Read Online Banner of the Damned by Sherwood Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sherwood Smith
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time when the most formal contracts are traditionally made, Senior Scribes Halimas and Noliske each took hold of the shoulder of a new cloud blue overrobe and brought it to me. I slid my hands into the tulip sleeves with their cunning inner pockets, the open front placket falling over my white linen robe.
I was a scribe.
We celebrated by sharing the gold-edged cups of the complex golden wine called honeyflower. A perfect blossom floated in each cup—the highest accolade. The very best dainties, such as paper-thin carrot slices folded into the center of breads formed in the shape of a lily, were so light and delicate they melted in your mouth.
Then we rose, and for the first time I exchanged The Peace greeting as equals with my new colleagues.
Then, with the complex flavor of honeyflower still on my tongue, and my blood feeling as if it had been replaced by water (especially in myknees) I made my first scribe journey to the princess’s suite. I knew I must arrive at the Hour of Spice, but I was so familiar with the palace and how long it took to get anywhere, I was not particularly anxious.
The royal wing lay behind the main building, separated by Alian’s Garden. The lower floor comprised the chambers used by the royal family for personal entertainments. The main building was not only for state events; the outer rooms could be utilized by courtiers who wished to host a public entertainment—the definition of “public” varying, because all of these were by invitation.
The simplest way to explain is that there were generally understood degrees of privacy and exclusivity. Where you chose to hold an event was a communication equally important as its guest list.
The royal wing, the most exclusive part of the palace, was to be my home. The royal family lived on the second story, and Princess Lasthavais had the entire western suite of rooms as her own, overlooking the Rose Walk, down which I had run to my Fifteen test. Beyond that path flowed the Canal of Silver Reeds, a tributary of the River Ym. The princess’s quarters were the most private, their serene view unimpeded by stables, servants, or petitioners.
The back and east side belonged to the queen and her unofficial consort, Lord Davaud, cousin to the Baron of Estan. The queen was an early riser, and she liked looking out over the outlying portions of the palace complex before she went to work in the mornings.
I crossed Alian’s Garden for the first time and entered the rose marble foyer of the royal wing, slowing so that I might reach the stairs when the bells began to ring the Hour of Spice. As the first note rang, thrilling me, echoing rapidly from wall to vault, I raced up the stairs then turned to the left as the last echoes died away.
A twelve-year-old page popped up from her bench, laid aside her stitch-work, glanced at my new cloud blue overrobe, and clapped her hands together in salute. “Scribe Emras?”
Scribe Emras! Oh the glory of an earned title!
I signed assent.
“I am to bring you to Seneschal Marnda. Please come this way,” she said, her enunciation formal, her gesture correct but too new to be natural.
I had memorized the names and positions of the princess’s staff, of course. Seneschal Marnda had once been first handmaid to the old queen.
The little page carefully opened the door carved with trumped vines and butterflies, and we entered a cool hallway with open arches leadingto a circle of rooms. The air smelled deliciously of fresh caffeo, which I was to discover was the princess’s favorite drink. The biggest room lay directly across from the carved door; blond wood and pale gold silk hangings made the most of the indirect light.
Though the tall, slender seneschal was the same age as the queen, her hair was still dark, her large, sunken eyes
sunrise
, that is, paler than her skin—like the princess’s. Only where the princess had inherited her great-grandmother’s remarkable blue eyes, Marnda’s were a subtle
I was a scribe.
We celebrated by sharing the gold-edged cups of the complex golden wine called honeyflower. A perfect blossom floated in each cup—the highest accolade. The very best dainties, such as paper-thin carrot slices folded into the center of breads formed in the shape of a lily, were so light and delicate they melted in your mouth.
Then we rose, and for the first time I exchanged The Peace greeting as equals with my new colleagues.
Then, with the complex flavor of honeyflower still on my tongue, and my blood feeling as if it had been replaced by water (especially in myknees) I made my first scribe journey to the princess’s suite. I knew I must arrive at the Hour of Spice, but I was so familiar with the palace and how long it took to get anywhere, I was not particularly anxious.
The royal wing lay behind the main building, separated by Alian’s Garden. The lower floor comprised the chambers used by the royal family for personal entertainments. The main building was not only for state events; the outer rooms could be utilized by courtiers who wished to host a public entertainment—the definition of “public” varying, because all of these were by invitation.
The simplest way to explain is that there were generally understood degrees of privacy and exclusivity. Where you chose to hold an event was a communication equally important as its guest list.
The royal wing, the most exclusive part of the palace, was to be my home. The royal family lived on the second story, and Princess Lasthavais had the entire western suite of rooms as her own, overlooking the Rose Walk, down which I had run to my Fifteen test. Beyond that path flowed the Canal of Silver Reeds, a tributary of the River Ym. The princess’s quarters were the most private, their serene view unimpeded by stables, servants, or petitioners.
The back and east side belonged to the queen and her unofficial consort, Lord Davaud, cousin to the Baron of Estan. The queen was an early riser, and she liked looking out over the outlying portions of the palace complex before she went to work in the mornings.
I crossed Alian’s Garden for the first time and entered the rose marble foyer of the royal wing, slowing so that I might reach the stairs when the bells began to ring the Hour of Spice. As the first note rang, thrilling me, echoing rapidly from wall to vault, I raced up the stairs then turned to the left as the last echoes died away.
A twelve-year-old page popped up from her bench, laid aside her stitch-work, glanced at my new cloud blue overrobe, and clapped her hands together in salute. “Scribe Emras?”
Scribe Emras! Oh the glory of an earned title!
I signed assent.
“I am to bring you to Seneschal Marnda. Please come this way,” she said, her enunciation formal, her gesture correct but too new to be natural.
I had memorized the names and positions of the princess’s staff, of course. Seneschal Marnda had once been first handmaid to the old queen.
The little page carefully opened the door carved with trumped vines and butterflies, and we entered a cool hallway with open arches leadingto a circle of rooms. The air smelled deliciously of fresh caffeo, which I was to discover was the princess’s favorite drink. The biggest room lay directly across from the carved door; blond wood and pale gold silk hangings made the most of the indirect light.
Though the tall, slender seneschal was the same age as the queen, her hair was still dark, her large, sunken eyes
sunrise
, that is, paler than her skin—like the princess’s. Only where the princess had inherited her great-grandmother’s remarkable blue eyes, Marnda’s were a subtle
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