She was about to walk, when Ylo’s hand touched her arm. “He’ll send for you if he needs you.”
“He may not know I’m here.”
“Don’t be absurd. You light up the place.”
She looked at him for a moment, then said sadly, “Thank you, Ylo.”
“Any man knows that a woman needs regular compliments.”
“Not any man.”
“Most, then. Come, here’s someone you must meet. I told you about them, remember?”
He led her over to an elderly couple standing by themselves. The man was tall, but so stooped that he seemed to be permanently half into or out of a bow. He had feathery white eyebrows, and his wrinkled face wore a wry, gentle smile. His companion was short but extensive in other dimensions, wrapped in a voluminous sable coat about the same shape as the sacks of beans that sat on the floor in grocers’ stores, but considerably larger, with her smiling plump face centered on the top of it. A diminutive matching sable cap perched improbably on her curly white hair.
Of course these would be Proconsul Ionfeu and his wife. Eshiala braced herself to play her usual fraudulent royal role. As princess, she must lead the conversation—she had been given lessons in how to put people at ease, select suitable topics, make sure nobody got left out . . . and so on. She hated the whole hypocritical procedure. And in this case, something went wrong very quickly.
Ylo had said that Lady Eigaze twittered, and so she did. She also chattered, babbled, and prattled nonstop, but none of her talk held the acid spite so familiar around the court. She decried the unseasonable weather, she made naughty little jokes about the gooseflesh on the Praetorians and the noise their armor made when they shivered. She conjured up improbable images by suggesting that they ought to be allowed to wear long woolly underwear on such a day. She pointed out that she and Eshiala were almost the only women in the whole place, asserting that if there were more of them around, they would certainly speed up the proceedings and let everyone go home. And then she suggested that Shandie ought to make everyone run around the Rotunda three times to warm up.
By that time, Eshiala was laughing. It was she who had been put at ease. She was enjoying herself, a stunningly unfamiliar experience. Had she not been given those lessons, she would never have recognized the skill involved. The consul-elect listened to his wife’s performance with a smile of amused resignation.
Eigaze revolved her bulk to face Ylo, smiling tolerantly in the background. Apparently he was an old friend, because she demanded imperiously that he lend the princess his wolfskin. Ylo shot Eshiala a glance full of risque overtones and offered to exchange garments with her.
“I do so want to meet your daughter!” Eigaze continued.”I adore toddlers! Oh, may I come around one afternoon and be presented to the next princess imperial? All my grandchildren are taller than me now, but I still have a while to wait for the next generation, thank the Gods. Do have a chocolate, my dear.”
She offered a large box of expensive candies, although where it had come from was a complete mystery to Eshiala. She accepted, feeling rather bewildered and almost believing that Lady Eigaze was sincere in her desire to meet Maya.
“The only good thing about all this nonsense,” Eigaze remarked between chocolates, “is that it is keeping me from an excessively dull tea party. I know I should have been given fifteen seconds to describe our experiences in Pithmot and then everyone else would have taken an hour apiece to tell me everything that has happened in Hub for the last two years, which I know already. What would you have been doing? Do have another chocolate.”
“I should have been sitting for my portrait,” Eshiala admitted.
“How awful! Dressed up in leagues of hot robes and smothered in tons of jewels? Rigid like a statue?”
“Exactly.”
“Dreadful! Who is the artist? Try a round one, they’re ginger.”
“About twenty artists. They complain about the light all the time.”
“Elves!’—” Eigaze commiserated. “Charming people, but they can be tiresome at times. Was there a jotunn there?”
“Jotunn? A jotunn artist?”
“Yes, dear. He’s the best of them all. A very short jotunn—I think he must have elvish blood in him. What is his name, Ion?”
“Jalon,” her husband said.
“That’s right, Jalon! We had him paint all our children when they were small and all our grandchildren, too.”
Jalon? Why did that name seem familiar? “He must be quite elderly, then?” Eshiala said.
“He doesn’t look it. That’s another reason to suspect he’s part elf, I suppose.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Ylo said sharply. “Is he by any chance the artist who painted that seascape in the Throne Room?”
Eigaze blinked and popped two more chocolates in her mouth, probably to give herself a moment to think. She eyed him appraisingly. “I haven’t been in the Throne Room since we returned, and they change the pictures all the time. But I don’t see why not. There couldn’t be two artists with jotunnish names, could there?”
Ylo was looking excited. “No, I suppose not. Was he one of the group, Highness?”
“I did not notice any jotnar,” Eshiala said. “But I am supposed to keep smiling at a very ugly marble urn, so I can’t be sure.”
“Something special about this man?” lonfeu inquired softly. Ylo nodded. “I need to speak with him.”
“Do you recall where he lives, dear?” the old man asked. Eigaze frowned. “I could look it up. Acacia Street, I think. Number seven, or nine? That’s down around the Temple of Prosperity, as I recall.” Obviously Eigaze’s well-rounded exterior concealed sharp wits.
“Thank you very much!” Ylo beamed at Eshiala as if she ought to understand his obvious excitement.
“Oh, bother!” Eigaze complained. “We’ve finished the chocolates! Dear, do you suppose we could send someone out to the coach . . . Mmm . . . The prince!” she added hastily. The empty box vanished behind her back and she curtseyed with her mouth full.
Shandie looked harassed. He acknowledged the other’s salutations, gave Eshiala a fleeting smile of greeting, then addressed Ylo. “Can you see Sir Acopulo anywhere?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fetch him, will you? Proconsul, Countess . . . I’m sorry this is taking so long.”
“We shall be running out of light soon, sir . . .”
Eshiala watched Ylo striding off across the great hall. Now she remembered the significance of the artist Jalon—the picture in the Throne Room was the one that showed Shandie’s vision in the preflecting pool. She would much rather have that whole macabre incident forgotten. Especially the daffodils.
Now the rehearsal was about to get underway at last and all her terror of pomp and ceremony came flooding back. An uncomfortable-looking chair had appeared on the dais beside the Opal Throne. That was her place. The banked seats around the Rotunda seemed to fill up with ghostly faces, and imaginary sorcerers occupied the vacant thrones, all staring disdainfully at the grocer’s daughter.
An elderly herald came shuffling up to join the group, looking crushed by the weight of his ornate costume. Ylo returned with little Acopulo beside him, beaming his benevolent, retired-priest smile at everyone. Eshiala distrusted him, although she was not sure why. He ignored her most of the time, and when he did speak, it was usually to preach.
“We are ready, your Highness,” the herald wheezed painfully.
“One last thing,” Shandie said sharply. “Unless the weather improves dramatically, I shall stipulate contemporary court dress.”
The old man flinched as if he had heard an obscenity. “Well?” Shandie demanded. Eshiala had never seen him look fierce before. His eyes blazed. This was Shandie at work, ruling. “But . . . But formal court dress, your Highness . . . It’s traditional!” The herald seemed ready to weep.
Shandie showed his teeth. “I detest it!” he snapped. He spun around to Acopulo. “What do you say? Togas are not too unreasonable, I suppose, however ludicrous they look, but I don’t want my wife freezing to death in one of those stupid chitons!”
Eshiala gaped at him and everyone else was looking equally surprised, although perhaps for slightly different reasons. Acopulo coughed politely. ”I agree that the customary garments are impractical for winter, sir, but tradition has its values.”
“Such as?”
The little man assumed an expression of weary tolerance. “Such as ostentation. The ceremony will become a Winterfest ball, with everyone outdoing everyone else in sumptuosity. The ladies, bless them, will be much more interested in one another’s costumes than in the solemnity of the occasion. Formal court dress keeps everyone more or less equal. It reminds us that we are all equal before the Gods.”
Shandie scowled darkly.
“And the current styles!” Acopulo added, undeterred. “No disrespect, sir, but every lady of quality will require three times as much room to sit down. Space is already inadequate.”