87 and had early learned to accept that. And, since her roving life had taken her into the wilderness of unknown worlds, she practiced none of the cosmetic arts used by the women of the inner planets. Beside the Princess she was certainly very insignificant. How much so, she had not realized until now.
There was an array of pots and bottles on the table. Roane sat down eyeing them, wondering who had supplied these, what they held. Then, emboldened, she investigated. The first was a small yellow pot, very smooth to her fingers, lidded by a stopper fashioned as a half-opened flower. It contained a paste with a sweet smell. She ran a fingertip tentatively over it but had no idea what might be its use. As her explorations continued she made many guesses. There were smaller pots of red which perhaps colored lips or cheeks, though she had not seen anyone wearing the elaborate designs painted on forehead, cheek, or chin which were in high favor on some worlds. There was one narrow box of black stuff flanked by a tiny brush—and more beautifully shaped bottles and flagons, each of which held a sweet scent.
“My lady?”
Roane started and nearly dropped a delicate transparent bottle. Over her shoulder in the mirror she saw the maid carrying a tray on which rested a covered bowl and a cup.
Roane gave the morning greeting of Reveny. “Sun and a fair wind rising—”
“With thanks to you, Lady. Will you morn-sup now?”
There were berries in the bowl, intermixed with what seemed cooked grain, sweet contrasting with tart. The mug contained a thick, hot drink she could not identify. She was sipping at that when the door opened again and she faced the Princess.
Now Roane saw her in clothing becoming her station—the full-skirted dress of a deep green, with wide lace flecked with threads of silver turned back in cuffs, a collar of the same dew-and-cobweb material lying on her shoulders. The hair which had swung in braids during their journeying was now piled and
88 pinned into an imposing structure on her head. There was about her such an air of consequence that Roane arose to pay her tribute.
“Roane.” Ludorica did not move with a stately gait but sped across the room to catch the off-world girl’s hands in hers. “We are safe here. And my good Lord Imbert has gone to speak to the King. Fortune has favored us. And once we see King Gostar—” She laughed. “Oh, Roane, you will enjoy it here! There will doubtless be a ball—did I not say he had sons to be settled, and what better way can a gallant display than at a ball? And we will ride in the Brogwall in an open carriage as is the fashion and—and— and-”
The Princess could be any girl from one of the inner planets thirsting for pleasure. But Roane found she could not match the other’s high spirits. And Ludorica must have quickly sensed her lack of response, for she lost some of her sparkle as she asked: “What is it, Roane? Truly we are safe here, perhaps more so than in Reveny, until the full of Reddick’s schemes be known. And you—you do not have to fear losing your memory or being shut in a prison. This is a day for a light heart, not a sober face. Or perhaps yours merely looks sober because you are still wearing a night robe. White is not a color which becomes you! But that is speedily remedied.”
She pulled upon a bell rope and the maid returned, to scurry about under a rain of orders so quickly delivered, Roane was not sure of their number or kind.
It was later, when she sat once again looking into the mirror, that the dream seemed even stronger. There were drugs, forbidden drugs, which could do this to one, produce an alternate life for their user, so entrancing a life that he or she clung to the fantasy, fought return to reality. She had not used those and yet she was enmeshed—surely that reflection was not of any Roane Hume she knew.
The soft fabric of her gown was a shade of yellow, but woven in such a way that each fold as she moved was overcast by a
89 hint of rose. Lace, not as wide or as ornate as that which bedecked the Princess, but still finer than any other she had ever seen, ruffled about her brown wrists, rose a little behind her head to make a fragile frame for her thin neck. Not for her the piling of hair, but rather a lace cap curving to a point over her forehead, from which folded back two wired wings, as if an alien bird had settled there.
And her face—they could not take away the browning that years of exposure had painted on her, but they had made knowing use of the contents of many pots and bottles. So that brown was enhanced, and she was vividly alive as she had never seen herself before. Viewing herself so, she gained the courage natural to her sex, the armor a woman dons by knowing she looks her best.
Ludorica clapped her hands and laughed. “My Lady Roane, but this is how you were always meant to look! Not to go in that ugly dress like a man. Why do you desire to look so plain when it is not necessary? Do you not know, dear Roane, that it is the true duty of any woman to look the best she can, no matter how the Guardians may have designed her face at birth? Come now, you must learn to walk properly in skirts, my dear-like-a-man-that-was!”
Exiling her doubts to the back of her mind, Roane followed the Princess. They came out into a wide hall, one side of which was hung with panels of needlework between other strips painted in the same bright colors which had lightened the bedroom. The other wall had windows, four of them set out in bays. And those windows were checkerboarded with clear and colored glass, the colored being wrought in complicated patterns. Overhead the ceiling was molded in balls and leaves in high relief, those also painted. And at the far end was a large fireplace, while at intervals down the length of the hall were braziers of metal on tripod legs, from several of which curled scented smoke.
There was no one in that hall, neither servant nor master. But when they went through the door at the far end and came to a
90 staircase a man did appear, to stand at the foot of the stair awaiting them.
He uncovered his head (for he had been wearing a soft flat hat of colorful stuff with a big ornament of gold) as the Princess descended, and bowed. His clothing was richly trimmed with metallic embroidery and he fitted well with his surroundings. “Your Highness—”
He was middle-aged and had allowed his facial hair to grow, a custom new to Roane, who knew only spacers, who went with smooth cheeks and sometimes even totally denuded heads so that space helmets would fit the better. But the lower part of his face was masked by wiry gray hair.
“My dear lord.” The Princess held out her hand. “You must meet my good companion, the Lady Roane Hume. Roane, this is Lord Imbert, who gives us shelter in our troubles.”
He bent his head to kiss the Princess’s hand. Then he turned a searching glance on Roane, one she found disturbing though she met him eye to eye.
“I am honored, my lord.” Gathering up the full folds of her skirt with either hand, she essayed what she hoped was a passable curtsy. She was not too graceful. And those eyes watching her had in them that which daunted her confidence.
“We have much to be grateful to you for, my lady, we of Rev-eny.” Unlike his stern and rather colorless outward appearance, his voice was warm and rich. Roane’s first estimate of him changed. When he spoke it was as if another person awoke behind the mask he presented to the world. “We have our Princess safe, and all who serve her now are very welcome.”
He bowed again with a smile. But when she watched him without listening to his voice, Roane felt a chill in his manner. Words could provide screens for thoughts. Though the Princess valued Lord Imbert Rehling so highly, Roane did not feel for him that trust the Colonel inspired in her. “You are very kind.” Her words sounded feeble. The stately language of Reveny was so foreign to the clipped Basic of her own people that Roane found it difficult to u.s,e it readily.
“We are going to view your garden, my lord.” Ludorica smiled at him with a sparkle in her eyes. “What I have seen from the window of my bedchamber promises well—”