Deerskin (37 page)

The prince’s friends were not the courtier sort, so there were enough of them (us, thought Lissar, for she was Deerskin here, Deerskin in costume) that no one need feel lonesome or truly out of place. She looked around for the Curn of Dorl, whom she had seen the first time the day Ossin had offered her six puppies to raise; he was easily spotted among all the people not trying to be visible, for he was wearing yellow as bright as a bonfire at harvest festival; he seemed to glitter as he turned. He bowed with a grace that might almost match one of Ossin’s dogs, and it was as if the entire ballroomful of people paused a moment to watch him.

Certainly the princess Trivelda paused, and offered him a curtsey rather more profound than a mere Curn required, but Dorl often had that effect on people, particularly women: Lissar saw Camilla watching him, with an anxious, wistful little smile on her face, as if she wished she did not care, wished that she did not wish to watch him, though she was as poised as she had been on the day Lissar had first seen them both.

Then the prince moved forward to greet his guest; Lissar, though she had been looking for him, had not noticed him before. He too was dressed in green, but a dark green, the color of leaves in shadow; and he stepped forward with all the grace of an unhappy chained bear to welcome the woman most of those watching believed would soon be his wife. He looked like a rough servant, cleaned up for special duty, perhaps; perhaps the special duty of waiting on the scintillant Dorl: and both of them knew it, as did Trivelda, who smirked.

Lissar, sharply aware of her gorgeous borrowed dress, found herself forgetting her own discomfort, forgetting to notice the ghosts that encircled her, that whispered in her ears, that crept between the folds of her skirt; forgetting as she watched her friend walk stiffly down the ballroom floor and bow to Trivelda, still like a bear performing a trick he has learned but does not understand, like a bear performing in fear of a yank on the chain if he does not perform adequately. He moved as if his clothing chafed him; there was none of the careless grace of easy strength and purpose that he had in the fields with his hounds, or on horseback. Here he was bulky, awkward, overweight, his eyes too small and his chin too large; he looked dazed and stupid.

For a moment her own ghosts dissolved absolutely in the heat of her sympathy; she was but a young woman watching a friend in trouble. Almost she forgot where she was and called out to him. She did not speak aloud, but she moved restlessly out of the shadowed niche between column and curtain; and the prince’s eyes, sweeping the crowd, saw her movement, identified her; and his face lightened—as if it had been she he was looking for—for a moment he looked like the man she saw every day in the kennels, as if his real nature came out of hiding and inhabited his face for a moment.

She did not know what to do; he was about to offer his hand to Trivelda, his future wife, and a hundred people stood between him and Lissar, her back to a pillar. She could not speak, say, “I am with you.” She could not rub the back of his neck as she had done once or twice during the longest of the puppy nights, when four o’clock in the morning went on for years and dawn never came; she could do nothing.

And so she curtseyed: her deepest, most royal curtsey, the curtsey a princess would give a prince, for when she had remembered who she was, with that knowledge came the memory of her court manners. She had not known that those memories had returned to her, nor, if she had, would she have guessed they would be of any use to her; had she known she might have wished to banish them, as one rejects tainted food once one has been sick. She curtseyed, had she known it, as beautifully as her mother might once have curtseyed, for all that Lissar had learned her court manners mostly as a mouse might, watching her glamorous mother and splendid father from her corner. And as she curtseyed she moved farther out into the room, fully away from the shadowing curtain; and the tiny gems on her dress and in her hair caught the light from the hundreds of candles set in the huge chandeliers, and she blazed up in that crowd as if she were the queen of them all.

Trivelda’s back was to her, and so she did not know what had happened; but she felt that something had, felt the attention of the crowd falter and shift away from her: saw the prince look over her head and suddenly straighten and smile and look, for a moment, like a prince, instead of like an oaf in fancy dress. She was not pleased; more, she was jealous, that Ossin should look well for someone else. She stiffened, and drew herself up to her full, if diminutive, height, and prepared to turn around and see what or who was ruining her grand moment—and to do battle.

Ossin, who was well drilled in courtliness, for all that he had no gift for it, saw Trivelda stiffen, knew what it meant, and snapped his attention back to her at once. Lissar rose from her curtsey in time to see what was happening between him and Trivelda; and so by the time Trivelda had graciously accepted his proffered hand, and moved surreptitiously forward and to one side so that she could see in the direction that the prince’s defection had occurred, there was nothing to see. Lissar had resubmerged herself into the shadow of the crowd.

She had meant to return to her pillar, but the prince had not been the only person who noticed her curtsey; and she found that there were abruptly a number of persons who wished to speak to her, and several young men (and one or two old ones) who wished to invite her to dance with them.

She glanced down at her jewel-strewn skirts, rubbed one soft-gloved hand over them; no one need guess her current profession by her work-roughened hands tonight. “Thank you,” she said to the smallest and shyest of the young men, who flushed scarlet in delight, and drew her forward to join the line that the prince and Trivelda led. The young man proved to be a very neat and precise dancer, but an utterly tongue-tied conversationalist, which suited Lissar perfectly. She had not danced since—her old life; and the memories her body held, in order to use the knowledge of how to dance, how to curtsey, brought too much of the rest with it.

Her heart beat faster than the quick steps of the dance could explain, for she was fit enough to run for hours with her dogs; here she had to open her lips a little, to pant, like a dog in summer. But the young man held her delicately, politely at arm’s length; and when she caught his eye he blushed again, and looked at her as adoringly as a fortnight-old puppy to whom she meant
milk
. She smiled at him, and he jerked his gaze down. To her gloved hands he muttered something.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked, what is your name?”

“Lissar,” she said, without thinking; but she had spoken as softly as he had uttered his first question, and the musicians were playing vigorously, to be heard over any amount of foot-tapping, dress-rustling, and conversation, including the stifled grunts of those trodden on by inept partners. In his turn he now said: “I beg your pardon?”

“Deerskin,” she said, firmly.

“Deerskin,” he murmured. “Deerskin—it was a Deerskin who found the little boy from Willowwood.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes—you were she?” he said, flushing again.

“Yes,” she said again.

They danced a few more measures in silence, and his voice sounded like a small boy’s when he said: “My cousin is a friend of Pansy, whose son it was was lost. Pansy believes this Deerskin is really the Moonwoman, come to earth again.”

“I do not dance like a goddess, do I?” said Lissar gently. She took her hand out of his for a moment, and pulled her glove down her forearm. There were a series of eight small deep scratches, just above her wrist, in two sets of four. “One of the puppies from the litter I raised taught himself, when he was still small enough not to knock me down, to jump into my arms when I held them out and called his name. Once he missed. I do not think Moonwoman’s dogs would miss; nor would she willingly wear scars from so foolish a misadventure.”

The young man was smiling over her shoulder, dreamily; but he said no more. The dance came to an end; they parted, bowing to each other. As she rose from her curtsey he, obviously daring greatly, said, “Sh-she might, you know. To look ordinary. Human, you know.” Then he bowed a second time, quickly, almost jerkily, the first graceless gesture she had seen from him, and walked quickly away.

T
HIRTY

SHE DANCED STEADILY ALL EVENING. ONCE OR TWICE HER PARTNERS
asked her if she would rather have a plate from the long tables of sumptuous food laid out at one end of the hall, but she declined; it would be harder not to talk, away from the noise and bustle of the dancing; she could not keep her mouth full all the time. Nor was she hungry; she was managing to keep her useful skills separate from her secret, but the secret was a weight on her spirit, and in the pit of her stomach, and she was not hungry; nor was she aware of growing tired.

She was too tight-stretched, alert to keep the old terror at bay, to keep herself from doing anything so appalling as blurting out her real name again; to keep her mind on what she was doing, dancing, and not making conversation. Some of her partners were more persistent than others. She made a mistake in choosing to dance with one old fellow, stiff and white-haired, thinking he would probably be deaf, and if inclined to talk, would want to talk exclusively about himself and, as she guessed from the metal he wore across his chest, his glorious career in the military.

But he surprised her; he was not in the least deaf, and very curious about her. “I have five daughters within, I would guess, five years on either side of your age, and I thought I knew every member of Cofta and Clem’s court of their age and sex. You never came with Trivelda—you’re not her type—so who are you?”

“I’m a kennel-girl who has slipped her leash for the evening.”

He laughed at this, as he was supposed to, but he did not let her off. And so he extracted her story from her, piece by piece, backwards to her appearance in King Goldhouse’s receiving-hall the day after the prince’s favorite bitch had died giving birth to her puppies.

“And where did you come from before that?” the relentless old gentleman pursued.

“Wouldn’t you rather tell me of your dangerous campaigns in the wild and exotic hills of somewhere or other?” she said, a little desperately.

He laughed again; it was impossible not to like him. “No. Campaigns are a great bore; they are mostly about either finding enough water for your company, or being up to your knees in mud and all the food’s gone bad. Battles are blessedly brief; but you’re sick with terror before, blind with panic during, and miserable with horror by the results, when you have to bury your friends, or listen to them scream. I’m glad to be retired. But you remind me of someone, and I’m trying to think of whom; I’ve done a lot of travelling in my life, and—”

She jerked herself free of his loose hold in an involuntary convulsion of fear. “My dear,” he said, and they halted in the middle of the figure, whereupon four people immediately blundered into them. “Are you feeling ill?”

“No,” she said breathlessly; and took his hand again, and composed herself to pick up the dance.

“I do not know what your secret is,” said the old man after a moment; “I apologize for giving you pain. I have heard of Deerskin, and of what I have heard of her, and looking into your bright young face tonight, I can think no evil of her. If I remember who you remind me of, I will keep it to myself.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“My name is Stronghand,” he said. “If you find yourself in need of a friend, my wife and I are very fond of young girls; come find us. We live just outside the city, on the road from the Bluevine Gate. The innkeeper at the Golden Orchid can tell you just where.”

The dance ended then, and as she rose from her curtsey, he kissed her hand. “Remember,” he said, and then turned and left her.

She was standing looking after him when Lilac came up to her. “Come away quickly, before someone else grabs you—you’ve been on your feet all evening, I’ve been watching you. You’re one of the brightest stars of the ball. Trivelda is going to send someone to spill something on you soon, to get you out of the way. But don’t any of these great louts ever think you might want something to eat?”

She smiled at her friend. “Several of them have asked, but I preferred dancing to having to sit down and make conversation.”

“If that isn’t like you. Conversation is much easier than dancing—I think,” she said, a little ruefully.

“Don’t try and tell me you don’t dance beautifully; I’ve been watching you too.”

Lilac wrinkled her nose. “It depends completely on who I’m with. Ladoc, my friend’s cousin, is fun; some of these fellows, well, one or two, my feet may never recover. Come and see the lovely food. I’m starving. And you don’t have to make conversation with me if you don’t want to.”

“‘Don’t any of these great louts ever think you might want something to eat?’”

“This is the
third
time I’ve been down to the tables,” said Lilac, handing her a plate. “The servers are beginning to recognize me. Here, this is particularly good,” she said, thrusting her empty plate under the appropriate server’s nose, and seizing Lissar’s plate away from her again to proffer it too. “And this.”

A little later they looked up when a pair of messenger-clad legs paused in front of them as they sat at a tiny table tucked in with other tiny tables behind the grand display of food. The messenger bowed first to Lilac and then, more deeply, to Lissar.

“The prince’s compliments, and if my lady would permit this humble messenger to guide her to him for a brief moment of her time?”

Lissar rose at once. “I’ll see you back on the dance floor,” said Lilac, licking her fingers and trying not to look unduly curious.

The messenger took her back across the long length of the dance floor, toward the far end, where the dais stood, bearing tall chairs for the king, queen, prince and princess of this country as well as the king, queen and princess who were their guests; the fact that this was a ball, and that none of them would sit in the chairs all evening, was beside the point. The latter king and queen were dowdy in comparison to their vivid daughter, but the king looked as if the court he found himself in did not live up to his opinion of his own dignity. He kept scowling at the chairs set out for his family, although they were quite as fine as the others. The queen looked like a frightened chambermaid expecting to be caught out wearing her mistress’s clothes, which did not quite fit. She was small, like her daughter, but Trivelda’s hauteur came obviously from her father.