Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [205]
“Excellent thinking. Yes. I will ride at once.” She looked around; Lady dy Hueltar was bustling back into the tent leading a maid carrying an armload of clothing. “Ah, good.”
Ista’s satisfaction died as she saw the dress the maid was shaking out for her; a fine layered silk, suitable for a court function, in widow’s dark green. “This is not riding dress.”
“Of course not, dear Ista,” said Lady dy Hueltar. “It is for you to wear to breakfast with us all.”
“I shall take a cup of tea and a bite of bread, if such may be had in this camp, and ride at once.”
“Oh, no,” said Lady dy Hueltar, in a tone of earnest correction. “The meal is being prepared. We are all so looking forward to celebrating having you with us again, just as it should be.”
The feast would take two hours, Ista estimated, maybe three. “One mouth the less will not be missed. You all must eat anyway before you break camp; it will not be wasted.”
“Now, Lady Ista, do have sense.”
Ista’s voice dropped. “I ride. If you will not bring me the clothing I asked for, I will send Liss through the camp to beg me some. And if none is to be had, I’ll ride in my nightgown. Or naked, if I must.”
“I’d share my clothes with you, Royina,” Liss offered at once, clearly bemused by that last image.
“I know you would, Liss.” Ista patted her shoulder.
Lady dy Hueltar drew herself up in offense, or possibly defense. “Lady Ista, you mustn’t be so wild!” Her voice grew hushed. “You wouldn’t want people thinking you had been overtaken by your old troubles again, after all.”
Ista was tempted, for a dangerous moment, to test just how much sorcerous power the Bastard had endowed her with. But the target was too small and unworthy, pitiable in her way. A natural sycophant, Lady dy Hueltar had made her way in the world most comfortably for the past two decades as companion to the old Provincara, enjoying an imagined indispensability and the status lent her by her august patron. It was clear she wished that pleasant existence to continue; and it could, if only Ista would move into her mother’s place and take up her mother’s life. All just as before, indeed.
Ista turned to the maid. “You, girl—fetch me some riding clothes. White if they may be had, or whatever color, but in any case, not green.”
The girl’s mouth opened in panic; she glanced back and forth between Ista and Lady dy Hueltar, torn between conflicting authorities. Ista’s eyes narrowed.
“Why must you even go to Porifors?” asked Lady dy Hueltar. Her seamed face worked with distress, close to tears. “With your brother’s troop to escort us, we could surely start back to Valenda right from here!”
She must take deeper thought for Lady dy Hueltar, Ista decided, for in truth her years of service had earned her some consideration. But for the moment, Ista meant to ride. She unclenched her teeth and said mildly, “Funerals, dear Lady dy Hueltar. They will be burying the dead today at Porifors. It is my solemn duty to attend. I will wish you to bring me the proper attire when you follow on.”
“Oh, funerals,” said Lady dy Hueltar, in a tone of relieved enlightenment. “Funerals, oh, of course.” She had accompanied the old Provincara to a multitude of such ceremonies. It only seemed their primary entertainment in late years, Ista supposed dryly, though she’d be hard-pressed to name a commoner one. But Lady dy Hueltar understood funerals.
She won’t understand these. But it wouldn’t matter. For the moment, at least, her customary role seemed safely confirmed to her. The old lady brightened instantly.
She actually unbent so far as to go find Ista riding dress, while Liss went to saddle Demon and Ista gulped tea and bread. The costume’s pale tan color even looked good atop the chestnut stallion, Ista fancied, settling at last into the saddle. The ride would limber her stiff body, at least. She had a lingering headache, but she knew its