“Oh no, milord Duke!” Star said with what sounded like a shocked gasp. “That would never do! There is a storage chamber behind the middle door of the common room. That is where we are, until needed.”
He wasn’t entirely sure that was any better, but . . . “Are you all right there?”
“It is where we belong,” Rose said simply. “Clothing belongs in a wardrobe. Dolls belong in a storage chamber.”
Ugh. But . . . all right.
“Well, now what are we supposed to do, Star?” he asked. “Is there somewhere we are supposed to be? Some function we are supposed to attend?”
Long silence. Finally Star spoke. “If . . . this one . . . may presume?”
“Presume away,” he replied, preferring this to utter servility.
“Milord Duke’s wardrobe is . . . inadequate by Court standards. This one could, if the Duke wishes, draw a bath, take the Duke’s measurements, and order luncheon to be brought up, and an adequate wardrobe will be delivered before the Court meets at dinner?”
He ran his hands through his hair and puffed out his cheeks, thinking this over. On the one hand, he didn’t want to be completely embarrassed, and if the Doll had noticed that his clothing was “inadequate,” then he might be the equivalent of a stablehand at a High Feast. Ludicrous. Maybe dangerously so, because the one thing he did not want to do was leave the impression that he was to be treated like trash.
Not good.
“Can I ask for modifications to that idea?” he said, finally.
“As you will,” all three of them said at once.
“An adequate but simplified wardrobe,” he stated. “Cut ornamentation to a bare minimum. Absolutely nothing that stands out. Austere, if you understand. Very conservative.”
The three of them then turned to face each other in a little huddle, and stood there in long silence for a very long time.
“Milord, what are they doing?” Beltran asked. The lad didn’t seem to be as nervous now, a fact that spoke well of him.
“Conferring with each other, I suppose?” he hazarded, just as Clover turned back to face them.
“This can be done,” the Doll stated. “And it can be done for the Duke’s companion—”
“Beltran,” the lad said firmly. “Call me Beltran. I’m the Duke’s Herald and acting secretary.”
“Ah!” Rose exclaimed. “Yes, this can be done for Beltran, now that we know your rank.”
“A conservative wardrobe will be even easier to fabricate,” said Star. “We will have it after luncheon.”
“Then let this be done,” he said, and felt some tension draining out of him. “Just one thing. Boots, not shoes.”
“As you will,” said Clover . . . with just a faint hint of disapproval.
He smiled. “Now about that bath—”
“If the Duke will come to the chamber—”
“And the Duke will undress himself, if you please,” he said firmly.
Was there a hint of a sigh?
“As you will,” said Star.
* * *
—
The best way to keep one’s mind off troubles, at least in Delia’s experience, was to work. And since Jonaton and the Six needed her to “anchor” them while they made that temporary Gate for Ivar, as soon as Kordas and the tribute-train had gone through the Gate to the Capital, the subterranean workroom was where she took herself.
All seven of them were already there, muttering and disagreeing and then agreeing again, and doing things with herbs and stones and bits of string and candles and chalk that all made no sense whatsoever to her.
“Is Isla going to help?” she asked, once there was a lull in the proceedings.
“Isla? No, we don’t need Isla, and she has things of her own to do,” Jonaton said absently. But then he looked up and really saw her, and beckoned to her. “Sit here,” he ordered, pointing to a stool that was behind the pair of stone “horns.” She saw now that he had moved them farther apart. “She needs to make sure none of the cats gets down here. Herding cats is enough of a job for ten people, but Isla is an army unto herself. Ivar should be here any moment.”
And just as he said that, Ivar did appear, from a different entrance than Delia had come by. His unruly blond hair was confined by a practical sweatband, and he was burdened with a pack and a belt festooned with weapons. There was a crossbow and a quiver of bolts, a good long knife, an axe, a sling, and a bag of shot, and perched on the top of his pack was a helmet.
He himself wore a good set of leather armor: tunic, bracers, and upper arm pieces, a gorget, and a pair of the stoutest boots Delia had ever seen in her life. His great black mastiff Bay was at his side, looking solemn and business-like, right up until Ponu exclaimed, “Doggo!” and Bay’s tail wagged. Sai confirmed, “That’s a fine big pupper, that is.”
Jonaton glanced over and asked, “He didn’t go after the cats, did he?”
Ivar patted Bay on the side with firm thumps. “Didn’t need to. They fled at first sight.”
“What a good boy,” Ponu declared, despite a glare from Jonaton.
Dole looked Ivar over skeptically. “No sword?” he asked.
“Swords are good against humans, not so much against animals. Not that we’ll actually fight unless we have no choice,” Ivar replied easily. “If we run into anything like that bear, Bay will harry it on one side while I plink at it on the other, with the idea of making it run away. I’m not there to do anything more than look for your body of water. Not even long enough to need my horse. Besides, the horse won’t fit through this Gate.”
“Well said,” Ponu agreed. “You’re smarter than you look.”
“If I wasn’t, I’d also be deader than I look,” Ivar laughed.
Delia had to smile a little. Ivar really was smart.
“All right, then, let’s make this thing happen!” said Sai. It seemed to Delia that despite his eager tone, he was covering up a lot of anxiety. She was pretty sure she was right when she noticed that, as he lined up two sets of six large crystals with each of the two stone horns, his hands shook a little.
He looked up, caught her staring, and schooled his expression into something other than tense. “Curious, kitten?” he asked, his tone far too jocular. “A Gate has to be powered by something, and we don’t want to alert anyone in the Capital by pulling on the energies that power that Gate down by the village. So we’ve been making these storage crystals for as long as the Plan has been in existence. Twelve is probably too many—”