“Good day, your Excellency, milady.” The man from the royal palace bowed first to Skarnu and then, just as deeply, to Merkela. He was handsome and dapper, his tunic and trousers too tight to be quite practical. Skarnu had outfits like that, but he’d come to appreciate comfort in his own time on a farm. Merkela’s tunics and trousers were all of the practical sort needed if one were to do actual work in them. Instead of working, the functionary handed Skarnu a sealed envelope, then bowed again.
“What have we here?” Skarnu murmured, and opened it. Someone who practiced elegant calligraphy instead of working had written, To the Marquis Skarnu and the Lady Merkela: the pleasure of your company is requested by his Majesty, King Gainibu of Valmiera, at a reception this evening to honor those who upheld Valmieran courage during the dark days of occupation.
“I trust you will come?” the palace functionary said.
Skarnu nodded, but Merkela asked a question that sounded all the sharper for being so nervous: “Is Krasta invited?” She gave Skarnu’s sister no title whatever.
Voice bland, the functionary replied, “This is the only invitation I was charged to bring here.” Valmiru sighed when he heard that. All the servants would hear it in short order. So would Krasta, and that was liable to be ugly.
But Merkela nodded as sharply as if her family had been noble for ten generations. “Then we’ll be there,” she declared. The functionary bowed and departed. Only after the butler had closed the door behind him did Merkela let out something that sounded very much like a waiclass="underline" “But what am I going to wearV
“Go out. Go shopping,” Skarnu said-even he, a mere man, could see why she might be worried.
But he couldn’t guess how worried she was. In something like despair, Merkela cried, “But how do I know what people wear to the palace? I don’t want to look like a fool, and I don’t want to look like a whore, either.”
Valmiru coughed to draw her notice, then said, “You might do well to take someone who is knowledgeable in such matters with you-Bauska, perhaps.”
“Bauska?” Merkela exclaimed. “With her half-Algarvian bastard?”
“She’s Krasta’s maidservant,” Skarnu said. “She knows clothes better than anyone else here.”
“She knows what I think of her, too,” Merkela said. “She’d probably get me to buy something ugly just for spite.”
“Whatever she suggests, bring it back and try it on for me first,” Skarnu said. “I know enough not to let that happen. But Bauska’s the best person you could choose. . unless you wanted to go out with Krasta?” As he’d thought it would, that made Merkela violently shake her head. It also persuaded her to go out with the maidservant. Skarnu hadn’t been so sure that would happen.
Gedominu woke up while his mother was on her expedition to Priekule. Proving he’d been away from his servants for a long time, Skarnu changed him himself and fed him little bits of bread. The baby hummed happily while he ate. Skarnu wished he himself were so easy to amuse.
A peremptory knock on the door warned him he was about to be anything but amused. He thought about ignoring it, but that wouldn’t do. Sure enough, Krasta stood in the hallway. Without preamble, she said, “What’s this I hear about you and. . that woman going to the palace tonight?”
“It’s true,” Skarnu answered. “His Majesty invited both of us.”
“Why didn’t he invite me?” his sister demanded. Both her voice and the line of her jaw seemed particularly hard and unyielding.
“I have no idea,” Skarnu said. “Why don’t you ask him the next time you see him?” And then, his own temper boiling over, he asked, “Will he recognize you if you’re not on an Algarvian’s arm?”
“Futter you,” Krasta said crisply. She turned and stalked away. Skarnu resisted the impulse to give her a good boot in the rear to speed her passage. She is pregnant, he reminded himself.
“Dada!” Gedominu said, and Skarnu’s grim mood lightened. His son made him remember what was really important.
When Merkela returned festooned with boxes and packages, he waited to see what she’d bought, then clapped his hands together. The turquoise tunic and black trousers set off her eyes, emphasized her shape without going too far, and made the most of her suntanned skin. “You’re beautiful,” Skarnu said. “I’ve known it for years. Now everyone else will, too.”
Despite her tan, she turned red. “Nonsense,” she said, or a coarse, back-country phrase that meant the same thing. “Everyone at the court will sneer at me.” Skarnu answered with the same coarse phrase. Merkela blinked and then laughed.
On the way to the palace, she snarled whenever she saw a woman shaved bald or with hair growing out after a shaving: the mark of many who’d collaborated horizontally. “I wonder if Viscount Valnu will have his hair shaved, too,” Skarnu remarked.
Merkela gave him a scandalized look. “Whatever he did, he did for the kingdom.”
“I know Valnu,” Skarnu told her. “He may have done it for the kingdom, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t enjoy every minute of it.” Merkela clucked but didn’t answer.
When they pulled up in front of the palace, Skarnu handed Merkela down, though he knew she was used to descending for herself. The driver took out a flask with which to keep himself warm. A flunky checked Skarnu and Merkela’s names off a list. “Go down this corridor,” the fellow said, pointing. “The reception will be in the Grand Hall.”
“The Grand Hall,” Merkela murmured. Her eyes were already enormous. They got bigger with every step she took along the splendid corridor. “This is like something out of a romance, or a fairy tale.”
“It’s real enough. It’s where King Gainibu declared war on Algarve,” Skarnu said. “I didn’t see him do it; I’d already been called to my regiment. But the kingdom didn’t live happily ever after, I’ll tell you that.”
At the entry to the Grand Hall, another flunky in a fancy uniform called out, “Marquis Skarnu and the Lady Merkela!” Merkela turned red again. Skarnu watched her eyeing the women already in the Grand Hall. And, a moment later, he watched her back straighten as she realized she wasn’t out of place after all as far as looks and clothes went.
Skarnu took her arm. “Come on,” he said, and steered her toward the receiving line. “Time for the king to meet you.” That flustered her anew. He added, “Remember, this is why he invited you.”
Merkela nodded, but nervously. The line moved slowly, which gave her the chance to get back some of her composure. Even so, she squeezed Skarnu’s hand and whispered, “I don’t believe this is really happening.”
Before Skarnu could answer, the two of them stood before the king. Gainibu had aged more than the years that lay between now and the last time Skarnu saw him; the red veins in his nose said he’d pickled as well as aged. But his grip was firm as he clasped Skarnu’s hand, and he spoke clearly enough: “A pleasure, your Excellency. And your charming companion is-?”
“My fiancee, your Majesty,” Skarnu answered. “Merkela of Pavilosta.”
“Your Majesty,” Merkela whispered. Her curtsy was awkward, but it served.
“A pleasure to meet you, milady,” the king said, and raised her hand to his lips. “I’ve seen Skarnu’s sister at enough of these functions, but she was always with that Colonel Lurcanio. Some things can’t be helped. Still, this is better.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Merkela said. She had her spirit back now, and looked around the Grand Hall as if to challenge anyone to say she didn’t belong there. No one did, of course, but anyone who tried would have been sorry.
Skarnu glanced back at Gainibu as he led Merkela away. Gainibu, plainly, had not had an easy time during the Algarvian occupation. Even so, he still remembered how to act like a king.