If Countess Shirlin anticipated a smooth coronation among the Alshari ‘rustics’, she was quickly and savagely corrected at the Tea. Despite their many differences, none of the ladies of the Alshari court could find much flattering to say about Shirlin. She was an interloper attempting to upset the established order, such as it was, and make herself leader without first building a consensus.
Pentandra could see it coming with the accuracy of foresight, thanks to her understanding of her sex’s approach to such things. An important woman from elsewhere suddenly intruding on a pre-established group of women faced incredible scrutiny and criticism . . . not to mention social testing after her acceptance that men simply did not have to contend with. Men tended to test new rivals first, and then extend them membership in the group. Women did things the other way around, usually.
First, Pentandra knew, the established group would extend a fawning invitation to the Countess that implied she was welcome among them with the intimacy of sisters. That had been extended by Lady Bertine, who as the court secretary saw herself as responsible for such things. At Pentandra’s direction she sent Countess Shirlin a prettily calligrapher letter invited her to attend the next Ladies’ Tea, promising friendship, fellowship, and intriguing conversation.
Of course Shirlin appeared with the purpose of dominating that conversation in mind. The mature noblewoman arrived at the function in a new lavender gown in the Wilderhall style, with sharp lines and an efficient cut, with soft leather slippers dyed to match. Her pretty maid followed her in a shorter version of the same gown, only covered with a long apron.
Pentandra immediately noted that the maid, not her mistress, surveyed the room with practiced efficiency. If anyone in Shirlin’s party was one of Grendine’s “family”, it would be the maid, Pentandra guessed.
Countess Shirlin wasted no time in introducing herself and mentioning her friend, The Queen, as often as possible during the process. She repeated the phrase “my good friend, Her Majesty, once said—” so many times that it became a palace cliché before the end of the afternoon. The ploy to increase her social position through such references was incredibly blatant and impressed no one of her position elsewhere. The few ladies at the function who were impressed tended to be on the margins of court life, while the rest of the court maintained the generally low opinion of the Queen.
The stony reception she garnered during her introductions to the group only got worse when Countess Shirlin began making small comments that amounted to criticisms of the ladies of the court. Such as glancing at Sister Saltia, who was much loved by the court despite her usually disheveled appearance, and muttering,
“I don’t know how they do things here, but in Wilderhall the nobility and the clergy dine separately!”
She compounded her social error a few moments later when she attempted a direct strike against the way things had evolved in court by wondering aloud at Viscountess Threanas’ leadership . . . based on her rank.
“In Wilderhall, traditionally the highest ranking lady of the court presides over these things, Viscountess,” she said, rather loudly, as the women seated themselves around the chamber. As only Alshar employed the noble title “viscount”, usually reserved for the nobles in charge of the small but heavily-populated upland regions of Enultramar, and the other ducal courts skipped right from Baron to Count, it was natural for the Castali woman to employ the smear.
Nearly everyone stopped and stared at her for a moment, until proprietary forced them to continue or make a remark. Threanas countered the veiled attack coolly as she took her seat at the unofficial head of the table.
“As I am the highest ranking Alshari lady in residence at the palace, I’m certain you will find that requirement well met,” she said, in a compelling voice. “Until His Grace takes a wife, or we are joined at court by Countess Jaramine, I think I can manage the responsibilities seniority has thrust upon me.”
“Oh, I was just uncertain of the protocol,” Countess Shirlin assured her, fooling no one.
“We do not stand overmuch on protocol, these days, I’m afraid,” Lady Bertine said, pouring tea for the Countess. “This early in the restoration there is just too much to accomplish to be worried by such frivolous things.”
Countess Shirlin was not convinced. “There is always time for proper protocol,” she said, smoothly. “Why, Her Majesty was just saying the other day, ‘in matters of protocol and manners we elevate ourselves above the animals, the gurvani and the common folk and closer to the realms of the gods.’”
“Yes, Her Majesty is a stickler for protocol,” Threanas replied, tersely. “Whereas here at Vorone we have always considered all the women of the court our sisters, regardless of rank or class. If a nun is a loyal retainer of His Grace, then denying her equitable participation in the workings of court serves neither her nor the Duchy. We learn much from having our ecclesiastic sisters here,” she said, smiling to the nuns at the table.
“Well,” Countess Shirlin said, clearing her throat nervously, as she began to see Threanas as the reigning power, here. “Let us rejoice in their fellowship, then, for piety is the duty of us all, as Her Majesty often says.”
“Actually,” Sister Saltia said, biting her lip, “when we gather at these weekly teas, we like to . . . ‘take off the habit at the door’, so to speak,” she said, with delicacy. “This is the one place, the one time during the week where we can put aside our piety or our husbands or our work and enjoy each others’ company. We’re all just girls, here, noble, common, or ecclesiastic. We’re just women.”
“There is no ‘just’ about us!” Threanas objected. “My dear Saltia, whether we have taken sacred orders, become wives and mothers, or dedicated ourselves to service we are the spine that holds the palace together!” she said, fervently. “Let there be no mistake. Our brave men may defend our walls and command our armies, but if it wasn’t for the ink-stained fingers of femininity behind the scenes, they’d all starve to death in their helplessness. The women of this court are its greatest strength. Respect that,” she suggested to the nun. “Always respect that. Now, my dear, can you let us know about the status of payments to your temple? I understand that we are actually ahead of our terms by a surprisingly large margin . . .”
Apparently Countess Shirlin was not anticipating such serious discussion of policy in a palace ladies’ tea, because as soon as the nun began reeling off numbers and payment schedules and monthly revenue figures, and the conversation turned to those numbers and not to whom they should marry off Anguin, the older woman’s eyes began desperately searching the room . . . as if she was seeking some ally to use as leverage as she was upstaged by a portly nun droning on about interest rates.
“This is delightful,” she lied, as she interrupted Saltia’s stirring tale of alternative repayment plans, “but I cannot believe that you ladies have an important festival approaching in a few weeks and you aren’t worried about your garb!”
Pentandra moaned to herself, but she appreciated the reaction of her fellows around the table.
Sister Saltia snorted in an unladylike fashion. “Gosh, I think I have my outfit picked out,” she said, fingering the simple cloth of her habit she wore constantly.
Viscountess Threanas, already on guard against the Countess, sniffed derisively. “I imagine after thirty years attending balls and masques at this palace I can find something in my press that no one currently living has seen before,” she said, snidely.
Pentandra shrugged. “I’m going to wear something magical. As usual,” she dismissed. In truth she was actually concerned about her outfit for the masque . . . but not that concerned. One of the advantages of being a mage was the ability to enchant your clothing to produce a number of impressive effects. While she enjoyed that element of both fashion and magic, it was hardly something she spent a lot of time thinking about . . . not when she was chasing Rats, running the arcane bureaucracy, and trying to plan a long-term defense for Alshar.
“But you can’t a
ll be ready, already,” protested Countess Shirlin. “Usually for a ducal ball every woman in the palace is atwitter with what gown they’ll wear!”
“I’m afraid that the political restoration has interrupted the normal social flow, and we’re just getting back to the rhythm of life afterwards,” Pentandra offered the Countess, diplomatically. But like most diplomatic overtures, the friendly tone concealed a dagger. “When the previous duchess was so viciously and cruelly assassinated in her bed, it took us all by surprise. While we are restored, we are not yet recovered.”
“’We?’” Countess Shirlin asked, amused, speaking directly to Pentandra for the first time since her awkward interview in her office. “You are a Remeran, are you not? I’m surprised that you share the . . . Alshari perspective.” The way she pronounced the word Alshari left little doubt in anyone’s mind how she felt about the region . . . and its people.
A quick glance told her that the rest of the court ladies felt similarly about Shirlin. Pentandra’s ire flared as she saw the sharp looks around the room. “I married an Alshari man,” she reminded the Countess, gently.
“I thought you married a barbarian Kasari?” Countess Shirlin asked, her tone insulting and confused.
“As I am certain any of the ladies at this table can assure you, regardless of my husband’s origins and heritage, he is one of the most admired men in Vorone. And we are both wholehearted supporters of the rightful Duke of Alshar,” she added. “Indeed, we are both sworn to do anything in our power to protect him.”
Countess Shirlin was quiet, after that, finally understanding that the consensus of opinion at the Tea would be against her long before it supported her. Snubbed on her attempts to first put down the clergy and then undermine the ladies of the court in their confidence, Countess Shirlin shrewdly changed her tactics about the time Lady Pleasure arrived, late, for the event.
That’s when Pentandra started to relax about the entire affair. Between Threanas and Lady Pleasure, Countess Shirlin had irritated two of the most powerful women in the Wilderlands. While she thought Threanas was a stuffy old bat, she was Alshar’s stuffy old bat, and she was more than capable of defending herself from Shirlin’s feeble attacks.
If Shirlin thought that Threanas was a vulnerable target in the group, she nearly pounced on Lady Pleasure’s perceived vulnerabilities.
The Dowager Baroness finally showed up a half-hour late for the Tea – alone for once – in a spectacular pink riding gown embroidered prettily in green around the collar and cuffs. Countess Shirlin was instantly effusive in her praise for the dress, which was cut in a Castali style, and for the beauty and poise of its wearer.
But she also mistakenly considered the late arrival of a mere baroness to the proceedings worthy of her criticism, and her target more than worthy of her disdain. It was a cheap ploy, Pentandra knew. Shirlin focused her conversation on the younger, less well-positioned ladies of the court and sought to unite them against the older women, through subtle (and not so subtle) social manipulation, implied threats, and flattery.
When Baroness Amandice insisted on being referred to by the court (and by Countess Shirlin) as ‘Lady Pleasure’, a steely self-assuredness came over the Castali courtier. An old dowager, such as herself, only with the aspect of youth and beauty? One with a quirk for grandiose names? Countess Shirlin smiled, after the introduction. She had found her target.
Pentandra watched, fascinated, as the bitchy matron from Wilderhall decided to pick a fight with the goddess of love and beauty.
“Is that the dress you’ll be wearing to the Flower Festival?” she began, cordially enough.
“The Wildflower Festival,” Amandice corrected, automatically. She picked at the skirt. “This?” Lady Pleasure asked, amused. “Oh, not at all. One must have something new to celebrate the new season, don’t you think, Excellency?”
“Well, my friend Her Majesty often says that new gowns make new women of us all,” Shirlin quoted, absently, as she tried to discover some point of social leverage against the beautiful woman. Lady Pleasure decided not to wait on the arrival opportunity, and made some herself.
“Interesting,” Lady Pleasure observed.
“Oh, Her Majesty is filled with sage advice,” assured Shirlin, finally happy to see her name dropping had gotten some traction with the court.
“Not the observation – that’s trite and simple-minded – but your enduring fascination with the Queen. It’s almost as if you are afraid of having an opinion she might object to, so you merely borrow hers. Tell me, does she mind? Or do you have her permission to ransack her conversational closet? Oh, those are delightful slippers, are they suede?” she asked, changing the subject of the conversation far too quickly for Countess Shirlin to keep up with.
A moment later the Castali noblewoman tried again to insist on her social importance, this time through criticizing the palace itself . . . and attempting to segue into a conversation where she felt she had more depth.
“Has anyone noticed the appalling number of brazen young sluts parading through the corridors?” she asked, sniffing disgustedly. “I understand the worldly ways of court life, but this is unreasonable! It’s like a forest of tarts out there! Why, on my way here I saw two of them doing . . . well, Trygg forbid what they were doing, but it was completely inappropriate for the palace! Someone should speak to the captain of the guard about the number of filthy whores he’s admitting!”
“Really?” Viscountess Threanas asked, mildly. While she was of much the same opinion, she recognized that Countess Shirlin had marched herself defiantly into the jaws of Lady Pleasure. Those were her girls, after all, and even Threanas had to admit that they were well-behaved, compared to the other courtesans who haunted the palace. The Minister of Treasure might have been unpleasant and rigid, but she appreciated the threat to the court by Shirlin’s inclusion. She was clearly looking forward to watching the coming verbal dismemberment. “From what I understand, the palace guard is quite in favor of the number of nubile maidens lingering in our halls.”
That was a far cry from Threanas’ usual moralizing, Pentandra realized. Threanas had wisely recognized that supporting a mere rival, Lady Pleasure, over the interloping Countess served the court best . . . and if that meant compromising her stated principals for pragmatic purpose, she was more than capable.
“That is precisely my point!” fumed the countess. “We simply must restrict those vile sluts to the street where they belong! It’s disgraceful and improper! It puts Duke Anguin in jeopardy. I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” she warned, “and it rarely ends well. When you let disgusting sluts and vile whoremongers into the palace, soon disease and scandal follow! Her Majesty would never permit such indecencies! Why, if no other reason, we must find a suitable bride for His Grace to prevent any of those whores from stealing the throne away from him!”
A hush fell across the table. While all the women there had felt the pressure implicit in having so many young, pretty and sexually available women around all the time, none of them had been willing to challenge the maidens so rudely, in light of the special position of favor Lady Pleasure currently enjoyed with the Duke. Indeed, many ladies of the court secretly favored or even envied the young whores who ran errands for their mistress on their days off. Likewise, those involved in revenues were aware of the growing monthly tax payments the House of Flowers was now paying to the Duchy, and were cautious of how they spoke of the institution.
From the look on Lady Pleasure’s face, she had not taken Shirlin’s assessment well. Pentandra was the first who dared speak after Countess Shirlin, who was looking around at the faces of her fellow ladies in vain for support .
“I’ve actually enjoyed having so many bright-faced young girls around,” Pentandra offered, slowly. “It breaks of the monotony of handsome guardsmen, wrinkled dowagers, and ugly old ministers.”
It was a conversational peace offering, an opportunity to change the subject to something less provocative. Anything less provoc
ative.
But having once chosen her topic, Shirlin was unwilling to back away from it.
“I don’t find anything particularly enjoyable about nasty little sluts slinking around in the shadows, hiking their skirts and preying on our young men,” Countess Shirlin said, stiffly. “But then, you are the one who ‘studies’ such sluts, I believe. What an amusing hobby.”
With one sentence, the Countess managed to alienate both Pentandra and Lady Pleasure at the same time, and gave them social permission to ally, despite their severe differences. Pentandra wondered idly if the Viscountess would try to stop the impending social carnage or even join in on Countess Shirlin’s side, but Threanas proved too wise.
She sat back and watched two experts demolish the Countess instead.
“I study all forms of sex and magic,” Pentandra replied in a low, calm voice. “Even the really boring and pathetic types,” she said, pointedly. She looked the countess up and down. “Somehow I don’t think you would be interested in my work, Excellency. At your age,” she added, casually. The dig struck home. “But if you are, there are a half-dozen monographs I’ve written on the subject available at most magical academy libraries,” she added, softly.
“I could hardly be interested in something a woman who studies magic and whores for a living wrote,” Countess Shirlin said with a disgusted sneer, gaining confidence in her position as she savaged Pentandra. In other circumstances she might have been on the right track by shaming the sexuality of a ducal court . . . but in Vorone, at the moment, insulting either magi or whores was not a particularly smart idea.
“You know how to read?” Pentandra shot back in a sharp murmur. “Really, that’s quite remarkable.”
“I’ve heard the Castali have encouraged a few of their noblewomen to take up the art,” Sister Saltia said with uncharacteristic cattiness. She was far from adept at tearing down other woman in social circumstances. But she was willing to learn for Countess Shirlin’s sake. “Apparently they’re eager to adopt Alshari standards in such matters.”
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 57
