Court of Fives

Page 70

My pulse surges in my ears far beyond the effort of climbing the steps. The air seems to swim past my vision as lamplight flickers. I have to pause to catch my breath on the landing of the second story. An open door looks onto a chamber bare except for a large bed where an orderly is laying out two night-robes. I flinch away from the sight and scurry up two more flights of stairs.
On the top floor soldiers wearing the Garon badge guard the open door. They wave me to a halt and I am oddly thankful they are so cautious of my father’s safety.
“Have the rest of the wedding furniture boxed up,” my father is saying to a man whose gray-streaked hair and fleshy back I recognize as belonging to Steward Haredas. “I am sure Lady Menoë has a warehouse in Garon Palace for all the finery.”
He glances up, alert to the movement at the door. I stand framed by lamplight, the tray in my hand and my face masked. For a moment he does nothing but look.
Then his nostrils flare as he takes in a sharp breath. His lips silently form my name: Jessamy.
He has recognized me even in my mask.
“General, is all well?” Haredas asks. “You look as if you have seen a rat.”
The steward notices me. He flaps a hand as his brow wrinkles with lines of anger, for unlike my father he sees only what he expects to see. “The general drinks his tea before he goes to his bed, not now. Be away! Must I speak to your supervisor and have you whipped?”
“No, Haredas, I asked for tea to settle my stomach.” Father wears a mask too: a mask of indifference. But he clenches his left hand. “I will take a few moments to drink it in peace before I descend to greet the guests and my wife.”
Does his tone bite on the words my wife? Is he embarrassed, or ashamed, or angry that his unwanted daughter has shown up where her presence can harm him?
Haredas gives a disapproving grunt. “This must be one of the local girls hired in for the feast. Lady Menoë does not allow Efean women among her servants.”
“Go see that the wagons are being loaded properly,” says Father.
I step aside to let Haredas leave. He does not give me a second glance.
“Bring the tea,” says Father in his command voice. As I step into the room, he adds to the soldiers, “Close the doors. I need a few moments without interruption to collect my thoughts before the evening’s ordeal.”
The guards tap hands to chests. “Yes, General.”
The doors close.
I stand in the tower chamber with the father who threw us away. He wears clothes of remarkable richness, a long red silk keldi that falls to his ankles and a red silk jacket trimmed with gold braid and embroidered with shimmering gold thread on the shoulders.
“Set down the tray and pour,” he says in the firm but not harsh tone of a man used to having raw recruits feel intimidated by his stare. In all the years of my childhood I did not see him lose his temper. No one would call him a gentle man, but he is never rash nor cruel. He is a soldier who has suffered wounds and dealt death, but once after I had accompanied him to his regiment’s encampment and he and I were returning home, he told me that the most painful wound of being an officer was sending men to die.
I fear what I must tell him. I fear what his answer may be. When I set down the tray and pour, my hand trembles and the stream of tea splashes messily.
“So, Jessamy, here you are, come where you are forbidden to be.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Do you think I do not know my own daughters? Except when they are running on a Fives court, so it seems. I suppose I should not be surprised after discovering you had all this time plotted out a secret campaign and waged it behind my back in direct insubordination of my orders.”
I set down the pot and rake the mask back from my face. “Do you know what provision Lord Gargaron made for Mother and your other daughters after you abandoned us? Do you?”
“I did not abandon you! Do you have any idea what would have become of the household if we had fallen with Lord Ottonor? All the years of careful stewardship to maintain our finances in good order were wiped away to nothing by his undisciplined luxuries and endless bad decisions. In one way he was a good man. He gave a humbly born man like me a true chance to flourish by my own efforts. But in the end he did not take care of the people he was responsible for.”
“Do you think Lord Gargaron has taken care of us?”
He picks up the cup, takes a long swallow, and sets it down, looking grim. “Why are you here, Jessamy? Have you been mistreated?”
“Lord Gargaron has had Mother and your other daughters bricked up in Lord Ottonor’s tomb. That’s how he made provision for them!”