David Weber - Hell Hath No Fury

"Oh, come now, Darcel!" a richly melodious Voice laughed. "It's not that bad. Besides," the Voice turned suddenly more serious, with an undertone of warmth and a pleasant, furry little edge of desire,

"unlike most of these poor people, you've actually got the physique and the coloring for it. In fact, you're probably the best looking male present."

"I'm glad you think so," he replied. "Even if it does just go to prove how hopelessly biased you are in my case."

"Nonsense. Oh, I'm sure I am biased, but you're not exactly the best judge of your own handsomeness, either. I believe the exact phrase I'm looking for is "You clean up pretty." Besides, you've got a really nice backside, and those pantaloons show it off so well!"

He snorted a laugh and shook his head.

"Where are you?"

"We're just coming down now," she assured him, and he turned towards the stair behind him.

Alazon's position as Zindel's political chief of staff had turned her into a sort of auxiliary parade marshal. She'd been incredibly busy with last-minute details all morning, although two Voices could at least manage to keep track of one another much better than other people might have. In fact, Kinlafia had discovered that he always knew exactly where Alazon was, just as she knew where he was. That was one aspect of the bond which had leapt upon them so unexpectedly that had surprised them both.

Indeed, both of them were still just a bit bemused by its strength and depth, and he knew it was going to take a lot of getting used to.

Kinlafia had always envied his married friends for the strength of their marriage bond. The one between Jathmar and Shaylar had been particularly rich, as any Voice would have recognized. But he already knew the one between him and Alazon would be even deeper, even more richly textured, for both of them were Voices, and he felt a tiny stab of something that was almost guilt as he thought about his murdered friends. It seemed … wrong, somehow, that their deaths had brought him and Alazon together.

"I never met Shaylar or Jathmar, love," Alazon Said gently. "But I did See and Hear the message you relayed from her. You may not realize just how much side trace came along with it, from both of you.

Trust me. People you loved that much-and who loved you that much-would never begrudge us our happiness."

"I never said I was a particularly rational person," he Told her.

" No, I've noticed that about you. You do appear to do things rather … impulsively, don't you?"

"Only when it comes to falling in love with beautiful women."

He Heard her mental gurgle of laughter and smiled. But then the smile vanished as she appeared at the top of the stair.

"My gods. You are beautiful."

She paused in midstride, her head coming up, and he saw the color rising to her cheeks.

"How did someone that nearsighted get approved for survey crew duty?"

"I'll have you know my vision is Perfect, My Lady," he replied as lightly as he could when his heart seemed to have soared into his throat.

She shook her head and continued down the stair to him, and he never even saw Ulantha Jastyr or the other four people with her.

Whatever idiot had set the rules for designing male apparel for Empress Wailyana, someone else had obviously been in charge of designing female fashions. Or perhaps the empress had simply kept lopping off heads until she got a designer she liked. However it had happened, Darcel Kinlafia, for one, wholeheartedly approved the result.

Alazon was gowned in a deep, rich green which perfectly complemented her midnight hair and duskyivory complexion. It was an off-the-shoulder design, which emphasized her upthrust bosom and drew attention to her shapely shoulders and long, slender neck. A beautiful emerald necklace, with matching earrings and bracelet, glittered in the sunlight, the floorlength skirt was light and flowing enough to swirl around her long, shapely legs whenever she moved, and the gown was cut to highlight her tiny waist.

Golden combs, set with more small emeralds, swept her hair back in a coiffure which managed to be simultaneously formal and yet gracefully natural, unlike most of the far more elaborate confections Kinlafia had already seen.

She reached the final step and crossed the marble Palace sidewalk to him, holding out both hands. He took them, and discovered that the high heels of her court shoes canceled the usual difference in their heights. He found himself gazing deep into her gray eyes … which, he realized, was a dangerous thing for him to be doing if they were going to keep to the parade's rigorously planned schedule.

"Your vision can't be anything remotely like perfect," she said, freeing one hand to reach up and touch him on the cheek. "Your appearance, on the other hand, is. Perfect, I mean."

"And you think I have problems with my eyes?" He shook his head, smiling. "And even if you think I

'clean up pretty,' you'd better be ready to give me some advice."

"What sort of advice?"

"Like telling me how in all the Arpathian hells I walk with this thing!" He indicated the long, thin rapier sheathed at his side. "I've already tangled myself up in it at least two dozen times, stabbed a hole in the upholstery, eviscerated a couch pillow, and sent two underfootmen to the infirmary."

"You didn't!" she laughed, eyes dancing.

"Well, I'm not sure about the underfootmen," he conceded. "They might have hobbled off to heal on their own somewhere. But there are feathers all over my apartment, if you don't believe I've heroically slain that dastardly pillow."

He smiled back at her, then shook his head.

"Seriously. How do people manage these things?"

"Oh, Darcel, you poor man. We don't have time for deportment lessons. Let me see … oh, dear.

Hmmmm … All right, when you walk, you have to keep your left arm sort of clamped, like this."

She touched his wrist to move his arm into position, and a pleasant tingle seemed to radiate from her fingers. One which both of them resolutely ignored … for the moment.

"There. You keep this arm cocked, and that contains the capelets … unless the wind gets up, at least."

She smiled and reached up to twitch the multiple layers of silk into order. "Then this piece goes like so, over this shoulder." She adjusted the richly embroidered sword sling over his left shoulder. "That helps with the capelets, too, and lets you tuck the sword hilt under this chain and keep it out of the way. You'll just have to pay attention to where the end of the scabbard is behind you, I'm afraid."

"Lovely. I'll probably rap an empress or a duke or president across the knees. Better yet, I'll get it tangled between their ankles and send them sprawling. That should be an impressive start to this new political career of mine!"

She spluttered with laughter again, then shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Darcel. I don't mean to laugh at you. I mean, I do, but-" She shook her head again. "It's just that most of the courtiers positively preen on occasions like this. They can't wait to get into fancy costume and show it off. And Earl Ilforth makes preening in his finery a permanent pastime. That's why it's so refreshing to find someone who actually hates court dress as much as I do."

His eyes widened.

"Why in the multiverse would you hate wearing a gown that makes you look like a goddess?" he demanded, and her entire face flamed at his simple sincerity. Then she surprised him with a tart rejoinder.

"Because it weighs about sixty pounds, the corset is made of steel, these stiletto-heeled shoes pinch my feet and make my calves scream, and the trailing skirts and these ridiculous, yard-long sleeves tend to snag on things-like other people's swords, three thousand year-old statuary, and the occasional rosebush."

"Oh." It was his turn to laugh. "Oh, dear. How are we going to get through the day in these things?"