An under-footman stood before Vilkit’s desk in his office, the “command post” of a massive campaign. The room, usually a paragon of order, showed the stress of combat, with heaps of bills of lading bedecking tables, masses of flowers that had yet to be arranged temporarily left in buckets on all his chairs, and a table linen with a burn mark wadded up and thrown in the corner.
Vilkit had been chamberlain of the palace for three years. This wedding presented the biggest challenge of his career. If all went off well, he might retain this position for life, and laurels would be heaped upon him. If a terrible slipup occurred, he would be held responsible, regardless of actual fault. Lord Matwyck probably wouldn’t have him killed, but Vilkit had discovered that the Lord Regent was not above a small physical cruelty, such as a broken hand or a punctured eardrum. This hardly endeared the Lord Regent to his chamberlain, but Vilkit was prepared to tolerate a modicum of terror for this prized position. Besides, he didn’t intend to fail.
The trouble with food was that ingredients had to be fresh; thus only so much could be delivered in advance. The head cook worried so over whether the provisionaries would deliver enough geese, his anxiety had become contagious.
On the day before the wedding, however, everything had elapsed according to Vilkit’s schedule and plans. The two paltry mishaps—a visiting duke complaining his rooms were not grand enough and the wine steward noticing that the vintner had overcharged them—Vilkit had handled with his usual efficiency.
But this under-footman cringing before him presented the chamberlain with a novel and potentially bigger quandary.
“How was I to know who she was?” the man whined. “No one told us about a sister, and she’s dressed like a carter.”
“And you say you treated her roughly?”
“No! I didn’t touch her. Well, aye, I did grab her arm. But that wasn’t rough. I didn’t cuss her, not really. We was just being careful, as we was ordered to be. You know our orders about strange visitors.”
“Give me a straight answer: Will Lady Percia have cause to complain that you treated their nearest kin without due deference?”
The under-footman scrunched up his whole face. “Aye, chamberlain.”
Vilkit rose. “I will have to see what I can do to remedy this situation. Leave me and try not to commit any more blunders.”
Vilkit hurried to the Church of the Waters, where Duchette Lolethia breathlessly informed him of the melodramatic event—a lost sister’s return! The Wyndton family were currently sorting out their messy personal affairs in the coachmen’s vestibule (of all places); meanwhile, Lordling Marcot, Duke and Duchess Naven, a Brother of Sorrow, and two councilors were just waiting, kicking up their heels, on this, the busiest of all days.
Vilkit paused to run his hands down his uniform to smooth any creases and pat down his hair, lest his haste had caused any disarrangement. Then he approached the Brother of Sorrow.
“Brother Whitsury, you need to be done with your rehearsal by midday bells because of the midmeal. Lord Matwyck will be waiting. I am afraid we really must try to keep to the schedule.”
Just at that moment Lordling Marcot managed to extricate the bridal party from the vestibule. Marcot introduced the late arrival to him.
“Wren of Wyndton, may I introduce Chamberlain Vilkit?”
Vilkit immediately decided not to be harsh on the under-footman; really who could imagine this slops boy to be someone of importance?
“Oh, milady”—a title she didn’t deserve, but flattery usually oiled gummed works—“I regret that the staff has not shown you all due courtesy. If only we had known you were coming to join us on this special occasion! My heartfelt apologies! Please, milady, tell me how I may be of service to you?”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the young woman, offering her hand to shake, a strangely masculine gesture.
Vilkit took her hand, smoothly turned it over, bent and touched it with his lips as he made a deep bow.
“I take it your arrival in time for the wedding is just fortuitous?” he asked. “We must make you welcome! Where is your baggage? I shall have it fetched. Have you dined? Would you care to come this way?”
“No luggage,” answered the sister. “No, I have not dined.”
“Vilkit, please, will you see that my sister is made welcome and cared for?” said Marcot.
“Of course, Lordling. It will be my honor. Milady, if you will follow me?”
Where am I going to put this new guest? All the rooms in the palace are full of visiting gentry. I can’t insult her by putting her in a servant’s room. I dare not ship her out to an inn. Not after the way she’s been treated.
And now she needs clothing too! What a nuisance—these countryfolk! Showing up for a palace wedding without proper garments! This woman’s needs are going to occupy a servant’s whole afternoon. Who can I assign to her who isn’t essential elsewhere?
While pondering how to handle this increasingly messy complication, Vilkit also led the guest into the palace through the ornate “Church Entrance.”
“Your first time in Cascada? Your first time in the Nargis Palace, I presume?” he said to the young woman. He would flatter her with some of his time and a look at the palace’s grandeur. “Let me show you a sampling of our treasures.” He escorted her through a hallway and past a few lesser rooms.
“Here we are: this is the famous Gallery of the Queens and Consorts. This long hallway connects two wings of the palace. On the right you will see portraits of all the queens of Weirandale. Well, not all, because several queens ruled before Chista the Builder had the palace constructed.” He pointed to the first portrait. “You see, we start here with Chista herself.”
The country girl came to a dead stop in front of Chista, examining the painting closely.
“Ahem. Let me show you just the highlights. Now, if you will please come this way, milady, here is Cenika the Protector.”
“Her Nargis Ice is a shield pendant!”
“Yes, isn’t that stirring? And, here, everyone loves to look at Chyneza the Wise.”
“Because of her lovely crown?”
“How very perceptive you are, milady; yes, the Nargis Ice tiara is stunning, is it not?”
“Where is Carmena?” the guest asked, gazing down the expanse of portraits.
“How odd that you ask for her; despite the famous lay we don’t often show her off.”
“Why not?”
“Well, her Royal Stone is very plain, you see; just this odd, misshapen rock around her neck.” In unconscious mimicry, Vilkit made a fist in front of his own throat as he led her several paces forward. “I wonder what Nargis was thinking of. And the queen, while estimable of course, is not, well, the most striking-looking of the queens.”
“Hmm.” The guest made a noise so neutral he didn’t know whether it signaled assent or disagreement. “Is that a dagger she wears around her waist?”
Vilkit looked closely. The portrait was dark; he wondered if one could clean oil paintings and if he should have done so before this fête. He could hardly see the detail that interested the country sister. “Many of the queens wear much nicer swords. Chaynilla the Warrior has a sword studded with diamonds. She’s down here a ways. Let me show you.”
“Just a moment.”
The girl seemed lost in reveries in front of Carmena, despite her strong jaw and wide forehead. But she barely flicked her eyes over Chaynilla’s beautiful sword or Clesindra the Kind’s perfect teardrop of Nargis Ice, which affixed to her cheekbone so magically and which never failed to impress other visitors. A couple of aristocratic visitors to the palace strolled through the gallery, and Vilkit bowed respectfully.
She asked to see Ciella the Patient, probably because of the sentimental song about a love affair that lasted after death, and then she thoughtfully walked across the gallery to look at her prince.
Vilkit worried about geese, wine casks, and whether the scullery maids were breaking dishes. He really had to get back to his office. Servants might be looking for him; all hell might be breaking loose in the stables between temperamental coachmen.
“Ahem,” he coughed discreetly. “We need to move on, milady; ’tis such a busy day in the palace.”
“Just two more, Chamberlain Vilkit,” she replied unhurriedly and without apology. “I’d like to see Queen Catreena the Strategist and Queen Cressa the Enchanter.”
Vilkit led her down to the far end of the row of portraits. He tried to point out the significant details in the paintings of the last two queens, such as the map in the background of Catreena’s picture, and the way the folds of Cressa’s gown hid her pregnancy. But this rustic lass shushed him, staring at the queens with deep concentration, as if she would drink them in. Then she walked across the gallery to gaze at King Nithanil of Lortherrod, consort to Queen Catreena. When she turned to Lord Ambrice’s portrait she gasped. It was a very nice portrait; Vilkit had heard that it caught the very essence of the man, standing with feet firmly planted and nautical instruments on the table beside him. The country lass reached out as if to touch the Lord of the Ships.
“Oh, I’m afraid no one is allowed to touch, milady! The oil paints are precious, as you can imagine, and we wouldn’t want the artists’ work besmirched by dirty hands.”
The visitor turned to look at Vilkit then, and her eyes had a spark in them. Vilkit had the uneasy feeling that she had registered his remark about “dirty hands.”
“Tell me, Chamberlain,” she said, “were you employed in the palace during the reign of Cressa and Ambrice?”
“Alas, no. I have been here only three years.”
“Then you never knew them?”
“Alas, no. Only by reputation, in the way that everyone knows the rulers of Weirandale.”
“So you serve Lord Matwyck?” she asked, returning back to gaze at Lord Ambrice.
“I do serve Lord Matwyck,” he replied. But then, perhaps because they had spent all this time in this gallery, he added with more forthrightness than was his wont, “Because he is the present regent. But my title is ‘Chamberlain.’ I actually serve the palace. The palace includes”—he swept his arm in a grand gesture—“all these queens, all this history, going back forever and ever.”
Finally, the guest allowed him to escort her to the room where he had decided to lodge her.
“I will send a maid to wait on you momentarily,” he informed the last-minute arrival. “Normally, we do not allow visitors to stay in these chambers. But since you are kinswoman to the bride, I am happy to make this exception.”
He threw open the door, adding a touch of drama. “I am lodging you in the Princella’s Bedchamber!”