The hall was afire with the light of a thousand chandeliers, some as big as a baby’s fist and others as the grandest of palaces. Their shivering light was reflected in the water below, the hall’s floor. In it lived all sorts of fish, and above it were the finest lords and ladies of the realm dancing in colourful, dashing clothes to the rhythm of the sweetest music.
The greatest of these lords was Lord Moustachio, Head of The King. He was a tall, thin yet strong man. Fair, fair of hair, brown of eyes and with a thick long moustachio spreading in spirals as a tree does in branches. Some as big as an arm and others as thin as a single hair.
Among the ladies only one stood out to Lord Moustachio. She wore a white yukata with cherry blossom and snowflake patterns. Silver kanzashis hid in the darkness of her hair, and a black obi went around her perfect form. The Lady of Yi Tai. Pale, cold, graceful in her modesty. A true lady.
‘My lady,’ said Lord Moustachio, offering her his gloved hand. ‘I feared you did not receive my invitation. I was afraid you would not come.’
The Lady of Yi Tai bowed respectfully in greeting, gently accepted it in her pale delicate hand. They danced.
‘What brings you here, my lady?’
‘A man,’ she replied.
‘Does he happen to be rich?’
‘In virtue.’
‘Is he well acquainted with the high echelons of society?’
‘Only the lower ones,’ she replied.
‘Is he afraid of heights?’
‘Only of reaching too far.’
She amused him. He would have her.
He spun her. Her long white hair enveloped them like a curtain. Her cold breath; a fog, a veil, a scarf that surrounded them with its whiteness. She was dazzling. Enchanting. A true beauty. Unlike those harpies who insisted on painting their faces to recall days long gone, hers was unsullied.
She was pure. Untouched. And yet there was something about her that deeply troubled him.
‘He must be a complete man,’ he countered.
‘No, he is missing one arm, and my lord is quite…’ she whispered in his ear ‘full.’
He shivered with cold. The hairs from his neck rose of pleasure. She was well informed, he observed.
‘Is it true what they say?’ she asked.
A half-breed, he observed. That was what had been bugging him. She would fetch a good price at the slave market. To the untrained eye she was just another foreigner, but to the experienced senses secrets were revealed, and so they were to him. Her demeanour was graceful, calm, serene, respectful and composed, proper of the fabled ladies of Yi Tai. But her eyes, they were slightly bigger. No, rounder than usual. Almond-shaped, like those of the land of the minarets. And proud, very deep within them a fiery pride abode.
This was proper of the strange land of Ibar, realm of the falcata. A barbaric land where men and women were said to be equal, and if legends were true, a land where her people would rather die and eat one another than surrender to their enemy. But there was more to her, he noticed. Her hair was unusually black, even by oriental standards. And her skin, snow would shy away ashamed and the Moon would hide her face. It was a delightful contrast. Broken only by her astonishing, cold, blue eyes. And the coldness that inhabited her and her whole being.
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She spoke the language perfectly, with an almost unnoticeable eastern accent, but that only made her, as the people of Lys often said, more charmant. She was as dangerous as she was beautiful and intelligent.
‘Aye,’ said Lord Moustachio. ‘According to the reports “something odd” was found by a group of soldiers, nought but a scale. Smaller than diamond dust, if I may say so. It attached itself to one of the soldier’s arms but nothing was made of it. Just a silly jest by the lads, some may say. Nothing of import happened before it. It was after when events turned interesting.
‘As it happened that fateful day the king of Lys was on a visit to Bruttania, and be it caprice, chance, or boredom he wanted to visit the barracks and see our troops. “To raise their morale!” he said. But when he came to ‘our feverish lad’ and shook his bandaged, rotten, black arm, he fell to the ground… a pile of ash. So said the reports of Ser Bitterbridge, who was looking after him; his health and fever.
‘But there is more to it, my lady. Apparently his whole family was also murdered: burned. Not even the servants were left alive, all that we could recover were heaps of ash.’
‘I want him by the morrow,’ she said softly, her cold hand against his chest.
‘It will cost you.’
‘A night?’
‘Nothing so vulgar,’ said Lord Moustachio puffing himself up indignated, like a big turkey. ‘Another favour, just as big.’
‘Fifteen days,’ she offered, their heads almost touching.
‘Seventeen,’ he could smell the fragrance of cherry blossoms from her hair.
‘Twelve.’ They stopped. The music resumed unaltered.
‘Three,’ Lord Moustachio closed in with a tone that offered no reply. He could almost kiss her. ‘Releasing the youth will be difficult my lady. And costly. He is—or rather was—a common soldier in the care of lords Gor, Ghor, and Gore, guardians of the realms of Highwit, Midwit, and Lackwit, and in whose dungeons he resides.
‘You will also have to take into account the… ah, countries rising in arms for the affront committed; Bruttania in self-defence, and Lys to avenge the death of her king. If accounts are correct troops are currently marshalling in Argos, its capital, guided and led by their ‘new’ ruler: the charmant Le Roi de France, and under the command of his fateful dog: Napoleon.
‘They will pursue you until the ends of the world. No doubt. You will have no time to respire peacefully, my lady. Two countries behind your back, boiling civil unrest and turmoil in both… and the prize: a head. If you provide me with the time I need, then you shall have a wayn, two mules, and a dying boy on it. As well as safe passage, as far as I can provide you with.’
‘What do I have to fear when I have the might of the Empire of Yi Tai behind me?’ she leaned away. Their cold dance resumed.
‘A lost head. War. Hunger. Famine. Diseases. Sellswords. The darlings of war, my lady.’
‘And what is war, my lord?’
‘A game,’ he replied, amused.
‘A game for whom?’ she inquired.
‘A game for fools.’
‘Is my lord a fool?’
‘The greatest fool.’ He could feel her delicate hand in his. It was so cold his breath had turned to mist, frostbite creeping up his gloved hand.
‘For a king?’
‘For a woman.’
‘A prize?’
‘A challenge.’
‘Lost in a labyrinth.’
‘Then I shall find her with a thread.’
‘Folly,’ she cut.
‘Adventure,’ he replied. ‘I shall not leave so fair a lady alone with the Axis, the Volatile, the Inconsistency, the Paradox.’ He replied, amused. His voice barely a whisper in her ear.
Astonishment faintly showed in her eyes. Gone as quickly as it appeared. He noticed.
‘You surely did not expect a house as old as Halflower not to be aware of the legends surrounding it. Or of Yi Tai’s interests in it: the power to change the world.’
‘A world in constant change,’ she replied. ‘Look at Lady Brightsmile, she is a day older than she was yesterday.’
‘Yet you are still as fresh as Morn.’
‘Night will come.’
‘Then I shall keep you in the light.’
‘The stars will fade.’
‘Then I shall brighten them so you don’t lose your way,’ replied Lord Moustachio. ‘The interests of Yi Tai are safe with you, my lady. I shall not hinder you but aid you when I can. And once the time arrives, I shall have my price.’