My dear Countess," a fluting voice said at my right ear, and Lady Tamara's soft hand slid along my arm, guiding me toward the lowest tier near the fireplace. Several people moved away, and we sank down onto the cushions there. Tamara gestured to one of the hovering foot-servants, and two glasses of wine were instantly brought. "Did I not predict that you would show us the way at the races as well?"
"I won only once," I said, fighting against embarrassment.
Deric was grinning. "Beat me," he said. "Nearly beat Renna."
"I had the best horse," I countered.
For a moment the conversation turned from me to the races the week before. It had been a sudden thing, arranged on the first really nice day we'd had, and though the course was purported to be rough, I had found it much easier than riding mountain trails.
As Deric described the last obstacles of the race in which I had beaten him, I saw the shy red-haired Lord Geral listening with a kind of ardent expression in his eyes. He was another who often sought me out for dances but rarely spoke otherwise. Might my rose and ring have come from him?
Tamara's voice recalled my attention "…the way with swords as well, dear Countess?"
I glanced at her, sipping at my wine as I mentally reached for the subject.
"It transpires," Tamara said with a glinting smile, "that our sharpest wits are also experts at the duel. Almost am I willing to rise at dawn, just to observe you at the cut and the thrust."
I opened my mouth to disclaim any great prowess with the sword, then realized that I'd walk right into her little verbal trap if I did so. Now, maybe I'm not any kind of a sharp wit, but I wasn't going to hand myself over for trimming so easily. So I just smiled and sipped at my wine.
Fialma's faint, die-away voice was just audible on Tamara's other side. "Tamara, my love, that is not dueling, but mere swordplay."
Tamara's blue eyes rounded with perplexity. "True, true, I had forgotten." She smiled suddenly, her fan waving slowly in query mode. "An academic question: Is it a real duel when one is favored by the opponent?"
Fialma said, "Is it a real contest, say, in a race when the better rider does not ride?" She turned her thin smile to Shevraeth. "Your grace?"
The Marquis bowed slightly, his hands at an oblique angle. "If a stake is won," he said, "it is a race. If the point draws blood, it is a duel."
A murmur of appreciative laughter met this, and Fialma sighed ever so slightly. "You honor us," she murmured, sweeping her fan gracefully in the half circle of Intimate Confidence, "with your liberality…" She seated herself at the other side of the fireplace and began a low-voiced conversation with Lady Dara, the heir to a northern duchy.
Just beyond Fialma's waving fan, Lord Flauvic's metal-gold eyes lifted from my face to Shevraeth's to Tamara's, then back to me.
What had I missed? Nee's cheeks were glowing, but that could have been her proximity to the fire.
Branaric spoke then, saluting Shevraeth with his wineglass. "Duel or dabble, I'd hie me to those practices, except I just can't stomach rough work at dawn. Now, make them at noon, and I'm your man!"
More laughter greeted this, and Bran turned to Flauvic. "How about you? Join me in agitating for a decent time?"
Lord Flauvic also had a fan, but he had not opened it. Holding it horizontally between his fingers in the mode of the neutral observer, he said, "Not at any time, Tlanth. You will forgive me if I am forced to admit that I am much too lazy?
"I won only once," I said, fighting against embarrassment.
Deric was grinning. "Beat me," he said. "Nearly beat Renna."
"I had the best horse," I countered.
For a moment the conversation turned from me to the races the week before. It had been a sudden thing, arranged on the first really nice day we'd had, and though the course was purported to be rough, I had found it much easier than riding mountain trails.
As Deric described the last obstacles of the race in which I had beaten him, I saw the shy red-haired Lord Geral listening with a kind of ardent expression in his eyes. He was another who often sought me out for dances but rarely spoke otherwise. Might my rose and ring have come from him?
Tamara's voice recalled my attention "…the way with swords as well, dear Countess?"
I glanced at her, sipping at my wine as I mentally reached for the subject.
"It transpires," Tamara said with a glinting smile, "that our sharpest wits are also experts at the duel. Almost am I willing to rise at dawn, just to observe you at the cut and the thrust."
I opened my mouth to disclaim any great prowess with the sword, then realized that I'd walk right into her little verbal trap if I did so. Now, maybe I'm not any kind of a sharp wit, but I wasn't going to hand myself over for trimming so easily. So I just smiled and sipped at my wine.
Fialma's faint, die-away voice was just audible on Tamara's other side. "Tamara, my love, that is not dueling, but mere swordplay."
Tamara's blue eyes rounded with perplexity. "True, true, I had forgotten." She smiled suddenly, her fan waving slowly in query mode. "An academic question: Is it a real duel when one is favored by the opponent?"
Fialma said, "Is it a real contest, say, in a race when the better rider does not ride?" She turned her thin smile to Shevraeth. "Your grace?"
The Marquis bowed slightly, his hands at an oblique angle. "If a stake is won," he said, "it is a race. If the point draws blood, it is a duel."
A murmur of appreciative laughter met this, and Fialma sighed ever so slightly. "You honor us," she murmured, sweeping her fan gracefully in the half circle of Intimate Confidence, "with your liberality…" She seated herself at the other side of the fireplace and began a low-voiced conversation with Lady Dara, the heir to a northern duchy.
Just beyond Fialma's waving fan, Lord Flauvic's metal-gold eyes lifted from my face to Shevraeth's to Tamara's, then back to me.
What had I missed? Nee's cheeks were glowing, but that could have been her proximity to the fire.
Branaric spoke then, saluting Shevraeth with his wineglass. "Duel or dabble, I'd hie me to those practices, except I just can't stomach rough work at dawn. Now, make them at noon, and I'm your man!"
More laughter greeted this, and Bran turned to Flauvic. "How about you? Join me in agitating for a decent time?"
Lord Flauvic also had a fan, but he had not opened it. Holding it horizontally between his fingers in the mode of the neutral observer, he said, "Not at any time, Tlanth. You will forgive me if I am forced to admit that I am much too lazy?
( Sherwood Smith )
[ Court Duel ]
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