London, or far out of date; Hethor had no way to know which. The gentlemen of the court wore silk brocade coats in the colors of brilliant tropical flowers opened over ruffled shirts and wide sashes, while flared pants dropped to high, polished boots of exotic leathers.
The West Indian had not come with him, instead tugging the closet door shut after shoving Hethor into the hall. Hethor perforce followed the flow of peacock men into a larger room, two stories high, lined with classic white columns. Incense burned, assaulting his nostrils, presumably there to cover other, baser scents. One side of the roomâthe south?âhad tall windows cranked open, the panes set with colored glass. Multichromatic freckles
of filtered morning light stretched at a steep angle across the room from them. The opposing side sported alcoves reflecting the shapes of the windows, each populated with statuary.
Hethor wondered if some of Phelpsâ Specials lurked behind the statues.
Except for all the finery and the colored glass, the room seemed a large version of any New England town meeting hall or church. There were some other small differencesâchairs instead of pews, no lectern at the dais at the far endâbut this room was New England as Hethor knew his home, conforming to deep tradition and the inertia of place.
Despite the sense of familiarity, he had no idea where to go. The gentlemen of the court swirled in an intricate pavane known only to them, finding seats arranged by some sympathetic magic of status and rank and function. Hethor was suddenly left standing alone on the worn red carpet between the two arrays of chairs. No one ever bothered to glance at him. This was more disconcerting than if everyone had been staring.
Hethor looked at the head of the room, where four more soldiers in gray New England uniforms stood at the back wall with carbines in their hands. They were in turn flanked, two to a side, by British regulars in lobster-red coats over dark green wool. Which must be hotter than blazes in this well-warmed room, he realized.
Phelps walked onto the dais from a side door. The little man was dressed in a rainbow of silkâpink, blue, chartreuse, and half a dozen more colors besidesâpunctuated by fountains of lace, and an enormous matching hat. The effect made him look like a gamecock dyed for Easter, communicating an absolute lack of dignity.
âThe Honorable Lieutenant-General Lord Devon de Courtenay,â Phelps bawled in a voice that would have served him well in music hall comedy, âKnight Grand Cross of Saint Michael and Saint George, Order of the Wabash, by appointment of Her Imperial Majesty Queen
Victoria now Viceroy of New England and the American Possessions, Protector of Canada and Warden of the Western Frontiers, sitting en banc to hear the prayers and appeals of Her Imperial Majestyâs people.â
All the peacock gentlemen stood in a rustle of silk and a cough of rheumy lungs as a man in a simple white uniform strode in behind Phelps. A red-and-blue star hung on a ribbon, while his chest was crossed with an enormous vermilion sash. A worn silver sword dangled over glossy polished cavalry boots. His unadorned appearance made every other gentleman of the court a pompous liar by their very dress.
Everyone but Hethor, who began to wish mightily he had taken Phelpsâ other choice and allowed himself to be pomaded into anonymity.
The viceroy took his place on a mahogany chair that was so simple as to be a shouted understatement. As one, the peacock gentlemen sat with another rustle and cough, leaving Hethor once more standing like a muddy stick in a field of roses.
Turning a bright smile on Hethor, the viceroy narrowed his eyes as another man, taller than any in the room, with ice-blue eyes and red-brown hair over features similar enough to place him kin to Phelps, slipped in at the back of the dais. Hethor realized that this must be the sorcerer William of Ghent. The
The West Indian had not come with him, instead tugging the closet door shut after shoving Hethor into the hall. Hethor perforce followed the flow of peacock men into a larger room, two stories high, lined with classic white columns. Incense burned, assaulting his nostrils, presumably there to cover other, baser scents. One side of the roomâthe south?âhad tall windows cranked open, the panes set with colored glass. Multichromatic freckles
of filtered morning light stretched at a steep angle across the room from them. The opposing side sported alcoves reflecting the shapes of the windows, each populated with statuary.
Hethor wondered if some of Phelpsâ Specials lurked behind the statues.
Except for all the finery and the colored glass, the room seemed a large version of any New England town meeting hall or church. There were some other small differencesâchairs instead of pews, no lectern at the dais at the far endâbut this room was New England as Hethor knew his home, conforming to deep tradition and the inertia of place.
Despite the sense of familiarity, he had no idea where to go. The gentlemen of the court swirled in an intricate pavane known only to them, finding seats arranged by some sympathetic magic of status and rank and function. Hethor was suddenly left standing alone on the worn red carpet between the two arrays of chairs. No one ever bothered to glance at him. This was more disconcerting than if everyone had been staring.
Hethor looked at the head of the room, where four more soldiers in gray New England uniforms stood at the back wall with carbines in their hands. They were in turn flanked, two to a side, by British regulars in lobster-red coats over dark green wool. Which must be hotter than blazes in this well-warmed room, he realized.
Phelps walked onto the dais from a side door. The little man was dressed in a rainbow of silkâpink, blue, chartreuse, and half a dozen more colors besidesâpunctuated by fountains of lace, and an enormous matching hat. The effect made him look like a gamecock dyed for Easter, communicating an absolute lack of dignity.
âThe Honorable Lieutenant-General Lord Devon de Courtenay,â Phelps bawled in a voice that would have served him well in music hall comedy, âKnight Grand Cross of Saint Michael and Saint George, Order of the Wabash, by appointment of Her Imperial Majesty Queen
Victoria now Viceroy of New England and the American Possessions, Protector of Canada and Warden of the Western Frontiers, sitting en banc to hear the prayers and appeals of Her Imperial Majestyâs people.â
All the peacock gentlemen stood in a rustle of silk and a cough of rheumy lungs as a man in a simple white uniform strode in behind Phelps. A red-and-blue star hung on a ribbon, while his chest was crossed with an enormous vermilion sash. A worn silver sword dangled over glossy polished cavalry boots. His unadorned appearance made every other gentleman of the court a pompous liar by their very dress.
Everyone but Hethor, who began to wish mightily he had taken Phelpsâ other choice and allowed himself to be pomaded into anonymity.
The viceroy took his place on a mahogany chair that was so simple as to be a shouted understatement. As one, the peacock gentlemen sat with another rustle and cough, leaving Hethor once more standing like a muddy stick in a field of roses.
Turning a bright smile on Hethor, the viceroy narrowed his eyes as another man, taller than any in the room, with ice-blue eyes and red-brown hair over features similar enough to place him kin to Phelps, slipped in at the back of the dais. Hethor realized that this must be the sorcerer William of Ghent. The
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