Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  I skipped down a ways, then started to laugh when I read:

  …and mock-solemn, matching his Manner to the most precise Degree, I challenged him to a Duel. He was forced to go along with the Jest, lest the Court laugh at him instead of with him, but he liked it Not…

  …and at the first bells of Gold we were there on the Green, and lo, the Entire Court was out with us to see the Duel. Instead of Horses, I had brought big, shaggy Dogs from the southern Islands, playful and clumsy under their Gilt Saddles, and for Lances, we had great paper Devices which were already Limp and Dripping from the Rain.…

  Twice he tried to speak Privily to me, but knowing he would apologize and thus end the Ridiculous Spectacle, I heeded him Not, and so we progressed through the Duel, attended with all proper Appurtenances, from Seconds to Trumpeteers, with the Court laughing themselves Hoarse and No One minding the increasing Downpour. In making us both Ridiculous I believe I put paid to all such Advances in future…

  The next page went on about other matters. I laid the book down, staring at the starliss as I thought this over. The incident on this page was a response—the flower made that clear enough—but what did it mean?

  And why the mystery? Since my correspondent had taken the trouble to answer, why not write a plain letter?

  Again I took up my pen, and I wrote carefully:

  Dear Mysterious Benefactor.

  I read the pages you marked, and though I was greatly diverted, the connection between this story and my own dilemma leaves me more confused than before. Would you advise my young lady to act the fool to the high-ranking lady—or are you hinting that the young one already has? Or is it merely a suggestion that she follow the duchess’s example and ward off the high-ranking lady’s hints with a joke duel?

  If you’ve figured out that this is a real situation and not a mere mental exercise, then you should also know that I promised someone important that I would not let myself get involved in political brangles, and I wish most straitly to keep this promise. Truth to tell, if you have insights that I have not—and it’s obvious that you do—in this dilemma I’d rather have plain discourse than gifts.

  The last line I lingered over the longest. I almost crossed it out, but instead folded the letter, sealed it, and when Mora came in, I gave it to her to deliver right away. Then I dressed and went out to walk.

  oOo

  In the past, when something bothered me, I’d retreat up into the mountains to think it through. Now I strolled through Athanarel’s beautiful garden, determined to review the entire sequence of events.

  I remembered one interesting detail, which I’d managed to forget until now: Flauvic’s little gesture with the fan. On guard.

  That, I could pursue.

  Running and walking, I cut through the gardens. The air was cold and brisk, washed clean from rain, the sky an intense, pure blue.

  Growing up in the mountains as I had, I’d discovered that maintaining a true sense of direction was instinctive. As I homed in on Merindar House, taking the straightest way rather than the ordered paths, I found ancient bearded trees and tangled grottoes. Just before I reached the house, I had to clamber over a mossy wall that had begun to crumble over the centuries.

  Pausing to run my fingers over its small, weather-worn stones, I wondered if the wall had been set during the time my mother’s family had ruled. Had one of my ancestors looked on these stones, and what had been her hopes and fears? What kind of life had she seen at Athanarel?

  Vaulting over into the tall grass on the other side, I turned my attention to the problem at hand. For there was a problem.

  I emerged from the protective shelter of silvery-leaved argan trees and surveyed the ornamental garden, then the house. Its blind windows and slowly strolling guards served as a reminder of the hidden eyes that would observe my walking up and demanding to talk to the heir.

  I retreated behind the curtain of breeze-stirred leaves and made my way over a log that crossed a little stream, then crossed the rough ground on a circuit round the house. On the other side of the house, spread a broad, shaded terrace. Dressed in pale shades of peach and gray, Flauvic sat alone at a table, absorbed in reading and writing.

  I picked up a handful of small stones and tossed it in his direction.

  For a heartbeat he went very still. Then his head turned, and when he saw me he smiled, swung lightly to his feet and crossed the terrace. “Serenades,” he said, “are customarily performed under moonlight, or have fashions here changed?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “No one’s serenaded me, and as for my serenading anyone else, even if I wanted to, which I don’t, my singing voice sounds like a sick crow.”

  “Then to what do I owe the honor of this delightful—but admittedly unorthodox—visit?”

  “That.” I demonstrated his gesture with my hands. “You did that when your mother took me away last night. I want to know what you meant by it.”

  His fine brows lifted slightly, and with leisurely grace he stepped over the low terrace wall and joined me among the ferns. “You do favor the blunt, don’t you?”

  It was phrased as a question, but his lack of surprise hinted fairly broadly that he’d heard gossip to this effect. My chin came up; I said, “I favor truth over style.”

  He retorted in the mildest voice, “Having endured the blunt style favored by my late Uncle Galdran, which had little to do with truth as anyone else saw it, I beg you to forgive me when I admit that I am more dismayed than impressed.”

  “All right.” I shrugged. “So there can be truth with style, as well as the opposite. I haven’t been raised to think that I’d find much truth in Court, though there’s plenty of style to spare there.”

  “Will I seem unnecessarily contentious if I admit that my own life experience has engendered in me a preference for style, which at least has the virtue of being diverting?” It seemed impossible that Flauvic was exactly my age. “Not so diverting is the regrettable conviction that truth doesn’t exist.” His golden eyes were wide and curiously blank of expression.

  “Doesn’t exist? Of course it does,” I exclaimed.

  “Is your truth the same as mine? I wonder.” He was smiling faintly, his gaze as limpid as the stream rilling at our feet, but I sensed a challenge.

  I said gloomily, “All right, then, you’ve neatly sidestepped my question—if you even intended to answer it.”

  He laughed, so softly I barely heard it, and bowed, his hands moving in a quick airy gesture. I gasped when I saw the bouquet of flowers in his hands. As I reached, they poofed into glowing cinders of every color, which then swirled around and reformed into butterflies. Then he clapped his hands, and they vanished.

  “Magic!” I exclaimed. “You know magic?”

  “This is merely illusion.” His tone was dismissive, apologetic. “It’s a kind of fad in Sles Adran. Or was. No one is permitted to study true magic unless invited by the Council of Mages, which is agreed on by the royal treaty.”

  “I’d love to learn it,” I exclaimed. “Real magic or not.”

  We were walking, randomly I thought; in the distance I heard the sweet chiming bells announcing second-gold.

  Flauvic lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug; his movements, his expressions, were subtle. “I could show you a few tricks, but I’ve forgotten most of them. You’d have to ask a play magician to show you—that’s how we learned.”

  “Play magician?” I repeated.

  “Ah,” he said. “Plays here in Remalna are presently performed on a bare stage, without illusion to dress it.”

  “Well, some players now have painted screens and costumes, as in two plays here during recent days. I take it you haven’t seen them?”

  “I rarely leave the house,” he said apologetically.

  We reached a path as the beat of horse hooves sounded from not far ahead. I stepped back; Flauvic lifted his head as two riders trotted into view.

  My first reaction was blank dismay when I saw Savona and Shevrae
th riding side by side. The three lords greeted one another with practiced politeness; and when the newcomers turned to me, I curtsied silently.

  By the time I had realized that the very fineness of their manners was a kind of message, somehow it was agreed—amid a barrage of mutual compliments—that Flauvic’s escort could be dispensed with and the two would accompany me to the Residence. Savona swung down from his mount and took the reins in hand, falling in step on my left side. Shevraeth joined me on my right. They were both informally dressed—just returning from the swordfighting practice.

  Flauvic had disappeared, as if he’d dissolved into the ground.

  All my impressions and speculations resolved into one question: Why did they think I had to be accompanied? “Please don’t think you have to change your direction for my sake,” I said. “I’m out wandering about, and my steps took me past Merindar House.”

  “And lose an opportunity to engage in converse without your usual crowd of swains?” Savona said, bowing.

  “Crowd? Swains?” I repeated, then laughed. “Has the rain affected your vision? Or am I the blind one? I don’t see any swains. Just as well, too.”

  A choke of laughter on my right made me realize—belatedly—that my comment could be taken as an insult. “I don’t mean you two!” I added hastily and glanced up at Savona (I couldn’t bring myself to look at Shevraeth). His dark eyes narrowed in mirth.

  “About your lack of swains,” Savona murmured. “Deric would be desolated to hear your heartless glee.”

  I grinned. “I suspect he’d be desolated if I thought him half serious.”

  “Implying,” Savona said with mendacious shock, “that I am not serious? My dear Meliara! I assure you I fell in love with you last year—the very moment I heard that you had pinched a chicken pie right from under Nenthar Debegri’s twitchy nose, then rode off on his favorite mount, getting clean away from three ridings of his handpicked warriors.”

  Taken by surprise, I laughed out loud.

  Savona gave me a look of mock consternation. “Now don’t—please don’t—destroy my faith in heroism by telling me it’s not true.”

  “Oh, it’s true enough, but heroic?” I scoffed. “What’s so heroic about that? I was hungry! Only got one bite of the pie,” I added with real regret. I was surprised again when both lords started laughing.

  “And then you compounded your attractions by keeping my lazy cousin on the hop for days.” He indicated Shevraeth with an airy wave of the hand.

  Those memories effectively banished my mirth. For it wasn’t only Galdran’s bullying cousin Baron Debegri who had chased me halfway across the kingdom after my escape from Athanarel. Shevraeth had been there as well. I felt my shoulders tighten against the old embarrassment, but I tried not to show it, responding as lightly as I could. “On the contrary, it was he who kept me on the hop for days. Very long days,” I said. And because the subject had been broached and I was already embarrassed, I risked a quick look at Shevraeth and asked, “When you said to search the houses. In the lake town. Did you know I was inside one?”

  He hesitated, looking across at Savona, who merely grinned at us both. Then Shevraeth said somewhat dryly, “I…had a sense of it.”

  “And outside Thoresk. When you and Debegri rode by. You looked right at me. Did you know that was me?”

  “Will it make you very angry if I admit that I did? But the timing seemed inopportune for us to, ah, reacquaint ourselves.” All this was said with his customary drawl. But I had a feeling he was bracing for attack.

  I sighed. “I’m not angry. I know now that you weren’t trying to get me killed, but to keep me from getting killed by Debegri and Galdran’s people. Except—well, never mind. The whole thing is stupid.”

  “Come then,” Savona said immediately. “Forgive me for straying into memories you’d rather leave behind, and let us instead discuss tonight’s prospective delights.”

  He continued with a stream of small talk about the latest entertainments—all easy, unexceptionable conversation. Slowly I relaxed, though I never dared look at Shevraeth again.

  So it was another unpleasant surprise when I glanced down an adjoining pathway to find the tight-lipped face of Lady Tamara framed in a truly spectacular walking hat.

  Tight-lipped for the blink of an eye, then she was smiling prettily. She curtseyed to the two and greeting me with lavish compliments as she fell in step on my right. Shevraeth moved to the outside of the path to make room, his gray still following obediently behind.

  The conversation went on, but this time Tamara was the focus. When we reached the bridge just before the rose garden where several paths intersected, she turned to me. “You did promise me, my dear countess, a little of your time. I think I will hold you to that promise, perhaps tomorrow evening?”

  “I—well—” Answers and images cartwheeled wildly through my mind. “I think—that is, if I haven’t forgotten—”

  She spoke across me to Savona. “You’ll have the evening free?”

  He bowed; though I hadn’t heard or seen anything untoward in that brief exchange, I saw her eyes narrow the slightest degree. Then she peered under her lashes at Shevraeth. “And you, Vidanric?”

  “Regrettably, my mother has a previous claim on me,” he said.

  Tamara flicked a curtsey, then turned to me. “I’ll invite a few more of your many friends. Do not distress me with a refusal.”

  There was no polite way to get around that, or if there was, it was beyond my skills. “Of course,” I said. “Be delighted.”

  She curtsied gravely, then began talking with enviable ease about the latest play.

  Silent, I walked along until we came to an intersection. Then I whirled to face them all. “I fear I have to leave you all now. Good day!” I swept a general curtsey then fled.

  oOo

  When I returned from that night’s dinner party at Nee’s family’s house, I found two letters on my table. One was immediately recognizable as Oria’s weekly report on Tlanth’s affairs, which I left for later; Tlanth had been flourishing peacefully. All my problems were here.

  The second letter was sealed plainly, with no crest. I flung myself onto my pillows, broke the seal impatiently, and read:

  My Dear Countess:

  You say you would prefer discourse to gifts. I am yours to command. I will confess my hesitancy was due largely to my own confusion. It seems, from my vantage anyway, that you are surrounded by people in whom you could confide and from whom you could obtain excellent advice. Your turning to a faceless stranger for both could be ascribed to a taste for the idiosyncratic if not to mere caprice.

  I winced and dropped the paper to the table. “Well, I asked for the truth,” I muttered, and picked it up again.

  But I am willing to serve as foil, if foil you require. Judging from what you reported of your conversation with your lady of high rank, the insights you requested are these: First, with regard to her hint that someone else in power lied about rendering assistance at a crucial moment the year previous, you will not see either contender for power with any clarity until you ascertain which of them is telling the truth.

  Second, she wishes to attach you to her cause. From my limited understanding of said lady, I suspect she would not so bestir herself unless she believed you to be in, at least potentially, a position of influence.

  There was no signature, no closing.

  I read it through three times, then folded it carefully and fitted it inside one of my books.

  Pulling a fresh sheet of paper before me, I wrote:

  Dear Unknown:

  The only foil—actually, fool—here is me, which isn’t any pleasure to write. But I don’t want to talk about my past mistakes, I want to learn to avoid making the same or like ones in future. Your advice about the event of last year (an escape) I thought of already and have begun my investigation. As for this putative position of power, it’s just that. I expect you’re being confused by my proximity to power—my brother being friend
to the possible king and my living here in the Residence. But believe me, no one could possibly be more ignorant or less influential than I.

  With a sense of relief I folded that letter up, sealed it, and gave it to Mora to send along the usual route. Then I went gratefully to sleep.

  oOo

  I dressed carefully for Tamara’s party, choosing a gown that became me well—the effect of knowing one looks one’s best is enormously bracing—but which was subdued enough that even the most critical observer could not fault me for attempting to draw the eye from my beautiful hostess.

  Neither Bran nor Nee was invited, which dismayed me. I remembered Tamara having promised to invite my friends, and I knew I would have refused had I known Bran and Nee would be overlooked. But Nee insisted it would be a terrible slight not to go, so alone I went.

  And nothing could have been more gracious than my welcome. With her own hands Tamara pressed a glass of iced punch on me. The liquid was astringent with citrus and blended fruit flavors. “Do you like it, Countess?” she said, her brows raised in an anxious line. “It is a special order. I tried so hard to find something new to please you.”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said, swallowing a second sip. My throat burned a little, but another sip of the cool drink soothed that. “Lovely!”

  “Please drink up—I’ll get you another,” she said, smiling as she led me to the honored place by the fire.

  And she waited on me herself, never permitting me to rise. I sat there and sipped at my punch cup, which never seemed to be empty, and tried to follow the swift give and take of the conversational circle. The talk reminded me of a spring river, moving rapidly with great splashes of wit over quite a range of territory. Like a river, it wound and doubled back and split and re-formed; as the evening progressed I had more and more difficulty navigating in it. I was increasingly distracted by the glowing candles, and by the brilliance with which the colorful fabrics and jewels and embroidery reflected the golden light. Faces, too, caught my eye, though at times I couldn’t follow what the speakers said. With a kind of fixed attention I watched the swift ebb and flow of emotion in eyes, and cheeks, and around mouths, and in the gesturing of hands with or without fans.