Free The Sword of the Lady by S. M. Stirling Page A

instance.″
    ″Beautiful!″ she said. ″Those carved rose-crystal buttons down the front and sleeves, and the lace! I′ve never seen such fine needlework, either.″
    ″Well, Mother does have the best. But right from the beginning my parents went looking for craftspeople—they were thinking ahead.″
    She flicked her wrist, and the ivory leaves of her long-handled fan opened out to make a tracery of tiny figures that showed children dancing around a maypole.
    ″By now we have a lot of fine makers, for practical things and for beautiful ones as well. And not just in my mother′s Household. This was a present from a friend, Lady Delia de Stafford.″
    ″Lovely!″ Kate said, taking it for a moment and holding it up against a light.
    She hesitated and then went on: ″But . . . isn′t that dress . . . well, isn′t it all a bit cumbersome?″
    Mathilda laughed. ″It certainly is if you don′t have a lady-in-waiting and a couple of maidservants to help you on and off with it,″ she said. ″Which I suspect was part of the point—that′s why it′s a noblewoman′s style.″
    At home she wore male dress as often as her special status let her get away with it, and hated the constriction of the court fashion′s buttoned sleeves and bodice and the way you couldn′t lift your arms above your shoulders, and the long full skirts and the wrapped headdress, though even that was better than the tall cone-shaped ones. The two tunics and shift of commoner female costume were much more comfortable and less confining, but noblewomen could get away with that in only the most casual settings.
    She′d have just chucked the clothes chest, herself—God and His Mother knew that they′d lost most of the gear they′d started out with in Bend at one emergency or another, which had included everything from battle and headlong flight to million-strong stampedes of mad buffalo. Now she was glad she hadn′t insisted; it made her feel a little less frightened and homesick, and it emphasized that she wasn′t officially just a prisoner here.
    And the warm browns and golds of the silk and embroidery did complement her seal-brown hair and hazel eyes and warm light olive complexion. She wasn′t beautiful; her features took after her father′s, too bold and a little irregular, but she knew she could be striking.
    And I have to uphold the Portland Protective Association′s honor here. These Iowans think everyone else is a monkey from the wilds, or at best a hick.
    ″You look enchanting, your Highness,″ Odard Liu said.
    He came up to them, a middle-sized young man, black haired and olive-umber of skin, slim and elegant in parti-colored hose and curl-toed shoes with little silver bells, trailing dagged sleeves and hood with tippets and gold-link belt, his slanted blue eyes amused and his lute over his back, troubadour fashion.
    Some of the younger local gentry trailed after him, looking fascinated; the more so when he made an elaborate leg-bow and hand-flourish to both women, the long tail of his round flat nobleman′s hat fluttering and sweeping the floor as he drew it through the complex measure.
    ″And your Majesty is also enchanting in her own person, if I may be so bold,″ he went on to Kate Heasleroad. ″Your lord is to be envied for his wealth and power, but not least for the jeweled beauty of his consort.″
    Everyone loves flattery, but keep in mind that when people deal with royalty they lay it on with a trowel, Mathilda′s mother had told her once. Your friend Odard at least does it with some style.
    He′d also clung to the box with their last Court outfits inside like grim death, even when they were starving in that cave in the Rockies wondering if they′d have to eat the horses while the blizzards howled outside. He′d laid out gold here to have his gear repaired, too—and hers, to be sure.
    ″But though Iowa is rich and mighty, I say that only in Portland do we know how to praise fair ladies.″
    Odard brought his