They walked out of the shelter of the trees into bright sunlight, an open part of the grounds that would draw sun all day long. Here stretched the long pond bordered by tall papyruses. It was bordered by a wooden walkway. Berenene led Briar up onto it. “I hate to lose good shoes in the mud,” she explained, “and we have to keep the edges boggy for the reeds. Do you know what those are?” She pointed through a break in the greenery at the pond’s edge.
Briar whistled. “Pygmy water lilies,” he said, recognizing the small white blossoms among the spreading leaves. “Nice.”
“I tried to crossbreed them,” the empress said, leaning her elbows on the rail that overlooked the pond. “I wanted a red variety. I’ve had no luck, so far. But you might.”
“It would take longer than I plan to stay,” Briar told her, watching a father duck patrol the water near a stand of reeds. I’ll bet he’s got a lady friend with eggs hidden there, he thought. To the likes of him this expensive little stretch of water is just a nesting-place.
“It’s a pity,” replied Berenene. “I think between us we would create gardens the whole world might envy. But if your mind is settled, I would not try to change it.”
A glint of light on the far side of the long pond caught Briar’s eye. “Imperial Majesty, I think you might change any fellow’s mind, if you chose to,” he said gallantly, but absently. “What’s over there?”
“My greenhouses. Would you care to see them? Or would you think I was trying to tantalize you?” Berenene inquired wickedly.
Briar looked into her eyes and swallowed hard. If Rosethorn was here, she’d say this was way too much woman for me, he thought. And maybe she’d even be right.
Berenene gave him a long, slow smile. “Come.” She took his arm once more as they set off down the wooden walkway. The hammer of many shoes on the planks made the empress turn and scowl. “You all have my leave to remain here,” she said sharply. “We’re going to the greenhouses, and you know I can’t let any of you in.” To Briar, she said, “The last time I went there with three—three, mind!—of my courtiers, one of them knocked over a palm and one broke a shelf of clay pots. They’re all grace on the dance floor or battlefield, but not in a greenhouse.”
Briar looked back, met the smoldering eyes of a number of young nobles, and grinned.
6
Once the empress and Briar vanished into the long greenhouses, servants appeared with ground cloths to spread on the grass. The nobles occupied benches or cloths in the sun to await Berenene’s return. Small groups wandered through a complex of flower gardens nearby, while Rizu invited Daja to sit with her and some of Berenene’s other ladies-in-waiting. Sandry, unwatched for a moment, stepped back under a shady tree. She looked on as Jak, Finlach, and other men who had eyed Berenene as they hovered around Sandry formed a clump of watchers. Their eyes were fixed on the greenhouses as they muttered to one another.
“Silly amdain,” a man said near her right shoulder.
Sandry glanced back and up. She had seen him in the crowd, the hunter who had been so angry with Chime. He was a tall man even not on horseback, with glossy dark blond hair, direct brown eyes, and a clever mouth. It was a face that was made for smiling, which he was doing at that very moment. “Why do you say that?” she asked, knowing amdain meant fool in Namornese.
“Her Imperial Majesty sets her pretty boys to courting you, and the moment she isn’t here to make them hop, they start sulking about her and ignoring you. In their shoes, I wouldn’t grumble about her walking off with your friend.” He stood loosely, his green coat open, his hands in the pockets of his baggy black trousers. “I’d be making certain you remembered my name when you went home tonight.”
Sandry raised her chin. “If you were present earlier, you’d know I don’t care for flattery.”
He grinned down at her. “What flattery? I’m talking common sense. Here you are, all the way from Emelan. You have to be more interesting than most of my friends, who know nothing but the roads between their lands and the imperial palaces.”
Sandry covered a giggle. He wasn’t as obviously handsome as redheaded Finlach or swarthy Jak, but he was good-looking in a friendly, approachable way. I wonder if his nose got that flat bit in the middle when someone hit it? she asked herself. “Forgive me,” she said with a smile of her own. “You must think I’m dreadfully conceited.”
“No, but you must feel like bait at the moment,” he told her. He offered her a large hand. “I’m Pershan fer Roth. Shan.”
Sandry let him take her hand. “Sandrilene fa Toren. Sandry.” His grip was warm, strong, and nicely brief, after so many men had already tried to make a romance of a handclasp. “Let’s see,” she murmured, looking at him. “Are you a cleham? Bidis? Saghad? Giath?” The last title was equal to that of duke.
“No, no, no, and no. My father’s the giath, my older brother the heir. I’m just Shan,” he said with a scapegrace grin. “I’m Master of the Hunt. In other words, I tell the servants what to do, and they make all the arrangements.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you enjoy the post,” Sandry remarked.
“It beats crop management for my father and brother. Here I’ve little to do except inspect the hunting gear and animals from time to time, scout new places to hunt, flirt with pretty girls, distract their mothers and chaperones for my friends, and make Her Imperial Majesty laugh. The life of a younger son at the empress’s personal court.”