”

  Imogen again was grasped by the elbow and steered ruthlessly through the crowd. She began to feel annoyed with Burgess even as she was grateful to him for providing introductions. He could at least let her travel under her own power.

  Burgess led her to the side of the room reserved for the royal family and then inexplicably abandoned her, pointing the way she should continue. She’d met Veriboldans many times before; traders came north to exchange food, silk, and spices for Kirkellan handwork and, of course, horses. These interactions did not prepare her for the sight of the Veriboldan ambassador, sitting as if enthroned near the seat of the King, which was currently empty. Alison sat nearby, conversing with an older man; she noticed Imogen and smiled at her, which gave her comfort as she faced the intimidating figure of the ambassador.

  He was very old, his thin hair white and worn long around his shoulders. His bright hazel eyes were so sunken in wrinkles he appeared to be peering out of a mask, one with a short nose and very thin lips made thinner by the way he pressed them together, as if to keep words from escaping. He wore a long black robe of fine silk over a tunic and skirt of green figured silk, tied with a golden cord that looked like a slimmer version of the ropes that held back the curtains in Imogen’s bedroom. The tips of his bare toes, which were lacquered bronze, protruded from the bottom of his skirt; the long nails of his left hand matched them. His hands were clasped in his lap, the fingers interlaced, and he surveyed the room without moving his head. As Imogen approached, his eyes flicked over her, then continued their journey. A slender woman in her fifties stood next to him, dressed in similar fashion except her robe was green and her tunic and skirt were a muddy brown, and her nails were short and unpainted. She stared at Imogen without speaking.

  Imogen was at a loss. Was she supposed to speak first? Was there some ritual they expected her to follow? Burgess had implied the Veriboldan ambassador demanded respect, but what should that look like?

  Someone placed his hand low on her back and propelled her gently forward. “Bow at the waist and introduce yourself to the woman, not the man,” Jeffrey whispered in her ear. In a louder voice, he said, addressing the man, “Bixhenta, welcome to my court.” He sat down in a nearby chair that was almost a throne and spoke to his mother in a low voice; she laughed at whatever he’d said.

  Imogen bowed to the woman and said, “I am Imogen of the Kirkellan.”

  “I am the Voice of Bixhenta, Proxy of Veribold,” the woman said in unaccented Tremontanese. “He bids you welcome in the name of our country.”

  Imogen doubted that. The Proxy’s lips hadn’t moved and he didn’t seem aware of her presence. But she said, “My people are grateful for the relationship with Veribold we have made over the years.”

  The woman bent and said something to Bixhenta, probably translating Imogen’s words, and he replied in Veriboldan. “The Proxy acknowledges the link between your people and ours. We respect your efforts in keeping the Ruskalder at bay, though Veribold needs no protection.”

  Imogen wanted to laugh. Keeping the Ruskalder at bay, as if the Kirkellan were in service to Veribold. Instead, she said, “If our positions were different, I am sure Veribold would do the same for us.”

  The Voice again spoke to the Proxy, who paused before responding. “Veribold does many things for the Kirkellan already. We hope you do not suggest we do more.”

  “I am just…acknowledging our relationship is one of more than trading partners. Which is tradition,” Imogen said, emphasizing the word slightly. “We are especially grateful for silk. It makes the best undergarments.”

  She heard Jeffrey make a kind of choking noise. So he was listening in. Well, she wasn’t going to bow and scrape to this Veriboldan Proxy, whatever that meant, and after all, it was true.

  The woman’s eyes widened. Imogen wondered how much of that she would translate for Bixhenta. Then she noticed the wrinkled face had changed, the lips more compressed, the eyes fractionally wider, and she realized Bixhenta had no trouble at all understanding Tremontanese. So he was using his translator as a diplomatic tool. Imogen wondered what his purpose was; putting people off guard, or giving himself more time to think of responses? She controlled her face. Let’s not give anything away.

  Bixhenta said something when the Voice finished, then, when she would have turned back to Imogen, took hold of her sleeve and said something else. The woman’s eyes again widened, and she said, “Veribold wishes good relations with the Kirkellan.” She wasn’t doing well at concealing her emotions, anger and embarrassment at war on her face. “We wish to discuss further trade arrangements. However, this is not the appropriate place. The Proxy wishes to invite the Kirkellan ambassador to tea at the Veriboldan embassy two days from now. This is a great honor and we hope the Kirkellan ambassador sees it as such.”

  Bixhenta twitched, and he glanced at the Voice so quickly Imogen would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking at him rather than the Voice when she spoke. Imogen was certain that last sentence had been the Voice’s own and guessed that some of Bixhenta’s well-known snobbery belonged to someone else. She b
owed, more deeply than was required, and said, “I am pleased to accept the Proxy’s invitation. I hope we will have a…profitable talk about our two countries and how they benefit each other.” She smiled sweetly at the Voice, who now looked as if she’d swallowed a lemon filled with tacks. “I am certain the matrian is—will be pleased to hear our relation with Veribold is still strong.”

  She bowed from the waist again, this time directly at the Proxy, and he surprised her by inclining his head in her direction. It felt like being dismissed by a King, and she had to stop herself curtseying the way Anneke always had to her. Now what? She took a step backward, then another, not sure how far she had to go before she could turn her back on him.

  Once again, she felt a hand on the small of her back. “I beg your pardon, Bixhenta, but madam ambassador has promised me this dance,” Jeffrey said, and guided her away from the old man toward the center of the room. It felt like a rescue.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jeffrey’s hand tightened on hers. “I had to get away from there before I started laughing,” he said, grinning at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You—oh, take my hand, there, and try not to think too much about the steps or you’ll stumble. You impressed Bixhenta, and he doesn’t impress easily. If only I’d known the key to breaking through his reserve was to talk about underwear, I’d have done that a year ago.”

  “It was only the truth.”

  “And he knew it. You realized he spoke Tremontanese, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a well-kept secret. An even better kept secret is that I speak Veriboldan. Comes in handy, since relations between our governments are rather tense at the moment. Would you like to know what they were saying?”

  “I think perhaps it was not the same as what the Voice said to me.”

  “No. Let’s see.” He pursed his lips in thought. “She said, ‘I think the fat girl—’ I beg your pardon, it’s what she said.”