Lady Ananda Gaszin and her brother, Young Gaszin (as the heir was known—nearer thirty than twenty, he favored the nod to his fleeting youth), aspired to begin the season at their father’s Dance of the Spring Leaves, which was held on Flower Day, the day the sun rose at Daybreak and set at the Hour of the Cup. The game was that everyone would be seen assiduously obeying the queen’s injunction to be friendly to the Chwahir king, to mask a courtly moth kiss.
Lady Ananda was so confident of triumph that her outer robe was made of sheerest moon-glow silk, woven in curled-leaf patterns, with the tiniest gems caught in the gossamer fabric, like drops of rain, her sleeves draped in the then-popular fan shape. Her first underrobe was pale green, her innermost underrobe a darker green, its sleeves, neck, and hem visible a ribbon-width at the edges of the pale green; her nails were tipped with tiny emeralds.
That hint of dark green was considered presumption by many, as it was the custom at this dance for the royal family to wear the color of spring and the court to wear shades of white and silver, symbolizing the crown’s liberating the season of warmth from winter’s isolation. Although Lady Ananda’s intent was to highlight her incipient triumph by mocking the Chwahir forest green—which Jurac invariably wore—most saw her gesture as arrogance, presuming on the royal prerogative.
All this Kaidas Lassiter saw at a glance when he arrived at a ball he’d very nearly skipped. He was only there because Young Gaszin insisted that he join the game by making a very expensive wager on Jurac of Chwahirsland’s ignorance of Colendi dance. Wagers were always fun, and it was even funnier that every dancing master in Alsais had been hired away by the Gaszins.
Purely on whim, Kaidas wagered… against Young Gaszin.
He arrived late to find everyone in motion. There was Ananda sporting dark green, there was Young Gaszin, uncharacteristically paying assiduous court to the queen.
And there was Princess Lasva waltzing down the middle of the room with King Jurac.
“When’s he going to fall down?” he asked Lord Rontande behind his fan.
Lord Rontande laughed silently; he followed Young Gaszin because the latter was powerful. Rontande enjoyed Ananda’s flushed face, her modulated laugh that rang the false note to sensitive ears, causing her urbane father to send a long look her way. And he especially enjoyed Young Gaszin’s failure to distract the queen, who had proved time and again to be distressingly observant.
“He isn’t,” Rontande said, the diamonds braided into his silver hair shivering as he suppressed laughs. “Someone taught him to dance.”
By then, while Lord Rontande gloated at the fall of his clique’s leader, Lord Kaidas had taken in the entire room. His circling gaze returned briefly to the besotted Chwahir king, who appeared to be utterly unaware of his near brush with ignominy, then stayed with the princess, whose smile, whose laughter, rang the true note of merriment and fun.
SIX
OF HONEYFLOWER WINE
AND LILY-BREAD
S
everal mornings later, Birdy came straight from the baths, his hair still wet and pressed flat against his skull. He seemed more restless than ever. Out came the silken bags. He’d sent the salt bowl tumbling and nearly overturned the entire table in a lunging dive to keep a bag from falling into the butter rolls when I said, “Birdy, I apologize for sounding ill-natured, but must you do that now?” Birdy turned scarlet, nipped up the bags with far more dexterity than he displayed when juggling them, and said contritely, “I didn’t think you minded.”
I took refuge in quotation, as people will when they want to say something but find it necessary to mask personal intent with someone else’s words. “I am weak, and my serenity is easily disturbed when I can’t anticipate the next assault upon the dishes.”
“Assault! Oh. Queen Alian the Second.” His smile was pained, but present. “And why she did not like picnics.”
“The diving of bold birds is an apt comparison to the swooping of your silken bags,” I said. “But if I have to point out the analogy, then it is clumsy.”
“I’m the clumsy one. It’s just that… we leave tomorrow for Chwahirsland,” he said, as abrupt as any of his bags’ attacks upon plates, glasses, and bowls.
“I thought you wished to go.”
“I do. But—” He pressed the silken bags in his fingers, so that the sand bulged against the fabric as he gave me a comical look of regret. “but… Chwahirsland.”
I opened my hands in Heartfelt Assent, not wanting to say that I would loathe going there or to anyplace like it. “I hope it will prove to be fascinating, and that you are so valuable that promotion comes swiftly. Will you write to us?”
“Us?” he repeated.
He made The Peace and bow over his hands, but he remained silent as more of our friends arrived. He left without speaking—without eating, even—and I did not see him for the rest of the day.
Next morning I discovered through casual talk by his sister that Birdy had departed with the ambassadorial staff who accompanied King Jurac. I found myself looking for him at fan practice, at meals, at the archive late at night where we went for extra study. Then I would remember that he was gone. He had not said farewell, nor had he said anything other than that “Us?” It made me think that maybe heralds were not permitted to correspond with scribes because of the secret nature of diplomacy.
The only thing I was sure of during the next extremely tedious month, as I reviewed every detail of royal etiquette and protocol, was that there was a Birdy-shaped hole in my life. I would even have welcomed the juggling.
In the wake of the Chwahirs’ departure, the whispers eddied out, the most common topic being how Jurac of the Chwahir had offered anything short of his kingdom to arrange a marriage treaty with the princess, to be turned down by the queen. But Queen Hatahra worked out a trade agreement for wood and sailcloth and, in turn, Jurac agreed to accept the ambassadorial mission in place of the old trade agents.
The month after Birdy’s departure, it was time for my formal evaluation.
At the Hour of the Quill, I presented myself.
The scriptorium’s formal chamber, used only for important matters (it was there that Scribe Halimas had exiled my shivering thirteen-year-old self to the kitchens), was formed of cool, slightly glistening moonstone. The senior scribes gathered on a wide bench carved of old rosewood. The only decoration was a tapestry that dated back to Colend’s early days, depicting King Martande (then a herald scribe) with his pen. No swords or horses or bodies of dead Chwahir. This room was a testament to the power of the word.
“Scribe Emras,” old Senior Scribe Selvad said, her voice wavering. “You are come before us for your final evaluation.”
I stood facing them, my hands together in the formal gesture of peace, and bowed my head so that my chin touched my fingertips. “I am.”
Senior Scribe Halimas tapped his finger on his bony knee, ignoring a sidelong look of mild affront from short, newly appointed Senior Scribe Aulumbe. “And so?” he prompted.
It was then that I realized that they were not to provide the evaluation. It was my responsibility.
I had to breathe to control my nerves, for hard as it had been to brace for the prospect of hearing all my faults and shortcomings enumerated by my seniors, self-evaluation would be much harder.
I said, “My best skills are art script and history. My parroting is best in our languages, but I usually test with high reliability at five thousand words in unknown tongues.”
“Good enough for your present post,” Senior Scribe Louvian observed, his red brows lifting. “But Princess Lasthavais may well be proclaimed heir, or she might marry a king. If you wish to remain in her service, I counsel you to continue in expanding your limit. The heralds are not released into regular service until they have highest reliability at twenty thousand words. You should make that your goal.”
“With respect, my dear colleague,” Senior Scribe Noliske said, her thin old fingers gesturing with grace. She was at least
as old as Selvad, but her voice was firm, if husky. “With respect. If the princess marries abroad, the custom in Sartor is now for the home scribes to be left behind and fresh scribes appointed in the new kingdom. In fact, it is sometimes a note in treaties.”
“Quite right, quite right,” several murmured.
Senior Scribe Louvian lifted a hand in acknowledgement.
Senior Scribe Selvad turned her black eyes on me. “I counsel you to exert yourself to build rapidity in script. You are not quite fast enough for thorough accuracy at the pace of conversation, and such a skill might be required as the princess gains experience. She will not have the leisure to keep up with correspondence. You must learn to be fast and accurate under all conditions—perched at the edge of her bath, in the dark if she wishes to dictate letters before falling asleep, on a shred of paper if you are summoned at a meal and have only a pocket scroll.”
“Agreed, agreed,” echoed the others.
Then Senior Scribe Halimas said, “Now for your evaluation of us as instructors.”
There’s no use in reproducing my speech. It was as earnest and as pompous as we can be at seventeen, when we’re so sure we have the world figured out much better than our elders. My inner self brimmed with gratitude as I informed them that they had done well in training me, and they accepted that with the grace of long experience. I did see subtle signs (no more than a lifted shoulder, a slightly canted head) that they waited to hear what I would say about my six months of exile to the kitchen.
It would be a number of years before I understood the risk they had taken in so drastic a correction, not just in sending me away but in requiring me to study on my own for half a year. When I told them that I had returned from the kitchens to the scribe world to see it anew and to appreciate what I had chosen rather than accepting my training as my due—this shoulder dropped, that canted head tipped back, and the rustle that soughed through them reflected back to me as relief.
My heart expanded with thankfulness that their training had brought me to what I wanted most, and they were thankful that their experiment had produced such a well-trained, observant young scribe.
On the tri-toned notes of the Hour of the Seal, which is the time when the most formal contracts are traditionally made, Senior Scribes Halimas and Noliske each took hold of the shoulder of a new cloud blue overrobe and brought it to me. I slid my hands into the tulip sleeves with their cunning inner pockets, the open front placket falling over my white linen robe.
I was a scribe.
We celebrated by sharing the gold-edged cups of the complex golden wine called honeyflower. A perfect blossom floated in each cup—the highest accolade. The very best dainties, such as paper-thin carrot slices folded into the center of breads formed in the shape of a lily, were so light and delicate they melted in your mouth.
Then we rose, and for the first time I exchanged The Peace greeting as equals with my new colleagues.
Then, with the complex flavor of honeyflower still on my tongue, and my blood feeling as if it had been replaced by water (especially in my knees) I made my first scribe journey to the princess’s suite. I knew I must arrive at the Hour of Spice, but I was so familiar with the palace and how long it took to get anywhere, I was not particularly anxious.
The royal wing lay behind the main building, separated by Alian’s Garden. The lower floor comprised the chambers used by the royal family for personal entertainments. The main building was not only for state events; the outer rooms could be utilized by courtiers who wished to host a public entertainment—the definition of “public” varying, because all of these were by invitation.
The simplest way to explain is that there were generally understood degrees of privacy and exclusivity. Where you chose to hold an event was a communication equally important as its guest list.
The royal wing, the most exclusive part of the palace, was to be my home. The royal family lived on the second story, and Princess Lasthavais had the entire western suite of rooms as her own, overlooking the Rose Walk, down which I had run to my Fifteen test. Beyond that path flowed the Canal of Silver Reeds, a tributary of the River Ym. The princess’s quarters were the most private, their serene view unimpeded by stables, servants, or petitioners.
The back and east side belonged to the queen and her unofficial consort, Lord Davaud, cousin to the Baron of Estan. The queen was an early riser, and she liked looking out over the outlying portions of the palace complex before she went to work in the mornings.
I crossed Alian’s Garden for the first time and entered the rose marble foyer of the royal wing, slowing so that I might reach the stairs when the bells began to ring the Hour of Spice. As the first note rang, thrilling me, echoing rapidly from wall to vault, I raced up the stairs then turned to the left as the last echoes died away.
A twelve-year-old page popped up from her bench, laid aside her stitch-work, glanced at my new cloud blue overrobe, and clapped her hands together in salute. “Scribe Emras?”
Scribe Emras! Oh the glory of an earned title!
I signed assent.
“I am to bring you to Seneschal Marnda. Please come this way,” she said, her enunciation formal, her gesture correct but too new to be natural.
I had memorized the names and positions of the princess’s staff, of course. Seneschal Marnda had once been first handmaid to the old queen.
The little page carefully opened the door carved with trumped vines and butterflies, and we entered a cool hallway with open arches leading to a circle of rooms. The air smelled deliciously of fresh caffeo, which I was to discover was the princess’s favorite drink. The biggest room lay directly across from the carved door; blond wood and pale gold silk hangings made the most of the indirect light.
Though the tall, slender seneschal was the same age as the queen, her hair was still dark, her large, sunken eyes sunrise, that is, paler than her skin—like the princess’s. Only where the princess had inherited her great-grandmother’s remarkable blue eyes, Marnda’s were a subtle hazel.
Second most important on her staff was Head Dresser Dessaf, compact and gray-haired, with a quick, ever-alert gaze and a small, prim mouth.
They were both waiting for me but afterward, I almost never saw them together, they were always so busy.
There were sixteen more women and girls crowded into the room, the pages and housemaids against the wall, and those with skills—seamstresses, dressers—stood forward. All wore variations in the soft blue-shaded gray robes, some with peach-colored aprons.
“Welcome, Scribe Emras,” Seneschal Marnda said.
The page had vanished into a small chamber. She reappeared, her posture self-important as she carefully bore a beautiful silver tray with a service of pale blue porcelain cups with silver reeds painted in the harmonious pattern of spring breeze. The air filled with the perfume of wine as Seneschal Marnda poured, observing the solemn and graceful ritual.
“Let us celebrate your joining us.”
I thanked her with the customary words, then took the proper three of the bite-sized ceremonial breads, each perfectly shaped, as Seneschal Marnda named the princess’s staff. I was glad I already knew their names. Now I could put faces to those names.
“Scribe Emras, you may summon any duty page on the princess’s behalf. If you summon anyone else, it is a courtesy among us to include, at least briefly, the reason. That can save time, if an item is to be brought, for example.”
In other words, I could summon no pages on my own behalf, but this I already knew. Some scribes had their own staff. I did not. The possibility for such lay not only in my future but also in the princess’s. In the meantime, I must be my own page until ordered differently.
The seneschal said to the others, “In turn, you may not summon the scribe. If she is seated doing nothing, you may not assign her tasks. Her duty time will be different from yours. If there is a question of procedure, you bring it to me.”
Then back to me: “Within the princess’s inner chambers, we r
emove our house slippers and wear chamber slippers. We all keep pairs by our doors.”
I made The Peace. I already knew about courtiers and their costly carpets.
“In recreation time, the two back rooms are open to you, as to us all, and of course, there are the servants’ halls. We always have fresh caffeo and steep available. There is a strict rule, from the queen herself, against fermented or distilled drinks on duty.”
“What is your custom for meals?” I asked.
She made the two-finger gesture of appreciation for my discreet wording. “We do not know yet how your meals will fit into our practice. You might have noticed that my staff does not dine with the rest of the palace staff.”
I signed assent.
She continued, “We always have hot breakfast cakes, morning steep, and fresh caffeo in the sun room at dawn. For supper, you may join the queen’s personal staff who, you probably know, are served separately.”
A privilege indeed. Impressed as well as intimidated, I placed my hands together, and Seneschal Marnda mirrored The Peace, then dismissed the staff. She then showed me to my room, on the same hall as the princess’s outer salon. It overlooked the Rose Walk. The summer bed lay under the window, the desk and trunk against the inside wall on the low platform—the sleeping platform in winter, when the vents under it would be opened to the warm air of the furnace. This platform, and the narrow door at the other side of the room, were signs of prestige indeed: I would not have to retreat to a dormitory in winter, and further, I had my own entrance to the bath.
“You may call upon the services of Anhar once a week,” she said, and I remembered the personal dresser whose pale, moon-round face made me wonder if she were half Chwahir. Her hair was a dull shade of light brown not unlike mine. “I understand scribes like to keep their nails pared, so you may make private arrangements with her when she is not on call. Here you will see that we have put in one of the new cleaning frames.”