Fairest (6 page)

I looked for a simple gown, but the simplest one had so many ruffles in the skirts that I had to hold my arms out stiffly. Moreover, the matching headdress was a bonnet with a two-foot-long bill.

The corridor outside my chamber was empty, but someone was singing nearby.

I wondered if the singer might be a corridor troubadour. I hadn't encountered one yet, but the castle was known for them. They were servants whose only duty was to stroll through the hallways, singing. Anything might suggest a song to them: a historical occasion, a boar hunt, even a rainy day.

The corridor ceiling downstairs, on the entry level, was vaulted, twelve feet high at least. Everything was oh so grand, but the stink of the tallow lamps was a whiff of home. Song lyrics, painted in gold leaf and black, covered the corridor walls, each letter as big as my hand. I admired the calligraphy and wished that my brother Ollo, the family artist, could see it.

After more twists and turns than I could keep track of, I smelled baking bread and hot ostumo. My stomach grumbled. I followed my nose.

I expected to hear the same sounds the Featherbed Inn's kitchen produced: plates clattering, pots banging, laughter, an occasional oath. Instead, I heard bells, a harpsichord, and feet pounding in time with the music.

I reached the kitchen—and stood gaping in the doorway. The room was ten times the size of the Featherbed kitchen. In the center was the harpsichord, played by a wench with lightning fingers and a dreamy expression. Activity swirled around her. Serving maids piled muffins and rolls on platters. Three men muscled an ox carcass into a huge oven. A boy peeled a potato that could only have come from a giant's farm. The potato was half as tall as the boy. The pile of peelings came up to his ankles.

The bell ringer was the cook, a red-faced woman almost as big as I was. Her arms were striped with bracelets made of tiny bells strung together with twine. She was cooking in three frying pans at once, cracking eggs into one, flipping pancakes in another, and frying meat patties in a third. As she worked, her arms shook and the bells tinkled. She shuffled from foot to foot in time to her music, shooshing the rushes that were strewn across the wooden floor.

As if a signal had been given, everyone began to sing a morning song.

I longed to be part of it.

I joined in, singing softly.

I took a step into the kitchen. A serving maid carrying a stack of dirty plates bumped into me.

The dishes went flying.
Crash!

Silence.

How could I have been so clumsy? The plates were rimmed with gold. They would cost a barrel of yorthys to replace. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean …”

Everyone was staring at me. A frozen moment passed. Then everyone was curtsying and bowing. A man with a broom headed my way.

The cook moved her pans off the flame. “What can Frying Pan do for your ladyship?” Her face was expressionless.

I crouched and picked up pieces of broken china. “I'm sorry … I should have—”

The woman repeated, “What can Frying Pan do for your ladyship?”

From the floor, I said, “I'm not a ladyship. I'm only an innkeeper's daughter. I thought—”

“Frying Pan thinks the innkeeper's daughter should leave the kitchen.” Her voice rose. “Frying Pan thinks the innkeeper's daughter has no business interrupting the king's servants. Frying Pan thinks the innkeeper's daughter should
get out!
”

I
STUMBLED BACKWARD
through the kitchen door and stood outside, feeling miserable and beginning to be angry. It wasn't a crime for a guest to enter the Featherbed kitchen.

The door opened. The serving maid I'd collided with slipped out. “Mistress—”

“I'm sorry about the dishes. I didn't—”

The maid shook her head, causing the ribbons on her cap to jiggle. “It was my fault. I've been stepping wrong all morning.” She was a pretty girl, near my age. I envied her appealing, heart-shaped face.

“Will you or Frying Pan have to pay for the plates?”

“No. Someone breaks something every few—Sweet, that's worrying you? Us, paying for the crockery? You sweet!”

“But then why—” Why had Frying Pan yelled at me?

“Frying Pan would yell at the king if he came into her kitchen. Are you hungry?”

I admitted I was. The maid, whose name was Isoli, slipped back into the kitchen and returned with two muffins and a russet apple, wrapped in a napkin. Then she went back to her duties. I was sorry to see her go.

I returned to my explorations, nibbling on a muffin. The apple I placed in my pocket to toss away later.

When the second muffin was almost gone, I heard a man singing and people laughing. The entrance to the Hall of Song was a few yards ahead. I believed I was hearing the composing game. My favorite. At home I excelled at it.

I finished eating and stopped in the doorway to listen. Here I wouldn't collide with anyone. Here I wouldn't be noticed.

A courtier was leaving the stage, circling around a mound of books. It
was
the composing game! A dozen people sat in the first row of seats, Prince Ijori among them, Oochoo at his feet.

The dog raised her head and then raced up the aisle to me, tail wagging enthusiastically.

Oh, no! Everyone turned to look.

I put one hand in front of my face, curtsied, and began to leave.

A woman's voice called out, “Wait!”

I stopped. Oochoo put her paws on my chest and tried to lick my face.

The prince exclaimed, “Oochoo, down! Come!”

The dog ran to him. The woman came up the aisle to me. She was Lady Arona, the damsel who'd sung to the king and queen on the receiving line, the one who'd made Ivi jealous. Today she wore a violet gown with a lace fan collar. In place of a bonnet she wore a pearl headband. She looked fetching.

“Providence has come to your rescue, Ijori,” she cried gaily. She curtsied to me.

I curtsied, feeling my blush begin.

She said, “The prince has been telling us and telling us that he'd do better with a partner, and here you are.” She held out her hand. “Please join our game.”

Her face was gleeful. Was she being cruel? Perhaps she thought it amusing to pair the prince with a gargoyle like me.

I wanted to refuse, but I feared what might happen if I did. They were courtiers. I was an innkeeper's daughter. I curtsied again and took her hand.

Prince Ijori, looking disconcerted, said, “Arona! The young lady doesn't want to rescue a hopeless case.”

He didn't want to sing with me. I wished I knew what to say to get us both out of it. But I was too shy to speak, even if I'd had the words.

“Rescue a prince?” Lady Arona said. “Of course she does.”

Prince Ijori turned up his palms in defeat. “I'll welcome any help she can provide.”

Lady Arona started down the aisle, towing me by my hand. My hips and Dame Ethele's skirts couldn't fit in the aisle with her. I followed at an awkward angle.

When I reached the others, they stood to greet me. I wanted to sink through the floor. The prince said, “You're the duchess of Olixo's friend, aren't you?”

He remembered the fool I'd made of myself on the receiving line.

He added, “Lady …”

I didn't want to say I wasn't a lady, which would embarrass everyone. But I couldn't say I was. “… Aza.”

To my horror, Prince Ijori introduced me to everybody. There was a flurry as they curtsied or bowed. I curtsied as he announced each name. The names flew by. There were a count, at least two sirs, several ladies, a baroness, and a duke.

At last, it was over. But then one of the women said, “Where do you hail from, Lady Aza?”

My throat was dry.

They waited.

Trying to help, Prince Ijori said, “Do you live near the duchess?”

If he'd been right, I'd only have had to nod. I shook my head. “Amonta.” My voice was a croak.

One of the men said, “That's near Kyrria. Do they even know how to play the composing game there?”

Irritation gave me a bit more voice. “We play often.”

Lady Arona said, “Pray tell us your impressions of Ontio Castle.”

My impressions? The cook was unfriendly. The nobility were too friendly. The prince was kind. I sent him a look of appeal.

“I see your design, Arona,” he said. “You've begun to fear Lady Aza will outdo you, so you want to postpone your turn.”

“No such thing. Let the competition continue.” She turned my way. “You're next after me. Count Amosa, please …”

Next!

The count, a middle-aged man in scarlet hose, picked a thick tome from the pile of books and skimmed through it. “Ah. Here. This part.”

I took a seat at the end of the row, a seat away from Prince Ijori. Oochoo sprawled on the floor between us. My heart was racing. Singing was the best part of me. If I could make any sound come from my throat, perhaps I could do well.

Lady Arona took the book and started up to the stage.

Prince Ijori whispered, “She's one of our best composers.”

She looked over her selection. “Amosa! I didn't believe you capable of such cruelty.”

The books used in the composing game are dense and dull. The referee selects a passage, and the singer must invent a melody on the spot. The singer is allowed to repeat words, but not to change any. When all the players have sung, everyone votes on which tune was best. In the composing game,
best
means silliest, the tune that made everyone laugh the hardest.

Arona began to sing. The tune she came up with was martial and dramatic. She could have been singing about a battle. “The Upuku pig is prone to boils....”

Lady Arona sang stirringly about the many methods of lancing a pig's boil. I laughed along with everyone else. The prince laughed most merrily of all. When she finished, we all waved our hands in the air. She curtsied and left the stage.

I was going to have to stand on the stage. I'd never been on a stage. At home we didn't use one.

Prince Ijori whispered to me, “We'll do respectably. That's the most I ever hope for.” He looked rueful. “And the most I ever achieve.” Then he smiled.

I was too frightened to smile back. We rose and approached Count Amosa. He marked a page in a book and gave me the book, which I dropped. I bent down for it. The count and Prince Ijori bent down, too. I knocked heads with the count. Prince Ijori picked up the book and passed it to me.

We both mounted the stage, followed by Oochoo. I clutched my book so hard, my fingers hurt. I raised it to hide my face. My book was the second volume of
The Encyclopedia of Sleep
. Prince Ijori had volume one. The procedure for duets is for each player to sing a sentence in turn. Then, at the ends of their passages, they start over, both singing their separate pieces at the same time.