Free Banner of the Damned by Sherwood Smith Page B

against my side. Then it slithered and fell as she sped across the little tiled hall and into a wide chamber as large as all the service alcoves together.
    I gained a swift impression of raw silk cushions in a subdued blue the color of winter ice over water, a fine tile floor patterned in Venn knots made in shades of sand and beige and cream interleaved with blue. Potted argan trees arched overhead and, arranged abundantly below, were a variety of fragrant ferns.
    From there I followed her into yet another room, a bower of living things—potted lindens and stalked starliss under broad western windows, set on low platforms framing a sunken circle in the floor, fitted with couches around a mosaic patterned table. The floor had the largest rosebud carpet I had ever seen, made of thousands and thousands of hand-rolled silken buds of palest first-dawn rose.
    The princess dropped onto a darker rose brocade cushion, noticing my fascinated glance, for I had learned that rosebud carpets were favored for the intimacy of lovers. And here was one in a semi-public space!
    She chuckled again. “I have been given three rosebud carpets,” she said confidingly. “This one is here so I can run my toes over it. The maids put it through the cleaning frame every night, so if you ever feel headachy, feel free to run your feet over it. I assure you, it kills the pangs in moments!” She gestured, the turn of her hand both graceful and inviting. I never once had thought I would actually sit in her presence unless recording, so moved uncertainly until she patted a cushion. “Sit! My neckhurts, craning up to see you! I asked for someone my age,” she said, her gaze direct as she studied me. “Are you younger?”
    “Nearly seventeen, your highness.”
    “No titles when we are alone. I am telling you now so that you will not form the habit. Try it.”
    She waited, so I said, “Nearly…”
    “Lasva.”
    I could not get that past my lips. Yet I knew it was hypocritical, because among my closest friends we dropped the titles as often as not, though I had taken great care to be formal if I might be overheard by anyone in authority. And I had always referred to her as
the princess
.
    Lasva’s eyes narrowed in speculation. She said slowly, “I think you have the habit already, do you not? There is that in your face—here.” She touched her cheeks, and her chin. “You say ‘Lasva’ among your friends, do you not? Or is it Lasthavais? Or something worse?”
    “Never,” I exclaimed.
    “Then you’ve heard it from others.” Again the chuckle. “So. I’ll be nineteen soon. You know, my Name Day is not Midsummer, unlike my sister, my mother, my grandmother, and in short, all orderly Lirendis for whom the Birth Spell worked.” She chuckled deep in her chest. “I persist in thinking that the reason my mother tried the Birth Spell at the age of seventy-nine, on a winter’s day, was whim. Or even a dash of wickedness. Or at least humor, though everyone insists she was always very good. And I should think, very dull and dutiful. There, are you scandalized? I never knew her, you see. I may say what I like: she brought me into the world and then, in effect, abandoned me, as she died not long after.”
    She smiled, her cheeks dimpling. Then she said, “Tell me about your education. I am guessing it matched a great deal of mine.”
    My mind flashed to the kitchen—and she said, with that narrow glance, “You are laughing inside. I can see it! Why?” Then she waved her hands. “Ah-ye, I can see it is a secret—my sister warned me not to pester you. I know you must obey, I know that trust comes when it will, and not by order. Someday, someday. Now, let us talk about your duties. Oh! They will have told you that staff is
strictly
—” She gestured toward Thorn Gate with an ironic flourish. “—forbidden to have passions with one another. However, I know that you scribes are trained to be discreet. So twistle with anyone you like, but…”