When Laeth entered, engaged in a loud, boisterous and not particularly sober conversation with his cousin Terran, who was frantically trying to quiet him, Rialla fell in behind. She held out Laeth’s chair and helped seat him, then stood back against the wall so that she wouldn’t get in the way of the servants. In their own way, the nobles were as fascinated with her as the servants had been. They were merely more discreet with their stares, so as not to appear too interested.
It was almost fun to pretend, knowing that she was fooling all these people; especially since Laeth had already outfaced her former owner. It was odd, Rialla reflected, that she’d never felt less like a slave than now when she was pretending to be one.
She didn’t notice Lord Winterseine until he spoke in her ear.
“You shouldn’t have run away from me. Little One,” he whispered. “You know what happens to slaves who run from me. Don’t think the young whelp will keep you from my wrath. I have plans for him.”
His rage boiled over onto her like molten lava when he gripped her arm… These fools! Think that they can toy with me, do they? … She was pulled out of his grasp and his mind by a strong hand on her wrist.
“Slave girl,” said Laeth in slightly drunken tones, “get me the brandy that I brought from Sianim. Terran, here, said that he’s never tried Rethian brandy, despite having visited Reth on numerous occasions.” He shook his head chidingly at his cousin, as he shoved Rialla in the direction of the entrance.
She fled the room gratefully and darted up the stairs, not slowing until she reached Laeth’s suite and shut the door behind her. As she tried to locate the brandy she’d just packed, she attempted to figure out what was bothering her about Lord Winterseine.
She had expected him to be angry, but his anger had been disproportionate. She had been valuable, but not irreplaceable. His rage had a hard edge of insanity about it, and of paranoia. From the little she’d caught, she thought Winterseine was angry most of the time… perhaps frightened as well.
When she’d speculated that her former owner was the man who called himself the Voice of Altis, she hadn’t really believed it. She could now. He’d changed in more substantial ways than a few gray hairs in his mustache. Arrogance was necessary to a man who turned other humans into slaves, but Lord Winterseine’s arrogance had grown tremendously.
Finding the bottle at last, Rialla started through the hall to the stairs. She stopped in front of the dining room to catch her breath, then strode in with studied grace.
Winterseine was on the other side of the room from Laeth, who was engaged in being thoroughly obnoxious. Rather than interrupting him, Rialla set the bottle on the table, well out of reach of his exaggerated gestures, stepped back to the wall and let herself be distracted by his antics.
In the middle of the serving of the hot cherry torte, Laeth, who had allowed Terran to keep him quiet through the previous four courses, suddenly jumped to his feet.
“I don’t care who the princess marries; she can marry a donkey if she cares to: I just can’t stomach a Darranian princess marrying that Rethian ox. The only thing good to come out of Reth in the last hundred years is this brandy.” He grabbed at the bottle Rialla had brought down and missed. Giving it a puzzled look, he jumped on top of the table and managed to locate it near his ankles.
He swung the brandy toward his brother with such enthusiasm that even Rialla, who knew that he was about as drunk as she was, winced; but somehow he managed to hold onto the neck and keep from falling off the table at the same time.
“You, Karsten, are the reason that our poor princess is being forced to marry that brainless hunk of bear bait.” His voice held such melodramatic sorrow that Rialla felt a grin tug at the corner of her mouth. So that was why he’d been making such a spectacle of himself.
After this performance, it would be clear that Laeth would be sympathetic to a plot that would halt the union of Reth and Darran. He was hoping that he would be approached by someone who would give them a suspect for the attempted assassinations—someone other than his uncle. Rialla was afraid that he wasn’t going to find one.
Lord Karsten sat pale and composed at the head of the table, but Rialla thought that his lack of color was more from his recent poisoning than from the antics of his incorrigible brother. It was Marri who stood up and proposed that everyone retire to the music room for the evening entertainment. Terran and Lord Karsten, between them, managed to talk Laeth into getting off the table. Karsten poured several cups of something that a hastily summoned valet swore would sober Laeth.
Laeth allowed himself to be quieted and appeared almost normal, if sleepy, by the time he finished the drink. He was led cautiously into the music room and seated in the back. Terran was left with him to ensure his good behavior.
The music room was actually a small auditorium. Rialla felt a moment’s panic at the thought of trying to fit three hundred people into it, but apparently an evening of amateur entertainment was not the highlight of the celebration. Although the room was not huge, there were still plenty of empty seats.
She found out why when the first performer stepped on the stage.
Two hours later Rialla had fallen into a comfortable doze that gave her some relief from the neophyte troubadour performing on a poorly tuned lyre. The performances weren’t without merit. Marri was an acceptable alto, but Rialla’s favorite was a middle-aged woman whose dramatic rendition of a classic monologue was eclipsed by an untimely rip in her overly tight gown.
Laeth, who had lapsed into a convincing drunken coma, sat up and rubbed his eyes and peered bleary-eyed at the stage. When it was obvious that no one was on it, he stood up and motioned Rialla to follow.
Rialla could hear her pulse pound in her ears, and adrenaline made her muscles taut and responsive. She’d almost forgotten how much she enjoyed performing. Before, it had been tainted by her slave status; this time she was performing by choice.
In the men’s club in Kentar, there had always been a drummer to provide a beat for her, but here she would have to dance to her own music. Laeth stopped at the bottom of the stage and motioned her to continue up the stairs. She took off her black cloak and struck a demure pose, waiting for the audience to quiet. It took time for the people in their seats to realize what she was waiting for and quit talking.
She tested the chamber by a subtle movement of her foot, and the bells rang out with a clear and sweet tone. She had chosen her dance carefully, as the dances that she had used most often were unsuitable for public display. This was an obscure dance that one of the older dancers in the club had taught her; the story of a young girl who is lost in the woods at night and killed by a shapeshifter.
Rialla let herself become the girl, concentrating on the sweet refrain of the bells. Her movements were soft and furtive as she snuck out of her parents’ house, then light and graceful as she dodged through the woods to find her lover.
He wasn’t where they were supposed to meet; but she wasn’t worried and danced to the night and the moon, accompanied by the musical babble of the tiny bells that she wore.
In the middle of an agile leap, she heard a noise. Landing, she crouched, momentarily frightened. She remembered that her lover should be coming. Her fear changed to excitement as she searched eagerly for him. He was not there.
With a shrug, she gave herself back to the dance. Her movements were lithe and willowy, but she was obviously tiring when she heard another noise. This time it was her lover in the form of a black cloak cleverly wielded in her hand. They danced together, laughing and passionate—until she noticed something on his clothing: something sticky that stained her hand.