Seraphina (43 page)

I worked fast and crabby all morning, directing the hanging of garlands, the placing of chandeliers and sideboards, the moving of the harpsichord—which looked like a coffin as four men carried it through the door without its legs—and countless other lastminute details. All the while I conscientiously attempted to get Dame Okra’s attention without contacting her. My attempts to will her into appearing, to project fake need—my sighing and fretting and muttering, “I sure could use Dame Okra’s help!”—met with universal failure.

I barely had time to rush to my rooms and dress for dinner; I had already set out the scarlet gown Millie had given me, so I didn’t have do any thinking and only had to switch my outer garment. No risky nakedness for me: a maid might show up any minute to arrange my hair. Glisselda had insisted upon this point, going so far as to threaten me with Millie if I didn’t swear not to do my own hair.

The maid arrived; my hair was beaten into submission. My first reaction, upon seeing myself in the mirror, was shock at how long my neck was. My hair usually obscured that fact, but when it was all piled up on my head, I looked positively camelopardine. The décolletage of Millie’s gown wasn’t helping matters. Feh.

I hung Orma’s earring from a golden chain around my neck, more to settle my nerves with something treasured than because I thought it could be useful; who knew where he was or whether he could even receive its signal. It made an intriguing pendant. I no longer feared the Ardmagar recognizing it. Let him say two words to me about Orma; let him try. He would get more than he bargained for.

Surely no one would try to do him in while I was there, excoriating him.

I’d never attended a feast of such magnitude. I was seated as far as possible from the high table, of course, but I had an unimpeded view of it. The Ardmagar sat between the Queen and Princess Dionne; Kiggs and Glisselda sat on the Queen’s other side, both of them scanning the room anxiously. I took this as simple vigilance at first, until Glisselda spotted me, waved eagerly, and pointed me out to her cousin. It took him a moment to see me, even so, because I didn’t look quite like myself.

He did smile eventually, once he stopped looking astonished.

I can barely recall the kind and number of dishes; I should have taken notes. We had boar and venison and fowl of all kinds, a peacock pie with its great tail fanned out, sallats, soft white bread, almond custard, fish, figs, Zibou dates. My tablemates, distant relations of the dukes and earls at the other end of the room, laughed gently at my impulse to try everything. “Can’t be done,” said an elderly fellow with a goat’s beard. “Not if you hope to walk away from the table under your own power!”

The feast ended with a towering, flaming, six-tiered torte representing the Lighthouse of Ziziba, of all things. Alas, I was truly too full—and by this point, too anxious—to have any.

Thank Heaven I could rely absolutely upon my musicians, because I got caught in the crush of people heading for the great hall and never could have gotten there fast enough to get everyone in place. By the time I entered, the symphonia was already scraping out the overture, one of those infinite-cycle pieces that could be played over and over until the royal family arrived and the first dance could begin.

Someone grabbed my upper right arm and whispered in my ear, “Ready?”

“As ready as we can be for the unknown,” I replied, not daring to look at him. He smelled almondy, like the marchpane torte.

I discerned his nod in my peripheral vision. “Selda’s stowed a flask of Zibou coffee for you somewhere onstage in case you start getting drowsy.” Kiggs clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Save me a pavano.”

He disappeared into the crowd.

N
o sooner had he left than Dame Okra was upon me. “What do you need now?” she asked crabbily.

I drew her toward the wall of the great hall, away from the mass of people; we stood by a tall candelabra, like a sheltering tree. “We have some concern for the Ardmagar’s safety tonight. Can I count on your help if I need it?”

She lifted her chin, scanning the crowd for Comonot. “What shall I do? Tail him?”

“Observe him discreetly, yes. And keep your stomach, er, focused.”

Her thick glasses reflected candlelight up at me. “Fair enough.”

I caught her satin sleeve as she turned to plunge into the party. “May I contact you with my mind?”

“Absolutely not!” She headed off my objections: “If you need me, I’ll be there.”

I sighed. “Fine. But it’s not just me; one of the others might need you.”

The creases beside her mouth deepened. “What others?”

I opened and shut my mouth, astonished that I could have forgotten that she did not live inside my head. Only Abdo could see the garden. “The others … like us,” I whispered urgently.

Her face underwent a full spectrum of emotion in mere seconds—astonishment, sorrow, wonderment, joy—ending on one she was particularly good at: annoyance. She smacked me with her fan. “You couldn’t tell me this? Do you have any idea how old I am?”

“Er, no.”

“One hundred twenty-eight!” she snarled. “I spent that many years thinking I was alone. Then you prance into my life, nearly giving me a paroxysm, and now you deign to tell me there are more. How many are there?”

“Eighteen, counting you and me,” I said, not daring to keep anything back from her anymore. “But only two others here: the bagpiper”—she guffawed, apparently remembering him—“and one of the pygegyria dancers. A little Porphyrian boy.”

Her brows shot up. “You invited pygegyria dancers? Tonight?” She threw back her head and laughed. “Whatever else may be true of you, you do things your own way, with a refreshingly self-assured pigheadedness. I like that!”

She took off into the colorful crowd, leaving me to puzzle out that compliment.

Speaking of pygegyria, I hadn’t seen the troupe. I reached out:
Where are you?

The small reception hall. We are too many for your tiny dressing rooms
.

Stay there. I am coming to meet you
.

I slipped into the corridor and found the double doors of the small hall easily enough. I hesitated, my hands upon the brass door handles. Abdo was so different from the others I had met—his mind worked more like mine, or Jannoula’s—that I had some anxiety about meeting him. Once I’d met him, he was in my life inextricably, for good or ill.

I took a deep breath and opened the doors.

Ululations and an explosive burst of drumming greeted me.

The troupe were all in motion, a circle within a circle, each turning a different direction. For a moment I could focus on nothing; it was a blur of colored scarves and shimmering veils, brown hands and jingling strings of coins.

The circles opened, dancers spinning off tangentially, revealing Abdo in the center, in a bright green tunic and trousers, his feet bare, his arms undulating. The others shimmied at a distance, chains and coin scarves jingling. He whirled, his arms spread wide, the fringe upon his belt making a halo at his center.

For the first time, I understood the point of dancing. I was so used to music being the vehicle for expression, but here he was speaking to me not with his mind but with his body:
I feel this music in my very blood. This is what it means to be me, right here, right now, solid flesh, ethereal air, eternal motion. I feel this, and it is true beyond truth
.

The heavens seemed to turn with him, the sun and moon, time itself. He whirled so fast he seemed to stand still. I could have sworn I smelled roses.

With a crash of drums he froze, still as a statue. I wasn’t certain whether Porphyrians applauded, but I went ahead and clapped. That broke the spell; the dancers smiled and broke formation, chattering among themselves. I approached Abdo, who awaited me with shining eyes.

“That was beautiful,” I said. “I think your audience will love you, whether they want to or not.”

He smiled.

“I’ve put you on the program late, when people will need something to wake them up. There’s food and drink for performers in the little room off the—”

“Madamina!” cried an old man. It took me a moment to recognize him as the one who’d wanted to meet me after Prince Rufus’s funeral; he was draped with silks now. I assumed he was the grandfather Abdo had mentioned. “Your pardon!” he said. “You are come to here, try to speak at Abdo, but he cannot speaking at you without help. Your pardon.”

“He—what?” I wasn’t convinced I had understood.

I looked to Abdo, who looked annoyed. He made a number of hand gestures at the old man, who gesticulated back urgently. Was he … deaf? If so, how did he speak such fluent Goreddi in the garden? He finally convinced the old man to go, which I found astonishing. He was ten, maybe eleven years old, but the old man was deferential.

All the dancers were. He was the leader of this troupe.

He smiled at me apologetically, and I heard his voice in my mind:
Loud Lad and Miss Fusspots. I know what I’m to do. I will not fail you
.

You can’t talk?
I thought back, not wanting to blurt out the obvious.

He gave a pained, small smile, threw back his head, and opened his mouth as wide as he could. His long tongue, his gums, his palate, everything, as far into his throat as I could see, gleamed with silver dragon scales.

That night simultaneously dragged on forever and passed in a whirlwind blur. Kiggs had stationed the Guard everywhere there was space; there were a few out of uniform casually assaulting the buffet table, and one onstage spooking my musicians. The royal cousins and I spotted each other watching the Ardmagar; Glisselda danced with him three times, or danced near him with Kiggs. Dame Okra engaged him in chitchat near the refreshments table; I stood onstage behind the curtain, scanning the crowd through the gap. Nobody did anything suspicious—well, Princess Dionne smiled a lot, which was unusual, and gossiped with Lady Corongi, which was not. The Earl of Apsig danced with every lady in the room; he seemed never to grow tired.