Soul of the Fire

Chapter 21

She spread her wings, and her rich voice sang out with the somber strains of a tale more ancient than myth.

With an impossibly long note, the young woman concluded her bewitching song. The guests broke into applause.

It was an archaic lyric of Joseph Ander and for that reason alone was cherished. Dalton had once leafed through old texts to see what he could learn of the song’s meaning, but found nothing to shed light on the intent of the words, which, there being a number of versions, weren’t always the same. It was one of those songs which no one really understood but everyone treasured because it was obviously a triumph of some sort for one of their land’s beloved venerable founders. For the sake of tradition the haunting melody was sung on special occasions.

For some reason, Dalton had the odd feeling that the words now meant more to him than ever before. They seemed somehow nearly to make sense. As quickly as the sensation came, his mind was on to other things and the feeling passed.

The woman’s long sleeves skimmed the floor as she held her arms wide while bowing to the Sovereign, and then once again to the applauding people at the head table beside the Sovereign’s table. A baldachin of silk and gold brocade ran up the wall behind and then in billowing folds out over the two head tables. The baldachin’s corners were held up with outsized Anderith lances. The effect was to make the head tables appear as if they were on a stage—which, in many ways, Dalton supposed they were.

The songstress bowed to the diners at the long rows of tables running down each side of the dining hall. Her sleeves were overlaid with spotted white owl feathers, so that when she spread her arms in song she appeared to be a winged woman, like something out of the ancient stories she sang.

Stein, on the other side of the applauding Minister and his wife, applauded apathetically, no doubt envisioning the young woman without her feathers. On Dalton’s right, Teresa added enthusiastic calls of admiration to her clapping. Dalton stifled a yawn as he applauded.

As the songstress strode away, her arms lifted to wave in winged acknowledgment of the whistles trailing after her. After she’d vanished, four squires entered from the opposite side of the room carrying a platform atop which sat a marzipan ship floating in a sea of marzipan waves. The ship’s billowing sails looked to be made of spun sugar. The purpose, of course, was to announce that the next course would be fish, just as the pastry deer, pursued by pastry hounds leaping a hedge of holly in which hid aspic boar, had announced one of the meat courses, and the stuffed eagle with its huge wings spread over a scene of the capital city of Fairfield made of paper board buildings had announced a course of fowl. Up in the gallery, a fanfare trumpeted and drums rolled to add a musical testament to the arrival of the next course.

There had been five courses, each with at least a dozen specialties. That meant there were seven courses yet to come, each with at least a dozen distinctive dishes of its own. Music from flute and fife and drum, jugglers, troubadours, and acrobats entertained the guests between courses as a tree with candied fruits toured the tables. Gifts of mechanical horses with opposing legs that moved in unison were passed out to the delight of all.

Meat dishes had included everything from Teresa’s all-time favorite of suckers—she had eaten three of the infant rabbits—to fawn, to pig, to cow, to a bear standing on its hind legs. The bear was wheeled from table to table; at each table its hide, draped around the roasted carcass, was pulled back to allow carvers to slice off pieces for the guests. Fowl ranged from the sparrows the Minister favored for their stimulation of lust, to pigeons, to swan’s neck pudding, to eagles, to baked heron that had been re-feathered and held by wires in a display depicting them as a flock in flight.

It was not expected that everyone would eat such a plenitude of food; the variety was meant to offer an abundance of choice, not only to please honored guests, but to astonish them with opulence. A visit to the Minister of Culture’s estate was an occasion long remembered, and for many became a legendary event talked about for years.

As they sampled the dishes, most people kept an eye to the head table, where the Minister sat with two wealthy backers he had invited to dine at his table, and the other object of great interest: the representative from the Imperial Order. Stein had arrived earlier, to the whispered oohing and aahing of all at his man-of-war outfit and cape of human scalps. He was a sensation, drawing the inviting looks of a number of women weak in the knees at the prospect of winning such a man to their bed.

In vivid outward contrast to the warrior from the Old World, Bertrand Chanboor wore a close-fitting, sleeveless, padded purple doublet embellished with elaborate embroidery, gold trim, and silver braiding over a simple sleeved short jacket. Together, they gave his soft rounded shape the illusion of a more manly frame. A frill of white stood above the doublet’s low, erect collar. A similar ruff stood out at wrists and waist.

Slung over the shoulders of the doublet and short jacket was a magnificent dress coat of a deeper purple with fur trim running around the collar and all the way down the front. Below the padded rolls standing at the ends of the shoulders, the baggy sleeves had slashes lined with red silk. Between the spiral slashes, galloon braiding separated rows of pearls.

With his intent eyes, his easy smile—which, along with those eyes, always seemed directed at no other than the person with whom he had eye contact at the moment—and his shock of thick, graying hair, he struck an impressive figure. That, and Bertrand Chanboor’s presence, or rather the presence of the power he wielded as the Minister of Culture, left many a man in awed admiration and many a woman in breathless yearning.

If not watching the Minister’s table, guests cast stealthy glances at the table beside it, where sat the Sovereign, his wife, and their three grown sons and two grown daughters. No one wanted to stare openly at the Sovereign. The Sovereign was, after all, the Creator’s deputy in the world of life—a holy religious leader as well as the ruler of their land. Many in Anderith, Anders and Haken alike, idolized the Sovereign to the point of falling to the ground, wailing, and confessing sins when his carriage passed.

The Sovereign, alert and perceptive despite deteriorating health, was dressed in a glittering golden garment. A red vest emphasized the outfit’s bulbous sleeves. A long, richly colored, embroidered silk stole was draped over his shoulders. Bright yellow stockings laced at midthigh to the bottom of teardrop-shaped puffed and padded breeches with colored slashes. Jewels weighed each finger. The Sovereign’s head hovered low between his rounded shoulders, as if the gold medallion displaying a diamond-encrusted mountain had, over time, weighed so heavily on his neck that it bowed his back. Liver spots as large as the jewels mottled his hands.

The Sovereign had outlived four wives. With loving care, the man’s latest wife dabbed at the food on his chin. Dalton doubted she was yet out of her teens.

Thankfully, even though the sons and daughters brought their spouses, they had left their children home; the Sovereign’s grandchildren were insufferable brats. No one dared do anything more than chuckle approvingly at the little darlings as they rampaged unchecked. Several of them were considerably older than their latest stepgrandmother.

On the other side of the Minister from Dalton, Lady Hildemara Chanboor, in an elegant silvery pleated gown cut as low as any in the room, gestured with one finger, and the harpist, stationed before but below the head table’s raised platform, gently trailed her soft music to silence. The Minister’s wife directed the feast.

It actually needed no directing from her, but she insisted she be acknowledged as the regal hostess of the majestic and stately event, and therefore from time to time contributed to the proceedings by lifting her finger to silence the harpist at the appropriate time so that all might know and respect her social position. People were spellbound, believing the entire feast turned on Lady Chanboor’s finger.

The harpist certainly knew when she was to let her music end for an impending slated event, but nonetheless waited and watched for that noble finger before daring to still her own. Sweat dotted her brow as she watched for Lady Chanboor’s finger to rise, daring not to miss it.

Though universally proclaimed radiant and beautiful, Hildemara was rather thick of limb and feature, and had always put Dalton in mind of a sculpture of a woman chiseled by an artisan of greater ardor than talent. It was not a piece of work one wished to consider for long stretches.

The harpist took the chance of the break to reach for a cup on the floor beside her golden harp. As she bent forward for the cup, the Minister ogled her cleavage, at the same time giving Dalton an elbow in the ribs lest he miss the sight.

Lady Chanboor noticed her husband’s roving eye, but showed no reaction. She never did. She relished the power she wielded, and willingly paid the requisite price.

In private, though, Hildemara occasionally clouted Bertrand with any handy object, more likely for a social slight to her than a marital indiscretion. She had no real cause to raise objections to his philandering; she was not exactly faithful, enjoying at times the discreet company of lovers. Dalton kept a mental list of their names.

Dalton suspected that, like many of her husband’s dalliances, her partners were attracted to her power, and hoped they might earn a favor. Most people had no clue as to what went on at the estate, and could imagine her as nothing other than a faithful loving wife, an image she cultivated with care. The Anderith people loved her as the people of other lands loved a queen.

In many ways, she was the power behind the office of Minister; she was adept, knowledgeable, focused. While Bertrand was often at play, Hildemara, behind closed doors, issued orders. He relied on his wife’s expertise, often deferring to her in material matters, disinterested in what patronage she doled out to miscreants, or the cultural carnage she left in her wake.

No matter what she might think of her husband in private, Hildemara worked zealously to preserve his dominion. If he fell, she would surely crash down with him. Unlike her husband, Hildemara was rarely drunk and discreetly confined whatever couplings she had to the middle of the night Dalton knew better than to underestimate her. She tended cobwebs of her own.

The company gasped with delighted surprise when a “sailor” sprang from behind the marzipan ship, piping a merry fisher’s tune on his fife while accompanying himself on a tabor hung from his belt. Teresa giggled and clapped, as did many others.

She squeezed her husband’s leg under the table. “Oh, Dalton, did you ever think we would live at such a splendid place, come to know such splendid people, and see such splendid things?”

“Of course.”

She giggled again and gently bumped his shoulder with hers. Dalton watched Claudine applaud from a table to the right. To his left Stein stabbed a chunk of meat and with shameless manners pulled it from the knife with his teeth. He chewed with his mouth open as he viewed the entertainment. This didn’t look to be the sort of entertainment Stein favored.

Servers had already begun carrying in silver chargers of the fish course, taking them to the dresser table for saucing and dressing before service. The Sovereign had his own servants at a sideboard to taste and prepare his food. They used knives they had brought with them to slice off for the Sovereign and his family the choice upper crust of rolls and breads. They had other knives just to prepare the trenchers upon which the Sovereign’s food was placed, which, unlike everyone else’s plates, were changed after each course. They had one knife to slice, one to trim, and one just to smooth the trenchers.

The Minister leaned close, his fingers holding a slice of pork he had dipped in mustard. “I heard a rumor that there is a woman who might be inclined to spread unpleasant lies. Perhaps you should inquire after the matter.”

From the platter he shared with Teresa, Dalton plucked up with his second finger and thumb a slice of pear in almond milk. “Yes, Minister, I already have. She intends no disrespect.” He popped the pear in his mouth.

The Minister lifted an eyebrow. “Well and good, then.”

He grinned and winked past Dalton. Smiling, Teresa bowed her head in acknowledgment of his greeting.

“Ah, my dear Teresa, have I yet told you that you look especially divine this evening. And your hair is wondrous—it makes you look as if you are a good spirit come to grace my table. If you weren’t married to my right-hand man, I’d invite you to a dance, later.”

The Minister rarely danced with anyone but his wife and, as a matter of protocol, visiting dignitaries.

“Minister, I would be honored,” Teresa said, stumbling over the words, “as would my husband—I’m sure. I could be in no better hands on the dance floor—or anywhere.”

Despite Teresa’s usual ability to maintain a state of social equanimity, she blushed at the high honor Bertrand had almost extended. She fussed with the glittering sequins tied in her hair, aware of envious eyes watching her speak with the Minister of Culture himself.

Dalton knew by the scowl behind the Minister that there was no need to fret that such a dance—with the man doubtlessly pressing up against Teresa’s half-exposed bosom—would take place. Lady Chanboor would not have Bertrand formally showing such a lack of complete devotion to her.

Dalton returned to business, steering the conversation in the direction of his intentions. “One of the officials from the city is very concerned about the situation we spoke of.”

“What did he say?” Bertrand knew which Director they were discussing and wisely refrained from using names aloud, but his eyes flashed anger.

“Nothing,” Dalton assured him. “But the man is persistent. He might inquire after matters—press for explanations. There are those who conspire against us, and would be eager to stir the cry of impropriety. It would be a bothersome waste of time and take us away from our duty to the Anderith people, were we forced to acquit ourselves of groundless accusations of misconduct.”

“The whole idea is absurd,” the Minister said, as he followed in the form of their cover conversation. “You don’t really believe, do you, that people really plot to oppose our good works?”

His words sounded by rote, he used them so often. Simple prudence required that public discussion be circumspect. There might be gifted people slipped in among the guests, hoping to use their skill to overhear something not meant to be heard.

Dalton himself employed a gifted woman with such talent.

“We devote our lives to doing the work of the Anderith people,” Dalton said, “and yet there are those greedy few who would wish to stall the progress we make on behalf of the working people.”

From the trencher he shared with his wife, Bertrand picked up a roasted swan wing and dragged it through a small bowl of frumenty sauce. “You think fomenters might be intending to cause trouble, then?”

Lady Chanboor, closely following the conversation, leaned close to her husband. “Agitators would jump at the chance to destroy Bertrand’s good work. They would willingly aid any troublemaker.” She glanced pointedly to the Sovereign being fed from the fingers of his young wife. “We have important work before us and don’t need antagonists meddling in our efforts.”

Bertrand Chanboor was the most likely candidate to be named Sovereign, but there were those who opposed him. Once named, a Sovereign served for life. Any slip at such a critical time could remove the Minister from consideration. There were any number of people wishing he would make such a slip, and they would be watching and listening for it.

After Bertrand Chanboor was named Sovereign, they would be free of worry, but until then, nothing was certain or safe.

Dalton bowed his head in acknowledgment. “You see the situation well, Lady Chanboor.”

Bertrand let out a little grunt. “I take it you have a suggestion.”

“I do,” Dalton said, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. It was impolite to be seen whispering, but it was unavoidable; he needed to act, and whispers would not be heard. “I think it would be best if we upset the balance of things. What I have in mind will not only pull the weed from the wheat, but it will discourage other weeds from springing up.”

Keeping an eye to the Sovereign’s table, Dalton explained his proposal. Lady Chanboor straightened with a sly smile; Dalton’s advice pleased her disposition. Without emotion, Bertrand, as he watched Claudine picking at her food, agreed.

Stein dragged his knife blade across the table, making a show of slicing through the fine white linen overcloth.

“Why don’t I just slit their throats.”

The Minister glanced about, checking to see if he could tell if anyone had overheard Stein’s offer. Hildemara’s face flushed with anger. Teresa’s went white to hear such talk, especially from a man who wore a cape of human scalps.

Stein had been warned before. If overheard and reported, such words could open the floodgates of investigation, which would undoubtedly bring the Mother Confessor herself down on them. She would not rest until she discovered the truth of it, and if that happened, she very well might be inclined to use her magic to remove the Minister from office. For good.

With a deadly look, Dalton delivered a silent threat to Stein. Stein grinned out through yellow teeth. “Just a friendly joke.”

“I don’t care how large the Imperial Order’s force is,” the Minister growled for the ears of any who might have heard Stein. “Unless they are invited through—which is yet to be decided—they will all perish before the Dominie Dirtch. The emperor knows the truth of it, or he wouldn’t ask us to consider the generous offers of peace he has made. I am sure he would be displeased to know how one of his men insults our culture and the laws by which we live.

“You are here as a delegate from Emperor Jagang to explain to our people the emperor’s position and liberal offers—no more. If need be, we can get another to do such explaining.”

Stein smirked at all the agitation directed his way. “I was joking, of course. Such empty talk is the custom among my people. Where I come from, such words are common and harmless. I assure you all, it was only meant for the sake of amusement.”

“I hope you intend to exercise better judgment when you speak to our people,” the Minister said. “This is a serious matter you have come to discuss. The Directors would not appreciate hearing such offensive humor.”

Stein let out a coarse laugh. “Master Campbell did explain your culture’s intolerance for such crude banter, but my unpolished nature caused me to forget his wise words. Please excuse my poor choice of a joke. No harm was intended.”

“Well and good, then.” Bertrand leaned back, his wary gaze sweeping over the guests. “All Anderith people take a dim view of brutality, and are not used to such talk, much less such action.”

Stein bowed his head. “I have yet to learn the exemplary customs of your great culture. I look forward to being given the opportunity to learn your better ways.”

With those precisely disarming words, Dalton raised his estimate of the man. Stein’s unkempt hair was misleading; what was under it was not nearly so disordered.

If Lady Chanboor caught the mordant satire in Stem’s repartee, she did not show it as her face relaxed back to its usual sweet-and-sour set. “We understand, and admire your sincere effort to learn what must be . . . strange customs to you.” Her fingertips slid Stein’s goblet toward him. “Please, have some of our fine Nareef Valley wine. We are all very fond of it.”

If Lady Chanboor failed to grasp the subtle sarcasm in Stein’s words, Teresa did not. Unlike Hildemara, Teresa had skirmished much of her adult life among the cut-and-thrust front lines of female social structure, where words were wielded as weapons meant to draw blood. The higher the level of engagement, the more refined the edge. There, you had to be adept to know you had been cut and were bleeding, or the wound was all that much greater for others seeing it and you missing it.

Hildemara didn’t need the blade of wit; raw power alone shielded her. Anderith generals rarely swung swords.

As she watched with practical fascination, Teresa took a sip when Stein swept up his goblet for a long swig.

“It is good. In fact, I would declare it to be the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“We are pleased to hear such a widely traveled man’s opinion,” the Minister said.

Stein thunked his goblet down on the table. “I’ve had my fill of food. When do I get to speak my piece?”

The Minister lifted an eyebrow. “When the guests have finished.”

Grinning again, Stein stabbed a chunk of meat and leaned back to gnaw it off the knifepoint. As he chewed, his eyes boldly met the sultry looks he was getting from some of the women.