Arista’s first official session as ambassador was finished. As bad as it had been, it was over. With Sauly gone, she could shelve thoughts of church and state, guilt and blame. Stress that had smothered her for days evaporated and at last she was able to feel the growing excitement that bubbled all around her.
From everywhere people rushed to join the growing train. Some arrived with nothing but a small linen bag tucked under one arm, while others led their own personal train of packhorses.
There were those who commanded multiple wagons loaded with tents, food, and clothes. One well-dressed merchant carried velvet upholstered chairs and a canopy bed on top of a wagon.
A loud banging hammered the roof of the coach, shocking both of them. Gingerbread men flew. “Oh dear!” Bernice gasped. A moment later Mauvin Pickering’s head appeared in the window, looking down and inside from the back of his horse so that his dark hair hung wildly.
“So how did it go?” He grinned mischievously. “Do I need to prepare for war?”
Arista scowled.
“That good, huh?” Mauvin went on, heedless of the commotion he had caused. “We’ll talk later. I have to find Fanen before he starts dueling someone. Hiya, Hilfred. This is going to be great. When was the last time we were all camping together? See ya.”
Bernice was fanning herself with both hands, staring up at the roof of the coach, her mouth slack. Seeing her and the little army of gingerbread men scattered on the benches, in the curtains, on the floor, and in her lap, Arista could not help smiling.
“You were right, Bernice. The cookies did cheer me up.”
“See him?” Fanen pointed to the man in the brown suede doublet. “That’s Sir Enden, possibly the greatest living knight after Sir Breckton.”
After another day’s travel that left her drowsy, Arista was at the Pickerings’ camp, hiding from Bernice. The two boys shared an elegant single-peak tent of alternating gold and green stripes, which they had pitched at the eastern edge of the main camp. The three sat out front under the scallop-edged canopy held up by two tall wooden poles. On the left flew the gold falcon on the red field of the House of Essendon, on the right the gold sword on the green field of the House of Pickering. It was a modest camp compared to most of the nobles’. Some looked like small castles and took hours for a team of servants to erect. The Pickerings traveled lightly, carrying everything they needed on their stallions and two packhorses. They did not have tables or chairs and Arista sprawled in a modest gown on a sheet of canvas. If Bernice saw, the old woman would have a heart attack.
Arista did not mind. She thought it was wonderful to lie back and stretch out under the sky. It reminded her of Summersrule when they were kids. At night the adults would dance and the children would lie on the south hill at the Pickerings’ home of Drondil Fields, counting the falling stars and fireflies. It had been all of them then—Mauvin, Fanen, Alric, even Lenare—back before the boys’ sister became too much of a lady. She remembered the feel of the cool night breeze rushing over her, the sensation of grass on her bare feet, the vast spray of stars above, and the faint melody of the band as it played “Calide Portmore,” the Galilin folk song.
“And there, see the large man in the green tunic? That’s Sir Gravin; he’s a quester. He does most of his work for the Church of Nyphron. You know—recovering artifacts, slaying monsters, those kinds of things. He’s known to be one of the greatest adventurers alive. He’s from Vernes; that’s all the way down near Delgos.”
“I know where Vernes is, Fanen,” Arista replied.
“That’s right, you have to know all that stuff now, don’t you?” Mauvin said. “Your High Exulted Ambassadorship.” The elder Pickering offered an elaborate seated bow.
“Laugh now—just you wait,” she told him. “You’ll get yours—one day you’ll be marquis. Then it won’t be all fun and games. You’ll have responsibilities, mister.”
“I won’t,” Fanen said sadly.
If not for his being three years younger, Fanen could be Mauvin’s twin. Both had the dashing Pickering features: sharp angled faces, dark thick hair, bright white teeth, and sweeping shoulders that tapered to narrow, athletic waists. Fanen was just leaner and a bit shorter, and unlike Mauvin, whose hair was always a frightful mess, Fanen kept his neatly combed.
“That’s why you need to win this thing,” Mauvin told his brother. “And, of course, you will, because you’re a Pickering, and Pickerings never fail. Look at that guy over there. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
Arista did not bother sitting up. He had been doing this all night—pointing out people and explaining how he could tell by the way they walked or wore their swords that Fanen could best them. She had no doubt he was right; she was just tired of hearing it.
“What is the prize for this contest?” she asked.