Inos was sitting with her father and his guests at the high table, on the dais at one end of the great hall. More townsfolk and the senior castle staff flanked tables along both sides. At the far end the lesser folk sat on the floor in front of the big fireplaces. The stones above them were black with the grease and smoke of centuries, and the high rafters overhead were black, also. Many a winter’s day she had shivered at this table, staring wistfully along the length of the hall to the leaping flames hissing and spluttering as grease dripped into them from the creaking spits, a princess envying servants. But today the hearths were dark and bare and the hall was hot, not cold. The sun loved Krasnegar in summer and would not leave it. Men fell down from exhaustion before the sun did, and after an hour or so it came smiling back, ready for another endless day. So the sun was still shining in the windows, laying sparkling bridges of light across the room in the floating dust.
It was warm up there at the high table with her father and Aunt Kade and all the distinguished guests who had been rounded up from the town at very short notice to hear this minstrel… and perhaps to say good-bye to Princess Inosolan? No, never mind that.
Aunt Kade had dug out her ancient lapis lazuli velvet, which made her seem plumper and shorter than ever and was usually worn only at Winterfest. It was much too hot a garment for this weather and her face was pink and shiny as she smiled contentedly around at the guests. She’d had her hair blue-rinsed. Smiling at the thought of Kinvale? Not No! Think of that tomorrow.
Mistress Meolorne was there, beaming happily, perhaps musing on all the wonderful fabrics she had sold to the court that afternoon—and all of them for less than a single imperial, as the king had predicted. He and she had laughed together like old friends.
Her father did look tired, almost as if he were sitting in shadow when everyone around him was in sunshine.
There were merchants there, with their wives, and a few ship captains, and the bishop and the school teachers; old Kondoral, cupping his ear, tears running in his wrinkles; Chancellor Yaltauri; and Master Poraganu. There were few of the castle staff, for so many were away in the hills, and especially not many young folk, but she could see Lin, who had broken his arm cutting peat of all things—how could he have managed that?—and Kel and Ido and Fan…
And Rap of course.
They were all sitting on the floor at the far end, near the great fireplace—small, wide-eyed children at the front, cross-legged or hugging knees, entranced by the music; the junior staff like Rap gathered behind him. As always, the palace dogs had clustered as close to Rap as they could get.
Before the children, flanked by the lesser tables, the center of the hall was empty except for one chair, and, on that chair the minstrel sat and pleated moonbeams.
Mother Unonini was not there. Mother Unonini was under the care of the physicians, resting in a dark room on a light diet, and Inos could not help but think that there was a small good in that evil, and the thought made her feel guilty,
The fearsome Doctor Sagorn was not there, either—another small good. Even if he was an old friend of her father’s, his glittery eagle gaze and beak nose still frightened her, and she was quite happy that he had pleaded travel weariness to excuse his absence.
Jalon’s song ended and the hall exploded with applause—clapping and cheering and drumming of heels on the stones. The minstrel rose and bowed to the king and then to the rest of the company, and then he came back up to his seat at the high table.
“Your throat must be dry, minstrel?” her father said.
“A little, Sire. And the audience could use a rest, also.”
“That I do not believe. Steward!”
Jalon gratefully accepted a new tankard and said something about fine northern beer before quaffing it. All around the hall conversations began to poke up like spring flowers through snow, as the spell he had painted faded away.
“The imperor has appointed a new marshal of the armies, minstrel?” demanded one of the pompous burghers.
Jalon smiled vaguely. “The old one died, didn’t he?”
The burgher made an impatient noise. “But the new one? Is he warlike?” Inos could not recall that burgher’s name. He looked like a rooster, with red wattles and hair that stuck up. He had perhaps drunk a little too much of the fine northern beer.
“I expect so,” Jalon said. “They usually are, aren’t they?”
“And the witch of the west is dead?” another asked.
The minstrel looked blank and then said, “Yes,” uncertainly.
“This dwarf who’s replaced her—what do you know of him?”
“Er… nothing? Yes, nothing.”
One of the stately matrons frowned at him severely. “Then the Four now consist of three warlocks and only one witch, isn’t that so? Only one of the wardens is a woman, Bright Water.”
Jalon looked even more blank. “Her Omnipotence Umthrum? She’s a woman, isn’t she?”
There was a long, puzzled pause, and then a little, ferrety sailor said, “She died years ago. Before I was born.”
The minstrel sighed. “I’m afraid politics is not a great interest of mine, master.”
Jalon had come from Hub itself, capital of the Impire. The honored guests, eager for news and gossip, had been firing questions at him all evening, but he never seemed to have answers. He was a very sweet young man, Inos thought, but as insubstantial as a morning mist. She wondered how he ever found his way from castle to castle or town to town; he was probably always fro-ing when he should be to-ing, she thought, and chuckled to herself, with a glance in the direction of Rap.
“We have heard rumors of much dragon damage in the southern provinces,” another burgher proclaimed, meaning it as a question to Jalon. “On Kith, especially.”
“Oh?” the minstrel said. “I’m afraid I must have missed that.” The worthies of Krasnegar exchanged glances of exasperation.
“What sort of gowns are the ladies wearing in the Impire these days, Master Jalon?” That was Aunt Kade, who must be worrying about all those fabrics and how many of them she could purloin for her own use and where she would find enough seamstresses to sew them all in the few days before departure.
“Very high waists,” Jalon said firmly. “Flowing out like trumpets at the floor, with fairly short trains. Puffed at the shoulders, sleeves tight at the top, flaring at the wrist. Lace cuffs. Necklines are high, with lace trim, also. Floral prints are very popular, in cottons or silk.”
The table reacted with stunned silence to this unexpected note of authority. Inos noticed that her father was grinning.
“Master Jalon is a fine artist, also,” the king remarked. “Would there possibly be time for you to paint my daughter’s portrait before you leave, Jalon?”
Jalon studied Inos for a moment. “Had I a lifetime to spend I could hardly do justice to such beauty, Sire.”
Inos felt herself blush and everyone else laughed. They did not have to laugh quite so hard, she thought.
The minstrel turned back to the king. “If I can lay my hands on materials, Sire… they might not be readily available here. But a drawing, certainly. It would be a labor of love.”
“Could you sketch us some of these gowns you have just described, Master Jalon?” Aunt Kade inquired, blinking eagerly.