The Desert Spear
Page 91
Inside the walls, they passed the duke’s private gardens and herds, along with dozens of buildings for his personal servants and craftsmen, before reaching the palace. Its sheer walls climbed several stories, with lookout spires reaching even higher, past the keep’s wardnet.
The palace wards were works of art as well as function, and Leesha could sense the strength of the symbols, her eyes dancing along the invisible lines of power they created.
“Please follow me,” Prince Thamos said to the Painted Man when the carriage pulled to a stop at the palace entrance. Leesha frowned as they followed the prince into the palace, wondering if she was to be ignored in favor of the Painted Man throughout the interview. He had said repeatedly that he took no responsibility for the Hollow, any more than Marick did the Rizonan refugees. Could she trust him to speak the town’s needs before his own?
The vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall soared overhead, but the great room was empty of petitioners. The prince led them away from the main throne room, down halls thick with carpet and covered in tapestries and oil paintings. They came to a waiting room with velvet couches and a warm fire, set in a marble mantel. “Please wait here on the duke’s pleasure,” Thamos told the Painted Man. “The attendants will see to your refreshment.”
“Thank you,” the Painted Man said as a valet arrived with a tray of drinks and small sandwiches. Two Wooden Soldiers stood rigid outside the door, spears at the ready.
Time went by, and Rojer, bored, began to juggle their empty teacups. “How long do you think Rhinebeck will have us wait?” he asked, his feet beating a pattern on the floor as he moved to keep his crippled hand in position to throw and catch.
“Long enough to establish that he’s holding the reins,” the Painted Man said. “Dukes make everyone wait. The more important the guests, the longer they’re left to count rug threads. It’s a tiresome game, but if it makes Rhinebeck feel secure, there’s no harm letting him play it.”
“I should have brought my needlepoint,” Leesha said.
“I have a great number of unfinished hoops, dear,” a voice behind her said. “I’ve always been good at starting patterns, but somehow I never get to the end.” Leesha turned to find Minister Janson standing in the doorway, holding the arm of a venerable woman who looked to be in her late seventies.
Rojer gave a start, and Leesha winced as one of the cups he was juggling hit the floor. Thankfully, it bounced on the thick carpet and did not break.
The woman fixed Rojer with a look that would have done Elona proud. “Arrick never got around to teaching you manners, I take it.” Rojer’s face turned redder than his hair.
The woman was small, even for an Angierian, barely five feet tall from the white Krasian lace at the hem of her wide, green velvet gown to the top of the lacquered wooden circlet resting upon the severely pinned gray hair atop her head. The circlet’s points were banded in gold and set with precious stones. She was thin like a reed, and stooped slightly, leaning on the first minister’s arm. The hands that clutched him were covered in wrinkled, translucent skin. A velvet choker around her neck was set with an emerald the size of a baby’s fist.
“Please allow me to present Her Grace the Lady Araine, Duchess Mum, mother to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress—”
“Yes, yes,” Araine cut him off. “Everyone in the world knows my son’s titles, and I’m not getting younger as you recite them for the thousandth time this week, Janson.”
“Apologies, my lady,” Janson said, bowing slightly.
Leesha dipped into a curtsy at the introduction, and the men bowed. In her men’s breeches, Wonda had no skirts to spread, and assumed an awkward posture that was neither.
“If you’re going to dress like a man, girl, then bow like one,” Araine said, looking down her nose. Wonda blushed and bowed deeply.
The duchess mum grunted in satisfaction and turned to Leesha. “I’ve come to rescue you from all this tiresome men’s business, dear.” She glanced at Wonda. “The young lady, as well.”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Leesha said, curtsying again, “but I am serving as Speaker for Deliverer’s Hollow, and must remain for the audience.”
“Nonsense,” Araine tsked. “A woman Speaker? They may practice such frivolity in Miln, but Angiers has the right of things. Women were not meant to handle affairs of state.” The duchess mum let go Janson’s arm and latched on to Leesha’s, pulling her toward the door even as she pretended to lean on it for support.
“Leave the men to their ledgers and proclamations,” Araine said. “We will speak of more feminine matters.”
Leesha was mildly surprised at the woman’s strength. She wasn’t quite as frail as she appeared. Still, the idea of sitting around with a bunch of pampered women vapidly discussing weather and fashion while the men charted the course of Deliverer’s Hollow was unacceptable.
Janson leaned in to Leesha as she resisted the old woman’s pull. “It isn’t wise to upset the duchess mum,” he whispered. “Best humor her for now. The duke will not receive the others for quite some time, and I will come for you before you’re needed.”
Leesha looked at him, his face unreadable, and frowned. Not wanting to antagonize the royal family, she reluctantly allowed herself to be led away.
“The women’s wing is this way, dear,” Araine said, leading Leesha down a long, richly appointed hall. Outside of the Painted Man’s treasure room, Leesha had never seen such largesse as in the duke’s palace. Her father had been the richest man in Cutter’s Hollow while she was growing up, but the duke made Erny’s wealth seem like the scraps that one might throw to a dog after a great feast. Lush carpets caressed and cushioned her every step, woven with vibrant patterns, and tapestries and statues on marble pedestals lined the walls. The ceiling was painted gold, and glittered in the light of the chandeliers.
Throughout the duchy Rizonan refugees were starving, but could the royal family ever truly understand what that meant, surrounded by such opulence? It reminded Leesha of her mother, always seeing to her own comfort first and others’ only when someone was watching.
Araine’s shuffling steps became firmer as they went, the frail-looking old woman guiding Leesha through the vast palace as a man might lead a woman through a dance. Wonda trailed along silently behind until they passed through a final door and Araine looked back at her.
“Be a dear and close the door, there’s a good child,” she said. Wonda complied, pulling the sturdy oak portal shut with a click.
“All right then, let’s have a look at you,” Araine said, releasing Leesha’s arm with a push that sent her into a spin for the duchess mum’s inspection.
Araine looked her up and down, her lip curling slightly. “So you’re the young prodigy Bruna was so proud of.” She sounded less than impressed. “How many summers have you seen, girl? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-eight,” Leesha said.
Araine snorted. “Bruna used to say a Gatherer wasn’t worth two klats before fifty.”
“You knew Mistress Bruna, Your Grace?” Leesha asked, surprised.
Araine cackled. “Knew her? The old witch pulled two princes from between my legs, so yes, I’d say I knew her. Pether was nigh fifty years ago, and Bruna was almost as old then as I am now. Thamos was a decade later, a giant babe like his brothers, but I wasn’t as young then as I was for the others, and needed more than some glorified midwife. Bruna was in her eighties by then, and reluctant to leave the Hollow even when I sent my herald to get on his knees and beg. She grumbled the whole time, but came just the same, and stayed in the palace for months. She even took on a pair of apprentices, Jizell and Jessa, while she was here.”
The palace wards were works of art as well as function, and Leesha could sense the strength of the symbols, her eyes dancing along the invisible lines of power they created.
“Please follow me,” Prince Thamos said to the Painted Man when the carriage pulled to a stop at the palace entrance. Leesha frowned as they followed the prince into the palace, wondering if she was to be ignored in favor of the Painted Man throughout the interview. He had said repeatedly that he took no responsibility for the Hollow, any more than Marick did the Rizonan refugees. Could she trust him to speak the town’s needs before his own?
The vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall soared overhead, but the great room was empty of petitioners. The prince led them away from the main throne room, down halls thick with carpet and covered in tapestries and oil paintings. They came to a waiting room with velvet couches and a warm fire, set in a marble mantel. “Please wait here on the duke’s pleasure,” Thamos told the Painted Man. “The attendants will see to your refreshment.”
“Thank you,” the Painted Man said as a valet arrived with a tray of drinks and small sandwiches. Two Wooden Soldiers stood rigid outside the door, spears at the ready.
Time went by, and Rojer, bored, began to juggle their empty teacups. “How long do you think Rhinebeck will have us wait?” he asked, his feet beating a pattern on the floor as he moved to keep his crippled hand in position to throw and catch.
“Long enough to establish that he’s holding the reins,” the Painted Man said. “Dukes make everyone wait. The more important the guests, the longer they’re left to count rug threads. It’s a tiresome game, but if it makes Rhinebeck feel secure, there’s no harm letting him play it.”
“I should have brought my needlepoint,” Leesha said.
“I have a great number of unfinished hoops, dear,” a voice behind her said. “I’ve always been good at starting patterns, but somehow I never get to the end.” Leesha turned to find Minister Janson standing in the doorway, holding the arm of a venerable woman who looked to be in her late seventies.
Rojer gave a start, and Leesha winced as one of the cups he was juggling hit the floor. Thankfully, it bounced on the thick carpet and did not break.
The woman fixed Rojer with a look that would have done Elona proud. “Arrick never got around to teaching you manners, I take it.” Rojer’s face turned redder than his hair.
The woman was small, even for an Angierian, barely five feet tall from the white Krasian lace at the hem of her wide, green velvet gown to the top of the lacquered wooden circlet resting upon the severely pinned gray hair atop her head. The circlet’s points were banded in gold and set with precious stones. She was thin like a reed, and stooped slightly, leaning on the first minister’s arm. The hands that clutched him were covered in wrinkled, translucent skin. A velvet choker around her neck was set with an emerald the size of a baby’s fist.
“Please allow me to present Her Grace the Lady Araine, Duchess Mum, mother to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, Guardian of the Forest Fortress—”
“Yes, yes,” Araine cut him off. “Everyone in the world knows my son’s titles, and I’m not getting younger as you recite them for the thousandth time this week, Janson.”
“Apologies, my lady,” Janson said, bowing slightly.
Leesha dipped into a curtsy at the introduction, and the men bowed. In her men’s breeches, Wonda had no skirts to spread, and assumed an awkward posture that was neither.
“If you’re going to dress like a man, girl, then bow like one,” Araine said, looking down her nose. Wonda blushed and bowed deeply.
The duchess mum grunted in satisfaction and turned to Leesha. “I’ve come to rescue you from all this tiresome men’s business, dear.” She glanced at Wonda. “The young lady, as well.”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Leesha said, curtsying again, “but I am serving as Speaker for Deliverer’s Hollow, and must remain for the audience.”
“Nonsense,” Araine tsked. “A woman Speaker? They may practice such frivolity in Miln, but Angiers has the right of things. Women were not meant to handle affairs of state.” The duchess mum let go Janson’s arm and latched on to Leesha’s, pulling her toward the door even as she pretended to lean on it for support.
“Leave the men to their ledgers and proclamations,” Araine said. “We will speak of more feminine matters.”
Leesha was mildly surprised at the woman’s strength. She wasn’t quite as frail as she appeared. Still, the idea of sitting around with a bunch of pampered women vapidly discussing weather and fashion while the men charted the course of Deliverer’s Hollow was unacceptable.
Janson leaned in to Leesha as she resisted the old woman’s pull. “It isn’t wise to upset the duchess mum,” he whispered. “Best humor her for now. The duke will not receive the others for quite some time, and I will come for you before you’re needed.”
Leesha looked at him, his face unreadable, and frowned. Not wanting to antagonize the royal family, she reluctantly allowed herself to be led away.
“The women’s wing is this way, dear,” Araine said, leading Leesha down a long, richly appointed hall. Outside of the Painted Man’s treasure room, Leesha had never seen such largesse as in the duke’s palace. Her father had been the richest man in Cutter’s Hollow while she was growing up, but the duke made Erny’s wealth seem like the scraps that one might throw to a dog after a great feast. Lush carpets caressed and cushioned her every step, woven with vibrant patterns, and tapestries and statues on marble pedestals lined the walls. The ceiling was painted gold, and glittered in the light of the chandeliers.
Throughout the duchy Rizonan refugees were starving, but could the royal family ever truly understand what that meant, surrounded by such opulence? It reminded Leesha of her mother, always seeing to her own comfort first and others’ only when someone was watching.
Araine’s shuffling steps became firmer as they went, the frail-looking old woman guiding Leesha through the vast palace as a man might lead a woman through a dance. Wonda trailed along silently behind until they passed through a final door and Araine looked back at her.
“Be a dear and close the door, there’s a good child,” she said. Wonda complied, pulling the sturdy oak portal shut with a click.
“All right then, let’s have a look at you,” Araine said, releasing Leesha’s arm with a push that sent her into a spin for the duchess mum’s inspection.
Araine looked her up and down, her lip curling slightly. “So you’re the young prodigy Bruna was so proud of.” She sounded less than impressed. “How many summers have you seen, girl? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-eight,” Leesha said.
Araine snorted. “Bruna used to say a Gatherer wasn’t worth two klats before fifty.”
“You knew Mistress Bruna, Your Grace?” Leesha asked, surprised.
Araine cackled. “Knew her? The old witch pulled two princes from between my legs, so yes, I’d say I knew her. Pether was nigh fifty years ago, and Bruna was almost as old then as I am now. Thamos was a decade later, a giant babe like his brothers, but I wasn’t as young then as I was for the others, and needed more than some glorified midwife. Bruna was in her eighties by then, and reluctant to leave the Hollow even when I sent my herald to get on his knees and beg. She grumbled the whole time, but came just the same, and stayed in the palace for months. She even took on a pair of apprentices, Jizell and Jessa, while she was here.”
