Masquerades - Kate Novak [82]
Alias spotted a flash of blue and purple, and thinking it might be Durgar, moved in that direction. At this point, even the opinionated priest would be welcome company.
Fortunately, her rescue was much more pleasing. She spied Victor bolting down the gangplank in long, swift strides. His eyes were fixed on the pavilion at the end of the pier, where the carriages were still unloading guests. He could be looking for someone else, but Alias was determined not to let him hurtle past her without speaking to him. She stepped into his path with her hands folded in front of her as he approached.
Victor checked his stride so suddenly that he almost tripped himself. The anxious look he'd worn was fading into one of delight. "I'm sorry I wasn't at the pavilion to welcome you. There were so many last-minute-" The young noble interrupted himself. "You look radiant. I'm so glad you came."
Alias smiled. "So am I," she said. "Now. You look nice, too," she complimented him. He wore a three-quarter length tunic of cream-colored silk, trimmed in brown satin, and his hair glistened in the lamplight. Tonight he looked every bit the nobleman.
As Victor took her arm and ushered her up the gangplank onto the ship, a herald began announcing the ship's imminent departure. All guests, the herald insisted, should board the ship now.
There was a flurry of activity as the guests tried to move toward the gangplank quickly, yet without looking hurried or rudely jostling one another. Still, many people on the pier remained where they were, without moving.
"They don't all seem to believe your herald," Alias commented.
"They haven't all been invited," Victor explained. "They're petty nobles, lesser merchants and their hangers-on, come to see the boat off, hoping for some last-minute invitation."
Alias looked down and saw the woman who'd snubbed her among those not chosen for the voyage. The woman shot Alias a glare as killing as that of the basilisk that adorned her hair.
The last to board the ship was the ancient woman from the personal carriage. She hove herself out of her chair and ambled up the gangplank, leaning on a large, ornately carved staff on one side and the pale, blonde girl on the other. Despite the supports, there was nothing feeble about the woman's appearance. Her back was as straight as an elm tree, and she carried her head high.
"That's Lady Nettel Thalavar," Victor whispered in Alias's ear. "She's the only one of the merchant nobles who has even a dram of old Verovan's blood in her. She's a third cousin, two generations removed. She's outlived three husbands and rebuilt her clan's fortunes to nearly what they were in Verovan's day. The girl on her left is her granddaughter, Thistle."
"She's quite pretty," Alias said. "The granddaughter, I mean."
"Hmmm?" said Victor. "I can't look at her without
remembering how she used to tear through the streets as a child with her halfling nannies chasing after her. She was almost as troublesome as the halflings themselves. Her nickname back then was Dervish."
On the turret where the ballistae were mounted, a small group of musicians had set up two rebecs, a larger viol, and a dulcimer, led by a bard with a songhorn. The players launched into a soft, somber number that drifted along the length of the ship. The ship's first officer bellowed an order to cast off. As crew members unfastened the lines to the pier, the oarsmen on the near side began pushing off with poles. A moment later, Alias could feel a slow, steady beat on the floor, and all the oars moved, as one, in rhythm with the beat. The musicians picked up their tempo to match the beat, and the Dhostar's new galleass pulled out into Westgate's harbor.
Most of the guests stood at the buffet tables lined up down the center of the ship. The tables were laden to the groaning point with expensive delicacies and elaborately prepared dishes. Servants dressed in crisp white sailors' shirts replenished empty trays and answered questions about the food.
"Care