The Reluctant Champion

Genneret

"There's a deal of writing on this," complained the steward, squinting at the card he held.

"Yes. I wish you to read it exactly as written," replied Lidah, smoothing the front of her tunic. It was formal court attire, such as she had grown up wearing, but six months in the plainest peasant clothes left her feeling awkward and out of place in it.

"Most folks with writing like this give me their cards ahead of time so I have a chance to practice-up like," said the man, eyeing her dubiously.

She flashed him a look. "Indeed. You have exactly two seconds to 'practice-up like,'" she said. "Now will you open this door?"

He quailed a bit. "Yes, your highness. Forgive me, I'm sure." And he swung the great doors open with a sniff.

Lidah gave the steward a moment to get started on the contents of the card, then swept forward. As she did so she heard his voice—he really did have a wonderful voice—rolling out over her head and over the heads of the assembled throng.

"Lidah, princess of Napesh, daughter of his most royal highness the king of Napesh, mistress of the Sunset Islands, overseer of the Western Marches, guardian of the Royal College . . ."

" . . . and Queen of the May," whispered Lidah to herself as she always used to do, to distract herself from the sudden hush that had fallen over the hall. The recitation of titles and honors had always seemed extremely foolish to her, but there was no escaping it at any state occasion. Now she appreciated it as she never had before: it covered her entrance and gave everyone an excuse to stare while she slowly descended the steps into the huge hall.

The Countess and her tiring-woman had fluttered around her for ages before settling on this dress for her to wear. It was as simple as possible and as elegant; a slim length of ivory silk, falling from her shoulders to her feet. A long over-tunic embroidered in white on ivory. A peach silk shawl folded neatly across one shoulder and pinned at the opposite hip with an emerald. A small orchid clung to her hair, which was swept back and folded into a net sewn with seed pearls. And that was all the jewelry she had. The Countess had put a diamond necklace around her neck and then removed it; she had hung pearls from her ears and then put them away. And when Lidah had stood before them, in the simple dress and severe hairstyle, Countess and tiring-woman had looked at each other, nodded once, and put away the jewelry box.

What Lidah was to say and do had received as much attention as her clothes, but with less satisfactory results. Should she be bold or shy? Act as though she spoke with the authority of Napesh, or speak meekly for herself? Talk of politics or leave her mere presence to be a sufficient statement of protest?

"Everything is so uncertain," the Countess said. "I wish I knew what Colden thought this could accomplish."

"He told me he wanted to upset the board because he didn't like the way the game was going."

The Countess appeared rather struck by this. "Did he indeed. He shows rather more subtlety than I credited him with. Confusion. Yes. Create confusion."

Now, looking out over the brilliant crowd, Lidah wondered how confusion was to be accomplished.

Whoever had designed this hall had created a masterpiece of staging. At the far end, on a raised dais, sat the king and his court, nicely elevated so everyone could see them. At this end, new arrivals came through large double doors onto a balcony that allowed them to see and be seen throughout the hall. Then they turned left or right and descended broad semicircular stairs that paraded them before everyone before they reached the floor of the hall.

Lidah descended these steps carefully, gracefully, a slim, erect figure floating down to earth. The hall was full—as planned, she was arriving a full fifteen minutes after the last guest. She looked confidently out over the crowd, all their faces turned up to her now, all conversation halted.