Star shook its head. “No,” it said. “Not this evening. Tonight you play the Great Game with your peers. One of us three will attend you as your servant. Your companion will dine here, unless you wish him to attend as well.”
That set him back a moment. “What are the advantages to him attending?” he asked.
“A set of eyes and ears that will be virtually invisible. He is merely your Herald and Secretary. No one will address him or take notice of him.”
“And disadvantages?” he persisted.
“That you might be weak enough to believe you need him with you. That you have some bonds of affection to him.”
Hmm. The second is an acute disadvantage for a first impression. Maybe later. “I’ll leave him here, then.”
“Good. This will give the ones below the time to make new garments for him as well.” The Doll gestured at the bed. “Please select garments, my lord Duke, and this one will assist you.”
He hadn’t actually believed that he was going to need assistance merely to get dressed, but the Doll had not exaggerated. The breeches, boots, and coat in particular were so closely fitted to his body that if they had not been cut in some fashion that allowed for a great deal of “give,” it would have been like being strapped up in tight bandages. And he’d have had to dislocate a shoulder to get into the coat.
He had to admit to preening a bit in front of the mirror, though, when he was dressed. He looked positively splendid.
And . . . yes, in the clothing he’d brought with him, he’d have looked . . . sloppy. The difference between these garments and the ones he’d brought was like the difference between the ones he’d brought and the ones he’d helped birth the foal wearing.
He paused when the Doll held up the baldric, sword, and Spitter, though, with its beautifully made Valdemar badge.
“Are those necessary?” he asked.
“They are symbols of rank, my Lord,” Star said patiently.
He sighed.
* * *
—
Somewhat to his surprise, the courtiers were not organized at dinner by rank. Instead, the places at the two long tables below the empty High Table were filled by no system he could determine at first glance. Across from him was a very young Prince, an unsmiling, slick-haired, saturnine lad no more than eighteen, dressed in cloth-of-gold, who simply introduced himself, nodded at Kordas’s introduction, and remained silent and observant for the rest of the meal, speaking only to the Doll standing behind him to accept or reject the dishes being offered to him. On his right was a smirking fop of a skinny Count, whose clothing was the very opposite of Kordas’s—gold braid ornamented every possible surface of his scarlet coat, with gold lace on his ruff and sleeves. He very clearly considered himself to be Kordas’s superior in every way, even before the first words were spoken. To his left was a wheezing, elderly Duke, whose silver-embroidered, green waistcoat strained to contain his belly, and whose matching coat could not possibly have been buttoned over it.
Kordas turned to the Duke first, as the initial dish of the first course, a clear broth, was served. After the Duke had nodded to his Doll to ladle the broth into the silver bowl before him, Kordas introduced himself.
“Eh? Valdemar, is it?” Duke Elnore took a moment to spoon up some of the broth, tasting it with delicate manners. Kordas was not surprised at the manners. These were drummed into every hostage’s head until they were second nature. “Horses, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, my lord Duke,” Kordas replied, as Count Declaine on his other side rolled his eyes at the Prince across from them. “The Sweetfoot line of palfreys, the Fleetfoot line of race horses, the Imperial Chargers for the Imperial knights, and the Valdemar Golds.” He didn’t mention the Tow-Beasts. That would be pushing things a little too far.
“Hrm! Hrm! Hrm!” replied the Duke. Was that a laugh? It might have been. “Lost a wager a time or two to those Fleetfoot nags of yours. Breed ’em to run slower, why don’t you?” And then he uttered an actual laugh at his own wit.
“You don’t mean to say you breed them yourself, do you, Valdemar?” The Count’s eyes glittered with some unreadable emotion, as the second dish of the course was served, and Kordas declined it. This dinner would probably have twelve courses of no less than three dishes each, and you had to pace yourself if you didn’t want to be sick.
Time to play the bumpkin. “Well, I don’t bone up and mount them, if that’s what you’re implying. But for placing which is bred with which, why yes, I do, Declaine,” Kordas said lazily. “I know the full pedigree of every horse that comes from my stables. I make all the matches myself. It doesn’t do to leave something that important to menials.” He accepted the next dish, which looked like something pickled. It was. “Of course, once they leave my stables, they are out of my hands, and I’ve got no control over what they get bred to, if they get bred at all.” He shrugged. “I do keep track of it, though. Wouldn’t do to have someone claim a nag with a muddled pedigree is something I’m responsible for.”
Now the sly glances around the table suggested he’d presented just the right level of agrarian simplicity. He decided not to elaborate on it and see what his neighbors said.
“I heard,” continued Declaine silkily, “that not more than a week ago, you were actually attending the birth of a horse yourself!”
Well, that got around fast. He was unsurprised. If Merrin, the Emperor, or both wanted the story spread around, it could have come into the Palace in the morning and been known to the entire Court by afternoon.
“Some things are best left to experts, and I am an expert,” he drawled. “Especially when it’s a Valdemar Gold.”
The mention of the Golds awoke something else in the eyes of everyone around him: glints of avarice. Everyone wanted a Gold, apparently. He was just glad that the only ones he’d brought were in the Emperor’s hands. Even if they were fake.
But besides the avarice, there were snickers hidden behind hands. He held his peace, sampled courses, and listened rather than talked. Best not to speak until spoken to, he reckoned.
The Prince across from him ate very little, and listened intently, his expression so closed Kordas could make out nothing of what he was thinking. The Duke, as his girth suggested, ate practically everything. The Count ate about as much as Kordas did. There was music. The air was gently perfumed; the jewels, gold, and silver glittered; the mage-lights were just bright enough and a pleasing color of pink. The conversation was muted in a way that suggested there was some sort of dampening effect in this room, so that the sound didn’t become overwhelming. Kordas took note that virtually every Doll attending the humans had some sort of identifying feature about it. Some were subtle; small marks on the forehead, such has he had made on Star, Rose, and Clover, or actual faces drawn or painted on the heads. The faces . . . well, they were done well. He suspected there might be some subtle competition going on, with the masters of the Dolls hiring artists to do the work. Some of those faces were just a little too realistic for comfort. Some of the Dolls were ostentatious, displaying gold or silver jewelry as if the Doll was a merchant’s display model. Some were ridiculous: wigs on their heads, and dresses, or coats and breeches, which made them look like gigantic versions of a child’s toy. So he wasn’t the only one who wanted to tell the Dolls apart.