A handful of men.
2
Oak House, official residence of the Prince Imperial, was located just within the northern wall of the palace complex, on the edge of a steep scarp. Its balconies offered a magnificent view of the city, with the ghostly towers of the White Palace in the distance and a silver glint of Cenmere on the horizon beyond. Eshiala had counted twenty-two temples visible from there, but she might have missed dozens more. Half of Hub lay spread out before her like a marble forest and it was very splendid, if one cared for great cities.
She was not looking at the view at the moment, though. She was leaning on the balustrade with her sister and being nagged as usual.
Ashia’s idea of a suitable gown for a summer afternoon involved incredible quantities of taffeta and lace and whalebone. It represented months of work by skilled seamstresses. It was encrusted with pearls and intricate embroidery. Naturally, a lady could wear such a dress only once and must then discard it. Her hair was emblazoned with seashells and silk bows and more gems.
The summer day was baking hot. Eshiala wore a simple cotton shift, with almost nothing underneath it, although no one knew that but she.
“You do realize,” Ashia said in her most venomous tone, “that when you become impress, everyone will have to dress as you do?”
Eshiala mulled over the question and decided it was nonsensical. “No, I don’t see that at all.”
“Well, you should! It is obvious.”
“Then let them. What I wear is a great deal more comfortable, I’m sure.”
Her sister drew a deep breath of disbelief. Whalebone creaked. “Comfort is not the point! If everyone takes to dressing like a grocer’s daughter, then what happens to all the maids and seamstresses? What happens to the hairdressers and jewelers? You’ll ruin half the workers of Hub!”
Eshiala had no answer to that, never having considered the problem. She privately considered that Ashia herself would look a great deal better in something simple, instead of being primped and painted like a figurine. She had always been on the plump side, but surely she did not need quite so much scaffolding to contain her figure. She seemed to flow out of it at the top. Perhaps that was the idea, though.
Maya would waken from her nap soon. She was always brought to her mother then; today she would be a welcome distraction from her nagging aunt.
“You know what they think of you, don’t you?” Ashia inquired snidely, gesturing with a thumb to indicate the door from the balcony. ”Your gaggle of goslings?” She was referring, of course, to Eshiala’s maids of honor. Those genteel maidens were at the moment waiting for the princess and duchess to return to the tea party and undoubtedly having a good gossip about the pair of them in the meantime.
“I know very well what they think of me,” Eshiala said patiently. ”They think I am a grocer’s daughter.” They undoubtedly thought the same of her sister, of course.
“Pah! They wonder why you insist on behaving like a grocer’s daughter. ”
The maids of honor were perhaps the worst of Eshiala’s burdens, in the continued absence of her husband. Of course a princess and future impress must be attended by maids of honor, however much she might prefer not to be. Normally being a lady-in-waiting was a great honor, and the lady so attended would see that the girls chosen were taught the ultimate refinements in courtly behavior. When their duenna was little older than they were and knew a great deal less about the curriculum, the relationship became sadly skewed. They disapproved of Eshiala because their matronly mothers did, and they sniggered behind their fans at her.
She was miserably aware that she was failing them and doing an atrociously bad job of keeping them virtuous and safe from the predatory attentions of their male counterparts, the gentleman dandies of the court. Two had been forced to leave her household in disgrace already, and she was astonished that it was only two.
“They’re even worse than they were when I was here,” Ashia commented with a satisfied smirk.
“You were a great help.” Certainly, those first terrible months in Hub, Eshiala had been glad of her sister’s company. On the whole, though, life had been easier since Ashia’s marriage to the old senator.
“You know what they call you? The Ice Impress.”
Eshiala did not care what her maids of honor called her behind her back, but she said nothing. Surely Maya must be awake by now?
“Tell me,” Ashia said, turning in a swirl of taffeta, “how painful is labor?”
“Darling! You’re not! How wonderful!”
“No, I’m not!” her sister admitted, looking slightly abashed—which was a great rarity for her. “But I have been advised that `nativity would be fiscally expedient.’”
“Fiscally?” Eshiala repeated, bewildered.
Ashia smiled as a cat might show its claws. “When the old goat dies, the entailed estates will go to his son, naturally, and there is going to be a battle imperial over what is and what is not entailed! If I have provided another heir, the courts will look upon my arguments with more favor. I shall expect considerable pressure to be applied from above, of course, darling, but even so.”
Eshiala was appalled. “Interfere with a court of justice?”
“Oh, don’t be so tiresome and provincial! I’m sure, Shandie will understand, even if you don’t. But, just as insurance, I think I may have to make the necessary sacrifice and produce a son for Old Frosty.”
Eshiala knew her face was turning pink. “Is it, er, possible?” Ashia roared with laughter, momentarily forgetting the courtly demeanor she cultivated so painstakingly. “In the way you mean, it’s . . . well, `improbable’ would be a charitable description. But there are other ways to arrange such things and I’m sure he won’t query.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh, you poor innocent! Well, never mind. You survived the consequences, so I’m sure I can. Revolting, messy business, undoubtedly. Better to travel hopefully than arrive.”
“Ashia! You wouldn’t!”
The duchess rolled her eyes mysteriously. “I not only would—I have! But no luck so far. You don’t imagine I d want a child as ugly as that old bastard anyway? His grandchildren look like baboons.”
It was ironic that Ashia, who genuinely seemed to enjoy bed room intimacies, should have trouble, when Eshiala had conceived so quickly. “But think of the scandal!”
Ashia sighed and patted Eshiala’s shoulder. “There will be no scandal, dear. The course of events would have to be much more obvious to cause a scandal—like Shandie coming back and finding another prince on the way. You have been careful, I hope?”
“Extremely careful!”
“Sh! They’ll hear us!”
Ashia gave her an odd look. “You are looking forward to having him back, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Gods save me! Don’t try to lie to me, darling. Oh, you poor thing! ”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean!” Ashia sighed. “I don’t know . . . I did give you a demonstration once. I can’t do any better than I did then, I’m sure. Didn’t it help?”
“It . . . That sounds like Maya coming.” Eshiala had no need to be reminded of that horrible afternoon when she had spent two disgusting hours behind a drape watching her sister, naked on a bed with a stalwart young hussar. She had never been able to bring herself to do any of those grotesque things, and certainly never would. She was certain that Shandie would be terribly shocked if she even tried. That had been just a few weeks after her marriage; ironically, she had probably already been with child by then.
Ashia ignored the diversion. “Any more word on when he arrives?”
Eshiala repressed a shudder. “No word. He will outrun his news, I expect.”
Her sister gave her a careful, pitying stare. “I wonder if he’s the one who needs the lessons? Let’s hope he picked up some finesse from the fair maids of Qoble or somewhere. Now let’s go back in the farmyard and set an example of ladylike behavior for the goslings, shall we?”
3
It was troll weather. The countryside was wild and uncultivated. Clouds had been building all day in the west as the seven horsemen sped along the highway. Just before dark brought travel to a halt, their destination post inn came into view in the far distance—and at that moment the skies exploded. By the time the weary wayfarers reined in at the door, they were drenched and half frozen. Shandie could not recall being so wet and morose since the night the dragons came.
The law specified that every post inn must provide at least twelve beds. It did not say how many wayfarers might be packed into each, though.
As the door opened, the noise and smell together were enough to knock a man over. The tavern was jammed with wet and weary travelers, sitting, standing, eating, drinking, arguing in near darkness. Smoky lamps swung from the rafters, but their only purpose seemed to be to reveal their own presence so that a soldier did not bang them with his helmet. Apart from the rain and a sense of moorland isolation, this could have been any one of the previous sixteen nights. Two more nights should do it.