We ordered sweet white wine and listened both to the singer and to the conversation around us. We ignored the curious stares and questioning looks. Finally, a man came to our table and waited to be recognized. When I looked at him, he bowed and presented a small white paper in the center of a golden plate.
Elizabeth unfolded it and read silently. She turned to the man. “We would be delighted to attend.”
He quickly and quietly withdrew as if a vanishing spell had been placed on him. The room had quieted when he entered, and after he left, the level of conversation rose. They recognized the king’s messenger. I knew they talked about us, so I minded my manners and was sensitive to the changes in temperature of the diners. They would treat us warmer from now on.
Elizabeth leaned closer, still clutching the invitation. “Learn a lesson, Damon. The people in this room are wealthy. They have money, probably a lot of it. But they are not royalty and never will be.”
She sat up straighter.
I wondered at her statement. More than the appearance of Wyvern in Malawi had happened. I knew she was assuming a role, but the changes were not all likable. We talked little, listened a lot, and learned almost nothing of what we wanted.
The night was peaceful and the music relaxing. Although we were the center of what felt like a thousand stares, I had the impression it would be the last relaxing evening we might have for a while.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The morning was filled with talk of the ball to be held at dusk. Even eating was a business meeting and planning session. Elizabeth was on edge, her attention to detail kept me hopping. She wanted to present me as more than a personal servant, but with her Dire features and my Kondor background, that didn’t fit. How she’d managed to get away with presenting us as brother and sister only confused matters.
It was obvious we were not. It was equally obvious I had neither the demeanor or manners of a Royal. I suggested her bodyguard might be a better fit. She snapped that bodyguards would wait outside the ballroom for their masters.
My features and skin told everyone I was from the Brownlands, or at least from the borders of them. Trager would do. It was small, few traveled there, and I could claim to be a member of a wealthy family—and distantly related to the king by marriage and was a royal adviser. I was her escort and adviser. It was not perfect, there were holes in the story all over, but it would do.
We circulated the Black Swan dining room all morning and part of the afternoon. Elizabeth put on a social performance and we moved from one table to another, often with formal introductions. She did not once mention that she was a princess, but most of the other talk was the truth. A true princess does not have to explain her position.
I excused myself when a messenger told me a man waited for me at the entrance. It was my sword, personally delivered by the old man at the forge. We walked outside and sat on a stone bench under a pair of cherry trees as he unwrapped it.
The old scabbard was there, but so was also the new one. It had been polished and with the hilt of my sword to decorate it, the thing was too beautiful to hold. He said, “The repair we made came out better than we hoped.”
I pulled the sword and couldn’t find the flaw or the repair and said so.
He asked, “You said it was damaged in battle?”
“Yes.”
“You must have won.”
Thinking back, it seemed so long ago. “I did.”
“This morning, my younger brother found a sketch of your sword in one of our oldest books. It was made almost two hundred years ago, and as we suspected, it was made by an ancestor of ours.”
“That’s wonderful to hear the history of it,” I said with feeling. “Do you know the history of others who owned it?”
“First, there was more in the book.” He waited as if deciding to tell me or not.
I said, “You’re hesitating.”
“The book, one containing our sales records actually, added two additional items. The first is that there was a mention of magic used in the creation of the sword. That is something I’ve never seen in the creation or forging of any sword by any craftsman anywhere. It is so unheard of, I have no response except to report it to you.”
“It’s that unusual?”
He said, “As I said, the first and only mention I’ve ever seen or heard about magic combined with forging. That includes my entire family. I even asked a retired uncle and my father when I went home before coming here. They have never heard so much as a whisper.”
“The second thing?” I asked, not wishing to spend more time on the subject of magic for a number of reasons.
“The wording in the sales journal is unusual and confusing mentioning the magic, as old writing often is, but it seems there was more to the original order. The language suggests this was not the only sword ordered that day. Perhaps another like sword was made and purchased, we cannot tell for sure. The words, as I say, are confusing and meanings change over time.”
I could tell the truth about Prince Angle’s singing sword but held back. I knew the purchase order had been for a magical pair, and the magic was the singing of the swords when they came together. It crossed my mind that to hold back information from him was as distasteful and I’d consider it if he did so to me. But he also held something back, I was certain of it. I offered again to pay him for the repair, and he refused, then departed with more than one glance over his shoulder as if still debating if he should tell me something else.
That’s the funny thing about trust. As nice as he was about repairing mine, and giving me the other for Will, he withheld something and my trust in him was lost. Trust is as complete as a mug that holds ale compared with one with a crack that does not. Serve me ale in a cracked mug that leaks out and I will not purchase it again. I only trust a mug that does not leak.
If he had been honest at the last, I’d have shared the Prince Angle story, one I’m certain he would have enjoyed and repeated and probably made a notation in his sales records for generations to come. I watched him leave, hoping he’d change his mind and return. He didn’t.
Perhaps he sensed I’d also held something back and broken his trust. I’d not asked about other owners of my sword. Perhaps Prince Angle and I would travel to Malawi and seek more information.
I carried my sword inside the inn and went to our room. I placed it beside the clothing I’d later wear to the ball, then went back to the dining room where Elizabeth had changed tables again to talk with a matronly woman.
At the first break in their conversation, I said I was going to see if Bran was at the stables and we might explore the city. She told me that was a good idea, but she had made several new friends and wished to spend time with them.
They were wealthy and gossips. Those with enough money to have others wait on them all day must have a hobby. Gossip was the hobby of the rich. The situation was perfect for her. Honest Bran was standing near his carriage flirting with a comely young woman. He leaped to attention at my appearance and the woman flitted off without introduction, which was unfortunate. Bran and I would have to discuss women at some point. He needed to learn to share his wealth.
I said, “The city is fascinating. I’d like to see more of it.”
He said, “Will you ride in the back or sit beside me today?”
The invitation was hard to pass up. I climbed to the seat with him so we could speak easily as he took us out on the road. I wanted to talk about the politics of Malawi, the temperament of the king, his three sons, and how the people felt about the rulers, taxes, laws, and especially any changes in personnel that occurred in the last few years.