“Indeed, we married shortly before his death,” allowed Sham, absently. Then in a much more animated voice she continued, “Kerim, this tunic doesn’t hang right in the shoulders. Leave it with me tonight and I’ll fit it for you.”
He reached up and patted her hand, “As you wish, my dear.”
“You are looking tired, Kerim.” Lady Sky’s concern was obvious, and Sham felt herself warming to her. “If you would like, I can introduce Lady Shamera to the members of your court and you can rest.”
Kerim shook his head. “Actually, I find that I feel better today than I have for some time. Otherwise, I would have waited to bring Shamera into this viper pit—she doesn’t have the experience to protect herself. Ervan was a hermit, even he admitted it, and he kept her secluded with him.”
Kerim turned to Lady Tirra, and changed the subject to less personal matters. “Dickon informs me you have quite a spectacle planned for today.”
“Would you stop repeating servant’s gossip? It is unfitting.” Lady Tirra’s rebuke was absent; obviously this was an old battle she had long since lost. “However, in this case it is correct. He comes with the strongest recommendations from no less than three of my ladies.”
“I look forward to it. You will have to excuse us, ladies, while Lady Shamera and I continue through this mob.” Kerim set his chair in motion.
As they proceeded from one small group of people to another. Sham felt the eyes follow her: outraged female and intrigued male glances took in her dress, her company, and her probable position, before turning to the Reeve.
She noticed that Kerim was not beloved by most of the Eastern members of the court. Their manners hid their feelings, almost as well as Sham’s bare-midriff dress hid her lack of beauty—but there was little warmth in the voices that spewed forth the flowery phrases of welcome. Kerim, she thought, was paying for his attempts at uniting the country.
If the Easterners were unsupportive, the few Southwood nobles in the room made up for it. They stood together in a loose-knit cluster on one end of the hall. At Kerim’s approach, they broke off talking, and one noble stepped forward with a low bow.
There was a slight wariness in his manner that did not detract from the warmth of his greeting. “My Lord, we were discussing the merits of burning the fields in the spring versus burning them in the autumn. As it has turned into mere speech-making without meritorious debate, we welcome the distraction.”
Kerim smiled, and Sham saw an answering affection in his face. “It sounds as if you were losing the debate, Halvok.”
Several of the Southwoodsmen had drifted away, but at Kerim’s remark the others relaxed and exchanged lazy insults with the man Kerim had addressed as Halvok.
“Allow me to introduce my companion. Lady Shamera, widow of Lord Ervan,” said Kerim. “Lady Shamera, these are the Lords Halvok, Levrin, Shanlinger, and Chanford.”
Sham smiled vaguely at them all. All of the names sounded familiar, and Chanford she recognized, though he was much older now. He had been with the defenders of the Castle in the final days of the invasion—she doubted that he would remember the Captain of the Guard’s sorcerous daughter, or associate Lady Shamera with her if he did.
Lord Halvok was the obvious leader, from his placement in Kerim’s introduction as well as the deference the other lords gave him. He was younger than Chanford, but a good decade older than Kerim. Being short for a Southwoodsman, he was about the same height as most of the Cybellians. His fair hair was more silver than gold, and the clipped beard he wore was completely white. As he took her hand and bowed over it, she caught a speculative look in his eye, as if he were assessing a new hunting hound.
Kerim spoke with them on several small concerns before moving on with Sham drifting beside him. They hadn’t gone far when someone began ringing chimes, drawing the crowd’s attention to a portion of the hall where a platform had been built. On top of the platform, where he was easily-viewed from the floor, stood a man clad in a black robe and hood, his face veiled.
He raised both hands in a dramatic gesture, and from either end of the stage, blue smoke began to emerge from silver urns on the floor. A second gesture, and flames shot forth accompanied by an approving murmur from the crowd. His bid for attention done, the magician waited patiently for the audience to assemble. Kerim found a place near the front, giving Sham a clear view of the proceedings.
“Ah, bold lords and gentle ladies, welcome.” The magician’s voice was dark and mysterious; Sham saw several ladies shudder eagerly. “I thank you for the opportunity to—
“Tabby? Tabby!” interrupted a woman’s shrill voice from the nearest doorway.
Sham, like most of the audience looked over to see one of the serving women staring incredulously at the magician, who stared back with equal astonishment. The flaming urns began to sputter and die down.
“Tabby, what are you doing? Does Master Royce know what you are up to?” The woman put her hands on her hips and shook her head at him as he jumped off the stage and scurried toward her making frantic shushing gestures. As he ran, his hood fell back to reveal the round and freckled face of a young man.
“Hush. Bess,” he said in a stage whisper, darting a nervous glance at the crowd. “Master Royce is ...” He looked again at the rapt audience and leaned closer to the woman and whispered something.
“What did you say?”
The magician cleared his throat and whispered again.
She laughed, and turned to the crowd.
“He says Master Royce had a few too many last night. You’ll have to make do with his apprentice.”
The audience roared with appreciation, as they realized this had been part of the act. The magician shuffled back to the stage, looking embarrassed, and frowned at the silver um. The one nearest him gave an apologetic burp of flame.
“I’m really not as bad as all that,” explained the apprentice earnestly. “I even brought Master Royce’s familiar along to help me if I forget the spells.” He motioned to a table set discreetly behind him, covered by a black cloth. One of the various bumps under the cloth seemed to move toward the front of the table, rising briefly to a greater height before settling down again.
The crowd laughed, which seemed to cheer the magician.
Sham watched in appreciative silence as the sleight-of-hand master used a facade of incompetence to distract his audience.
He pulled a small rabbit from underneath a nobleman’s tunic and examined it sorrowfully. “This was supposed to be a gold coin. Let me try one more time.”
He put the rabbit back under the clothing of the discomfited noble, whose comrades were beginning to tease him, but it wasn’t a gold coin this time either. The crowd roared, and the Cybellian nobleman flushed, though he was laughing too. The magician mutely held up a wispy bit of muslin, easily recognizable as a lady’s undergarment.
The nobleman snatched it back and bellowed in the tones of a field commander, “Now how did that get there?” He opened his leather purse, stuffed the lacy thing in, and produced a coin saying, “Here’s your gold coin, lad.”
The magician took it and shook his head. “So that’s how Master Royce does it.”
While the audience cheered, the magician stepped back to the stage and drew away the cloth that covered the table. The audience grew quiet as he began to work wonders with the props he’d brought with him. Without using a spark of genuine magic, he had his jaded crowd gasping in awe and wonder—most of them anyway.
Although he seemed to enjoy the spectacle with the rest, Lord Kerim kept up a steady stream of enlightenment directed at Sham that usually began “Dickon says.”