Lance of Earth and Sky - By Erin Hoffman Page 0,19
was likely shuttered.
“It will be quite overgrown,” the steward warned, but hope lingered beneath his beleaguered grasp at authority.
// All the better, // Thalnarra replied, her mind-voice cultured and genteel, exuding cinnamon and myrrh. // We may cut our beds from the vegetation. //
The steward winced, doubtless imagining the destruction of imperial roses, but the squeak of his young assistant drew all eyes again: “And the hunters have just returned with a spate of venison. I heard Itara complaining she didn't know what to do with all of it.”
// Perhaps this bright lad could escort us and see to our accommodations, // Thalnarra pushed, and this time her voice carried a hint of carnivorous urgency that sent the steward blanching again. The boy, however, practically hopped with delight.
“Yes, yes,” the steward said finally, wiping sweat from his pate, “Brannon, see to them, and—whatever they need.”
“Yes, sir!” Brannon chirped, and dashed toward Thalnarra, surprising a yelp out of one of the other assistants, an older girl close enough in features to be his older sister. She grasped at him, too late, and blushed.
“They won't hurt him,” Vidarian said, taking pity on her. His reassurance only earned him a daggerlike they'd better not glance before she remembered herself and stared at her feet, turning red again.
// If he behaves, // Thalnarra said, all carnivore gone from her tone, which had turned grandmotherly. // Please lead the way, Brannon. // The boy bowed with the meticulousness of much practice, then turned without a second glance at the rest of them. Thalnarra and Altair—who had watched with silent amusement—followed.
“And if you'll be so kind as to follow me,” the steward said in a rush, picking up the shreds of his dignity.
The steward—whose name Vidarian never got—shepherded Vidarian, Calphille, Isri, and the pup (permitted with a token grumble—Isri he seemed not to “see” at all) through several open-air corridors. They came at length to a salon with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on a carefully cultivated garden and pond. Once there, he quickly waved his assistants out the door and fled.
“Talrick, a model of gentility as usual, I see.”
Vidarian turned toward the voice, which came from a tall, thin man in an elegantly trimmed coat. Before he could introduce himself, the man spoke again.
“You are Vidarian Rulorat, captain of I know not what. I am Renard, and this fitting never happened.” The man advanced, a heavy velvet cloak draped across his left forearm, and looked Vidarian up and down. “Reports of your size were apparently overestimated,” he sighed, pursing his lips. “I accounted for some exaggeration, but clearly not enough.”
“I do apologize for the state of my clothes. Anything you can do will be greatly appreciated.”
Renard seemed not to hear him. “I have another coat and trousers in the back that may work, quickly stitched. Appalling as it is to consider you going before the emperor in such a state,” he said. “I told them I'd have nothing to do with it, but they went and got a bloody decree. I made Emiran swear my name would never be connected with this debacle or I'd ensure the tailors' guild blacklisted him for life.” His birdlike eyes turned to Calphille and he gasped dramatically. “And they said absolutely nothing about you, my dear.” He didn't wait for her to answer, but clapped his hands and shouted, “Giselle!”
A harried face poked into the colonnaded doorway at the rear of the salon just as Renard drew breath to shout again. He took Calphille gently by the elbow and steered her toward the face. “Take miss—” a look, and Calphille gave her name, “Calphille to the arbor room and fit her up with a gown from the Countess Bel'Maritai's collection.” He tilted his head conspiratorially toward Vidarian. “Silly waif won't know it's gone, and anyway she's on ‘holiday’ what with all the commotion.” Calphille shot a startled glance at Vidarian, but let herself be escorted down the hallway.
When Renard turned back to Vidarian, it was not unlike meeting the eyes of one of the elemental goddesses. “First—a bath, a thorough one. It's prepared in the water chamber, just up the hall.” He turned immediately to Isri without waiting to see if Vidarian would comply, and opened the velvet cloak with long, clever fingers. “A terrible shame to hide such beautiful plumage,” he murmured, brushing one of Isri's primaries when she nodded permission to his proffered hand. Vidarian revised his estimation of the man at the look of kindness and