But Simbilon Khayf betrayed no such awareness. Throughout the entire time of his audience with the Coronal his face wore an unvarying expression of frozen humility and awe; and when he accepted from Zeldor Luudwid the golden wreath of the Order of Lord Havilbove and muttered his thanks, his voice was thick and husky with emotion and his hands were trembling, as though he was barely able to withstand the immense importance of the honor that had been bestowed upon him.
After the ceremony the Coronal always held a more casual reception in one of the adjacent rooms for the recipients of the more important decorations. Here, now, Prestimion knew, would come the triumphal moment of Septach Melayn’s stage-managing. For those who had been awarded the Order of Lord Havilbove were entitled to attend the second reception. Inevitably Prestimion would find himself confronting Simbilon Khayf and his daughter once again, in circumstances where conversations of an extended sort would be hard to avoid. Impossible, actually.
Which must have been precisely what Septach Melayn had had in mind.
Smoothly and swiftly Prestimion moved through the crowded room, exchanging a brief word with each of his guests. The unnaturally thick soles of his boots hampered him only a little, though it was odd to feel so tall. After a time he could see the uncouth spire of Simbilon Khayf’s hair just ahead of him in his direct path. Varaile, oddly, did not seem to be anywhere near her father; but then Prestimion caught sight of her on the other side of the room, speaking with Septach Melayn.
The merchant banker still seemed overwhelmed by it alclass="underline" He barely managed to make sense as he blurted out a little stammering speech of gratitude for the Coronal’s kindness in inviting him here today, which turned, after a moment or two, into a rambling and disjointed speech, accompanied by much heavy breathing and floridity of face, in praise of his own accomplishments. All perfectly in character, a flustered combination of high self-approbation and extreme insecurity. The banker’s wayward performance bolstered Prestimion’s feeling that the likelihood of Simbilon Khayf’s having guessed the connection between his bearded visitor in Khayf and the Coronal before whom he now stood was not very great. And plainly Varaile had not violated her promise to Septach Melayn to keep the truth about that to herself.
Simbilon Khayf’s huffing and puffing went on and on and on. Prestimion detached himself finally and moved along through the throng; but it was ten minutes more before he came to Varaile.
Their eyes met and for him it was just as it had been before, that other time in her father’s house in Stee: that disquieting tingle of electric connection, that quiver of excitement, of uncertainty, of confusion. And for her, too, of that he was certain: he saw the quick flaring of her nostrils, the brief quirking of the corners of her mouth, the sudden darting of her eyes from side to side, the flush slowly spreading over her flawless features.
This is no illusion, he thought. This is something very real.
But it passed quickly. In a flash, she was cool and calm and self-possessed again, the very model of a well-bred young woman who has no doubt of how to conduct herself in the presence of her king. As poised and proper as her father had been gauche and jumpy, she hailed him with the appropriate deference, making the starburst gesture to him and thanking him simply but warmly, in that deep, wondrously musical voice of hers that he remembered so well from Stee, for the great honor he had conferred upon her father. By the nature of the occasion nothing further was called for in this situation. It would have been easy enough now for Prestimion to acknowledge her gratitude with a quick impersonal word or two and move along to the next guest.
But he saw Septach Melayn standing to one side with folded arms, watching keenly, smiling slyly, and knew that his friend occupied the position of power in this. The master duelist had backed him into a corner. Septach Melayn did not intend to permit him any sort of facile and cowardly escape.
Varaile was waiting, though. Prestimion searched his mind for the right words—something that would bridge the immense gap between Coronal and subject that separated him from her now and transform this into a normal conversation between a man and a woman. Nothing came. He wondered if such a conversation would even be possible. He had no idea of what to say. He had been trained since boyhood to conduct himself effectively in any kind of diplomatic situation; but his training had not prepared him for anything like this. He stood before her mute and incapable.
And in the end it was Varaile who rescued him. In the midst of his frozen silence her cool and formal pose of reverent deference began to give way, ever so subtly, to something warmer and less stiff: a hint of amusement in her eyes, the merest trace of a playful smile on her lips, a tacit affirmation that she saw the comic nature of their present predicament. That was all it took. Immediately there was that unquestionable current of connection running between them again, sudden, startling, intense.
Prestimion felt a flood of relief and delight.
It was difficult for him to maintain his own sternly regal posture while all of that was passing through him. He allowed a certain softening of his stance, a relaxation of his official face, and she took her cue from it. Quietly she said, looking straight into his eyes as she had not dared to do a moment before, and speaking in the most casual, informal tone, “You’re taller now than you were in Stee. Your eyes were on a level with mine, then.”
It was a gigantic leap across the boundaries that separated them. And instantly, as though recoiling in consternation at her own boldness, she drew back with a little gasp, pressing her fingertips to her mouth. They were monarch and subject once again.
Was that what he wanted? No. No. Absolutely not. So now it was Prestimion’s turn to put her at her ease, or the moment would be lost. “It’s these idiotic boots,” he said, smiling. “They’re supposed to make me look more imposing. You won’t ever see me in them again, I assure you.”
At once the mischief was back in her eyes. “The boots, no. But will I ever see you again?”
Septach Melayn, against the wall a dozen feet behind her, was nodding and beaming in delight.
“Do you want to?” Prestimion asked.
“Oh—my lord—oh, yes, my lord—”
“There’s a place for you at court if you want it,” said Prestimion. “Septach Melayn will arrange for it. I’ll have to pay a visit to the Labyrinth soon, but perhaps we can dine together after I return to the Castle. I’d like to get to know you much better.”
“That would give me great pleasure, my lord.” The tone this time was a mixture of formality and eagerness. A slight tremor in it betrayed her confusion. For all her innate poise, she had no real idea of how to handle what was unfolding now. But neither did he. Prestimion wondered what it was, exactly, that Septach Melayn had said to her about his intentions. He wondered, too, just what those intentions were.
And this present conversation had gone on much too long. Septach Melayn was not the only one watching them now.
“My lord?” she said, as he bade her a formal farewell and began to move away.
“Yes, Varaile?”
“My lord, was that really you, that time at our house in Stee?”
“Do you have any doubt of that?”
“And just why was it, may I ask, that you came?”