And then the Dowager Duchess noticed something that had escaped her attention before: the Damoselle Tia was wearing arms which declared her to be an apprentice of His Grace, Charles Archbishop of York.
To Mary of Cumberland, the Damoselle Tia appeared somewhat taller than she had when the Duchess saw her leaving Master Sir James’ room on the previous morning. Then she saw the reason. Tia was wearing shoes of fashion that had arisen in the southern part of the Polish Hegemony and had not yet been accepted in the fashion centers either of Poland or of the Empire. They were like ordinary slippers except that the toes came to a point and the heels were lifted above the floor by a spike some two-and-a-half inches long. Good Heavens, thought Mary to herself, how can a woman wear such high heels without ruining her feet?
Was it, she wondered, some psychological quirk? Tia was a tiny girl, a good inch less than five feet tall without those outré heels, and a good foot shorter than the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. Did she wear those heels simply to increase her physical height?
No, Mary decided; Tia had too much self-assurance, too much confidence in her own abilities, to need the false prop of those little stilts. She wore them simply because they were the fashion she had become used to. They were “native costume,” nothing more.
“Excuse me,” said Sir Thomas Leseaux, pushing his way through the crowd that surrounded Tia. Every one of the journeymen looked thrice at Sir Thomas. Their first look told them that he did not wear the blue of a sorcerer. A layman, then? Their second look encompassed the ribbons on his left breast which proclaimed him a Doctor of Thaumaturgy and a Fellow of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society. No, not a layman. Their third look took in his unmistakable features, which identified him immediately as the brilliant theoretical sorcerer whose portrait was known to every apprentice of a week’s standing. They stepped back, fading away from Tia in awe at the appearance of Sir Thomas.
Tia had noticed that the handsome young sorcerers who were paying court to her seemed to be vanishing, and she looked up to discover the cause of the dispersion. Mary de Cumberland noticed that Tia’s eyes lit up and a smile came to her pixieish face when she saw the tall figure of Sir Thomas Leseaux.
Well, well, she thought, so Tia reciprocates Sir Thomas’ feelings. She remembered that Lord Darcy had said “Sir Thomas is in love with the girl — or thinks he is.” But Lord Darcy was not a Sensitive. Since she herself was sensitive to a minor degree, she knew that there was no question about the feeling between the two.
Before Sir Thomas could speak the Damoselle Tia bowed her head. “Good afternoon, Sir Thomas.”
“Good afternoon, Tia. I’m sorry to have dispersed your court.
“Your Grace,” continued Sir Thomas, “may I present to you the Damoselle Tia. Tia, I should like you to know my friend, Mary, Duchess of Cumberland.”
Tia curtsied. “It is an honor to meet Your Grace.”
Then Sir Thomas looked at his watch and said, “Good Heavens! It’s time for the meeting of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society.” He gave both women a quick, brief smile. “I trust you ladies will forgive me. I shall see you later on.”
Mary de Cumberland’s smile was only partly directed toward Tia. The rest of it was self-congratulatory. Lord Darcy, she thought, would approve of her timing; by carefully checking the meeting time of the R.T.S., she had obtained an introduction by Sir Thomas and his immediate disappearance thereafter.
“Tia,” she said, “have you tasted our English beer? Or our French wines?”
The girl’s eyes sparkled. “The wines, yes, Your Grace. English beer? No.” She hesitated. “I have heard they compare well with German beers.”
Her Grace sniffed. “My dear Tia, that is like saying that claret compares with vinegar.” She grinned. “Come on, let’s get out of this solemn conclave and I’ll introduce you to English beer.”
The Sword Room of the Royal Steward was, like the lobby, thronged with visitors. In one of its booths, the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland lifted the chilled pewter mug.
“Tia, my dear,” she said, “there are many drinks in this world. There are wines for the gourmet, there are whiskies and brandies for the men, there are sweet cordials for the women, and there are milk and lemonade for children — but for good friendly drinking, there is nothing that can compare with the honest beer of England.”
Tia picked up her own mug and touched it to Mary’s. “Your Grace,” she said, “with an introduction like that, the brew of England shall be given its every opportunity.”
She drank, draining half the mug. Then she looked at Mary with her sparkling pixie eyes. “It is good, Your Grace!”
“Better than our French wines?” asked Mary, setting down her own mug half empty.
Tia laughed. “Right now, much better, Your Grace; I was thirsty.”
Mary smiled back at her. “You’re quite right, my dear. Wine is for the palate — beer is for the thirst.”
Tia drank again from her mug. “You know, Your Grace, where I come from, it would be terribly presumptuous for a girl of my class even to sit down in the presence of a duchess, much less to sit down and have a beer with her in a public house.”
“Fiddle!” said Mary de Cumberland. “I’m not a Peer of the Realm; I’m as much a commoner as you are.”
Tia shook her head with a soft laugh. “It would make no difference, Your Grace. Anyone with a title is considered infinitely far above a common person like myself — at least, in the province of Banat, which, I confess, is all of the Polish Hegemony I have ever seen. So when I hear the title ‘Duchess’, I automatically give a start.”
“I noticed,” said Mary, “and I point out to you that anyone who aspires to a degree in Sorcery had better learn to handle symbols better than that.”
“I know,” the girl said softly. “I intend to try very hard, Your Grace.”
“I’m sure you will, my dear.” Then, changing the subject quickly: “Tell me, where did you learn Anglo-French? You speak it beautifully.”
“My accent is terrible,” Tia objected.
“Not at all! If you want to hear how the language can be butchered, you should hear some of our Londoners. Whoever taught you did very well.”
“My Uncle Neapeler, my father’s brother, taught me,” Tia said. “He is a merchant who spent a part of his youth in the Angevin Empire. And Sir Thomas has been helping me a great deal — correcting my speech and teaching me the proper manners, according to the way things are done here.”
The Duchess nodded and then gave Tia a quick smile. “Speaking of Sir Thomas — I hope his title doesn’t make you frightened of him.”
The sparkle returned to Tia’s eyes. “Frightened of Sir Thomas? Oh, Your Grace, no! He’s been so good to me. Much better than I deserve, I’m sure.
“But, then, everyone has been so good to me since I came here. Everyone. Nowhere does one find the friendliness, the goodness that one finds in the realm of His Majesty King John.”
“Not even in Italy?” the Dowager Duchess asked casually.
Tia’s expression darkened. “They might have hanged me in Italy.”
“Hanged you? My dear, what on earth for?”
After a moment’s silence, the girl said: “It’s no secret, I suppose. I was charged with practicing the Black Art in Italy.”