Banner of the Damned (7 page)

She entered, trailing young courtiers like a comet’s tail. For a heartbeat I saw her profile: she had the round cheeks and clear brow of seventeen. Her complexion was the prized shade we called russet—honey-brown with rose underneath it. Her blue eyes were framed by dark lashes and crowned by elaborately dressed silver hair.

She moved like a cloud, her little court steps soundless, her gait so smooth that her ribbons streamed in a long arc, never bouncing or jiggling.

The second person to draw my eye was Lady Carola Definian, just arrived at court for her first presentation.

Three mornings I observed Lady Carola as she crossed in a deliberate pattern, arm in arm with her cousin Lady Tatia, who was yew-branch thin, her best feature thick curling hair colored blue-white.

I was training to be observant, so it frustrated me that I could not identify why the subtleties of the princess’s manner called to my mind the drift of a cloud in a summer sky, but Lady Carola—so petite, so beautiful she seemed more doll than human—her manner reminded me of softly falling snow.

The third person excited the most whispers of all. He became my first lesson in the tension between rank and social hierarchies.

I heard about Lord Vasalya-Kaidas Lassiter long before I saw him. In rank he was merely the heir to a ruined barony. The Lassiters were notorious for their gambling, sports-madness, and not so long ago for their duels, before a succession of three strong queens convinced their courtiers that wit was preferable to the messiness caused by steel. Any who reverted to the bloody customs of their ancestors could go home and live on their ancestral estates for the remainder of their lives. Consequently courtiers wore embroidered slippers, not boots, and no man or woman marred the elegance of their robes with steel implements. Their former sanguinary nature was confined to their nail colors, varying shades of crimson. The lords moved sinuously, rather like cats, except for the Lassiter heir with his impatient, quick stride and the negligent way he kicked up the hems of his robes.

In a court where control was prized in all things, to be known as carefree was risky: so “carefree” became “uncouth” or even vulgar.

Lord Kaidas Lassiter was tall, well made in the way those who are active can be, with a face all planes and a broad smile that creased his lean cheeks down to his well defined jaw. His hair was long—longer than most—indicating carelessness rather than affectation because he rarely changed the shade from a serviceable silver and never had it dressed, just tied back with a long ribbon that matched his clothes. The courtiers called his style The Fresh Arising, a jest that I didn’t understand for a couple of years. Few dared to emulate it, except in private.

I soon perceived that the courtiers crossed and recrossed in patterns that appeared to be random but were not. Some lingered, sitting on the edge of the fountain, talking and trailing their fingers in the scented water as they covertly observed the hallways leading off.

Lady Carola appeared with other young ladies that third morning at the Hour of the River, then stilled, her light gaze reaching beyond her companions.

And there was Lord Kaidas Lassiter in company with two other young lords, one of whom twirled his fan in laughing challenge at the ladies as they passed by. The ladies and lords acknowledged each other with graceful dips of heads, except for Lady Carola, whose profile tracked Lord Kaidas’s journey in the revealing long gaze of The Garden Arch, named for the arc a flower makes in following the sun. She watched him all the way across the chamber, until he vanished down a hall.

The last day of my service at that post, my fourth important person appeared: tall, pale-faced, awkward King Jurac of Chwahirsland, his black hair undyed, invariably wearing, in dark green velvet, a semblance of their military uniform. He was newly arrived on his diplomatic tour of Colend, walking on the arm of Princess Lasva, whose lovely laugh trailed behind.

The courtiers watched him, gazes cold as glass, fans at Life’s Ironies as they bowed, but he only had eyes for Princess Lasva.

My next assignment was to learn the bewildering series of chambers, alcoves, halls, and intersections in use by the courtiers, then practice moving through them without attracting notice.

The palace was built in squares, the serving corridors winding laboriously around, through, and sometimes under the chambers used by the nobles. Servants popped in and out of discreet doors. We scribes (and the heralds) were often on call, which meant using the same halls as the courtiers. We must know how to move without catching eye or ear.

The first official event of the royal day has been called the Rising for centuries. It was an ancient Sartoran practice, the heralds say, a custom that sounds awkward and disagreeable now, specifically the king or queen’s rising from bed. Sartoran history says that the day began in the royal bedroom, crowded with the chief courtiers, each with a grand-sounding title centered around the ritual of dressing the monarch. Awkward indeed, but a fine way to leash aristocrats who might otherwise be out stirring up rebellion, as this was the only time for private converse with the monarch. The rest of the day was conducted in public.

The Rising was now held in the Conservatory, the coolest place in the palace, and as the queen walked along the carefully tended stream, the courtiers could advance and request private converse. In Sartor, we’re told the Rising means the Rising of the Sun. In Colend, during the courtly season, the Rising did not occur until the Hour of Stone, the hour before Midday—before the heat of summer set in, but accommodating to late-sleeping courtiers.

Since I knew court would all be gathered in the Conservatory, I used that time to practice moving through their territory.

On my second foray, I was startled by the sound of voices as I approached the enormous gold and marble royal gallery. I paused, peered around a leaf-carved marble column, and was so surprised to discover Princess Lasva and King Jurac there that I froze in place.

“Ah-ye, like this and this. Keep your weight on this foot. It’s only a brush with the other.” Princess Lasva swept up her filmy robes to reveal her ribbon-tied slippers as she demonstrated the basic step of the complicated line dances.

The king of the Chwahir was absorbed in trying to get his feet to move in a way they obviously never had. When he hopped and caught the marble balustrade to keep from falling, he blushed.

Her laugh was soft, his a painful bray. “It’s tricky, but do try to just brush the free foot as you turn on the other. Do not step. See? See? Now pivot on that same foot, and you’re ready to start off in any direction. The free foot crosses behind. That frees your left. See? Then cross behind. If you can get that much, you can do a turn, or a dip, or cross over and behind, but it is always the same basic step.”

“I think I see it,” he said. “Like this?”

“Yes! Yes, that is it. Now, we’re going to try the waltz. You steady yourself here at my waist, I steady myself at your shoulder, we take hands here—and we’re off! Step two three, step two three, ah-ye-di, ah-ye-di, always turning—”

I knew I should not have been there, but I was so astounded to find a princess secretly teaching a king to dance, I watched them waltz along the gallery as her ancestors gazed down—among them her ancestor who had fought his on this very site. When they reached the end and turned back I recollected myself and fled.

The next day I dined in the staff hall with friends from a mix of services. Kaleri, who had been promoted from kitchen page to guest wing page, came in very late, her face flushed. I had long since made friends with her, after begging her forgiveness for my affront at Tif’s Name Day
gathering. Kaleri was round, fair, and loved to be happy. She could never be angry long.

She plunked herself down next to Delis, another kitchen friend, a pastry-maker.

At the other end of the table, Birdy’s sister leaned forward. “… and the Gaszins are taking wagers that Jurac of Chwahirsland will not know how to dance. They all intend to ask him at the Dance of the Spring Leaves.” She was tall, long-nosed, her eyes so close together they seemed crossed, her smile as merry as her brother’s.

“Which the Duke of Gaszin is hosting.” Garsun raised his forefinger, signifying a shadow kiss—everyone knew the Gaszins were trying to win concessions from Queen Hatahra.

Tall, craggy-faced Garsun had indeed been hired as a scribe by the Duke of Altan—but like several of the ducal families, the Altans left their staff to eat at crown expense when the family was in Alsais attending on the queen.

Kaleri said on an outward sigh, “Well the Ice Duke and his daughter won’t be there to see it.”

“The Alarcansas are leaving?” Garsun asked. “Before the court season has officially begun?”

Kaleri laid down her fork. “It’s Willow Gate for her,” she said, laughing. “You did not know? That’s why I’m so late—several of us got summoned to help their people pack them up.”

“Why?” Birdy asked. He turned sideways on his cushion. Out came the bags—

“Birdy, might I request you perform your… your practice after our meal?” said his sister.

Birdy looked startled. “Oh.” He looked around at all of us, then put away the silk bags, grimacing a little.

His sister patted his hand. “It’s just that we like our dishes to remain where we set them when we eat. You will forgive me, will you not?” And to the others, “The Duke of Alarcansa sent a page to request an interview of the queen before I went off duty. I assumed it was more demands or more complaints about protocol slights.”

“Protocol slights?” Birdy leaned toward me. “Do you share the sense that we are coming at the news backward?”

Garsun said, “This is what I know. The Gaszins were laughing about how furious old Alarcansa had been when the queen accepted the Duke of Gaszin’s offer to host the Dance of the Spring Leaves. But I didn’t think he’d depart over it—not scarcely three weeks after their arrival.”

“They’re going to say that the Duchess is ill.” The drop in tone on the nickname “Duchess” (for Lady Carola had not been granted any such rights, she was heir only) made it clear that she had not endeared herself to the servants. “But the hall page overheard Tatia Tittermouse warning the second chambermaid not to gossip about…”

At this juncture I will shift the narrative to Carola’s memory (again, I promise I will record how and why I was able) which turned up in her nightmares over the next several years. She stood before her father, her muscles locked tightly lest she tremble, or weep, or reveal any emotion.

“It is not just the betrayal of our name,” he said, “by lowering yourself to the sort of subterfuge that entertains the vulgar.” He used a silver letter opener to lift Carola’s scroll from the letter salver. It was written on the most expensive rice paper and tied with heart’s red. He refused to touch the invitation with his own fingers, but flicked it into the fire from the letter opener, which he then wiped on a cotton silk handkerchief. “It is the vulgarity of your taste, chasing the tail of someone so indiscriminate that if he, and his father, hadn’t chanced to be born to titles, they would no doubt be employed on their backs in a common doss house.”