Free Banner of the Damned by Sherwood Smith Page A

on call. Here you will see that we have put in one of the new cleaning frames.”
    Marnda indicated the door to the bath. “If you haven’t time to bathe. You’ve only to pick up the wand there and then step through. The wand passing through the bespelled doorway enables the magic to function. You and your clothing will be clean, but the magic does not remove water, or wrinkles.” Then she added, “For intimate recreation, our rule isto take it to the pleasure house. No staff relationships. We have an account at—” She bent and peered at me, her brow perplexed. “Are you old enough for this conversation?”
    “I am nearly seventeen,” I said, with the dignity of the young. (At least she did not laugh.) I neglected to add, however, that although I’d had to say the Waste Spell to bring on monthly flow for half a year now, I as yet had nothing more than a vague, academic interest in sex.
    “If you have questions, please come to me,” she said, and the subject rested there as she indicated my trunk, which had already been sent over.
    On it sat a row of little notes, almost all folded in the congratulatory shape called
crowned lilies
.
    Seneschal Marnda smiled as I bent over them, touching the largest of the crowned lily shapes, which was tied with a heavy white silk ribbon. I suspected this one was from my parents. Three of the others were tied by silk threads, most likely from fellow journey scribes, and one with a gold ribbon—it had to be an extravagance from my brother Olnar.
    I smiled, moving to the blossom made of shell pink paper—Tiflis’s favorite—with a full ribbon. I stared at it, overcome with surprise and joy.
    “I’ll leave you to—” began the seneschal, then halted at the sound of Princess Lasthavais’s voice from beyond the open door.
    “Where is my new scribe?”
    Marnda’s gaze flicked to my feet, but I’d already slid out of my house slippers when I’d entered. I shoved my feet into the waiting pair of silk chamber slippers as the princess scudded swiftly into the main room so her robes fluttered, and her hair ribbons—they wore them very long that year—streamed in an arc behind her.
    Her tiny steps slowed. I stepped out of my door. She clapped her hands lightly then flung them wide, almost as if to hug me, but her fingers spread apart in the Bird on the Wing, a gesture seen rarely in Alsais’s court. It was graceful, enthusiastic—so charming I was late in remembering to place my hands together and bow deeply.
    “Come! You’ve made your duty bow. But please, The Peace will do from now on, except when my sister is here. She likes the niceties. Truly. Ask dear Marnda,” the princess said in a quick rush of words.
    Her voice was what we call fluting: somewhere between husky and breathless, yet musical. “Do you like cats?” she added, as two glossy felines paced out from behind her.
    “I do, very much,” I said, bending just enough to hold down a hand.
    The nearest cat gave me a delicate sniff then put up its tail, so I ventured a pat. The animal sinuously rolled its back under my touch then passed on to scour its head against the princess’s leg, tail high.
    “I am so glad you like cats. But the bows must go when we are private.” The princess chuckled, a small and pleasing sound. “I came late to a presentation one day, when I was small. There I was, running from the south door, and oh, there was the entire court in full sovereign bow—with heads lowered—but you have no notion how that appears from behind.” She laughed again, as I struggled to control my own flutter of hilarity at the sheer unexpectedness of words and image. “And as I passed, I caught such looks! Ah-ye, I know manner is important, but meaning is, too. I never see a room full of deep bows without thinking of those silken backsides.”
    She did not wait for my answer. “Now, come with me. Tell me all about yourself,” she continued, whirling so fast that her blue silk hair ribbon caught