“I met such a one,” Paks said. “On my way from the Duke’s Stronghold to Lyonya. Ganarrion, his name was; he’s in the Royal Guard. You might seek him out.”
“I am past bearing an heir of the body,” Dorrin said, “even if I wished to do so. I thought of one of the children here, but they have spent their whole lives in the influence of my uncle and his kind.”
“How are they now?”
“Better, I think, but who can tell, with children? Having none of my own, I never studied how best to train them; I must leave much of that to the nurserymaids, and trust I have weeded out the vicious from among those.”
“Another reason to let me ward this place for you while you’re in Vérella,” Paks said, grinning. “I am closer to my own childhood, as you said, and I had younger sibs—I like children.”
“But never wanted some of your own?” Dorrin asked.
“No. Wiped too many dirty bottoms, and saw my mother’s birth pangs too many times. A soldier’s life is thought hard, and it is, but that day-by-day watchfulness and worry—I was not meant for that.”
“Indeed, you were not,” Dorrin said. “Nor was I. Well. I don’t want to go, but I see I must.” Another thought struck her. “Oh gods above!”
“What?”
“I have no court clothes.” Paks looked blank. “Tsaian court clothes. For the coronation and everything else; everyone else will have them. They’ll expect—it will be an insult if I turn up like this—” Dorrin gestured at her plain shirt and trousers. “And it’s too late to get anything made in Vérella; every tailor will be racing to finish things ordered at the Evener or before.”
“Did your relatives take all their clothes with them?”
“No, but—” Dorrin shook her head. “It is a jest, but a bitter one. I was so disgusted with their finery … I threw them out, all those fancy things, or most of them. Told the house staff to cut them up and make clothes for themselves, or give them to their families. And besides, nothing would have fit me—the ladies of this house had magery, not muscles.”
“Must you wear skirts at court? You were titled duke, not duchess.”
“I suppose—” Dorrin thought about it. “If I’m going to be an outcast anyway, and the only female duke, I might as well be outrageous in my dress. That’s good; I hate skirts. Men’s dress at court is still court dress, but I might contrive something more easily. I wonder if Verrakai House in Vérella has been sold—”
“Your family has two houses?”
Dorrin nodded. “Verrakai had more than two houses, if any are left to us, if the Crown did not confiscate them for my uncle’s treason. A house in Vérella, where family attending court lived. Houses here and there for family members who wanted to live apart for a while.”
“Perhaps your uncle left court clothes there, and you could use them.”
“I would not want to wear anything that had touched his body,” Dorrin said. “The touch of his magery—”
“Falk will protect you,” Paks said with such confidence that Dorrin felt her own doubts vanish.
38
Dorrin left the next morning, escorted not by her Phelani troops, but by five Verrakai militia chosen by Selfer for their progress toward soldierly qualities. They looked nothing like the ruffians she’d first encountered; now their badges and buckles gleamed, their boots shone, their hair was clean and trimmed. Their saddlecloths were authentic Verrakai—that much had been found in the stables—though the horses were Phelan’s. Dorrin had signed another note to Selfer acknowledging the debt.
With them, on Farin the cook’s advice, were two of her assistants. “Efla can cook, passably,” the cook said. “Jaim’s too young, but you’ll need an errand boy to help fetch and carry from market and the like. None of those militia I’d trust to boil water and make sib, let alone cook for the lot of you, and you don’t know if any of the servants are still in the city house.” A single pack animal carried only a light load—the royal regalia, now wrapped piece by piece in clean linen and then packed into a padded sack—and what she’d found that might be turned into court clothes later. Another carried supplies they might need in Vérella “in case the house was robbed after the old duke …” The cook laid her finger on her throat. Dorrin had the prince’s invitation in her own saddlebags, along with the pass to travel to and from Vérella.
They reached Harway just at dark after a long day’s travel, and found rooms at the same inn where, at the end of winter, she had lodged. “How many nights?” the innkeeper asked.
“Two or three,” Dorrin said. “I need to find a tailor here, or somewhere on the road to Vérella. I’m summoned to the coronation and have no court attire.” She laughed, making a joke of it. “I did not anticipate needing any—do you know someone who might—”
“A court dress for a lady of your rank?” he said. “Even the best I know of cannot do that in one day or two.”
“Not a dress,” Dorrin said. “I know that is impossible. But the prince named me duke, and I’ve worn soldier’s clothing since I was a young girl. Something suitable for a duke—shirts with ruffles or lace or something. A doublet—”
“Oh, that.” His face cleared. “You’ll want Durgeon & Sons for that. Pili Durgeon’s an excellent tailor, and I’m sure he’ll be able to find something to suit. It’s from him your men got that blue cloth when you were here before, and since then he’s had a shipment from the south. ’Tis late tonight, but I can send a lad to let him know you’ll visit in the morning, shall I?”
“Thank you,” Dorrin said.
She spent the next morning with the tailor. “I’ve got work I cannot put aside, even for a duke,” he said. “But that will be finished this afternoon, and I can take your measurements and requirements now. Court clothes—yes, of course I know what’s needed. As for the materials—look here.” He led her to the back of the shop, past men and women busily at work in the light of wide windows, to a locked chamber. Inside, rolls of cloth filled shelves, but for a small section holding bundles wrapped in muslin.
“This—” He lifted a muslin-wrapped bundle and began unwrapping it. “The previous duke ordered this two years ago, to make up a robe for the coronation this year. Drew the design for the brocade and all, and I sent to the south, to the weavers there, to have it woven just for him.”
Dorrin’s skin prickled. What kind of design would her uncle have chosen? Something evil no doubt. Durgeon unwrapped the last layer of muslin and lifted out a long roll of blue and silver brocade. “I washed it and stretched it square, then made it up, but when the Order of Attainder came, I was sure I’d lost by it—for he never paid me; said he would pay when he took it to court. Crowns a span, it was, all my cost, but he was not to argue with …”
The cloth shimmered. Against a background of blues shading from dark to pale, star shapes that Dorrin recognized from the cloth around the crown. Those were done all in pale gray and silver. She touched it lightly and felt nothing, no evil at all.
“It would suit you, as well,” Durgeon said. “With your height, and your dark hair. He chose a dark blue lining, you see, but if you chose dark for your formal doublet, I could change that out to pale gray in no time.”
“It’s beautiful,” Dorrin said. She touched it again, lightly. Durgeon began to unfold it on the table.
“You see the wide band of fur on the sleeves. Silver clasps in front. The Verrakai arms embroidered on the back—”
“Is that necessary?” Dorrin asked, stroking the fabric.
“Have you not seen formal court dress—?” he began.
“No, I was never at court,” Dorrin said. “If the stories you heard about me include exile, being disowned by the family, that’s the truth of it.”
“Well, then, my lord—” Durgeon turned the robe, showing her the back. “Every peer displays the family crest on the most formal of court robes—for such ceremonies as this. Every rank has its own required style. Dukes, for instance, have a fur cuff twice as wide as counts, and barons have but a finger-width edge. Your shirts, as a duke, should have wider lace, with gold or silver ribbon threaded through; your doublet will be embroidered on the heart side with the crest, in silver, and the slashes bound in silver cord. Your capelet, for the formal dinners, will have full four fingers of silver braid. And your shoes—” He looked at her boots, the plain black leather she had considered her dress boots, and shook his head. “You were right to stop here, my lord. In Vérella you will not find tailors or cobblers able to fit your work in, but Liam the cobbler can make you court shoes and boots.”