“After all,” said an older duke, “the Guardian will tell us whether they really are our kind, or not.”
“Then let them stay one night,” King Longar pronounced, with regal largesse. “Orgoru, Prince of Paradime, the greeting is yours to give, since you are the newest come.”
Orgoru felt a surge of elation that overcame his shyness of strangers. “I thank Your Majesty.” He turned with the rest of them, following the king to the portal of the palace.
There he stopped, as they all did, waiting till the strangers turned to see them, and beginning to feel indignant because they seemed to be rapt in gazing out at the moonlit buildings, preferring them to the aristocrats. Finally they did turn, and froze. Orgoru smiled, feeling confidence return as the strangers stood staring.
“Orgoru, relieve their fears,” King Longar said.
“I shall, Majesty.” Orgoru stepped forward, hand raised to greet the newcomers. “Welcome to the city of Voyagend.” The youngest of the three stepped between Orgoru and the woman, but the tallest raised his hand and his voice. “I thank you for your welcome.”
“I am Orgoru, Prince of Paradime.” Orgoru made his smile as reassuring as he could.
The woman leaned out from behind the short man, staring, and Orgoru finally saw her face clearly. “Ciletha!” Then he was running out through the portal, princely dignity forgotten, to throw his arms about her. “Ciletha, you came back after all!”
“Oh, Orgoru!” Ciletha cried. Then her voice broke; she sobbed and clung to him.
The youngest stranger’s face darkened, and he turned away, but the tallest held him by the shoulder.
Orgoru looked up over his old friend’s head, stroking her hair, but remembering his duties as welcomer. “Who are you who seek our refuge?”
“I am Magnus, cousin to the Count d’Armand and heir to the Lord High Warlock of Gramarye,” Gar said.
Orgoru stared. Behind him, he heard a rustle of excited comment. No wonder; these folk were their own kind after all! “Show-off,” the middle stranger muttered.
“My apologies.” Gar inclined his head and gestured toward Dirk and Miles. “I am slow in my courtesies. These are my companions, the Duke Dulaine and the Marquis of Miles. I thank Your Highness for your hospitality.”
Marquis? Gar must be mad! Anyone could see that Miles was no more than a peasant! Miles glanced at Dirk for support, but saw that the other companion was only nodding with slow approval, and Miles’s mouth went suddenly dry. Was Dirk mad, too?
No. Of course not. These men were experienced travelers, and knew how to meet the situation. Miles tried to relax, but he couldn’t help wondering Why Gar had introduced himself as Magnus.
They took their places at the festive board, the visitors at the head table with the king, since they were of noble rank, and Orgoru with them, since it was he who had greeted them. Miles told himself sternly that he had no right to feel downcast; Ciletha had shown no interest in him other than friendship.
Gar picked up his cocktail fork as the bowl of prawns appeared at his place. He pretended not to notice that several of the “aristocrats” hesitated over the choice of silverware, then imitated their older neighbors. Gar turned to Orgoru, who was just picking up his cocktail fork after a glance at the king. “Ciletha tells us that you are only newly come to this city, Prince.”
“Indeed,” Orgoru replied. “Like so many of my fellow aristocrats, I was reared in hiding, disguised as a peasant.” He gestured toward the table with a self-deprecating smile. “We are clumsy and have much to learn that our peasant hosts couldn’t teach us, but we learn quickly.” The smile became more firm. “I have already improved my carriage and bearing considerably.”
“Carriage?” Miles asked in an undertone, not wanting Ciletha to hear. “He walked on his own two feet! And how could a human body have bearings?”
“Same word, different meaning,” Dirk explained, equally low-voiced. “By ‘carriage and bearing,’ he means the way he stands and walks—the way he holds himself.”
“How strangely they twist words,” Miles said.
“Have you indeed!” Gar’s voice was warm with admiration. “How have you learned so quickly?”
“Oh, by watching the other lords and ladies, of course,” Orgoru said, “but also by the magic picture in my suite.”
“Magic?” Dirk’s interest pricked up. “Does it show moving images?”
“Indeed it does,” said Orgoru. “I told it to show me pictures of lords and ladies moving about, and it presented me with a story called King Richard III.” He grew sad. “A tragic and noble story it is, of a right royal king overwhelmed by a base traitor and slain in his prison.”
“And the lords and ladies in it moved most elegantly,” Gar summed up. “But as I remember the play, there are peasants in it, too.”
“Oh, most surely, my lord!” Orgoru grinned. “They’re clumsy and ungainly in their movements, very much as I was when I came here. The Guardian showed me pictures of myself as I was when the others first brought me into this palace. Already I find them most amusing.”
“Yes, quite.” Gar glanced at Dirk. “Recorded pictures of events, you say? Who is this ‘Guardian’?”
“All have met him, but none have met him,” Orgoru said cryptically. “He is a spirit that lives inside a wondrously decorated wall. You shall speak with him yourself before this night is over.”
Miles noticed that he didn’t mention their having any choice. He glanced at Ciletha, and his heart twisted, for he saw she was suffering, and no wonder—Orgoru had scarcely paid her any attention since he’d greeted her, and kept making eyes at the tall, rawboned woman with the long face. She responded with roguish glances that looked frankly ridiculous in a woman of her size.
Gar noticed. “But tell me, Prince, why there are no children to be seen in this city. I see from the flirtations going on around this very table that your courtiers are certainly aware of one another romantically; do they never have sons or daughters?”
Orgoru stared, frankly at, a loss. King Longar saw, and stepped in with an explanation. “Love-games are constant, Count, and affairs are frequent—they combat the ennui which is the aristocrat’s constant bane.”
“I trust there are few marriages, then, or questions of honor would be rife.”
“My lords and ladies seldom marry,” the king confirmed, “and somehow no children are born of the affairs. The few children born of the marriages are always stolen by elves, alas.”
“Elves?” Gar’s interest focused. “Are you sure?”
The king shrugged impatiently. “Who can be sure, with elves? But the babe is laid to sleep in its cradle, guarded by several lords—for they are quick to serve one another in such wise, I assure you. In the morning though, no matter how wakeful and alert they are, the child is gone. What could it be but the work of elves?”
Gar and Dirk exchanged a glance; then Gar turned back to the king, nodding.
“Thank you for enlightening me, Your Majesty.” Gar inclined his head, as though the short, fat little man had a real aura of royalty about him, rather than looking like the village brewer.
“It was a pleasure,” the king said, with a condescending air that was ludicrous in so cuddly a body. He turned back to the table, and other conversations, with his back straight and chin high, and an air of nobility that contrasted so wildly with his physical appearance that Miles was hard put not to laugh.
“Tell me, my lord,” said Orgoru, “what does your father the Lord High Warlock do, to merit such a title?”
Gar launched into a very elaborate explanation that made absolutely nothing clear, then managed to ask question after question that drew responses from everyone else at the table, their eyes brightening and excitement entering their voices as the conversation roamed over history, literature, and politics. When the meal ended, conversation went on, the “lords” and “ladies” forming little knots of discussion, even though music called them to dance.