Delia of Vallia Page 9

  “And Strombor—”

  “I have some ling furs there, soft and long and silky white, that are tatty now and need attention. I would not like to see those white ling furs stolen.”

  “Possessions are chained weights about our characters.”

  “You quote and it is true. But sometimes I know I have changed from the girl who accepted everything the SoR taught.”

  “I believe it, to my sorrow.”

  “If you remain true to me, I shall remain true to you.”

  “Never think otherwise.”

  Delia sipped her wine. “Then take from me the gift you and others are so eager to press upon me.” She lifted her left hand, still tingling from that reflexive massage, and waved. “And here comes Wilma so I suppose she will call the Conclave now.”

  With the inevitability of their natures there ensued a certain amount of jockeying for positions as the women entered the Conclave Chamber, a certain amount of giggling and stern rejoinders, of quick whispers, and of meaningful glances. The majority maintained a dignified mien. They had work to do and they meant to do it and have done with it.

  Thinking back uneasily to those last few exchanges with the pro-marshal at the bar, Delia wished, now, that she had not made so obvious a point about the “remaining true” business. If you had to keep on proclaiming undying friendship then one might suspect that the friendship was in need of continual sustenance. She had made many friends in the outside world and her husband’s blade comrades were her blade comrades. Every now and again some little vow, some small indication of the depths of feelings that existed between them might be in order.

  Taking her seat in the comfortable but plainly furnished chamber, Delia rubbed her wrist and waggled the fingers up and down. No doubt about it. She was out of practice. The knack of using the Claw was taught at Lancival at an early age and the skill multiplied over the years of continual practice. This applied to most other weapons, of course — most, not all.

  Some twenty women gathered in the Conclave Chamber. Those who had made their marks with Delia on her arrival, the various officers of the Order, and short-sighted Nandi ti Rondasmot who wrote down an account of what was said, they sat to their task each in her own individual fashion. Most took the duty seriously; some were conscious of their superiority; some wanted to have the thing over and done with and others wished to go on talking all night.

  Rosala, with two novices there to help her unobtrusively, gave her report on the mistress. No change.

  “Thank you, Rosala. We are all grateful for your devoted care of the mistress. Now you may leave.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “And,” added the Lady Almoner, “make sure you get a good night’s rest, Rosala!”

  A number of items on the agenda demanded attention. Of all the women there, Delia fancied that she alone experienced this unwelcome sense of distancing. Of course, what they did here and what was decided was of vital importance. The Sisters of the Rose wielded power. But, all the same, Delia was overwhelmingly conscious of her responsibilities in the outer world.

  Natilma na Stafoing in her robust way was saying: “And so we must deal with these Sisters of the Whip. Deal with them harshly as they deserve.”

  Lansi ti High Ochrun pushed her copper hair back from her forehead. Softly, she said, “We refer to these Whip women freely and openly, here in Conclave and in Lancival. Might not it be wiser to treat them in the same way we treat that other Order, whose name we do not use openly?”

  Everyone knew which Order Lansi referred to.

  A number of sororities possessed names beginning with S: Samphron, the Sword, Silence, Sensibility, so that their abbreviations took notice of this fact. The Order to which Lansi referred considered themselves a cut above the rest. The old antagonism remained, ridiculous though it was, like two bitches fighting over the same bone in a dusty village street. The rivalries between male Orders were, often, of the same intensity.

  This rival sorority had chosen to saddle itself with the title of The Grand Ladies Order of Gratitude. Out of disrespect and mirth, the SoR sometimes called this other Order the Grand Ladies. They were, of course, well aware that the GLOG meant that the Order, not the Ladies, were Grand. The GLOG habitually wore green leathers, were stronger in the north of the country — although that in normal times had no significance — and had done good work for the poor and sick, and had fought against the invaders of Vallia. They maintained what was probably a stronger force of Battle Maidens, Jikai Vuvushis, than the Sisters of the Rose. They did not use the Claw but were cunning with the Whip.

  Delia’s eyes closed. She opened them with a jolt of surprise. The women talked on around her. More than one sister had suggested that they referred to the GLOG euphemistically as the other Order because they were frightened of them and their influence. If you don’t say his name the bogey can’t get you.

  In her clear voice, she said: “Let us treat the Sisters of the Whip as just another Order. Are they then so fearsome?”

  As she listened to the various answers, reasoned, hot-tempered, cautious, her eyelids dropped down.

  As a small girl learning about the Grand Ladies, she had said, “Who are they grateful to?” and had been surprised at the ladylike bellows of laughter from her tutors at the sally.

  Rose Mandeling had said, beaming, “Oh, they are grateful to Opaz, of course. But it is truer to say they are grateful for all their worldly possessions and positions.”

  Delia managed to open her eyes. The chamber swam in a blue haze. She was tired — and as a hairy graint of a clansman was in the habit of saying: “Tiredness is a sin.”

  Well, she was sinning like mad right now, and unable to do a single thing about it.

  Some items of the agenda were dealt with. Delia sat, exhausted, eyes closed most of the time, joining in when she could. Nothing was decided about the Sisters of the Whip, about the mistress, even about the new curtains for the refectory.

  When, at last, the Lady Almoner brought the meeting to a close, everyone felt restless with dissatisfaction. They recognized that, just at the moment, there was precious little they could decide. Some of the women had used great skill in steering any discussion away from consideration of just who was to be considered for nomination to the position of mistress.

  That suited Delia.

  She smiled and said the remberees, and trailed off to Velda’s Room. A thorough wash, an attention to the necessities of the toilet, an abstention from any further food or drink, and a swift and thrashing kind of onslaught on her hair, and she could fall into the narrow bed, think of all those she could not sleep without thinking of, and then drop down into nothingness.

  Chapter eight

  Delia Rides the Gale

  In the small cabin situated in the stern of the airboat Delia pulled down the top of her russet tunic over her breast. She tucked her chin in and squinted down. She had always had nice skin, smooth and unblemished, and now this — this monstrosity — squatted nastily on her chest like a furry grub. The patch was as big as her thumb. When she looked more closely she could see tiny yellow pimples peppering the angry red of the rash.

  She did not much care for rashes and she disliked pimples.

  The beastly spot did not hurt. It did not even sting. She could feel nothing even when, distastefully, she prodded it with a finger.

  The hateful thing just erupted on her skin, growing larger, sitting there like an obscene grub above her breast.

  The flap of the door covering quivered, and a beringed hand showed, about to pull the curtain aside.

  A voice bellowed: “Majestrix! I would crave a word with your puissance, your humble servant craves entrance.”

  Delia made a face.

  She slapped the tunic up and latched it and said in a small yet firm voice: “Come in, Lathdo.”

  The man who entered — he was apim with brown hair — bulked in the tiny cabin with its bench seat and folding table. He wore armor. He carried swords. He bore
the insignia of a Jiktar. He half-crouched under the cover and was clearly ill at ease.

  “Yes?”

  “A storm, majestrix. Since we quitted Delphond the weather has been kind. But Jordio swears he can smell the Riders of Notor Zan about to enfold us.”

  “We must descend, then, Lathdo. Is Mimi there?”

  “Your orders are to be obeyed without thought, majestrix.” He half turned his head, the tendons straining in his neck above the gilt rim of the corselet, and bellowed: “Mimi! Bratch!”

  Delia did not jump. She’d called in to Vondium to see if any letters were waiting for her, and had read all the mail and no letter from him at all, and taken the opportunity to re-equip with a fresh set of clothing and necessaries. No letter from Vomanus probably meant he was as cross with her as she was with him. Most of the urgency to reach Delka-Ob had now passed, of course, since the marriage had already taken place.

  She would have to go to see her half-brother and congratulate him and wish Nyleen well. She just hoped she would find her brother’s new wife amenable and nice, so she would not have to lie through smiling teeth.

  Drak was still prancing around in the southwest of Vallia; the country was still untidy in the view of a girl who had been brought up with the empire as a unit, the factions still plotted and the damned revolutionaries and secessionists still badgered away. The army was very thin in Vondium, what with the strong forces sent into Hamal, others into the north of the country and still others with Drak. The Lord Farris had insisted in his patient way that she must take a bodyguard and added: “Your news of flutsmen so active in Vindelka is worrying, majestrix.”

  “I suppose you are right. Both Yzobel and Sosie must be about their business.” She could not tell a man that they were off about business of the SoR; but that was patently clear. Farris, a loyal friend for as long as she could remember, was the Crebent Justicar for the emperor, and ran things when Drak was away.

  “Jiktar Lathdo the Eager has recently been promoted. He is zealous, and a good fighter. He will—”

  “Yes, yes, dear Farris. You are right. Mind you send word to me the instant you hear from the emperor.”

  “Have I ever failed you in that?”

  “I am sorry. No, never. Just that...”

  “And it was remiss of me to mention it.” Farris was of the quality of men of whom an emperor could never have enough. His loyalty to Delia personally was beyond question. The only serious trouble with the Lord Farris was that he was approaching old age.

  So she’d taken one of Farris’s small but encouragingly growing force of airboats and started off. She’d gone by a swing back through Delphond to make sure a little matter at Drakanium was in order, and then set course for Vindelka. With Jiktar Lathdo the Eager, the pilot, Jordio the Hawk, and Mimi the Smile, she’d taken off with the dismal hope that she would get through this quickly and fly back to Vondium to some good — some marvelous — news.

  When Mimi put her ringletted head into the tiny cabin Delia was in two minds whether or not to consult her about the rash on her chest. Probably it would go away soon. She would rub some ointment on tonight. That should do it.

  Mimi looked upset.

  “Very well, Mimi, my dear, I shall speak to the Jiktar.”

  “It is so — so — degrading!”

  “I agree.”

  The word bratch, which meant jump to it, although in no way as vicious as the infamous grak, addressed to slaves to make them hop about their work or be slashed by whips, was often heard in the ranks of the swods as the soldiers drilled. It was not, at least in Delia’s hearing, addressed to her people. Mimi, young, still under training, had been overjoyed to be plucked out of her humdrum routine in the palace in Vondium to be chosen as personal handmaid to the empress. It was a tremendous boost to her ego, a real start on her career, and, more than all that, of supreme bliss to be able to be with the Empress Delia of Vallia. Mimi believed this without coaching.

  “But,” said Mimi, with a little return to the smile that gave her her cognomen, “I do not want to make trouble.”

  “I shall, if that big froth-blower Lathdo does not learn to speak to you properly.”

  “Thank you—”

  “He is new to his position, you see. He has just been promoted ob-Jiktar from zan-Hikdar, and he is — well, he is Eager...”

  “Oh, yes, majestrix. Very Eager.”

  Delia wished that her two Djangs, Tandu and Dalki, had been in Vondium. She would have welcomed their support and protection. But they had both been sent up to Vindelka with a letter from the Lord Farris, in explanation and also instruction. The Djangs would find a snug berth in Vomanus’s bodyguard rather than riding patrol along the Ochre Limits.

  The flier shook as wind gusts rattled past.

  Mimi looked uncertain.

  This Jordio the Hawk is a good pilot, Mimi.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, majestrix.”

  “You are not afraid of fliers?”

  “Oh, no, majestrix.”

  Delia did not smile. “You have heard the old tales of how the airboats we bought from Hamal were always breaking down. Of course you have. But now we are friends with Hamal, we can buy proper vollers, and from Hyrklana, too.”

  “My mother told me.” Mimi moved to the topmost chest stacked along the side of the cabin and picked up a hairbrush. Delia saw that the girl wanted something to do. “Also, my mother would be amazed that the empress does not travel with a great retinue—”

  “When it is necessary, I do. We shall not be away long.”

  Delia submitted her hair to the brush. Mimi had a nice stroke, but Delia missed the delicate touch of Rosala or Floria. But Floria — who was just as brilliant and beautiful as Rosala — was off being married, at last, and Rosala had gone, too. Since Delia’s adventures in Hamal had taken her away from her handmaidens, she had not worried overmuch. And, now, poor Pansi was dead, along with Nath the Jokester, and she was going to have to train up this Mimi.

  As she lay back, letting the brush stroke through her hair, she reflected that Mimi was one of the girls greatly affected by the recent Time of Troubles. The bad days had muddled up girls’ education in far worse ways than boys, for a lad need only shoulder a spear and march off with the army to make a name and fortune for himself, if he did not get himself killed. For girls it was different, unless they were Jikai Vuvushis. Mimi came from the province of Forli and had not been educated by any of the sororities, at least, not to Delia’s knowledge. Her mother, a shrewd woman with ambition, had applied for a place for her daughter Mimi. She had backed her application with a letter from the Kov of Forli, Lykon Crimahan. He had once been at loggerheads with the emperor, and had proved himself if not a good friend at least a man prepared to set to and work for the new emperor and let bygones be bygones. That had tilted the scales in Mimi’s favor.

  A slender, meek girl, Mimi’s choice of career had been wisely chosen by her mother. At Mimi’s age, Delia had been stomping around in black leathers slashing with her Claw and foining with rapier and main gauche. That would not have been practicable for Mimi. She was set on a career, now, and ought to be successful. In pursuance of that, Delia decided, she’d probably let the Little Sisters of Opaz have Mimi for a spell, sharpen her up, teach her the tricks of the trade. All that would help Mimi’s prospects. So many girls applied and so few could be taken, Delia felt the burden upon herself. This, as with so many other aspects, was one of the abiding oppressions of being empress.

  Delia was a very proud woman; but she was not so foolishly proud as to believe that being handmaiden to an empress was the summit and achievement of a girl’s life.

  But, by Krun, it was a damned good start.

  The flier lurched again and then started a gentle descent. A consummate flier herself, Delia recognized the masterful handling. Jordio must be trying to avoid the worst of the blow by diving and attempting to find a layer of calmer air.

  The brush snagged in her hair.

  Delia w
inced.

  Mimi gasped.

  The brush began to stroke again, tentatively. Delia said nothing. She did not pride herself on her tolerance for not biting the girl’s head off. She was sorrowfully aware that by saying nothing, she punished the poor girl far more than a swift epithet and insult ever could do.

  The flier swung bodily sideways, was caught and held, and swept back onto course.

  Delia said: “That is enough, Mimi. Perhaps you would like to see about that hole in the hem of the turquoise gown? You discovered the hole, which was clever. And, be careful not to stick the needle in your finger. Jordio has his hands full.”

  “Yes, majestrix.”

  As she ducked out onto the deck, Delia reflected that it was as well that not yet, not quite yet, the gentle intimacy of handmaid and empress had been established between them. Mimi would learn the empress’s funny ways in time.

  The wind blew her thoughts away.

  Jordio, a wild shape in a flapping cloak, stood at the control levers like some phantom operator of a ghostly sky-mill. Lathdo clung to the rail at his side. Both men peered ahead, into the wildness. The sky pelted down at them, lowering, dark, massy with wind and clamor.

  Delia hauled herself along the rail until she stood with the men. They were startled to see her, as though an apparition from a Herrelldrin Hell had jumped up to drag them away.

  “Majestrix!” The rest was lost in the howl of the wind. Something to do with not being on deck and being in the cabin.

  She said nothing. She held on. Her lips opened and the wind rushed past. This was glorious!

  The flier leaped up and down like a crazed sliptinger, that beautiful salmon of Western Vallia, and Jordio met each leap and lunge and held her. Delia looked ahead and down. Were those lights below?

  She banged Lathdo on a bulky armored shoulder and pointed.

  He nodded.

  Jordio inched his controls carefully, and the flier, responding, lunged down and kept at the angle, sweeping in through the gusts. The lights grew firmer. Wind struck into her face as a force, tearing, liberating. But however much she might exult in fronting the elements, those same elemental forces could take the flier and twist her end over end and shred her and cast her down as a mass of tumbled wreckage onto the ground below.