The Imperial Secretary squirmed for just a moment and then, with several clearings of his thickly wrapped throat, said, "Well, young master, at the Duchess-Heir's most gracious invitation I can only offer her my unqualified support against such a scoundrel as Honorius Swill. He fooled us all, I would say"-the fellow's face paled slightly-"with his apparently learn-ed convictions.The authority of the well-read, ha ha…"
Rossamund did not smile.
"Your benevolent mistress, however," the man pressed on awkwardly, glancing to Finance only a few feet away, "has showed her abounding and much-praised quality in seeing through him in the first. I can only regret any… misunderstanding that may have arisen betwixt your mistress and the Emperor through myself over this affair, and can only assert in the most earnest terms that the Lady of Naimes has once more-indeed, never lost-the Emperor's full and complete confidence. This elaborates most fully on the matter." He held up a red-wrapped buff wallet. "I am sure the Duchess-Heir will find it most satisfactory." Upon discovering Europe had yet to display herself, the Imperial Secretary showed open relief and gave the red-buff wallet to Rossamund.
The young factotum smiled inwardly at the irony as he took the Imperial parcel. Would the Emperor be so quick with this confidence if he knew the nature of the soul to whom his agent was speaking? "I shall give her your apology, sir." He bowed, alert to this Imperial bureaucrat's clear discomfort at the emphasis of this word. "I am sure she will give it the proper merit."
"Ah, most excellent, young fellow," Sicus returned, brows creasing slightly as he tried to fathom whether his interlocutor was being genuine or pointed. "I-uh-thank you."
"May you have a good night, sir," Rossamund returned, trying to achieve the same unequivocal poise of his mistress.
"Ah, yes…" Bending a final unfinished bow and giving a last uncomfortable look to Finance, the Imperial Secretary left them.
"Swill's allies forsake him utterly now he is dead," said the Chief Emissary in low voice, his expression grim indeed as he watched Sicus retreat into the ceaseless motion of fancied guests to find more comfortable company.
"Secretary Sicus seemed a mite happy to not properly meet with Miss Europe," Rossamund observed, savoring this rare moment of vindication.
The Baron Sainte could not help a grin. "That, Mister Bookchild," he said happily, observing Madam Lux convince a dashing young fellow swatting and ducking at empty air that he was bothered by a host of buzzing flies, "is the nearest a person might come to an endorsed and proper sorry in this Empire of ours." A little past eight-of-the-clock the Archduke himself-and his large retinue with him-arrived, gracing Europe's soiree costumed in a long black tourette upon his crown and dressed in an antiquated harness hung with many bright-black stoups. Rossamund instantly recognized him as Harold, champion of the Battle of the Gates, perceiving the Archduke's intent to style himself in the same heroic line as a staunch defender of the people against all foes. Of his retinue came a veritable quarto of men of the highest stature with such titles as Prime Minister, Captain-Marshal of the Lifeguard, Chief Draw of the Purse-people Rossamund recognized by face if not by name from his brief visit to the Brandendirk. With them too was a woman of dark and foreign beauty whose presumably natural dress of gold scales and diaphanous cloth of mauve and gold was sufficiently exotic to class as fancies. "The Princess Awahb, Fatemah of Pander Tar! Heiress to the Peacock Throne!" the doormen on every floor announced as she ascended, to the general wonder of all.
Receiving the heiress of Naimes' formula for nonattendance with smiling grace, the Archduke nevertheless appeared slightly provoked not to be personally greeted by Europe.
He hopes to show off his princess and trump Europe with her, Rossamund could not help but think.
Indeed, the ruler of the mighty city of Brandenbrass, with his Princess-quickly becoming the darling of the gala-had to wait for nigh on an hour to play his trump, for it was not until nine-of-the-clock precisely that the Branden Rose made her appearance. Loudly announced by Master Papelott, she stepped gracefully into the now hushed ludion, astonishing everyone with her costume.
Assuming she was to be wearing the gorgeous harness she had tried three days earlier, Rossamund was himself taken aback.
Clad in a wide skirt of deep red and a lorica of burnished bronze scales draped in a thick hackle of leonguile hide, she wore a high bronze helm pushed back upon her head, its crown crested with horsehair of black-and-white stripes.
Recovering, Rossamund understood immediately who she intended herself to be.
Euodice, the historied speardame to Idaho.
To those in the company of revelers who knew their matter, the import of Europe's fancy dress was bold and clear. I am of the Old Blood, it said; my line is more ancient than the Empire. It was an incontestable claim and it was also a challenge.
People began crowding into the ludion, all eager to hear what the Branden Rose might have to say at such an uncharacteristic social display.
His mistress finally debouched from her boudoir, Rossamund felt the release of some inward knot he did not know he had. At last! A part of him could not help but wonder if she had marked the painting waiting by her door.
Handed by the Archduke himself onto the orchestra's rostrum, the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes looked like an Attic empress staring complacently out at the great company in their fancies. To Rossamund it seemed by the glimmer in her cool hazel gaze that she was laughing inwardly at the ludicrous spectacle of costume before her.
"I thank you all for condescending to my little event," she said with bold clarity, "to help me rejoice in the success of another course and to bring a correction to the current of recent ill wind." She glanced ever so briefly-the merest nigh-undetectable flicker of her eyes-to the Archduke. "Many of you might marvel at such a turn of character; yet I seek only-with this little affair of mine-to offer to you that which so many of you have so unflaggingly offered to me over the long years." Europe smiled with such winsome warmth that it left little room for any offense. "I place no limit on this night. Remain in my hospitality for as long as you will. So now, continue as I presently attempt a feat greater than the slaying of any prowling bogle and speak with you all before the night is through. I thank you."
While the Branden Rose descended, nodding and smiling piously to general applause, an immense white molded dessert was brought up to the ludion. Carried in a broad tray upon the shoulders of four footmen, it was made in the shape of the trefoiled heart of Naimes and swam in a bath of deep pink raspberry glatin. "Victory Flummery" Papelott called it, "in honor of our gracious hostess' success!" Served in fine Heil glassware of the most rarefied rosy tint, it was flavored with what was proudly declared as vanilla. People oohed at so rare and fashionable a novelty. Dressed in a maschencarde mask of a horse, a learned fellow near where Rossamund stood at the summit of the steps loudly enlightened all in earshot-listening or otherwise-that it was gained from the pod of some singular orchid growing in the febrile islands of the Sinus Tintinabuline. Opposed to the flummery model of the Sloe Sapperling at the Patredike, this dessert looked positively delectable, and the young factotum eyed it hungrily on his way to his mistress' side.
Proudly he followed behind her as she proved herself true to her determination to exchange a word or two with all, her manner as bland and accommodating as he had ever known it to be. It was wearying to watch and to hear; he was amazed at the duchess-daughter's fortitude.