The Lord-Protector's Daughter (22 page)

“It's…different, Mistress,” allowed Wyandra,
after fastening the last button of Mykella's new ball gown and stepping back.

Mykella surveyed herself in the mirror on her chamber wall. The brilliant green gown was both conservative and daring, as she had specified, with a high neck and sleeves that tapered to almost skin-tight at her wrists. Above the waist, the green shimmersilk was close to form-fitting as well. The skirt was but a quarter full, just enough to allow easy movement, and did not quite touch the floor, but was a shade longer than ankle-length, allowing her to wear the formal boots she preferred. Because her shoulders were covered, she did not need a shawl, and that also gave her greater freedom.

“I like it.” Mykella picked up the green gloves from the dressing table. They did not match perfectly, but would have to do. White gloves would have made her look like a doll, and black were reserved for older and married women—or women who intended not to marry at all.

Wyandra remained silent as Mykella left her chambers and walked to the family parlor. Before she even closed the door, Rachylana was examining her gown.

“That's not really a ball gown,” observed Rachylana. “The skirt's not full enough, and the top…”

“It looks good on you,” Salyna said. “I couldn't wear anything like that.” Her square-necked gown was a muted but rich blue that brought out the color in her face, and was not cut low enough to reveal too much of her pale skin.

“You could wear anything so long as it isn't white or pale.” Mykella closed the door and laughed, then looked at Rachylana, who wore a scoop-necked gown of a paler but bright blue that highlighted her mahogany hair, with a shawl of the same material. “That shade is most becoming on you. You'll show us both up.”

Rachylana smiled. “I hope so.”

“Berenyt should definitely notice.”

“That is the idea, I presume,” added Salyna.

It won't help, though, if she shows up Cheleyza
, thought Mykella.
Not at all
.

The door opened, and Jeraxylt stepped into the parlor. He wore the full dress dark blue and cream uniform of a Southern Guard officer. “It's time for us to go down and receive our guests, few of them as there are that we're truly pleased to see.” He bowed, then extended a hand to Mykella. “Eldest sister?”

“My pleasure, younger brother.”

Jeraxylt and Mykella led the way down the main staircase and along the back corridors of the palace—those cordoned off by the guards—to the north entry to the ballroom. Slightly behind Rachylana and Salyna followed the Lord-Protector and Eranya.

The ballroom itself was just north of the southeast corner of the main level of the palace and had been created centuries before by merging a series of chambers, so that it was long and comparatively narrow, with windows only on the eastern and southern walls. A parquet floor, now ancient, if polished and shining, had been laid over the stone floor tiles, and the wall hangings were of dark blue and cream—the Lord-Protector's colors.

The Lord-Protector's family formed the receiving line, with the youngest, Salyna, at the front, and the oldest—and the males—at the back. That put Mykella right in the middle, after her sisters, but before Jeraxylt and her father.

Invitations to the ball were limited to those of import in Tempre, such as her father's ministers and the High Factors and Seltyrs. Among the first that Mykella actually knew by sight were Lord Gharyk and Jylara.

“Mistress Mykella,” offered Gharyk, his tone and entire body suggesting that the receiving line was to be absolutely formal.

“Lord Gharyk, Lady Jylara, how nice to see you.”

Gharyk offered a pleasant smile, as did Jylara.

Perhaps fifteen people later a Southern Guard officer stepped past Rachylana and bowed his head politely to Mykella. It took her a moment to recognize Undercommander Areyst, mainly because she had not expected him.

“Mistress Mykella.”

“Undercommander, welcome to the palace and the ball.”

“Thank you.” For just a moment, his eyes lingered on her, but on her face, actually looking at her, sizing up far more than her figure.

She looked back at him directly, but she neither saw nor sensed anything that contradicted her earlier impression of his basic honesty. She almost froze as she took in his life-thread, because it held the tiniest fragment of green. She'd noted that before, but now she
knew
that his life-thread had the only green she had sensed in anyone except the soarer and herself. She wanted to ask where he had been born, but he had already stepped past her to pay his respects to Jeraxylt.

Envoy Sheorak was not far behind, and he made no pretenses at dissembling as he ran his eyes over her. “Mistress Mykella, you look most beautiful tonight.”
Best of the three…pretty enough…bright.
So clear were his thoughts and feelings that he might as well have spoken them.

“Thank you, Envoy Sheorak.”

Envoy Malaryk was polite, but his attentions were definitely on Salyna.

Somewhat later among those entering were High Factor Hasenyt and his wife, and even later Seltyr Almardyn and his wife. Seltyr Porofyr said only Mykella's name, almost dismissively, as if to question why she was unmatched and even at the ball.

Finally, the ordeal was over, and Mykella and Salyna followed their father and Joramyl toward the orchestra, where Eranya and Cheleyza stood waiting as music began to fill the ballroom. The four began to converse—although the women seemed to be saying the most, while Feranyt nodded, and Joramyl smiled and smiled.

Neither Arms-Commander Nephryt nor Commander Demyl had gone through the receiving line, Mykella noted, as she caught sight of them across the ballroom. She and Salyna stopped near the wall beside the low dais on which the orchestra players were seated, a permanent platform set against the midpoint of the long inner wall of the ballroom.

Rachylana was already off dancing, and Mykella wished that she were, not that she cared that much for dancing, but the smiling hypocrisy of Joramyl's apparent concern for his brother, the Lord-Protector, was making Mykella more than a little uncomfortable.

At that moment, a man perhaps ten years older than Mykella approached her. He wore what looked to be a Deforyan uniform, and he bowed deeply. “Mistress Mykella, Majer Smoltak at your service. Might I have this dance?”

“Of course, Majer.” Mykella wasn't about to antagonize the Deforyan.

Smoltak took her right hand in his left and barely touched her back with his right, deftly guiding her into the flow of those dancing. “You may have guessed that I'm Envoy Sheorak's principal aide.”

“I thought that was likely. I must confess that I don't recognize the uniform, except that it's Deforyan.” Mykella noted his heavy accent, but it didn't bother her as Sheorak's had when she had first spoken to the envoy. Familiarity? Or her Talent? Both, perhaps?

“The Landarch's Lancers. I've actually been assigned to the Heir of Light for the past year as an aide-de-camp of sorts.”

“What is Lord Aldakyr like?” Mykella asked.

Smoltak laughed softly. “The envoy doubtless told you that he is handsome beyond words, talented beyond description, and educated above all others. There is a grain of truth in each of those. He is pleasant-looking, certainly not unpleasant to behold, and he has a warm smile that goes with an equally warm disposition. He is a good but not outstanding rider and marksman and knows how to defend himself with a saber—but he would fall to your youngest sister.”

“How do you know that?”

“I watched her spar against some of the guards. She did not see me. Many of your guards are quite skilled with blades. We tend to emphasize marksmanship more.”

“What else about Aldakyr?” pressed Mykella.

“He is moderately intelligent, but very well read, and has enough sense to understand what he does not know.”

“That is a most valuable quality,” suggested Mykella. “Since you are so observant about the Heir of Light and my sister, what did you observe unseen of me?”

“Alas, very little.” He laughed again. “That is one reason why I asked you to dance.”

“What are you learning?”

“You are more athletic than you appear, and that Aldakyr would be well-advised to press for your hand and to listen to whatever advice you have to offer.”

While Mykella bristled inside at the implication that she would just accept the offer of a match, she was also impressed by the majer's acuity.

Smoltak lowered his voice. “I also see that matters in Tempre are not entirely as they might seem and that you and your sisters might be better served elsewhere.”

“You see a great deal, it appears,” Mykella said lightly. Was what she had learned through the ledgers and her Talent so obvious, even to someone without Talent? “Don't you fear that I might pass on what you said? Or that I might think that you're attempting to deceive me so that I might agree more readily to a match with the Heir of Light?”

Smoltak's laugh was low and wry. “You have the eyes of the Ancients. In Deforya, we have lived where they once lived, and women with your eyes cannot be deceived. I know that you know every word I have spoken is as true as I know it to be. You would know before I spoke if I intended to deceive.”

With his words, Mykella almost lost her footing, and tightened her grip on his left hand for a moment.

“I have surprised you with truth.” The majer smiled. “That is the only way to surprise one like you.”

“You have,” she admitted. “And you're not afraid I'll reveal you?”

He shook his head. “Who can you tell? Those you trust will not believe you, and those who would believe you are the ones you cannot trust.”

Mykella forced a soft laugh. “You are a great credit to Deforya and to the Heir of Light.”

“When one has no rivers or oceans and little enough to trade, one must nurture observation and wisdom.”

As the music of the dance died away, Smoltak escorted her back to a point close to where they had begun. “My thanks for the pleasure of your company, Mistress Mykella.”

“And mine for your insights.”

Smoltak inclined his head politely, then took two steps backward before turning.

“That was a long dance,” observed Salyna. “Who is he?”

“An assistant to Envoy Sheorak. They will ask for my hand,” Mykella said quietly. “He as much as said so.”

Salyna's eyes brightened. “Oh…”

“That doesn't mean it will happen,” Mykella said in an even lower voice.

“What…can…you do?”

Mykella honestly didn't know, only that, persuasive and honest as Majer Smoltak had been, going to Dereka didn't feel right. Yet Salyna's question gnawed at her. Exactly what could she do?

As the orchestra began to play another melody, Undercommander Areyst eased across the space before the platform toward Mykella. He bowed politely. “Might I have this dance, Mistress Mykella?”

“You might.” Mykella inclined her head and smiled.

Areyst took her right hand in his left, and positioned his right hand at waist level on her back, guiding her gently into the flow of dancers. His touch was even more deft than that of the Deforyan majer.

“After our last meeting, Mistress Mykella, I've discovered that you're quite good with numbers and ledgers. That is an unusual preoccupation for the daughter of the Lord-Protector.”

“Not so unusual as one might think,” replied Mykella. “A Lord-Protector's daughter should know her heritage, yet she cannot mingle so freely as a son. From where golds are collected, and in what amounts, and where they are spent and at what frequency can tell a great deal…if one knows where and how to look.”

“Pray tell, what do they say to you?”

“The Southern Guards are currently under strength. The Guard lacks as many experienced officers as it once had. Supplies such as tack for mounts are more costly than in the past, possibly because of the depredations of the Ongelyan nomads several years back—”

“That was several years ago, though.” Areyst guided her past another couple.

“Tack requires leather. Calves take several years to become steers,” Mykella pointed out.

“Tell me more.”

“Ammunition supplies are down, most probably because gunpowder costs are up, and that is because brimstone has become more costly. I wouldn't be surprised if you or the Commander had considered ordering great care in rifle practice.”

“Considered? That is an odd way of putting it.”

“If you had actually done so, Jeraxylt would have let it slip. Since you have not, and since you are a prudent officer, I would wager that you have considered it, but possibly did not because that might have made the Seltyrs of Southgate and the plains nomads more bold. It might also have encouraged the Landarch to request a concession or two.”

Areyst laughed. “Would that some of my officers understood so well.”

Mykella forbore to comment on that, instead asking, “What can you tell me about a saddlemaker or leatherworker named Berjor?”

“Nothing, I fear. Hemylcor and his sons currently supply the Southern Guards.” He paused. “There might be a few small items bought by the outposts on the borders, but that name is unfamiliar. Why do you ask?”

“I had run across the name, and it was associated with tack.”

Areyst nodded politely, but Mykella could sense he would remember the name.

“What else might you tell me from your ledgers?” asked the undercommander. “About something other than the Guard?”

She could tell he was interested, and not merely patronizing her. “The vineyards in Vyan had a bumper crop last year, and that reduced tariffs…”

“Reduced?”

“There were so many grapes that the prices went down, and tariffs are leveled on prices. Not so much as if the crop had failed, but the slight increase in tariffs on raisins showed that the cause was a surplus of grapes.”