Lord Golden, however, seemed indefatigable. As the evening progressed, and the tables were pushed to one side to enlarge the dancing space, he found a comfortable place near a fireside and held his court there. Many and varied were the folk who came to greet him and lingered to talk. Yet again it was driven home to me that Lord Golden and the Fool were two very distinct people. Golden was witty and charming, but he never displayed the Fool’s edged humor. He was also very Jamaillian, urbane and occasionally intolerant of what he bluntly referred to as “the Six Duchies attitude” toward his morality and habits. He discussed dress and jewelry with his cohorts in a way that mercilessly shredded any outside the circle of his favor. He flirted outrageously with women, married or not, drank extravagantly, and when offered Smoke, grandly declined on the grounds that “any but the finest quality leaves me nauseous in the morning. I was spoiled at the Satrap’s court, I suppose.” He chattered of doings in far-off Jamaillia in an intimate way that convinced even me that he had not only resided there, but been privy to the doings of their high court.
And as the evening deepened, censers of Smoke, made popular in Regal’s time, began to appear. Smaller styles were in vogue now, little metal cages suspended from chains that held tiny pots of the burning drug. Younger lords and a few of the ladies carried their own little censers, fastened to their wrists. In a few places, diligent servants stood beside their masters, swinging the censers to wreathe their betters with the fumes.
I had never had any head for this intoxicant, and somehow my mental association of Smoke with Regal made it all the more distasteful to me. Yet even the Queen was indulging, moderately, for Smoke was known in the Mountains as well as the Six Duchies, though the herb they burned there was a different one. Different herb, same name, same effects, I thought woozily. The Queen had returned to the high dais. Her eyes were bright through the haze. She sat talking to Peottre. He smiled and spoke to her, but his eyes never left Elliania as Dutiful led her through a pattern dance. Arkon Bloodblade had also joined them on the floor and was working his way through a succession of dance partners. He had shed his cloak and opened his shirt. He was a lively dancer, not always in step with the music as the Smoke curled and the wine flowed.
I think it was out of mercy for me that Lord Golden announced that the pain in his ankle had wearied him and he must, he feared, retire. He was urged to stay on, and he appeared to consider it, but then decided he was in too much discomfort. Even so, it took an interminable amount of time for him to make his farewells. And when I did take up his footstool and cushion to escort him from the merrymaking, we were halted at least four times by yet more folk wishing to bid Lord Golden good night. By the time we had clambered slowly up the stairs and entered our apartments, I had a much clearer view of his popularity at court.
When the door was safely closed and latched behind us, I built up our dying fire. Then I poured myself a glass of his wine and dropped into a chair by the hearth while he sat down on the floor to unwind the wrappings from his foot.
“I did this too tight! Look at my poor foot, gone almost blue and cold.”
“Serves you right,” I observed without sympathy. My clothing reeked of Smoke. I blew a breath out through my nostrils, trying to clear the scent away. I looked down on him where he sat rubbing his bared toes. I realized what a relief it was to have the Fool back. “How did you ever come up with ‘Lord Golden’? I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a more backbiting, conniving noble. If I had met you for the first time tonight, I would have despised you. You put me in mind of Regal.”
“Did I? Well, perhaps that reflects my belief that there is something to be learned from everyone that we meet.” He yawned immensely and then rolled his body forward until his brow touched his knees, and then back until his loosened hair swept the floor. With apparently no effort, he came back to a sitting position. He held out his hand to me where I sat and I offered him mine to pull him to his feet. He plopped down in the chair next to mine. “There is a lot to be said for being nasty, if you want others to feel encouraged to parade their smallest and most vicious opinions for you.”
“I suppose. But why would anyone want that?”
He leaned over to pluck the wineglass from my fingers. “Insolent churl. Stealing your master’s wine. Get your own glass.” And as I did so, he replied, “By mining such nastiness, I discover the ugliest rumors of the keep. Who is with child by someone else’s lord? Who has run themselves into debt? Who has been indiscreet and with whom? And who is rumored to be Witted, or to have ties to someone who is?”
