Дэйв Дункан - Magic Casement

“Definitely I’m not a fiend,” he repeated. “I’m a wandering minstrel, so I suppose I’m either a to or a froe. Yes, I must be a froe.”

“What’s your name, minstrel?” Rap demanded hoarsely.

“My name is Jalon.” But the stranger’s attention had wandered to Inos. He bowed. “And I know who this is. Your humble servant, Highness.”

He had big blue eyes, with a dreamy air that she found quite appealing. On impulse, she held out her hand. He took it in his long minstrel’s fingers and kissed it.

“I saw you when you were very small, Highness.” He had a charming smile. “I knew then that one day you would amaze the world with your beauty. But I see that I underestimated it.”

He was a very nice young man.

“If you’re a minstrel, why haven’t you got a harp?” Rap was still holding his pike at the challenge position.

“How long did you see me?” Inos asked. He could not be so very many years older than she was. She could not recall any minstrel so young. Perhaps he had been an apprentice accompanying his master.

He smiled vaguely at her and turned to Rap. “Harps are heavy.” He pulled a pipe from a pocket in his cloak and played a trill.

“Do you sing, too?” Rap was still suspicious.

“Not at the same time,” Jalon said solemnly.

This time the snigger escaped completely, and Rap shot Inos a murderous glare from the corner of his eye.

Jalon did not seem very worried by the pike. “But I do play the harp and there used to be a good one on the mantel in the hall, so I can borrow that again, I’m sure.” He did not seem as if he would be very worried by anything at all—and there certainly was a harp on the mantel.

“Wait here!” Rap put his pike over his shoulder rather clumsily and swung around, stamping his boots and apparently headed for the guard room.

That would not do at all! Inos did not want Sergeant Thosolin, and perhaps others, coming out and seeing her wandering unaccompanied, carrying home her own purchases. “Rap? Should you go off and leave me helpless with this dangerous stranger?”

Rap stopped and spun around, almost grinding his teeth.

“And the castle!” she exclaimed. “What if a troll comes, or a griffon? And you’re not here to guard us!”

“You come with me, then!” He was quite furious now.

“No!” Inos said. “I think you should take Master Jalon to the guard room with you if you think he is dangerous. You are welcome in my father’s house, minstrel.” That sounded very gracious and regal.

The stranger smiled and bowed to her again. He strolled toward the guard room with Rap. Inos lingered for a moment, then slipped through the archway, unobserved and very satisfied.

Like the town itself, the castle was all up and down, and she was soon puffing again as she hurried up the endless steps toward her chamber. Halfway there she met old Kondoral, the seneschal, picking his way carefully down an especially dark staircase. He was small and stooped and white-haired, with gray, withered skin and eyes so rheumy that she did not like to look at them… but quite a pleasant old relic when he did not talk your ears numb. His memory for recent events was failing. He repeated the same stories endlessly, yet he could remember the remote past quite well.

“Good day to you, Master Kondoral,” she said, stopping.

He peered down at her for a moment, clutching the rail. “And to you, Highness.” He sounded surprised, as if he had expected someone much younger.

“Do you know a minstrel called Jalon?” Inos was still bothered by her inability to recall that polite young man. Minstrels came but rarely to remote Krasnegar.

“Jalon?” Kondoral frowned and pulled his lip. “Why, yes, my lady! A very fine troubadour.” The old man beamed. “Is he come here again?”

“He is,” she said crossly. “I don’t remember him.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t.” The old man shook his head. “Dear me, no. It has been many years! But that is good news. We shall hear some fine singing from Master Jalon if his voice has not lost its thrill. I remember how he brought tears to all our eyes when he sang 'The Maiden and the Dragon'—”

“He doesn’t look very old,” she said quickly. “Not much older than me.” Well, not very much.

Kondoral shook his head again, looking doubtful. “I can recall hearing tell of him when I was young myself, my lady. This must be a son, then, or grandson?”

“Perhaps!” she said, and dodged quickly by, before he could start reminiscing.

Several staircases later she reached her summer chamber, at the top of one of the shorter spires. She had taken it over the previous year and loved it, although it was much too cold to use in winter. It was circular and bright, with walls so low so that the high conical ceiling swooped almost to the floor. There were four pointed dormer windows and from here she could look down on all of Krasnegar. She laid her precious packet of silk on the bed and started pulling off her riding clothes and dropping them on the rug.

To the north lay the Winter Ocean, sparkling blue now and smiling under the caress of summer. The swell broke lazily over the reefs, showing hardly any white at all, and seabirds swooped. To the west stood the castle’s towers and yards, roofs and terraces, a thicket of black masonry. Southward she could see the town, falling away steeply to the harbor. Beyond that lay the beach and then the hills, rounded and grassy. Those hills were certainly part of her father’s demesne. He also claimed the moors that lay beyond the horizon, although she had seen those only rarely, when she had gone hunting with her parents.

Stripped to her linen, Inos grabbed up the silk and attempted to drape it over herself as Mistress Meolorne had done for her. She did not succeed very well, but the effect was still spectacular.

Never had she seen such a fabric. She had not known that threads could be so fine, so soft, so cunningly woven; nor that it was possible to make such pictures with a loom. Gold and green and bronze—the colors shone even brighter in her room than they had in the dingy little store.

And there was so much of it! She tried arranging a train and almost fell over, making the golden dragons writhe. Originally it must have come from distant Guwush, on the shores of the Spring Sea, Meolorne had said—a great rarity in these parts. She had bought it many years ago from a jotunn sailor, who had probably looted it in a trifling act of piracy. Or perhaps it had come over the great trade routes and been pillaged from some unfortunate city. But it was old and very splendid and obviously destined to display the royal beauty of the Princess Inosolan of Krasnegar.

Three and a half imperials!

Inos sighed to the mirror. Her father must be made to understand. Suicide was the only possible alternative.

But why had she promised that the money would be sent that very day? She should have left herself more time for strategy.

Yet a gown fashioned from this glory would be worn only on special occasions, so it would last for years. She had stopped growing taller, so she would not grow out of it. She still had to grow more in other directions—she certainly hoped she had more to grow in other directions—but that could be handled with a little discreet padding that could be removed when it was no longer required. She wondered how much padding Aunt Kade would allow.

Well, there was nothing to be gained by standing in front of the mirror. She must talk to her father. She began to fold the silk again, while pondering what to wear for the interview. Probably her dowdy brown worsted, too small now and patched. That would do very well.

It took Inos some time to locate her father, but she was eventually informed that he was in the royal bedchamber, which was astonishing news at that time of day. It also meant more stairs, but anywhere meant more stairs in Krasnegar.