They all sat there staring at him, dumbfounded, then looked from Ivar to each other, and back again.
“What star were you born under?” Ponu managed. “Because you must be the luckiest son of a bitch in the Empire.”
“I’ve been told that before,” said Ivar modestly.
Jonaton had been quiet but suddenly asked, “What kinds of boats?”
“Pointy,” Ivar snickered. “Now. As I recall, we were promised a baron of beef, a barrel of beer, and one of Sai’s cakes that is so special he only bakes it once every three years. So.”
He grinned up at all of them.
“That’ll be Bay fed. What will I eat?”
9
“Will this do, milord Duke?” whispered Star, gesturing at the shockingly extensive wardrobe laid out on the bed.
Kordas ignored that question for the moment. “How in the name of gods great and small did you do all this so quickly?” he asked. This was literally twice as much clothing as he had brought with him. It was not a “rainbow” of clothing, either; it was, as he had asked for, conservative. The linen shirts were all white. The breeches were all shades of gray. The waistcoats were all shades of matching grays. The coats were all shades of blue-gray. “Do you do this for every visitor?”
“There are many of us, and we do not tire,” Star replied. “And . . . no. No, we do not. We create individual garments, not entire wardrobes, and only when requested. But you are different.”
He licked his lips, and rubbed the back of his neck under his hair. He didn’t have to ask how he was different, not after that answer he’d gotten from Star about how he was permitted to treat the Dolls who had been assigned to him. Of course he was different. He might be the only person in the Palace who didn’t either abuse them or treat them as moving furniture.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely, “and I am very much in your debt. This is all wonderful, and exactly what I described.”
It was. The clothing was better by far than what he’d brought from home, but in a subtle fashion. There were no signs of wear, and it was obviously new. His own clothing, if you looked at it closely enough and knew what you were looking for, showed that it had been taken apart and “turned”—the inside turned to become the outside—so that the original wear and tear was disguised. The fabrics these pieces were made from were much finer. He didn’t know enough about fabric to understand how, but the difference was definitely there; the coats and waistcoats were slightly heavier and softer; the shirts were of a whiteness he’d never seen in linen before and of so fine a weave he could scarcely make out the threads, and the lace on the sleeves and ruffs was less coarse than the lace on the shirts he’d brought from Valdemar, which was made by a lovely lady in the manor-village. The gray-colored knee-breeches (not trews, he noted with regret) were exceptionally close-fitting and had a velvety texture like glove leather. They might have been glove leather. The colors were muted and harmonious. The two pairs of knee-length boots, one black, one blue-gray, fit his calves like a second skin without being uncomfortable, and were so polished he fancied he could see his own reflection.
He still couldn’t imagine how the Dolls had managed to produce three coats, six waistcoats, a dozen shirts and as many sets of underclothing, and two pairs of boots in less than an afternoon.
Unless—maybe—they had things like this cut out to a general size and pattern, and could tailor them up quickly.
Still.
That means these Dolls have creative intelligence. They can judge styles, sizes, and who knows what else?
“Are you truly pleased?” Star whispered. He thought he caught an edge of anxiety in her tone.
Her? Am I thinking of this Doll as a female because it is being subservient? Is the Empire’s poison in me again so quickly? Or is it that—yes, the Dolls all move like little girls are trained to move. That must be why I thought “her.”
“I am more than pleased. I am completely astonished. Now that I see this work, I realize I would have looked like—” He fumbled for a comparison the Doll might understand. He rather doubted Star would know what a “scarecrow” was. “—like I’d been dressed in cast-offs. And that would not do, would it? Not even for a country bumpkin from the furthest reaches of the Empire.”
Star bowed its head slightly. “No, milord Duke. Not if you wished to have any amount of respect.” It paused. “This one is aware that milord Duke wishes to appear unsophisticated and free to be dismissed in the Great Game, but this is a fine line to walk. Milord Duke must have some respect.”
Kordas felt his jaw sagging, as he heard what were almost his own thoughts being echoed back at him from the Doll’s—well, it didn’t have a mouth, but it did have a voice.
“The ones below who know the language of clothing have chosen a path for you that this one hopes will serve. Your clothing is fitted exactly, and designed to display the physique of a very physical man. One who is not lightly trifled with, lest he lash out physically in anger.” The Doll gestured at the garments on the bed. “Slightly out of fashion. No ornamentation of the outer garments. Lace is linen thread, not gold or silver. You do not display wealth upon your person. But this only signifies that you feel no need to. This should, if the ones below are correct, engender conflicting feelings. The first, that you are, as you say, a bumpkin to not understand that clothing makes the man. But the second, an uneasy feeling that perhaps the Duke is so confident he feels no need for display. And if you are that confident . . . what is your reason for feeling such confidence? Is it misplaced confidence? Or do you have power that is not apparent?”
He forced his mouth to close. “I think you might be the very first being I have ever met that understands the—the Fourth Game,” he said.
He used that term to see if Star really did understand it. And Star did not disappoint.
“We call it the Great Game. The Game of Power,” Star agreed. “We who are unregarded and unobserved have been observing this Game since we were bound to serve.”
Well, that particular turn of phrase caught his attention. But he wasn’t given the chance to ask about it, because at just that moment, all the mage-lights in the bedroom dimmed and turned to a soft blue, and a three-note chime rang across the room.
“Milord Duke, that is the signal that it is time to dress for dinner. This one fears that, although you are accustomed to dress and undress yourself, the close fit of these new garments will require that this one assist you.”
“Botheration,” he muttered, and sighed. “Will the Emperor be at this dinner?” If his memories were correct, the answer should be no. When he’d last been here, the Emperor only attended Court meals that were “occasions,” preferring to keep his physical presence as a sort of reward—and an opportunity for his courtiers to display their loyalty. He rather doubted that his presence tonight was an “occasion.” The arrival of the tribute-horses had never been any sort of event before, and it didn’t make sense that it suddenly would be now.