Marsi seemed indifferent to the proceedings, which pleased me. I felt very, very tall. Too tall. Anything that high up is liable to come down again.
I got going in the right direction, and tried not to let my teeth knock against each other. Marsi, may all the blessings be upon her, walked significantly faster than I did, and felt this meant she had no need to trot, canter, gallop, or turn handsprings. I made a vow to give a nice tip to the stable-boy for not being one of the practical-joking sort one hears about.
The morning grew warm; I removed my cloak and draped it over Marsi's back— which is much tougher than it sounds on horseback. Thanks to his kindness and Marsi's good nature, as well as the directions from the host, I felt as good as could be expected by the time I saw the double row of trees that had been described as the entrance to the manor.
It was a long ride to the manor itself, during which I rode by gardeners who glanced at me as if uncertain if they were supposed to make an obeisance. It gradually occurred to me that a lot of the doubt came from the horse. I was, perhaps, the only human within a hundred-mile circle who didn't consider himself an expert on horseflesh, and I was probably doing the equivalent of Morrolan riding up to the Ascension Day Ball in a hay wagon.
Well, that's all right, Marsi; I love you anyway.
Some sort of groom, wearing shiny buttons, stood outside the door of the gray stone manor, perfectly positioned at the bottom of the shallow stairway between two white pillars that flanked the red wood doorway. A man-at-arms stood next to each pillar, appearing part of the decoration; they wore red and green and metal hats and each carried some sort of ax-like weapon that was taller than the guy wielding it. It didn't look very practical, but, on the other hand, I'd hate to have one swung at me.
I felt myself come under their gaze. They didn't move, exactly, but they were certainly paying attention. One had the most impressive mustache I think I've ever seen: a massive thing that curled its way well past the sides of his face, held in place by a special sort of waxy-glue that I knew was sold in South Adrilankha. I'd never used it, myself. The other one had a bit of reddish hair peeking out from under his tin hat; I guessed he wasn't a native Fenarian.
If I had to, I could take them both. Enough said.
As I approached, the groom looked at me, frowned, and hesitated. I didn't—I climbed down off the horse, thanking Verra that I managed the trick with a semblance of grace, and kept myself from teetering only by dropping my body weight as my grandfather had taught me to do when fencing. I don't think I looked ridiculous. I took the cloak from the back of the horse, then put the reins into the groom's hand before he could decide he didn't want them. I threw my cloak over my shoulder. I can look good doing that because I've practiced, and no, I'm not proud of that. I said, "Baron Vladimir Merss to see His Lordship. See to my horse while I have someone announce me."
If I were going to give myself a new name, why not give myself a new title to go with it?
The groom barely hesitated, then said, "Yes, my lord."
I waited while he led the horse away, watching closely as if I were uncertain he knew his business; in fact, I didn't want to try walking just yet the way my legs were shaking. The guards watched me without appearing to—I know that trick. I have no idea if I fooled them with the watching the groom thing; probably not.
The groom led Marsi down a path and out of sight, and I made my trembling way up the three steps—they seemed much deeper steps when trying to climb them than just looking at them—and leaned against the door for a moment before pulling the rope. I heard a gong echo faintly from inside the house, and not long thereafter the door swung open.
The butler—for so I took him to be, and so he was—looked very much the part. He could very well have been picked for his appearance: tall and well-built, clean-shaven, with a proper fringe of white hair. He gave me a bow and a look of polite, noncommittal inquiry.
I said, "Baron Vladimir Merss to see His Lordship."
"You have a card, my lord?"
"I do not."
His face betrayed nothing. "May I convey to His Lordship the nature of your business?"
"Give him this." I removed the silk package and handed it to him.
"Very good, my lord." He bowed and went away with it.
Ten minutes later he returned with the package; the seal had been broken. I took the package with a small bow and replaced it in my cloak without looking.
The butler-cleared his throat and said, "The Count will see you now."
7
Lefitt: Oh, gracious. Here? What will I wear? Oh, my. I never know how to speak to nobility. Boraan: My dear, you are nobility. Lefitt (distracted): Yes. That is why I have given over talking to myself.
—Miersen, Six Parts Water Day One, Act III, Scene 3
He turned and led me into the interior of the manor. I followed, carefully keeping the smirk off my lips.
There was a certain kind of restrained opulence about the manor—its corridors wide and high; its halls hung with pictures of, I presume, ancestors; its furnishings sturdy and elegant without being gaudy. I approved of it a little bit against my will. I saw four menat-arms during the passage; they seemed to be concentrating on not being bored. They looked like the others, but didn't have metal hats on. I only hoped, for their sakes, that when I was out of sight they got to lean against the wall and scratch themselves.
He led me up a winding set of stairs to a hallway covered in white carpeting with a highly polished tan wooden railing on the side overlooking the central hall. Two more guards stood before it, and they exchanged a look with the butler, then, very quickly, crossed their tall ax-things, barring the door. Rocza almost jumped from my shoulder at the sudden movement, and Loiosh was pretty startled as well. So was I. Before I had time to wonder, the guards snapped back into place, clearing the way again.
At the same time the butler stepped forward and said—how to tell you what he said? It was silly, and it rhymed, but it's hard to translate to get the feel right. The closest I can come is, "Baron Vladimir Merss, on bended knee, requests my lord the Count to see," but it was longer than that, and even stupider. In Fenarian, everything rhymes, so it could have been an accident that this did, but I don't think so. If I hadn't been so surprised, I think I'd have laughed out loud.
The Count was in the room that, I've no doubt, he called his "study." He was old, old, old, old. A big man, though he somehow looked shrunken as he sat. His hands, crossed on the desk in front of him, were lined and wrinkled with veins standing out. His eyes were mild and there were more veins apparent in his nose. His hair and stiff mustaches were iron gray. His complexion was swarthy—about like mine—but had an unhealthy look to it. He wore a sort of red mantle over what looked like blue velvet, which made him look both bigger and more sickly; there was some sort of intricate scrollwork decorating the mantle; very likely it spelled out his lineage or something.
This was my first encounter with the Nobility of my homeland. I was underwhelmed.
His voice, however, was strong. "Baron Merss," he said. "Forgive me if I do not rise."
"My lord Count," I said, bowing deeply. "Thank you on behalf of Her Majesty for seeing me."
"Please, sit. Of course. Wine? Brandy?"
"Wine would be nice."
He rang a bell on his desk. The butler entered, was told to bring in a glass of wine and a snifter of something he called barparlot. He left and returned fast enough that I might have suspected he'd had them ready.
"Well," said the Count as he raised his glass and I raised mine. "I trust the Empress wishes for paper?"