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“Conju! Hello… where are you? I need to talk to you, it’s important. Are you upstairs? Conju…” The insistent voice calling for me from the front hallway is familiar from any number of similarly energetic arrivals over the past two years. I have long since accepted that I shall never convince friends, family, and occasional strangers to knock prior to entering the house, and that is doubly true for Dora, who is in and out with such frequency that she may as well live here. With Oura away studying sea life on Colhélhé, it is quite possible that she does; far be it from the rest of the household to inform me one way or the other.
I lay down my needlework with a sigh and rise from the comfortable nest I have made of my armchair. It is my favorite spot at this time of day. The light through the windows makes my embroidery silks gleam so beautifully. Our household knows well not to disturb me at my work—they tiptoe through with offerings of tea and baked goods, but aside from a hand briefly dropped to my shoulder, or a well intentioned and highly unnecessary adjustment to the drape of my shawl, they leave me alone. The greater Mdang family, on the other hand, may know of my preferences, but they have an unfortunate propensity for considering themselves exempt.
At the great age of fourteen going on fifteen—nearly grown, or so I am led to believe—one might expect Dora could be persuaded to somewhat temper her high spirits or, if that proves to be beyond her abilities, at the very least her volume. She has in many ways been eager to accept my tutelage as relates to matters of style and comportment; she is perfectly capable of presenting herself as a sober and thoughtful young person when she chooses to. On such occasions, I might even be fooled into taking the performance for truth were it not for the sly amusement in her sunlit brown eyes. She is not Cliopher’s child, nor is she Fitzroy’s, but the gods know there are times when I’m convinced she may as well be.
There is a distinct restiveness to the waiting silence. I can predict almost to the second the moment when her patience snaps, immediately followed by the pat-pat-pat of bare feet bounding up the outside stairs. Dora bursts into the room, the late afternoon glow and flower-laden breezes seemingly following in her wake. “There you are!” she declares, dramatically aggrieved as only a fourteen year old Mdang can be. “You didn’t answer.”
I raise an eyebrow at her, pointedly straightening my sleeves before answering, “I prefer not to bellow my responses. I would have come down in my own good time.”
“But you were taking so long,” she wails.
“Do not imagine that whining will prompt me to adjust my pace, Dora Mdang. Complain all you like; I will not be rushed. I survived the Fall. I survived a thousand years as the Last Emperor’s Groom of the Chamber. Despite the combined efforts of the Ouranatha, the Council of Princes, the Red Company, and the gods, I even survived the Jubilee. I can certainly outlast your whimpering.”
The little minx has the temerity to giggle. “Oh, Conju,” she says fondly, winding her arms around me and kissing my cheek, “I’m sorry I’m such a trial.” Her eyes glint with poorly hidden laughter. My housemates—even I, on rare occasions—have clearly indulged her excessively. This is my punishment.
“You are an incorrigible child,” I scold. “Now, let go; you’ll wrinkle me.” I fold back into my chair and gesture to one nearby—Rhodin’s favorite, but he’s not here to mind—and instruct her, “Go sit. Take a few breaths and gather your thoughts, then you can tell me all about your urgent situation.”
She dutifully follows my instructions, breathing in, breathing out. Then, apropos of nothing, she blurts,“Timely, I think.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s timely, not urgent. It sounds better that way. Cousin Fitzroy says….”
I do not roll my eyes, which I consider a great forbearance on my part. Instead, I observe neutrally, “So he does.” The poet laureate’s views on the importance of choosing just the right word in every instance are a matter of frequent dinner table discussion. I doubt very much that they are especially pertinent to this conversation, however. “Now, my dear, what problems do you have for me?” Cliopher wields that question with devastating effectiveness. I have lately adopted it for occasions such as this one.
She sits stiffly in her chair, suddenly very serious. “What do you know about the Princess of Kavanduru?”
The question takes me aback. It is a Solaara question—a palace question—not something I would ever expect here in Gorjo City. I find myself curiously disconcerted by this collision of my old life and my new, particularly coming from Dora, who is hardly more than a child. Fortunately for my equilibrium, I am not the best source of information available in this instance. “Cliopher and Fitzroy are both better able to answer this question than I; I had blessedly little to do with the Council of Princes. Have you asked them?”
Dora’s face falls. “I did! They gave each other that look—you know the one—and told me to talk to you. Please, Conju. Is she terrible? Is that why no one wants to tell me about her?”
I take in a deep breath and let it out gradually, contemplating as I do the ways in which I might make Cliopher and Fitzroy pay for foisting this topic off on me. “I see. Well. The Princess of Kavanduru isn’t bad as members of the Council go—younger and somewhat more open-minded than most, I would say, although that is an admittedly low bar. I can’t claim to know her well.”
Dora’s face is a study in apprehension. I do not have enough information to know why. “I can better answer your questions if I understand the reasons behind them.”
“You know Jiano is holding a conference next month at the university?” she queries. I do, of course; the conference is the first of what the Paramount Chief hopes will be a series. The curriculum is very socialist; Cliopher and Fitzroy are hugely supportive.
“Aya has consulted me on several points of coordination. I have been happy to lend my assistance. Happier still that I am no longer expected to organize the whole event myself. I take it, then, that your question has something to do with the conference.”
Dora nervously twists a strand or two of hair around her fingers. “Since the Vangavaye-ve is so far away from the rest of the provinces, Jiano has encouraged the attendees to bring their families and vacation in the islands. Aya has been taking names of people interested in providing childcare. I signed up.”
“And someone in the Princess’s entourage has requested your services? I can see how that might cause some concern.”
“Not the Princess’s entourage,” Dora says gloomily, “the Princess. She saw my family name and asked for me specifically.” She flops over the arm of the chair, arguably still seated, but hair and arms dangling almost to the floor. I experience a strong wave of nostalgia for the little girl who used to assume the same improbable position whenever she felt overwhelmed.
I find I must discreetly clear my throat. I am not choking up; I will not allow it.
Dora pushes herself back into a seated position and looks at me piteously. “What do I do, Conju? I’m not you or Cousin Kip or Cousin Fitzroy. I don’t know how to treat a princess. I only know how to treat an emperor who doesn’t want to be one.”
“I hope you do not feel you are obliged to babysit the Princess’s children because of Cliopher’s past position.” Cliopher would be appalled if that were the case; I am relieved when she shakes her head in the negative. I go on, as gently as I am able, “If you do not feel you can manage it, my dear, no one will force you to accept the assignment. There is still time for someone else to be hired in your stead.” It is not my intention to issue one of the Mdang family’s so-called challenge songs, but I can see by the way Dora straightens in her seat, her chin coming up, that I have done just that.
“I have to do it, though. She asked for me. And she’s paying three times what the other attendees are offering.” She is as firm now as she was hesitant a moment ago. “Only… would you help me? Please? You know everything about etiquette, and I only know the things you’ve tried to hammer into my head so far.”
“Of course I will.”
She smiles at me, a look of relief in her eyes. “Thank you!” Bashfully, she inquires, “Is it all right if I hug you again?”
“You may.” She leaps from her chair. Upon seeing my disapproving wince, she slows to an almost sedate pace as she crosses to me in my chair and leans down to hug me gently around the shoulders. She even thinks to have a care for my new robes. She stands and gravely bows in the Islander fashion, then spins on her heel with somewhat more enthusiasm than grace. I make a soft tsk-ing noise at her. Turning back towards me, she must see something in my bearing that she takes as encouragement, for with an impish expression on her face, she shrugs theatrically.
For this brief moment, I am indulgent—I am well aware. I confess, I am also quite curious. “Dora, what prompted you to sign up for this? You must surely be younger than the usual candidate.”
“Oh,” she leans forward, eyes huge and shimmering golden-brown. “Can you keep a secret?” As if the Cavalier Conju enazo Argellian an Vilius must dignify that with an answer! She flashes a grin and answers her own question. “Oh, that’s silly; of course you can. I’m saving for the sea train.” Charmingly, she confides, “I want to see the world, and see for myself what my cousins have built. If I work very hard, I’ll have enough money by the time I graduate high school.”
“An adventure both Cliopher and Fitzroy would approve of, I’m sure. Where do you intend to go?”
She smiles brilliantly. “Everywhere.” I am incapable of doing anything but smile in return. I shall go back to being strict tomorrow.
The smallest of zephyrs dances through the room, bringing with it a hint of spices and wood smoke, a trace of unfamiliar flowers, and beneath them and a part of them, the barest, unmistakable breath of the Wild. I don’t expect she notices yet, but I do. Oh, I do.