Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  Besides, I thought it looked nice on me. She’d been a little taller, but otherwise our builds were much alike. I put the gown on, combed out my hair and rebraided it, and wrapped it up in its accustomed coronet.

  Then I went down to the upper parlor that they seemed to have adopted. I could hear random notes from the harp, a shivery pleasant sound that plucked at old and beloved memories, just as wearing the gown did.

  I slipped through the door tapestry, and three faces turned toward me.

  And my dear brother snorted. “Mel! Where are your wits gone begging? Why d’you have to wear an old gown thirty years out-of-date when you can have anything you want?”

  I turned right around and started to leave, but Nimiar rose and sped to my side, her small hand grasping my gem-encircled wrist. “This is a lovely dress, and if it’s old, what’s the odds? A lady has the right to be comfortable in her own home.”

  Bran rubbed his chin. “Don’t tell me you ever looked like that?”

  “Oh, Branaric. Take Lord Vidanric up to dinner. I’ll play afterward. The harp isn’t ready yet.”

  “But—”

  “Please,” she said.

  Shevraeth’s lips were twitching. He jerked his chin toward the doorway and my brother followed, protesting all the way.

  My eyes stung. I stood like a stone statue as Nimiar sighed then said, “Your brother is a dear, and I do love him for the way he never fears to tell the truth. But he really doesn’t understand some things, does he?”

  “No,” I squeaked. My voice seemed to come from someone else.

  Nimiar ran her fingers along the harp strings and cocked her head, listening to the sounds they produced. “No one,” she said, “—well, no ordinary person—sits down to a harp and plays perfectly. It takes time and training.”

  I nodded stupidly.

  She dropped her hands. “When Branaric came to Athanarel, he knew nothing of etiquette or Court custom. Arrived wearing cast-off war gear belonging to Lord Vidanric, his arm in a dirty sling, his nose red from a juicy cold. There are those at Court who would have chewed him like wolves with a bone, except he freely admitted to being a rustic. Thought it a very good joke. Then he’d been brought by the marquis, who is a leader of fashion, and Savona took to him instantly. The Duke of Savona is another leader. And…” She hesitated. “And certain women who also lead fashion liked him. Added was the fact that you Astiars have become something of heroes, and it became a fad to teach him. His blunt speech was a refreshing change, and he doesn’t care at all what people think of him. But you do, don’t you?” She peered into my face. “You care—terribly.”

  I bit my lip.

  She touched my wrist. “Let us make a pact. If you will come to Athanarel and dance at my wedding, I will undertake to teach you everything you need to know about Court life. And I’ll help you select a wardrobe—and no one need ever know.”

  I swallowed, then took a deep, unsteady breath.

  “What is it?” She looked unhappy. “Do you mistrust me?”

  I shook my head so hard my coronet came loose, and a loop settled over one eye. “They would know,” I whispered, waving a hand.

  “They? Your servants? Oh. You mean Branaric and Lord Vidanric?”

  I nodded. “They’ll surely want to know my reasons. Since I didn’t come to Court before.”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry about Bran. All he wants, you must see, is to show you off at Athanarel. He knew you were refurbishing this castle, and I rather think he assumed you were—somehow—learning everything he was learning and obtaining a fashionable wardrobe as well. And every time he talks of you it’s always to say how much more clever you are than he is. I really think he expected to bring us here and find you waiting as gowned and jeweled as my cousin Tamara.”

  I winced. “That sounds, in truth, like Branaric.”

  “And as for Vidanric, well, you’re safe there. I’ve never met anyone as closemouthed, when he wants to be. He won’t ask your reasons. What?”

  “I said, ‘Hah.’”

  “What is it, do you mislike him?” Again she was studying me, her fingers playing with the pretty fan hanging at her waist.

  “Yes. No. Not mislike, but more…mistrust. Not what he’ll do, but what he might say,” I babbled. “Oh, never mind. It’s all foolishness. Suffice it to say I feel better when we’re at opposite ends of the country, but I’ll settle for opposite ends of the castle.”

  Her eyes widened. If she hadn’t been a lady, I would have said she was on the verge of whistling. “Well, here’s a knot. But—there’s nothing for it.” She closed the fan with a snap, then ran her hands over the harp.

  “Why should it matter?” I asked, after a long moment. “If I don’t want to be around Shevraeth, I mean.”

  She plucked a string and bent down to twist the key, then plucked it again, her head cocked, though I have a feeling she wasn’t listening. Finally she said, “Of course you probably know he’s likely to be the new king. His parents are in Athanarel now, his father making his first appearance in many years, and he came armed with a Letter of Regard from Queen Yustnesveas Landis of Sartor. It seems that in her eyes the Renselaeus family has the best claim to the kingdom of Remalna.”

  Half a year ago I would have been puzzled by this, but my subsequent reading gave me an inkling of what protracted and ticklish diplomacy must have gone on beneath the surface of events to have produced such a result. “Well. So the Merindars no longer have a legal claim. If they mean to pursue one.” I added hastily, “Meant to pursue one.”

  She gave a little nod. “Precisely. As it transpires, the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus do not want to rule. They’re merely there to oversee what their son has accomplished and, I think, to establish a sense of order and authority. It is very hard to gainsay either of them, especially the prince,” she added with a smile.

  When I nodded, she looked surprised. “You have met him, then?”

  “Yes. Briefly.”

  “Would that be when you made the alliance? You know how bad Bran is at telling stories. A random sentence or two, then he scratches his head and claims he can’t remember any more. And the Renselaeuses don’t talk about the civil war at all.”

  This news surprised and amazed me. A portion of the tightness inside me eased a little.

  “To resume—and we’d better hurry, or they’ll be down here clamoring for our company before their supper goes cold—Lord Vidanric has been working very hard ever since the end of the fighting. Too hard, some say. He came to Athanarel sick and has been ill off and on since then, for he seldom sleeps. He’s either in the saddle, or else his lamps are burning half the night in his wing of the Residence. He’s here on his mother’s orders, to rest. He and your brother have become fast friends, I think because Branaric, in his own way, is so very undemanding. He wants no favors or powers. He likes to enjoy his days. This seems to be what Vidanric needs right now.”

  “Do you think he’ll make a good king?” I asked.

  Again she seemed surprised. “Yes,” she said. “But then I’ve known him all my life.”

  As if that explains everything, I thought. Maybe, to her, it did. He was a good prospect for a king because he was her friend, and because they were both courtiers, raised the same way.

  And then I wondered who—if anyone—at Court was willing to speak not for themselves, but for the people, to find out who really would be the best ruler?

  A discreet tap outside the door brought our attention round. Calden, the server from the inn, parted the tapestry. “Count Branaric sent me to find out if you’re coming?”

  “In a moment, thanks,” I said.

  “Will you agree to my pact, then?” Nimiar asked.

  I was going to ask why they couldn’t marry here, but I knew that was the coward’s way out. I did not wish to get involved in any more civil wars, but that didn’t mean I ought not do what I could to ensure that the next reign would be what Papa had wished for when he commenced planning his
revolt.

  And the best way to find out, I knew as I looked into Nimiar’s face, would not be by asking questions of third parties, but by going to the capital and finding out on my own.

  So I squashed down my reluctance and said, “If you can teach me not to make a fool of myself at that Court, I’ll gladly come to see you marry Bran.”

  “You will like Court life, I promise,” she said, smiling sweetly as we went out of the parlor.

  I took care to walk behind her so she could not see my face.

  oOo

  For the next several weeks Nee and I spent the largest part of our days together as she tried to remake me into a Court lady. Most of the time it was fun, a little like what I imagined playacting to be, as we stood side by side in front of a mirror and practiced walking and sitting and curtseying. Nee seemed to enjoy teaching me. The more we talked, the less opaque I found her. Beneath the automatic smiling mask of Court, she was a quiet, restful person who liked comfort and pleasant conversation.

  In between lessons she talked about her friends at Court: what they liked, or said, or how they entertained. Pleasant, easy talk, meant to show all her friends in the best light; I became aware that she did not like politics or gossip. She never once mentioned the Marquise of Merindar.

  In my turn I told her my history, bits at a time, but only if she asked. And ask she did. She listened soberly, wincing from time to time; one cold, blustery day I recounted how I had ended up in Baron Debegri’s dungeon, and my narrow escape therefrom.

  At the end of that story she shuddered and asked, “How could you have lived through that and still be sane?”

  “Am I sane?” I joked. “There are some who might argue.” Her reaction secretly cheered me, exactly like a ten-year-old who has managed to horrify her friends. It isn’t much of a claim to fame, but it’s all I have, I thought later as I stared down at the third fan I’d broken, and when—again—I’d forgotten which curtsey to make to which person under which circumstances.

  The one thing I couldn’t talk about was that terrible day when Shevraeth brought me to face Galdran before the entire Court. I did not want to know if Nimiar had been there, and had looked at me, and had laughed.

  We saw Bran and Shevraeth only at dinner, and that seldom enough, for they were often away. When the weather was particularly bad, they might be gone for several days. On the evenings we were alone, Nee and I would curl up in her room or mine, eating from silver trays and talking.

  Branaric and Shevraeth managed to be around on most days when the weather permitted gatherings in the old garrison courtyard for swordfighting practice. Even though I was not very good at it, I enjoyed sword work. At least I enjoyed it when not rendered acutely conscious of all my failings, when the bouts were attended by someone tall, strong, naturally gifted with grace, and trained since childhood—such as the Marquis of Shevraeth. So after a couple of particularly bad practices (in which I tried so hard not to get laughed at that I made more mistakes than ever), I stopped going whenever I saw him there.

  When Nee and I did join Bran and Shevraeth for dinner, for the most part I sat in silence and watched Nee covertly, trying to copy her manners. No one—not even Bran—remarked on it if I sat through an entire meal without speaking.

  Thus I was not able to engender any discussions about the Marquise of Merindar, so the letter—and the question of kingship—stayed dormant, except at night in my troubled dreams.

  oOo

  Nee had brought only one seamstress, whom she dispatched with outriders the day after our conversation in the parlor. Armed with one of my drafts on our bankers at Arclor House, this woman was entrusted to hire three more seamstresses and to bring cloth suitable for gowns and accoutrements.

  I don’t know what instructions Nimiar gave her seamstress in private. I had expected a modest trunk of nice fabric, enough for a gown or two in the current fashions. Instead, a week later a hired wagon rolled up bearing enough stuff to outfit the entire village, plus three determined young journey-seamstresses who came highly recommended, and ready to make their fortunes.

  “Good,” Nee said, when we had finished interviewing them. She walked about inspecting the fabulous silks, velvets, linens, and a glorious array of embroidery twists, nodding happily. “Just what I wanted. Melise is a treasure.”

  “Isn’t this too much?” I asked, astounded.

  She grinned. “Not when you count up what you’ll need to make the right impression. Remember, you are acquiring overnight what ought to have been put together over years. Morning gowns, afternoon gowns, riding tunics and trousers, party dresses, and perhaps one ball gown, though that kind of thing you can order when we get to town, for those take an unconscionable amount of time to make if you don’t have a team doing it.”

  “A team? Doing nothing but sewing? What a horrible life!” I exclaimed.

  “Those who choose it would say the same about yours, I think,” Nee said with a chuckle. “Meaning your life as a revolutionary. There are many, not just women, though it’s mostly females, who like very much to sit in a warm house and sew and gossip all day. In the good houses the tailors have music, or have books read to them, and the products are the better for their minds being engaged in something interesting. This is their art, as surely as yon scribe regards her map and her fellows regard their books.” She pointed toward the library. “And how those at Court view the way they conduct their public lives.”

  “So much to learn,” I whined. “How will I manage?”

  She laughed.

  And the next day a new arrival brought my most formidable interview yet: with my new maid.

  “Her name is Mora,” Nee told me, “and she’s a connection of my own Ilvet. An aunt, I think. Ilvet promises she is deft and discreet. She was working for one of the northern families—low pay and too much work—but she stayed until her mistress married and adopted into a household even more huskscraping. Mora and the others found themselves each doing the work of three, while living in chambers that hadn’t been altered for four hundred years—right down to the mold on the stones. If you like her, she will then hire your staff, whom you will never really see.”

  I shook my head. “Strange, to consider having a staff I won’t see.” But as I went to the interview, my thought was: You mean, if she likes me.

  Mora was tall and thin, with gray-streaked dark hair. Her face was more inscrutable even than Shevraeth’s, I saw with dismay. She bowed respectfully, then waited for me to speak, her hands folded.

  I took a deep breath. “I gather you’re used to sophisticated Court people, and I’d better tell you right out that I’m not sophisticated and haven’t been to Court. Well, except once, but that was against my will. It’s true that I’m going to Court, but I don’t know that I’ll stay past the wedding, and then—most likely—it’s back here for the rest of my life. I go barefoot all summer, and until now I’ve never owned more than one hat. And my friends have all been village people.”

  She said nothing, but there was the faintest crinkling of humor about her eyes.

  “On the other hand,” I said, “I’m used to cleaning up after myself. I also won’t interfere with your hiring whomever you need, and you’ll be paid whatever you think fair, at least while we can pay. The fortune came to us on someone’s whim, so I suppose it could disappear the same way.”

  Mora bowed. “You honor me with your honesty, my lady.”

  “Does that mean you’ll stay?” I asked, after an uncomfortable pause.

  She smiled a little. “I believe, my lady, it is for you to decide if you want me.”

  I clapped my hands, relieved that this formidable woman had not left in disgust. “Great. Then start today.” I grinned. “There’s plenty to do if I’m to get properly civilized.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My first gown was ready shortly thereafter.

  It was a dinner gown; I was learning the distinctions between the types of clothing. Morning gowns were the simplest, designed to be pract
ical for working at home. Afternoon gowns were for going visiting, for receiving visitors, and for walking. Dinner gowns were elaborate in the upper half, meant to make one look good while sitting, and narrow below, so one’s skirts wouldn’t drape beyond one’s cushion. The distinction between party gowns and dinner gowns was blurring, Nee told me, because so frequently now there were dances directly after dinner; quite different again were the ball gowns, which were designed to look good moving. And then there was the formal Court gown, meant for state occasions, and few people had more than one, or possibly two, of these—in these, the fashions had changed the least.

  “Everyone will retire those they wore for Galdran’s affairs, though, either giving them away, or consigning them to attics for their descendants to marvel at, or having them taken apart and remade into new gowns, for the materials are hideously expensive. At the coronation of the new ruler everything will be all new.”

  “So all these other fashions will change again?” I asked.

  “They change all the time.” She smiled as I put on my first dinner gown and started lacing up the front. “Remind me to take you to the Heraldry Archive. There’s been someone to draw pictures of what the rulers wear for, oh, centuries. It’s astonishing to look through those pictures and see what our ancestors wore. I quite like the silken tunics and loose trousers of four hundred years ago, when we had Theraez of the West as our queen. Several generations before that, our climate must have been very warm, for all the hats were sun hats, and short hair was the fashion. No one wore gloves. Quite the opposite of the awful things they wore a hundred years ago—all gaudy, with odd angles, and those huge shoulders on the men, meant to cover up the fact that the king was as vain as he was fat. After him the clothes were more attractive in design, but everything was stiff with jewels and metallic embroidery. It was probably blinding in the sunlight! But that’s in living memory, and my grandmother talks of how old all the Court leaders then were, and how very, very formal.”