The Four Forges (60 page)

“What is this you ask me, and why?” she demanded as Nutmeg and Rivergrace dipped into low curtsies.

“I beg all pardon,” Rivergrace answered softly, looking down at the fine carpet at the queen’s slippered feet. Sevryn took her by the elbow, pulling her up, and she lifted her gaze to see the Warrior Queen making an impatient gesture.

She tapped the fist-sized scrap of paper. “Do you know what you’re referring to?”

“I’m at a disadvantage, being neither Vaelinar nor . . . un-Vaelinar,” Rivergrace told her, trying to find a calmness she did not feel. Sevryn’s hand on her arm squeezed a little as if to comfort her. “First, m’lady Highness, we have a mix-up at the dress shop. We have your proper gown out in our cart, and we need to take back the one that was delivered in error, with all apologies.”

“And the second, most urgent mission is an explanation of this.” Lariel stood rigidly. Her thin summer wrap might have been of impregnable armor from her stance.

She couched her words carefully. “A messenger boy was asked to make a delivery. He knew only that it concerned you, from those who had a dislike of you to those whose jobs involve unpleasantries. He wanted me to warn you. He couldn’t read it himself, so he gave it to me. Forgive him, Queen Lariel, he knows it was a betrayal of his job, but he’s good at heart.”

Lariel’s foot tapped the carpet.

“It read: Queen Lariel must be Returned. No signature or seal, and I have no idea what is meant by Returning, but it sounds ill-intentioned.”

Jeredon’s breath leaked out in an angry hiss.

“Return, aderro,” Sevryn murmured, “often refers to death among us. We are the Suldarran, the Lost, and only death can return us to our true home.”

“The writer asks for assassination,” Lariel said.

“Oh, my.” Nutmeg sat down abruptly on a nearby footstool “And I was worried about my sewing.”

“It’s nothing new.”

“It is,” Jeredon told Lariel, “when couched in Vaelinar terms such as those.”

Lariel stared at him, before tapping Nutmeg on her shoulder. “Go get my proper gown, then. I presume this one is to be returned?” She poked a finger at the large bundle still wrapped.

“It is, m’lady Highness.”

“Be about your business, then. I wish to speak with Rivergrace while you do.”

Arms full, Nutmeg scurried to get the package and join Hosmer, who awaited her in the hallway.

“Does he know who sent it?”

“I don’t think he’ll name them, or the ones to whom he delivered it. He can only betray so much.”

“It won’t matter,” Sevryn told Lariel. “We’ll find only common Calcorts that way. The sender will have veiled him or herself quite effectively.”

“True.”

“Cancel your appearance.”

She looked over her shoulder at Jeredon, a wry expression on her face. “Oh, you do hate dressing up, don’t you?”

His mouth curled in a brief snarl.

“Highness.”

Her eyes softened as Sevryn caught her attention.

“What are your wishes?”

“We go. We take all caution. Our hope that Azel d’Stan- the might be the only prey for the Kobrir is wasted, but we can’t let them know that, or that we’ll be intimidated. And, if at all possible, we enjoy ourselves. Tonight is the highlight of the summer.” Her eyes of cobalt blue with glints of gold and silver rested on Rivergrace thoughtfully. “And you and your sister shall come with us.”

“Lariel.”

“Why not, Jeredon? This is a celebration, after all, and any defense I have planned will be well-hidden by their presence.”

“We’ve no clothes grand enough, or manners, or . . .” protested Rivergrace, glad for once that Nutmeg had abandoned her, for she’d have gotten a stout elbow in the ribs for her remark.

“Feh! Anyone who could steal a ticket will be here tonight, and the others who couldn’t will be dancing in the quad outside. As for clothes,” and Lariel circled her slowly. “I have something that will do quite well. I would have worn it tonight, myself, but I fell in love with your mother’s weaving. Sevryn, get Tiiva and see if you can’t find something that will fit our shorter guest.”

Sevryn let go of Grace with a certain reluctance, and it wasn’t till then that she realized how comforting his hand on her arm had been. When Nutmeg puffed back upstairs, the proper package lying across her wrists, her little mouth curved in a breathless O as Lariel commanded her attendance at the gala. She did not, however, protest in any way.

The two of them had put Lariel to rights when Sevryn appeared, carrying a bar with a dress displayed upon it, his hand at arm’s length as if unsure of the whole matter of women and dance gowns. “She says this may do,” and he laid it across the back of a chair. He paused, his gaze sweeping over Lariel, and he bowed. “My queen, you look astonishingly beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Jeredon sniffed. “She’ll need a dart to the head to deflate it before she sleeps tonight.”

Nutmeg and Rivergrace fastened the last clever clasp on the armored bodice. “A gown should only magnify the beauty that is already there. Too many women forget that,” Nutmeg told them matter-of-factly, as she pulled a strand of Lariel’s hair into place. “There.” She stood back, a smile of satisfaction breaking out on her face as she breathed out at the sight before her.

The blue fabric hung in clinging, shimmering waves from Lariel’s slender form, its faint pattern of golden stars and moons and silvery lightnings an echo of her eyes and hair. The armor only cinched her waist that much tighter the cloth, flaring slightly over her hips, a tier of silvery chains with golden bells ringing about it. Rivergrace thought she’d never seen anyone so magnificent.

After a moment, Jeredon coughed. “And, to think, she can put a sword blade through your heart just as quickly.”

“Indeed.” Sevryn’s shoulder twitched.

Lariel’s face flushed prettily at the reaction. “Now, you two.”

“That is our signal to retreat,” Jeredon said to Sevryn, and left the room towing him after. Faint sounds of scuffing followed but the door closed firmly.

Grace turned to her sister as she stepped into her garment. Nutmeg’s borrowed dress of soft golden-yellow with belled sleeves and a gathered skirt brought out the sunny highlights of her hair and she squealed in delight as she twirled about in it. The hem swept the floor a little too generously, but the length couldn’t be helped. “I shall just have to step higher and stand taller,” Nutmeg declared. “I wish Mom could see me!”

“She knows, doesn’t she?”

“I sent Walther in all haste to the mayor’s, and then he’s to return the cart to her.”

“I’ll see she’s told. Not to worry.” Lariel’s voice faded as she leaned into a solid, ornate wardrobe, its doors flung open, practically engulfing the queen entirely as she searched through it. Garments murmured and rustled as she moved items back and forth. She emerged in triumph. “This one.”

Neither silver nor sea-green, the fabric cascaded from her hands in a length of soothing color. Long sleeves flowed into lacy cuffs, ivory foam off an ocean’s shore. The waist was dropped, and the skirt only slightly flared, so that it would pool about the ankles and feet. Rivergrace blinked to see something so grand handed to her as Lariel held it forth. “Try this on.” One hand held out, she ducked her head back inside, with more rattles of searching. “My cup is missing. I can’t think where I saw it, I know Tiiva packed it.” The wardrobe muffled her words.

Nutmeg climbed onto a chair, taking the gown and gathering it carefully in her hands, as Rivergrace stripped down to her smallclothes and then stood under Nutmeg’s arms as she dropped it down over her and then laced the back up quickly.

“Ahhh.” Queen Lariel smiled as she emerged from the armoire, her mouth moving in soft curves of pleasure, watching.

Rivergrace turned to look in the silvered glass that hung inside the wardrobe door. She did not recognize herself at all, a tall, willowy figure embraced by a gown that spoke of seas and rivers and their mysterious ways.

“Grace!” Nutmeg put both hands over her mouth.

“What?” She spun about in alarm.

“You look . . . you look . . .”

“I know,” Lariel said to Nutmeg. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“What?”

“You don’t look at all like my sister,” Nutmeg answered solemnly. “Although I’m sure I’ll recognize you the first time you trip over your hem.”

Rivergrace put her foot out and hooked her slippered toes about the rung of the chair Nutmeg stood upon, pushing it sharply.

Nutmeg hopped down, laughing.

Jeredon and Sevryn returned warily to find the three of them putting cosmetics and perfume on each other, brushing the last strands of each other’s hair into a feminine order that made no sense at all to the men, but in relief it seemed they were at least ready to leave for the gala. Lariel put a hand up to Jeredon, frowning slightly. “Send word to Tiiva to find my drinking cup, my tankard, if she can? I know we brought it, I just seem to have misplaced it.”

“I will.” He stepped out long enough to crook a finger, bringing a guard running, and then came back in and stood to wait, back to the wall. Sevryn seemed to find the window shutters fascinating, examining them and their view minutely as the women fussed with the last of their preparations. Nutmeg clapped her hands as she led her sister out, her cheerful dress sweeping the floor as she glided through the door.

Jeredon hung back to accompany Lara last as they left the suites. “Why,” he asked her quietly, his eyes on the backs of the two guests.

“Because,” Lara told him, “my best defense is in their underestimating me, as they have done before. Will I look formidable with young maids on my arms? I think not. And, because, sometimes it does a soul good to look through the eyes of childlike wonder.” She smiled as Nutmeg did a little hop-skip and swung about, her gown billowing around her, before she began her trip down the staircases, her voice gaily ringing through the hallway. “Wait until Hosmer and everyone else sees me in this!”

 
 
Lily let Adeena and Goodie out, weariness in every fiber of her being, and closed the door on their heels. She could drive Bumblebee back and that was a blessing in itself, for she wasn’t all that sure she felt like walking. The past handful of days had been more difficult than harvesting before a driving storm was due to hit, far harder than anything she’d anticipated. Perhaps, she thought, she was growing just a bit older than she’d given herself credit for. She cleaned up the last scraps, wondering if she would have the time or energy to think of quilting for the winter weather that would come, surely, in a season although the heat baking through the shop now made that seem improbable.

The carters and warehouses had all been paid, and the girls as well, and she even had a small coin or two set aside to give to Nutmeg and Rivergrace, besides what she and Tolby needed. Yet, for all their work, and blisters and sore backs and cramping necks, she could not see her way through another season. Perhaps she’d worked too hard at it. It had been like trying to learn swimming in high flood tide and forgetting that a wade and a short soak in a summer-heated cove could be very pleasant.

She opened her secret drawer and took out the sheet of paper that did not help with her worries. Should she mention it to Robin Greathouse at all, or burn it and forget it? A brisk but singular knock at the back door interrupted the last of the closing. She paused, shoving her hands and letter in her apron, then made the decision to answer it. She did not see the paper go astray yet again, as if it had a mind of its own, and drift under the worktable instead of settling in her apron pocket.

Daravan inclined his head in gratitude in the doorway. “Mistress Farbranch. I thank you for granting me access at such a late hour.”

“It’s not that late,” she said, and opened it wider for him. He slipped through quietly.

“Late enough that the front door is shut, and if one hopes to go to the festivities tonight, he might be out of luck. Have you my suit for me?”

“I do. Walther has tried several times to deliver it.”

“I’ve not been in the city. Unexpectedly, but profitably.”

“No more time to waste, then! Let me fetch it for you, m’lord.” Lily found a spring to her step as she went after it.

Daravan ran an eye about the shop, and then noticed something out of place. He leaned down and picked up a piece of paper nearly wedged under the foot of the desk. He opened it, scanned it, then snapped it shut quickly, placing it inside his vest. He’d returned to lounging against the counter when Lily came out and put his outfit in his arms.

He pressed a gold crown bit in her palm. “Many thanks, Mistress Farbranch.”

She looked flustered. “You’ve paid already, and handsomely.”

“And you asked far too little for your efforts.” He smiled. “I shall look respectable and perhaps even handsome among my peers.” With a sketchy bow, he slipped back out the door before she could give a proper protest, or the coin back.

Fortune, Daravan thought, often laughed at him. He’d gone east for intelligence and come home empty-handed to find it sitting on the floor of a tailor’s shop, among fallen threads and fabric scraps.

THEY MOUNTED A GRAND carriage, Jeredon sitting with the driver, and Sevryn sitting with Nutmeg across from Rivergrace and Lariel. The conveyance had a leather top folded down, and carved ebony posts that held lamps, and pulls on the door that looked as if they might be gold. Grace glanced at her folded hands. There were tiny nicks from needle pricks and newly healing blisters from handling the fabric shears, and the delicate lace hanging exquisitely from her wrists seemed to emphasize hands which did not go with the gown. A worker’s hands. She made a note to herself to take care not to snag the garment with her rough fingers, or scuff the fine-grained leather seats of the carriage by touching them.