The Fireborn Road (The Black River Chronicles Book 5) - L.G. Surgeson

The Fireborn Road (The Black River Chronicles Book 5) by L.G. Surgeson

Book excerpt

The Queen's Nose

The ballroom glowed with soft, golden light from a thousand floating glass lanterns that hovered in a complex pattern a few feet from the ornately vaulted roof. Dozens of mirrors around the walls and ceiling reflected the magical light, amplifying it and enfolding everyone in a rich, warm blanket. Along the whole length of the room, a white-clothed table groaned with the weight of delicacies piled high on silver salvers and arranged around the centre piece of the whole roasted boar – apple firmly wedged in its maw. Sprays of fresh white roses, the Queen's favourite, stood amongst the food in exquisite designs. Liveried footmen with blank expressions were poised with bottles of the finest vintages and cordials of exotic fruits. A twenty-seven-piece orchestra, composed of some of the most gifted musicians in all Albion, played a lively reel. The music swelled and tumbled, carrying the dancers with it as they spun and trotted through the intricate steps of the set. The women, bejewelled and flush-faced in their tightly corseted fine silks, smiled demurely at the dashing military captains and the elegantly suited politicians whose arms they graced. The young queen, a vision in eau de nil, charmed her partners with her beauty, warmth and wit. It was a perfect tableau of the restrained and civilised opulence of Royal Albion.

From his place at one end of the gargantuan buffet table, Derek watched with lacklustre interest. He could just about see Iona in the centre of the crowded floor, paying polite attention to a tall and handsome Colonel, who in spite of his apparent poise continued to tread on her feet. Derek yawned languidly without covering his mouth and reached out for a small pastry thing that looked quite tasty. As the light of the chandeliers twinkled and glinted from the black jet fluting on Iona's hair piece, he shoved the whole thing into his mouth and chewed vigorously. He could tell from the fixed smile on Iona's face that the gentleman with whom she was dancing was both an ungainly dancer and a bore. The little fold of a grimace that appeared momentarily on her otherwise serene countenance every time he trod on her foot was perhaps the most entertaining part of the evening so far. In fact, all the amusement he had garnered from this ridiculous spectacle had been from watching Iona parading herself around as though she had been born genuine Albion nobility and everyone else falling for it.

Lady Iona, the Dowager Duchess of Pringle, was quite a name amongst minor Albion nobility and the diplomatic corps. Little was known publicly in Albion of Iona's beginnings, and as far as Derek, who knew the whole sordid tale, could tell, this was very much to her credit. She had been an adventurer of no significant standing when she had married the Guildmaster, a renegade Albion Duke, Dakarn Pringle III, and that far her credentials were unimpeachable. The fact that she clearly knew how to dress and behave had never been questioned by the aristocracy. They were not aware how she had come by her stunning grasp on Albion etiquette and how it differed from social convention in other countries. They had not spent enough time with her to find out that she could be surprisingly violent and extremely blunt.

It was only when the stories of her exploits during the Summer of Fire and the following years had begun to filter through the court had she become a source of intrigue in her own right. The foolish women of the Queen's court were enamoured with the romance of a brave and elegant widow who set aside her grief and the comforts of her rank in the pursuit of Justice, and Iona did not disappoint them. At one point, she had become a tea-parlour heroine and would have remained so had she been prepared to make house calls. The fact that Iona had never set eyes on her Duchy, nor experienced the so-called comforts of a noble life, was so far beside the point it was not considered. Neither was the fact that the erstwhile Duke was an amnesiac inebriate with only a feint recollection of where his claim actually was.

Certainly, none of the fawning politicians and simpering débutantes who sought her attentions realised that she was nothing more than a grubby parvenu from the Elven Territories with one eye on Frisia and one hand in the pocket of anyone who could buy her a controlling share of Aberddu. The Dowager Duchess of Pringle was a construction that the Bards Guild would have been proud of, a real piece of performance art and one Derek never tired of watching.

It was, Derek reflected as he let out a staccato belch, very much how the other half lived. He looked again at the table of food that had remained largely untouched, helped himself to some peculiar egg-shaped whatnots and popped them whole into his mouth pensively. Iona had explained to him before they had arrived that most of the women would be so tightly corseted that they would not be able to eat and that most of the men would be more interested in drinking as much of the vintage wine as possible than the picking over the food. Derek had nodded when she had said this earlier, but now he could see the wasted banquet, he found he was simply saddened by the vile decadence of it.

Not five hundred yards in pretty much any direction from this embassy were people who would live their whole short lives without seeing even a fraction of this amount of food. Many of them wouldn't understand how to eat most of it or would look at it suspiciously if you handed it to them. They lived on pease pudding and thin broth and occasionally dried fish or salt beef. He sighed and shook his head. There was no point making a fuss right now he thought, picking up what he assumed was an apple and pondering the possibility of arranging for the leftovers be given to a Temple for their soup kitchen – he was sure somebody would be able make soup out of some of this stuff. It was all he could do, he thought sadly as he looked down on the apple – its bright red lustre was so glossy he could make out his own face in the skin. Not really hungry now, he made to pocket it and realised that in this ridiculous get-up he didn't have pockets that would fit an apple. He put it back on the display. Instead, he helped himself to a handful of fishy-flavoured biscuit things, shoved them wholesale into his mouth, and winked at the nearest footman as he chewed.

He'd long since given up trying to engage the staff in conversation, and one of them had looked mortally offended when he'd offered to help out by collecting empty glasses. Iona had explained at length that he wasn't supposed to do anything except socialise but it seemed totally unnatural to him. This was compounded by the fact that he had been required to dress in high Albion fashion, which this season consisted of neutral-coloured breeches, stockings, a high-cut silk waistcoat with discrete buttons, a tastefully toning frock coat and high collared silk shirt with neck cloth. When Derek had objected, Iona had pointed out he was lucky that the fashion for lace cuffs, towering powdered wigs and silk knickerbockers had passed. He wasn't sure that was luck, as he could at least have kicked up a reasonable fuss about them, the argument that he was really uncomfortable hadn't actually cut it with Iona. She'd just told him that at least he didn't have to wear a corset or a starched petticoat. He had almost retorted that neither did she, but had realised that this was an argument he would probably lose. To add insult to discomfort, he hadn't realised that posh people didn't normally have pockets until he had tried to find somewhere to stash his hanky. This had not helped his mood, nor had Iona, who had laughed at him when he had appeared in her dressing room in a state of partial undressed to demand help buttoning the breeches. She had had to ply him with quite expensive Brandy in order to stop him sulking.