Banner of the Damned (12 page)

Now I must return to Kaidas, who had taken a different barge from ours. Lasva did not know he was attached to our company, he was so careful to remain on the periphery. Ananda Gaszin, Rontande, the beautiful Isari, tall, thin Sharith, and other young courtiers circled around him, ready to smile, to flirt, to get up an impromptu dance or ensemble, for in those days courtiers still made music with instruments that looked well being played, such as strings and crystal-bells.

Though he was circumspect, his presence prompted enough glances, smiles, and witty rejoinders to send him on a stroll with Lady Darva of Oleff one Restday evening. “Aunt Darva” was the only one of his father’s many lovers who had been kind to him when he was a youth, giving him gentle advice when needed. On this day they strolled an embankment where the princess’s barge was docked. They were well along a meandering path that dipped down to the rush and chuckle of the river before he asked, “Aunt Darva. Am I the subject of a wager?”

Lady Darva had bent to examine the puffs of foam flower among the cattails. As she straightened up, the snow cloud of blossoms poofed into the air, and several ruby-glowing dragon-wings whirled skyward, humming. The last of the setting sun glowed in fiery tones through the insects’ long tails then vanished against the emerging stars.

“I think so.” She gave him a pensive smile. “I don’t understand the impetus, but Lissais says that some have noticed you’ve never danced with the princess. They’re wagering on when and how you will change that.”

“They’re wagering on how well I will dance?”

“On how you, oh, get her attention. Have you taken an interest in that direction? You have joined her party, if in the public sense.” Her tone was peaceable, but he was annoyed anyway.

“Very public. It is the largest party going south.” He knew it was hypocritical to be annoyed. He’d wagered carelessly on others’ caprice.

Darva turned her back on the trees with nut-sized glowglobes winding up the trunks into the branches. The mellow sandstone village transformed to silhouettes among a forestland of lights. “Are you disturbed?”

“Isn’t everyone, when precious self is the target of wit’s arrow?”

Her shoulders lifted slightly, but she did not remonstrate with him for using such ugly images. Arrows! For centuries Colend had been part of the Accord banning the use of arrows. Better to leave such images to the barbarians of the western subcontinent.

He said, “Do you have a book of boring poems?”

She laughed. “Why would I bring such on so long a journey, when packing is already a puzzle?”

They were in sight of a mossy old arched bridge, along which travelers and villagers crossed to and fro, many with swinging lanterns carried by servants, their laughter wafting on the fragrant summer air.

“I want boring poems… for diversion.”

“Ah. I believe I have what might be almost as good. The Altans always bring a scribe who is my age—a connection of some cousins. He’s also a
Reader. Used to be able to quote pages and pages of bad poems, recited in comical accents, or voices of a cat or a mouse. A horse. So amusing when we were young and the winters were long.”

“Is he discreet?”

“You know how scribes are.” Her fan flickered in Surprise.

“As I recall, not all are discreet.”

Her smile vanished. “Ah-ye! I’d forgotten that dreadful—but surely that would be the exception, and explains why we remember.”

“Since my father’s private life furnished his fund of particulars, I’ve inherited Father’s distrust for the ubiquitous blue-clad scufflers. But I’m willing to be proved wrong.”

“Let us turn back. I will introduce you, and you may judge for yourself.”

She was considerably surprised—so was everyone—when at the gathering that evening, Kaidas asked the duke’s permission to address his scribe in public, and then, as several listened, the two began a long discourse on Sartoran poetry during the Symbolist Period—sometimes considered the most obscure poetry ever written. Few would have claimed that Kaidas knew anything about poetry, and Rontande drawled that he hadn’t known any Lassiter could read.

For several days afterward Kaidas amused himself with quoting poetry to anyone who came near—especially certain among his old friends and lovers. The effect was to encourage them to find other pursuits with as much haste as would not be unseemly.

While he was intent on rerouting curious courtiers, the entire court left the river Eth and began the journey along the Margren River, toward the transfer point. The inn at Arvin is an enormous structure but not a palace—that is, not a great building whose grand design uses space, fine materials, and artistry to impress as well as to please the eye. This inn had been added to over many centuries. Children saw the place as a labyrinth or challenge and ran from garden to garden or above our heads across bridge-ways that linked the many wings. They pounded along halls, shrieking and chasing in an uninhibited way that I never had.

Here, at the second-to-the-last stop before transfer, Colend’s court found themselves among people from all over the eastern part of the continent; as I followed a servant along a wickerwork bridge built over a stream that tumbled between two buildings, I counted five languages.

Sauntering in the crowd behind us was Kaidas Lassiter, who couldn’t afford a carriage. Not that he told anyone that. Famed for his riding, it was a tribute to his style that he was admired for the freedom with
which he could trot from carriage to carriage at whim. If anyone got too speculative about why he made this journey, he pulled scrolls of obscure Sartoran poetry from his sleeve pockets and favored them with choice pieces. None of the courtiers knew he thus observed Lasva from afar.

Lasva travelled with half her household. When he comprehended the extent of the inn, with its private wings and tree-shadowed balconies, Kaidas Lassiter followed us.

We found the rooms of our suite warm and stuffy. Most courtiers retreated to the parlors at the front, which were cooled by magic, but Lasva surprised us by remaining as the servants labored to make things comfortable.

As Marnda and Dessaf supervised the duty housemaids, Lasva and I moved at her desire to the narrow wickerwork balcony, which was shaded by the balcony of the rooms above. The waterfall splashed into a pool below. Layers of leafy trees rustled in the air, moving slowly above the falls, giving us a semblance of coolness.

“What did you see today?” Lasva asked me, as had become habit.

I strove always to have something to say, and so I offered my observation about the running children and their freedom from constraint.

She perched on the edge of a table carved in the shape of a tree that framed the glass top. “Time,” she said. “Here it seems suspended. And my childhood the blink of an eye.” She rubbed at her forehead.

As if reading her thoughts, Marnda appeared behind us. “Your highness. Shall I send a page for refreshment?”

“Thank you, just send the hair dresser, please.”

I caught Marnda’s look of surprise as she turned away. Though she was in a sense Lasva’s
hlaras
—heart’s mother—she could not question orders.

“Go on, Emras.”

“I don’t know if my thought is worth the effort of speech in this hot air. Merely, I wonder if I should be sad or glad that childhood slipped away without my notice. We remember dramatic things—contrasts in emotion, as all the poets say.”

“And dramatic contrasts in scenery,” Lasva added as she untied the ribbon of her hat. She tipped her head. “You’ve heard Isari. What do you think lies behind all these hints about how tiresome it is to attend to the color of our hair while we travel?”

“Is it troublesome?” I asked. “Sitting quietly every few days, so that no vestige of root growth mars the sheen of silver or moon-blue or lemon-froth? The hair dresser is the one who makes the effort to create the magical spell that transfers the colors to your hair.”

Lasva’s dimples flashed. “So exhausting, to sit for a hair dresser, when otherwise we sit in a carriage. I cannot decide if she wants me to begin fashions—or to make myself a hum.”

“I don’t think there is any danger of that,” I said.

“Neither did I,” she said, “but whenever I think I am safe from ridicule because of my rank, I only have to remember that poor fellow from Chwahirsland. He was a king, but they would have stepped on his shadow if they were not so afraid of my sister, who’d invited him for treaty purposes. So they hummed behind his back. What do they chirp behind my back?”

The hair dresser arrived, showing no reaction when the princess gave the order for her hair to be restored to its natural color. The hair dresser had set out her pots but put them away again. Then she performed a different set of spells, that sent the false color into the ground in the manner of the Waste Spell we all learn soon after we begin to walk.

Kaidas had slipped up the stairs, found the suite empty (Lasva always hired the floors above to prevent footsteps from disturbing us) and made his way to the balcony, from which he heard our voices.

When the hair dresser left, Lasva peered in the mirror at her newly dark hair. “It makes me look… pale.” She tapped her fingers to her lips in distaste, but said nothing more.

I never heard her say a cruel thing, though all around one heard casual slanging of the moon-pale or slug-faced Chwahir. The word “pale” alone carried enough derogatory associations. “I will need fabrics that bring my skin tones out again.” She shrugged, then whirled away, arms raised. “I’m still stiff. What was that I saw you doing on the private terrace at dawn yesterday? Is that what they call the Altan fan form?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you do that? I never heard they taught it to scribes.”

“It keeps the wrists strong, as well as the body.”

Lasva clasped her hands. “There is something compelling about it, suggestive of strength. Almost the opposite of dance, which exhorts us to be light and fluid as water. Teach it to me.” And when I began a protest, she waved a hand, “Ah-ye, I know. You are not a proper teacher. I will hire an expert if I take to it. Now, all I want is to experiment.”

I fetched my long fans from my trunk. Lasva took one to spread and inspect. Neither of us was aware of Kaidas standing on the wickerwork balcony above us, caught by the sound of Lasva’s voice.

“I read that people actually fought with these fans,” Lasva said. “Did
they really, or is it metaphor? I have yet to read of anyone truly treading on someone’s shadow, yet our language is rife with references.”

“The instructor told us that the first Duke of Altan won his land after a duel with fans. See the points on the blades? These are rounded, and made of the light wood, but I did some research and learned that centuries ago they were thin steel, as sharp as carving tools.”

“That must have been quite heavy. Even these have heft.” She turned the fan over. “Black on one side, white on the other. Why is this? Caprice?”

“It’s so the master can see your moves. For certain forms, correct style requires only one side visible at a time.”

“Low shoulder,” she said, touching the blades below the plain white-sided mount. “Ours have high shoulders.”

“Gives the fan more strength,” I said. “Court fans merely have to set a breeze going.”

“I still do not see how one could engage in battle with this.” She poked it into the air. “With a sword, I know you press the point into the opponent. That frightful mural in the old palace made that evident.”

“I will demonstrate, with your permission. If you will hold the paper thus.”

I gave her one of my practice scrolls, which I could easily mend.

She smiled in anticipation as she held the scroll stretched between her hands.

“Hold it taut,” I said, and she snapped it taut.

The fan form is done slowly—that is what keeps our muscles supple. The word “form” is meant to imply dance. Some centuries ago any reference to actual warfare was smoothed away, and the
arts of war
became
arts
. “No one actually practices at speed, or against others, at least, not in Alsais,” I said as I set my slippers and my cloud blue robe aside and began the first moves. “We are told that the Altans have guards who still practice at speed. It’s because of their proximity to the pass and to the Chwahir. Our teacher is from Altan.”

As I said the above I moved with gathering speed, the fans closing and opening in my hands, until at last I stepped, whirled, and with a swift cut of the open fan, dashed it across the scroll, which ripped across.

“Yedi!” Lasva exclaimed, leaping back and dropping the ends of the scroll. “I did not expect that!”

I finished the form, picked up the scroll ends, and examined the tears. “Oh, I would get a bad mark for the jagged rip. A good strike cuts the paper cleanly straight across.”

She picked up the fans, then canted her head. “Is this why the challenge fan has points painted on it?”

“The challenge fan is a descendant of these, we’re told,” I said.

No one in court carried the intimidating fans with thorns or clawed figures painted on them anymore. Now anger was signified with the snap or angle of an ordinary fan, or an oblique reference to Thorn Gate, which had been the old place of punishment during our very early days. Thorn Gate no longer existed—had not for centuries—but in referring to dire judgments everyone pointed north as if its shadow still lay over that end of the old castle.

Lasva whisked herself into her room and returned with her two largest fans. These were half the size of my Altans and had lace or painted mounts on only one side of the blades, but they would suffice.

We pushed the furniture to the edges of the room, then she removed three of her filmy outer robes, until she stood in her cotton-silk body robe of pale peach. I carefully set the queen’s scrollcase on top of my robe for instant retrieval, though Lasva had told me her sister was no letter writer. That would make a communication all the more imperative.

I showed Lasva the first steps, which I warned her would have to be practiced over and over.

Without our knowing, Kaidas moved along the balcony until he could see through the wickerwork, down to the top of Lasva’s now dark head.