A Posse of Princesses (8 page)

Everyone had something to contribute, even
Taniva, who uttered her short, breathy chuckle as she talked about
a horse race once that ended up with everyone mired in the mud.
Dandiar described a learning picnic organized by the royal tutor
for the prince, his cousins, and some visiting boys that ended up
with them chasing all their wind-whipped papers all the way across
a garden into the king’s prize prickly shrubs. The resulting howls
could be heard in the Royal Chambers, where a visiting ambassador
thought he was hearing the torture of prisoners, and almost caused
an international incident.

Taniva snickered. “But then, these princes.
They did not chase. You scribes did the work. And the
yellings.”

Dandiar lifted his hands. “What can I say?
The princes did get plenty of laughs out of it. So we earned our
pay that day. We were useful
and
entertaining.”

Intermittently during the talk and laughter
Rhis was aware of some exchanged looks between Carithe and Shera,
their eyes crinkling, their mouths striving for somberness. It
seemed the two girls had some secret together.

Halvic appeared, friendly as always, with two
or three other guests in tow—all new arrivals. When Rhis saw shy
smiles and averted eyes, and remembered how she’d felt on her
arrival—and at the end of the race that morning—she did her best to
welcome the newcomers, and learn their names.

As the newcomers joined the talk, she
realized that she was having more fun now than she’d had yet. Maybe
the perfect party had less to do with everyone being beautiful and
fashionably dressed, and more to do with everybody having a good
time, talking and laughing? And of course dancing.

The talk shifted from weather to riding to
horses and then to life in the mountains—and back to weather.
Everyone had stories to tell about famous winters high up, when
snow had blocked them in for what seemed ages. Shera told some
funny stories about tricks her dreamy uncle had pulled on some of
the stuffier courtiers, which set them all to laughing; they were
soon joined by three or four boys, one of whom kept trying—in a shy
way that caused sympathetic pangs in Rhis—to talk to the impervious
Taniva.

Shera and one of the new boys, a thin,
pale-haired fellow named Glaen, kept exchanging mock compliments
that were really insults, keeping everyone within earshot in a fizz
of hilarity.

It was getting harder to hear everyone. The
conversation began breaking into little groups when a horn tooted
for attention, and a herald announced that the singers from the
south would not arrive in time for their concert, as a bridge had
washed out on the main road a day’s ride south. Therefore the usual
dancing would take place.

So everyone rose to go in to the great salon
adjoining for the impromptu dance. Somehow Rhis’s group had become
the largest in the room, and judging from the laughter, was having
the most fun.

They found an empty corner with seats enough
for everyone. Out on the floor, a number of couples had already
lined up for one of the dances.

“Your eyes,” Glaen said, “—as beautiful as
ice at the bottom of a well—entreat me to invite you to partner me
in the promenade.”

Shera swept a mock curtsey. “Delightful
notion, if only to hear again the entrancing knocking of your
knees.”

“Beauteous princess! Singeth like the frog o’
morning.”

“Handsome heir-to-a-barony! Speaketh like
unto the cricket o’ eve!”

Dandiar neatly sidestepped a slow clump of
people, leaving the tall, shy Lord Somebody next to Taniva.

“M-may . . .” the poor fellow murmured.

Taniva was looking about—she obviously didn’t
think he was talking to her.

“May I . . .”

Dandiar glanced at Rhis, his eyes so
obviously verging on laughter she muffled a giggle into her sleeve.
Dandiar flicked a look toward the dancers, and his brows arched in
question.

She held out her hand, and Dandiar said a
little louder than necessary, “Taniva, why don’t you and Breggan
here join us in starting a second line?”

Taniva looked bewildered, then shrugged.
“Dancing,” she said, as though it was as strange and new an idea as
balancing peas on their noses. She seemed to be completely unaware
of the grateful smile on poor Breggan’s face.

As the four walked out to begin a new line,
others followed behind them. Rhis whispered to her partner, “That
was smooth. How I wish I had your poise!”

“Oh, it’s trained into us,” Dandiar said,
with a smile.

“Then maybe that’s what my parents ought to
have done,” Rhis said with a sigh. “Sent me to a scribe school. I
could even have learnt other languages.”

“Was your education so poor, then?” Dandiar
asked as they extended their hands, hers on his, and pointed their
right toes forward.

“Yes,” Rhis began, but bit back the usual
list of complains. She thought of Elda, and Sidal, and added
contritely, “No. It’s just that I paid little heed to what bored
me, and instead I spent my time with what I liked doing. Such as
sitting in my tower with my tiranthe and my ballads—” She
remembered then that princesses were not supposed to like either of
those things.

Dandiar didn’t appear to notice. As the
musicians in the gallery began the opening promenade, he said, “You
wouldn’t be the first one in this room, boy or girl, to have spent
more time avoiding learning than in mastering what the tutors came
to teach.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “if I’d been the heir, I
might have been more diligent about current politics, trade laws,
and treaties. My little niece is so serious in her studies, but
from babyhood she’s heard that she will one day be queen.”

“Heirs do grow up hearing about their
responsibilities,” Dandiar acknowledged. Another quick look, one of
mild question.

“My sister-by-marriage seldom corrects her
daughter,” Rhis said, thinking back further. “Doesn’t have to,
because she’s so very perfect. But once she did, saying that
Shera’s lightest statement might affect lives unseen.”

“You didn’t think you might need the same
knowledge in the future?” Dandiar asked.

Rhis thought back about all those reminders
of her duty in making a good marriage. “I guess I never thought at
all, past what I would have liked to happen,” she admitted.

Dandiar grinned. “Who our age ever does,
unless forced to?” He added, “How old are you, anyway?”

“Sixteen,” she admitted. She was tempted for
a moment to claim an older age, but resisted.

“Just what I guessed,” he said.

“And you?” she asked, relieved that she’d
stayed with the truth.

“Twenty.” He grinned.

Rhis grinned back, a little surprised. She
suspected that she and Shera were among the youngest guests—and
that that didn’t add to their veneer of sophistication. Couldn’t be
helped.

With an inward sigh she dismissed the
thought. She swept her skirts away from his feet as she twirled
under his arm, and then stepped across to wait for his bow.

Dandiar was quite good at dancing. She was
about to compliment him, when she remembered what she’d said
earlier about his poise, and his response, which had not been
pleased, it had been polite.

She realized suddenly, and uncomfortably,
that she never would have said such a thing to, well, Prince Lios,
for example. Had she been guilty of condescension? Yes. She would
never compliment another princess on her training. Eugh!
Worse
than Elda! Even worse than Iardith’s deliberate snubs
because it had been unthinking.

The dance ended, and Dandiar bowed. She
curtseyed. He gave her his quick smile before moving off, his gaze
going this way and that. Checking the room, seeing that all went
smoothly for his master, she knew. He obviously felt no animosity
toward her—probably didn’t even remember what they’d talked about
two breaths after the conversation, for she, too, was part of his
duties.

Rhis watched him go, her thoughts impossibly
tangled.

“Carithe has the most wonderful idea,” Shera
said, laughing behind her fan. “We’re going to get up a play!”

“A play?”

“She found out that the players who were
supposed to come have been delayed by this awful rain, and so we’re
going to do one ourselves, and surprise the others.

“When?”

“Oh, not until after the masquerade. No one
can talk about anything else. After that they’ll be bored, and
looking for the next thing, and we’ll be it. Anyway, you know more
about plays than anyone, and so you could help us pick the best.
Will you join us?”

“Of course,” Rhis said. “Though I’ve read all
the plays Sidal has brought back from her travels, that doesn’t
mean I’d be a good performer.”

“You at least have a pretty singing
voice.”

“Yours is better,” Rhis said.

Shera shrugged. “I’m not all that good, I
just seem to keep harmony. As for the rest of us, I don’t know how
good any of us will be, but one thing for certain, it ought to be
quite fun, if we choose the right play. Vors said he’d join in if
you would, and we’ve got several others.”

Vors himself appeared a moment later, just
ahead of Halvic, and the girls moved out onto the floor for the
next dance.

The waltos—the new dance from foreign
lands—swiftly became Rhis’s favorite, and apparently many others
felt the same. Couples circled round and round the floor, stepping
and gliding. Rhis turned to admire a couple who danced straight
down the middle, whirling expertly, then realized that the pretty
golden braid-loops on the girl belonged to that princess from
Ndai.

She felt a tug on her arm. Vors pulled her
into the dance, and they galloped with enthusiasm, until the last
echo of the melody died away and Rhis was breathless with
laughter.

“Want another turn?” Vors asked.

“I need something to drink.” Rhis flicked
open her fan and tried to cool her face.

“Now that was a romp,” Vors said. “Did you
see how many were staring at us? At you, I should say. They all
think I’m the luckiest fellow on the floor!”

“I was too dizzy to see anything,” Rhis
admitted, gulping in air. She flushed with delight at his
compliment. “But it was fun.”

“You’re a nacky dancer,” Vors said. “Best
I’ve seen!”

Rhis sketched a curtsey in thanks, but as
Vors walked away to get them something to drink, the glow of
pleasure at the idea of ‘everyone’ watching in admiration faded.
Vors’s compliment bothered he because it reminded her of her
mistake with Dandiar.

“Here you go.” Vors handed her a crystal
glass.

“Thanks.” She frowned at the punch. Vors had
just given her a compliment, and he’d done it with admiration—with
exaggeration, too, she had to admit. It was obvious at a single
glance that not ‘everyone’ was watching. But wasn’t that the kind
of thing you did when flirting? Exaggerated compliments and
admiration were definitely a part of flirting. She hadn’t been
flirting with Dandiar, though, so—

“I wish,” Vors broke into her thoughts,
“you’d promise me all your dances. But if not, at least the first
dance of the masquerade, or I shall die of disappointment. Surely
you would not be so cruel?”

There it was again, that flirting tone.

Rhis knew she was supposed to say something
flirty back. Like what? Some kind of pretend cruelty, or an
exaggerated compliment of her own? Nothing came to her mind, and
she mumbled, feeling awkward, “Oh, the masquerade first dance is
easy enough—but as for all the others, I do so like to dance with
as many people as I can.”

“Well, that’s to your credit.” Vors took her
hand with the fan still gripped in it, and bowed over it, pressing
a light kiss on her wrist. “You’re kind to all—and so I told them.”
He shrugged one shoulder, tipping his head backward.

Rhis said, confused, “Told who? What?”

“Oh, some of the others. You know. Some
thought it odd—something maybe that’s done in the high mountains,
where—that is. Your chatting with the barbarian princess, and
dancing with the scribe.” He looked at the chandelier, at the
marble floor, at people sitting nearby, but not at her, while he
tried to avoid telling her—she realized slowly—that people had
talked about her. And not in a good way. “But I told them all
that’s just your way.”

She turned to Vors, more confused than
before. His blue eyes were steady, his whole face smiling—as if he
expected her gratitude. He was proud of having defended her!

Except why should he defend her? Was dancing
with a scribe, one who was obviously the prince’s friend, a breach
of etiquette?

“Taniva is interesting. And Dandiar’s a good
dancer,” she said, trying to get at the truth without making things
even more awkward.

Vors shrugged, obviously not interested. “So
are any number of us, but you showed a nicety of manners in dancing
with a scribe, and so I will maintain even at sword point.” There
it was—flirting again.

Rhis drank her punch, set the cup down, and
then waved her fan again, glad to be busy while her thoughts
stumbled between too many subjects. Vors was obviously waiting for
some kind of answer. Gratitude, that was what he wanted, or praise,
for his tone made it clear he’d done something for her. But what,
exactly?

It was impossible to think—and then she
didn’t have to, for tall, thin, pale-haired Glaen appeared,
muscling along another tall boy who hung back, looking
uncomfortable. Rhis recognized him as the shy one who’d danced with
Taniva.

“C’mon, Vors.” Glaen jerked his chin over his
shoulder. “Let someone else in.” Glaen almost shoved the tall,
blushing boy into Rhis’s arms as he said, “How about a trot round
the room with ol’ Breggo here? He doesn’t blab much, but he’s a go
on the floor.”

Rhis promptly held out her hand, at least as
relieved to get away from the awkward conversation with Vors as she
was to help out shy Breggan. He bowed over her hand. As they moved
away, Rhis caught sight of a very annoyed glance from Vors.