His eyes glittered as he took the proffered cup; he looked around at the room as if it were made of gold. Other guests, bright as poppies, paired up in anticipation of the dancing. The symphonia finished tuning and sent a warm chord wafting over the room.
“I haven’t taken human form in forty years,” said the Ardmagar. With a start, I realized he was addressing me. He turned his cup in his fat fingers, giving me sly, sidelong looks. “I forget what it’s like, how your very senses differ from ours. Sight and smell are frustratingly muted, but you compensate with the intensity of the others.”
I curtsied, not wanting to engage him in conversation. More of my mother’s memories might be waiting to pounce on me. The tin box was quiet, for now.
He persisted: “Everything tastes of ash to us, and our scales permit little sensitivity to touch. We hear well, but your auditory nerve connects to some emotional center—all your senses link to emotion, absurdly, but that one in particular … that’s why you make music, isn’t it? To tickle that part of your brain?”
I could tolerate this kind of incomprehension from Orma, but this arrogant old saar irritated me. “Our reasons are more complicated than that.”
He waved a hand and puffed his lips dismissively. “We have studied art from every conceivable angle. There is nothing rational in it. It is, in the end, just another form of autogratification.”
He swallowed his wine and went back to observing the ball. He was like a child gawping at spectacle, dazzled by the vast sensory banquet before him: sweet perfume and spicy wine, the patter of ball slippers, the scrape of bows on strings. He reached out and touched a countess’s green silk gown as she rustled past. Mercifully, she did not notice.
Couples took the floor for a cinque pas. Comonot gazed at them tenderly, as if they were cherry blossoms—not an expression one typically sees on a saarantras—and I wondered how many glasses of wine he’d had. It bothered me that he could stand here playing the sensualist while Orma couldn’t even talk to me without taking precautions against the Censors.
“Is this dance difficult?” he asked, leaning in close. I stepped away from him; he was unlikely to smell my scales while he was in his cups, but there was no point taking unnecessary risks.
“This one intrigues me,” he said. “I want to try everything. It may be another forty years before I take this shape again.”
Was he asking me to dance? No, he was asking me to ask him. I could not decide whether this was flattering or irritating. I kept my voice neutral. “I’ve never danced the cinque pas. If you watch the dancers carefully and analyze the steps, you should uncover repeating patterns, which I suspect parallel the repetitions in the music.”
He stared at me; his eyes were slightly bulgy, reminding me unpleasantly of Basind’s. He licked his thick lips and said, “That is just how a dragon would approach the problem. You see, our peoples are not so different after all.”
Before he could speak again, a regal presence loomed behind us and a woman’s stern voice said, “Ardmagar, would you care to try our Goreddi dances?”
It was Glisselda’s mother, Princess Dionne, in shining yellow silk; she wore a simple circlet and light veil, her hair tucked up in crispinettes. She gleamed like the golden phoenixes of Ziziba; I, in my maroon houppelande, was a dull little peahen in comparison. I backed away, relieved that she had eclipsed me in the Ardmagar’s attention, but Comonot, the old fox, pointed me out to her. “I was just discussing the dances with this peculiar young person.”
The princess gazed coolly down her elegant nose. “That is our assistant music mistress. She aided Viridius in organizing tonight’s music.”
I didn’t have a name, apparently; that was fine with me. I curtsied, drifting further away as quickly as I dared.
Something satiny and rose-colored hit me in the side of the head. I looked up, startled, just in time to get the end of Princess Glisselda’s trailing sleeve full in the face again. She laughed, whirling away from me; her partner, the Earl of Apsig, was light on his feet. My heart sank at the sight of him, but he scorned to even look at me. He was an adept dancer, and a handsome fellow when he wasn’t threatening anyone. His severe blacks set off her rosy gown; they captivated every eye in the room. He pranced her back toward me. I braced myself for the sleeve again, but she called out to me, “Did Lucian speak with you? I didn’t see you dancing!”
Kiggs had said he’d discussed Imlann with her; I hoped she hadn’t thoughtlessly babbled everything to the earl. “We’re waiting for the pavano,” I said as she passed again.
“Cowards! Dancing with you was my idea, you know! You’ll be harder to overhe …” Josef whisked her away across the floor.
I lost the end of the word, but not the idea.
The second dance ended; the musicians transitioned to a sarabande with almost no pause. I watched the promenading couples; Comonot was not the only one mesmerized by all the pomp. Glisselda still danced with Josef, earning herself a pointed glare from her mother. The Earl of Apsig was not a nobody, presumably, but the second heir could not just dance for fun; serious politics happened on the floor.
Kiggs had danced the cinque pas with Amerta, daughter of Count Pesavolta of Ninys, gavotted with the Regina of Samsam, and now sashayed his way through the sarabande with some duchess I couldn’t identify. He danced competently, if not as flashily as Josef, and seemed to enjoy it. He smiled at the duchess, a glorious, unguarded, unself-conscious smile, and for a moment he was transparent to me: I felt I could see all the way to the center of him. I’d glimpsed that at the funeral too, I realized with a start. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, exactly, but he did keep it in a place where I could see it.
The sarabande wound down. Half the symphonia got up; after every third dance, half the musicians took a “pie break,” and the rest played a repetitive placeholder until everyone came back. It was a nice system in that the dancers got a breather and the elderly—our Queen not least among them—could maintain their stamina.
Beside me stood Princess Dionne and Lady Corongi, eating pie. “Pie break” was, of course, a euphemism; it tickled me that these two highborn ladies should be breaking for pie, in fact. “I confess I’m shocked at the Ardmagar,” Lady Corongi said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief carefully, so as not to smear her crimson lips.
“It wasn’t his fault,” said the princess. “He’s short; he tripped. My décolletage was right there.”
I tried to picture what must have happened, and regretted it instantly.
“He’s a fool,” said Lady Corongi, puckering her face as if the Ardmagar were as sour as she was. Her eyes darted slyly, however, and she said, “What must it be like to take one of them to bed?”
“Clarissa!” Princess Dionne’s laugh reminded me of Glisselda’s. “Now I am shocked, you naughty thing. You hate dragons!”
Lady Corongi smirked nastily. “I didn’t say marry one. But one hears—”
I had no intention of sticking around to hear what one hears. I moved off toward the drinks table, but there was Josef, complaining bitterly. “We Samsamese—those of us who take our faith to heart—don’t imbibe the devil’s drink,” he snapped at the hapless serving lad. “St. Abaster never did. Should I spit in the face of his holy example?”
I rolled my eyes; I was not overly fond of wine myself, but there were nicer ways to ask for tea. I dove back into the crowd, shouldering my way through forests of gossamer veils and ermine-edged houppelandes until I was halfway around the hall. The symphonia’s holding cycle drew to its conclusion, and they began the opening strains of the pavano. I stepped toward the dance floor but saw no red doublet anywhere.
“You look nice!” Kiggs said in my ear, making me jump.
I blinked stupidly. There was something one said in response to compliments, something normal people instinctively replied, but my heart pounded in my ears and I couldn’t come up with it. I said, “No I don’t.”
He grinned, presumably because I was absur
d. He offered me his arm and led me onto the floor into the heart of the pavano. I didn’t know where to stand. He pulled me up next to him, our hands palm to palm at shoulder level, the opening stance.
“Your piper was rather remarkable,” he said as the promenade began.
“He’s not my piper,” I said, pricklier than I should have been due to Guntard’s earlier innuendo. “He’s Viridius’s piper.”
We did a left-hand pass, and a right. Kiggs said, “I know exactly what he is to Viridius. Tell your guilty conscience to stand down. You obviously love someone else.”
I startled. “What do you mean?”
He tapped the side of his head with his free hand. “Worked it out. Don’t be alarmed. I’m not judging you.”
Not judging me? Whom did he imagine I was in love with? I wanted to know, but not so badly that I would willingly keep the conversation trained on myself. I changed the subject: “How long have you known the Earl of Apsig?”
Kiggs raised his eyebrows as we circled slowly right, the starhand move. “He’s been here about two years.” He studied my face. “Why do you ask?”
I gestured toward the other dancers in our circle. Josef’s black doublet stood out, only two places away from us in the circle. “He’s making life difficult for Viridius’s piper. I caught him lambasting the poor fellow back in the dressing rooms.”
“I looked into Josef’s background when he first came to court,” Kiggs said, handing me around in a pas de Segosh as the circle reversed. “He’s the first Apsig to crawl out of the highlands in three generations; that house was believed extinct, so of course I was curious.”
“You? Curious?” I said. “I find that difficult to believe.”
He rewarded my impudence with a grin. “Apparently his grandmother was the last of the line and he revived the name. He’s also rumored in Samsam to have an illegitimate half brother. Lars might not be a mere serf after all.”
I frowned. If Lars was not some random half-dragon but the familial shame incarnate, that would explain Josef’s animosity. Still, I couldn’t help feeling it was more complicated than that.
Kiggs was talking; I focused back on him. “They take a harsh stance on illegitimacy in Samsam. Here, it’s mostly inconvenient for the poor bastard; there, it taints the entire family. The Samsamese are great devotees of St. Vitt.”
“ ‘Thy sins burn brightly backward through the ages’?” I hazarded.
“ ‘And forward unto all thy sons’ horizons’—yes. Well quoted!” He handed me round again; his eyes twinkled, reminding me of Prince Rufus. Kiggs leaned in and added in an earnest voice: “I realize you’re conducting a survey on the subject, but I’d recommend against asking Lars what it’s like to be a bastard.”
Startled, I met his eye. He was laughing silently, and then we were both laughing, and then something changed. It was as if I had been watching the world through oiled parchment or smoked glass, which was yanked abruptly away. Everything grew very clear and bright; the music burst forth in majesty; we stood still and the room turned around us; and there was Kiggs, right in the middle of all of it, laughing.
“I—I shall have to be content with asking you,” I stammered, suddenly flustered.
He gestured broadly, encompassing the room. “This is it. The quintessence of bastardy. No rest for the wicked. Dance after dance, until your feet are ready to fall off.”
The circle reversed direction for the last time, reminding us both why we were here. “To business,” he said. “My grandmother may think there is nothing to be discovered out in the country, but Selda and I think she’s wrong.” He leaned in closer. “You should carry on as planned. We talked it over, though, and we can’t let you go alone.”
I drew back in surprise. “You can’t let me go where alone?”
“In search of Sir James Peascod. It’s not safe,” he insisted, his brow creased with worry. “And I’m not convinced you even know where you’re going. You were surely bluffing when you told those elderly gentlemen that you knew where they lived?”
My mouth opened, but my torpid brain had not formed any words for it to say. When I’d written that a visit to the knights was warranted, I meant Kiggs should go, not me!
Kiggs put a hand on my waist for the final promenade. His breath warmed my ear. “I’m going with you. That’s final. Tomorrow we won’t be missed: you’ve got no musical programs and all the most important people will be shut up in meetings all day—including Selda, to her great disgust. I propose that we ride out at dawn, visit the knights, and then, depending on how late it is …”
I heard nothing beyond that. My ears buzzed.
How could anyone think it remotely plausible that I intended to ride off into the countryside—alone, or any other way? It was my own stupid fault for bluffing my way down to the knights. Nothing but trouble had come of that. Everyone had the wrong idea about me now; they thought me brave and reckless.
Looking into Kiggs’s dark eyes, though, I felt a little reckless.
No: a little breathless.
“You hesitate,” he said. “I suspect I know why.” I suspected he didn’t. He smiled; the whole room seemed to shimmer around him. “You’re worried that it’s improper, the pair of us riding off unescorted. I don’t see a problem. A larger party would put the knights on the defensive before we even arrived, and as for propriety, well. My fiancée isn’t worried, my grandmother won’t mind, Lady Corongi will be off visiting her sick cousin for the next couple days, and I see no one else of consequence likely to judge us.”
That was easy for him to say; he was a prince. I imagined I could and would be judged. Lady Corongi would lead the chorus; being away was no impediment to her.
We circled each other in the final pas de Segosh. Kiggs said, “Your beau doesn’t seem the jealous type. We have a fair shot at failing to scandalize anyone in any way.”
Not the jealous type? Who? Alas, again my mouth failed to launch the requisite questions, and then it was too late. The pavano was finished; people were applauding.
“Dawn,” he whispered. “Meet at the Queen’s study. We’ll take the postern gate.”
He let me go. My waist felt cold where the warmth of his arm had been.
I quit the ball very soon thereafter, retreating to the sanctuary of my suite. I needed to tend my garden, and needed sleep if I was to get up early. Those were surely two very good reasons to leave.
Those weren’t my reasons. I didn’t visit the grotesques, and I didn’t sleep.
My limbs buzzed with restlessness. I undressed, folding the houppelande and gown with obsessive neatness, creasing the folds with my fists, as if pleats might calm me. I usually left my chemise on—I hated myself naked—but now I took it off, folded it, refolded it, flung it fitfully against the privacy screen, picked it up, threw it again.
I paced, rubbing the scales on my stomach, mirror-smooth one way, like a thousand sharp teeth the other. This is what I was. This here. This. I made myself look at the shingle of silver half-moons, the hideous line where they sprouted from my flesh like teeth pushing through gums.
I was monstrous. There were things in this world I could not have.
I climbed into bed, curled up, and wept, my eyes tightly shut. I saw stars behind my lids. I didn’t enter my garden; I was nowhere with a name. A door appeared unexpectedly in the undifferentiated fog of my mind. It frightened me that it could just appear, unbidden, but it startled me out of my self-pity, too.
It opened. I held my breath.
Fruit Bat peeked around the edge. I quailed. He had been so well behaved since I’d asked him to that I’d almost forgotten there’d been any trouble. Seeing him outside the garden scared me, though. I could not help but think of Jannoula, with all her peeking and prying, and how she’d practically set up housekeeping in my head.
Fruit Bat’s face lit up when he saw me. He seemed incurious about my private mind; he had merely been looking for me. To my horror, I was naked in my own head; I changed that with a
thought.
“You found me,” I said, smoothing my imaginary gown, or reassuring myself that it was there. “I know, I haven’t been to the garden tonight. I—I couldn’t face it. I’m tired of having to tend it. I’m tired of—of being this.”
He held out his wiry brown hands.
I considered the offer but could not bring myself to induce a vision. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Everything feels so heavy right now, and …” I could not continue.
I was going to have to shut him out. I did not see how I could muster the strength to do it.
He hugged me; he was short, not even up to my shoulder. I held him, put my cheek against the soft, dark knots of his hair, and wept. Then somehow, and I’m not sure how, I slept.
Kiggs was woefully cheerful for a man who could not have gotten more than four hours’ sleep. I had taken my time with the morning routine, assuming we’d be off to a slow start, but he had arrived at the Queen’s study ahead of me, dressed in dull colors like a peasant. No one would have mistaken him for a peasant up close, however; the cut of his jerkin was too fine, his woolens too soft, his smile too bright.
A man hulked beside him; I realized with a start that it was Lars. “He was asking for you last night after you absconded,” said Kiggs as I drew near. “I told him he could catch you this morning before we left.”
Lars reached inside his black jerkin and pulled out a large, folded parchment. “I hev designedt it lest night, and want you to hev it, Mistress Dombegh, because I hev no other goodt way of … to thank you.” He handed it to me with a little flourish, and then, surprisingly quickly for such a large man, disappeared up the hallway.
“What is it?” said Kiggs.
The parchment fluttered as I spread it out. It looked like schematics for some sort of machine, although I couldn’t make head or tail of it. Kiggs had a more concrete notion: “A ballista?”
He was reading over my shoulder; his breath smelled of anise.