Plenilune (21 page)

The man shuffled away and the crowd closed him off from sight.

“Who was that?” Margaret asked.

Rupert, who had before seemed almost to laugh with surprise at the little man’s expense, now appeared troubled. It took him a moment to reply. “That was Melchior, the oldest physic in civilised Plenilune.” He seemed to pull himself together and threw a laugh at Malbrey. “What an old bird! I had not expected him to be well enough to make it this year.”

Malbrey hefted his massive shoulders. “For my part, I had not thought of him since last Wolf Moon. I like not his eyes.”

Rupert smiled indulgently. “Do they see too much of you?”

“There is enough of you to see.” The words were out of Margaret’s mouth before she could stop them.

The baron frowned at her under his bushy brows. Her suitor, suddenly diverted, gave a swift, mocking laugh that was like a growl. He stepped out, setting a hand on Malbrey’s shoulder and shoving him back good-naturedly. “
So ho
, Malbrey! She is a match and more for
you
.”

The girlish lightness in Malbrey which Margaret had marked before became a girlish sullenness which, in that enormous frame and war-like bent of mind, made it all the more terrible. “And for you, de la Mare?” he asked softly.

The Master of Marenové seemed to have had enough of his friend’s company and, taking Margaret’s hand, was about to draw away. But at the last moment he turned back, a flash of dark daring in his eyes. “Hush!” he said swiftly, dangerously, all the while laughing mockingly. “And ever you loved me, Malbrey, you will not doubt me, and you will keep your mouth shut.”

She kept her head high and her eyes averted from faces as they passed through the crowd. She could not tell if Rupert was angry with her for insulting his friend and was for now hiding it, or if he had been genuinely amused by her. She was not sure, either, which she preferred. Before Rupert could broach the subject they skirted a heavy table of mercury-glass, stopped as the way was blocked by several young ladies, and were overtaken in his silent, rushy way by the blue-jay man.

Erect, with his head to one side so that he looked bird-like at Rupert out of one eye, the manservant said purringly, “My master has need of you, sir de la Mare. If you would oblige me—” and he gestured meaningfully to the east end of the nave.

Rupert looked darkly from the man to the top of the room, but he said nothing. Putting away Margaret’s hand, he told her, “I will be right back. Do not wander.” And he went, though he begrudged it in the sharp lines of his shoulders and back.

Margaret breathed deeply as he disappeared. Though he left her alone in a crowd of strangers, she felt less uneasy in his absence. He, who marked her out for his own and likely made her abhorrent to many of these people, could no longer make her uncomfortable now that his branding presence was removed. She felt free. With a mirthless breath of laughter she looked about herself, taking things in with more interest than before.

Her way was still blocked by the table on one side, a pillar on the other, and before her by the cluster of ladies. They were talking among themselves and did not seem to have noticed her, nor to be disposed toward doing so soon. She found she did not mind. She set herself against the pillar and looked up and around, noting the way the light seemed to diffuse into the very air so that she seemed to breathe it, and the way the colours around her seemed to melt into each other and come out again, like a bold flutter of tapestry which the wind picks up and dashes about. The room was lightning-warm and full of thunder and she, like Andromeda, stood against the pillar alone, waiting quietly for her demise.

To her surprise and disquietude, out of the miasma of bright colour she saw a figure of Puritan-grey, and she hid an involuntary start when she realized Lord Gro FitzDraco was coming over, looking grim and almost disobliging, but clearly intent on talking with her. For no reason she could determine, he worried her more than Baron Malbrey, but she had caught his eye again and, as before, she could not look away. His long, freckled, horse-ish face seemed to hold her under a spell as he approached, growing taller and taller with each step.

Before, he had been accompanied by his horse, and he was not alone now. Someone stepped aside and gave him room, and her gaze, momentarily freed from his, looked down to see an enormous dog at his side. Its size made her shudder: never in her life had she seen such a dog of such a size, so tall the gentleman could rest his elbow on its back as one might rest an elbow on a tabletop. It was leggy and bushy-tailed, its fur, though brushed, long and wayward; its ears, which were moving this way and that with some annoyance, were each as big as her hand. Its heavy brow, wide cheeks, and long nose all spoke of the wild canine to her.

She dragged her eyes off the thing to meet Lord Gro’s as he stopped before her. At this proximity she realized, with some surprise, that among the harsh brown hairs about the man’s temples were some grey ones, and that in the man’s cool eyes there was the marked weariness of one who is older than he ought to be.

“My lady.” He bowed from the waist, no line of him bending save that which was supposed to. He retreated to an upright position. “I was unable to meet you properly earlier. Allow me to do so now.”

“Sir.” Margaret, feeling inexplicably flattered, held out a hand to him. She wished he would not take it, but he did, and she braced because she was not sure how the touch of such a man would feel. It did not hurt, but nor did it feel at all pleasant. The man’s long, strong hand was cool and able, but as emotionless as his voice. “Forgive me for staring earlier. I h-heard you were something of a horseman and I marked your attention to your animal.”

At her own words her eyes went involuntarily to the dog who was still standing uncomfortably near. She could see now that it had a thick collar of scarlet leather about its neck, studded with little silver balls. Against its grizzled grey fur it looked rather well.

“Do not mind Snati,” Lord Gro said in his curious detached tone when he noticed the inclination of her gaze. “He is perfectly behaved.”

Still she looked with veiled apprehension on the beast. Its size was almost beyond bearing, its body ominously strong and well-proportioned; it had an intelligent look in its savage eyes and she would not have been surprised, she thought, if it could actually speak. But it did not seem able to speak. Its disinterest in her was apparent: it turned its head away and began idly panting, watching the movements of the other people around them with the almost conscious flicker and blink of its eyes.

“Is it very wolf?” she asked. “I was told there were no wolves here.”

Lord Gro set his hand companionably on Snati’s hoary forehead. “Mostly, but not wholly. His sire was a waste-wolf, but his dam slept by my fire since she was a pup—and not a better-tempered bitch have I known.”

She found she had to take his word for it, for though his voice was not unpleasant it did not belie any movement of the soul.

He stared at her passively for a few minutes and she, feeling awkward and desperate for some kind of conversation, dared to reach a hand out toward the dog. It did not notice her, not even when her fingers brushed its ear. The fur was soft as velvet, and mottled black and grey as though it had been through soot. She drew her hand away, rubbing her fingers as if to remove the soot, and felt puzzled when she found they were clean.

“He—he is a very big dog,” she prompted. Why could she not think of something sensible to say! She wished Lord Gro were of a bad disposition: at least then her courage would rise to the occasion.

“Quite,” he said.

She looked away, muffling a sense of fury. The rubies and flame-colour of her dress seemed suddenly much too warm. If only Skander would come! But Skander was doubtless busy as the host, not having—as Rupert had pointed out—a woman to help share the burden.

Lord Gro shifted a fraction from foot to foot, as a horse will do that has stood long and idle in the traces, and she realized that he meant to stand by her indefinitely. She could not think why, and she did not know how she felt about his presence. He was certainly not a vicious person, but he was not wholly pleasant either. His silence baffled her, his gaze discomforted her, and his strange horsy air, though completely unaffected, rendered her unsure whether to speak or to whinny to him.

A woman brushed by them, forcing her to step back into Snati’s muzzle. The dog grumbled and the man, in a swift, soft undertone, calmed it. Margaret watched the sky-blue gown flicker in among the other garments and get lost again, and something—either in the man’s voice or the paleness of the blue—sent a lash of self-deprecating laughter across her chest.
How disagreeable he must find you! You are a pickle-wrinkled, sour, wretched thing, Margaret. Be pleasant. You are English, after all.

But the chance was lost. As she turned with a genuine smile to ask him if he meant to dance that evening, a young buck broke out of the press and accosted Lord Gro by the shoulder. There was a blunt-faced signet-ring on his finger and, against the dull grey of Lord Gro’s jacket, the jewel seemed to flash out like a star at twilight.

“Here you are!” said the young man in an exasperated undertone. His eyes flickered to Margaret—two straight black brows clenched together for half a moment, then sprang apart again. “My father asks for you.”

Lord Gro turned his head quizzically toward the young man, looked at him for a moment under his brows, then detached himself from the hand. In a single fluid motion he bowed to Margaret, slipping his hand through the collar of his dog as he did so. She went down gracefully, too, expectedly sorry to have him go. When she looked up she saw the young man bowing too, though he had not even been introduced to her; as he straightened she thought she saw that same dark flicker of distrust in his eyes that had been present at the first moment of their meeting. They went away through the press, and just before it swallowed the young man up—for he was shorter than Lord Gro and bulkier of build—she saw him turn sharply to the other and seem to ask a question. Then they were too far away for her to discern anything clearly and she was alone again.

And yet…And yet, they had not gone. She knew Skander, though he was not present, and the blue-jay man, though he, too, was not about; and now she had met Lord Gro FitzDraco, one of the three best riders in all of Plenilune. She could not tell from his countenance what he thought, but he seemed not to dislike her, and the knowledge that she had met someone of his standing and won a sort of acquaintance with him fortified her against the loneliness that was never far off. She lifted her chin a fraction and looked with hooded eyes over the gathering, listening first to the tinkle of glass and silverware, then to the thunder of boots and voices, and then, still further removed, to the low purring sound of luxurious cranberry-wreaths and bright mistletoe.

She smiled vindictively.
What would Mother think of me now? What would she think of
these
people?

A wind-rustle of movement went through the whole nave of Lookinglass. Margaret, looking up from attending to her skirt, caught the sidewise bluster of it and looked up the length of the room to determine its import. There was a flicker of pale golden movement, soon lost in the movement of the crowd, and then the black figure of Rupert appeared wraith-like at her side. He looked almost jocund.

“You stayed,” he remarked. “How submissive.”

She turned aside so that he could not see her face.

He went on in a politer tone, adjusting his gloves as he spoke. “I am sorry I was gone so long. There was some debate over who would lead off the dance.”

“It is to be you and me, isn’t it?” she asked blandly.

Rupert was not able to answer. At that moment a horn blared from the upper end of the nave, yelling out through the whole room like some golden-throated bird from a summerland of giants. The whole room answered in a quick forward rush and check, a gem-coloured sea of wild movement, and a cheer as if the Wild Hunt itself were about to set off at that moment. Raised above them stood Skander Rime, the host of the gala; it was he who wore the pale, almost buff-coloured gold coat trimmed with rougher golds and silvers. It was a handsome outfit, but on that blunt, big, friendly frame Margaret thought it did none so well.

“My lords and ladies, gentlefolk of Plenilune.” Skander put his hands comfortably on his hips and stood over the room, looking this way and that. The candlelight played in the stark bare brown of his hair and made it almost beautiful. “Last year at this time we all met in the house of our friend Mark Roy of Orzelon-gang—I well remember Romage’s punch.” He looked faintly wistful. “There is not a better punch in all of Plenilune. But this year I am pleased to have the honour of hosting the New Ivy gala and of welcoming you into my home. Be it not the punch—I hope that it be something else that you remember come next year, when the New Ivy fires are lit again to herald in the Hollow Moons: something bright, something beautiful, something small upon which worlds turn.” With an upward rush of his arms, a ring somewhere among his fingers glinting like starfire, his voice became like thunder, like power, and it stung Margaret horribly. “Welcome the Hollow Moons, my friends! Welcome the Hollow Moons!”

And the room gave back the cry, “God rest the Hollow Moons! God rest the year!”

Skander stepped down and was instantly lost in the crowd. The chaotic noise started up again. It seemed irreverent to Margaret, when reflective quiet would have been appropriate. The Lord of Capys’ words banged inside her chest like hammers, chipping away at—something. The fierce sting of unbelonging made holes in her heart and she felt herself bleeding.

“For being flagrantly unsociable,” mused Rupert, “he can deliver a stirring speech when the occasion requires it.”

She grabbed her heart and squeezed it to plug up the holes. “Wha-what would you know?” she snapped back. “N-no one will rest
your
Hollow Moons.”

He looked at her sharply, the pale steel of his eyes snaking along her face so that the look was almost physical—she nearly felt it cutting her skin. But he said nothing. He held out his arm to her and made her take it, and began pulling her through the general movement of the crowd toward the north wing of Lookinglass and the ballroom with the falcon displayed.