Paula Volsky - Illusion_玖贝云文库

Illusion

by

Paula Volsky

Published by Victor Gollancz ltd.

ISBN: 0 575 05138 8

Chapter One.

When one of the serfs was caught with a bundle of seditious pamphlets

in his pocket, the Marquis vo Derrivalle was understandably infuriated.

Bad enough that a serf should be reading at all, for literacy

overburdened the menial mind, resulting in mental and moral injury.

That the pamphleteer in question should prove none other than the

execrable republican Shorvi Nirienne, whose writings the Marquis had

specifically proscribed, was doubly offensive; and it was more than

certain that the culprit, a featherheadedyoung dreamer by the name

ofZhen Suboson, was in serious trouble. Even now, Zhen was locked up

in the stable, awaiting interrogation and the inevitable punishment.

If he escaped with less than a dozen stripes, he'd be lucky. Before

sunset, the lad's fate would be decided. In the meantime, crazed

speculation ran rife among the field workers and house servants.

The Marquis vo Derrivalle's daughter Eliste might never have troubled

her head over such a matter, had it not been for the extraordinary

attitude of her maidservant Stelli Zeenosgirl. Sullen and

lackadaisical, with an expressionless nonchalance sometimes skirting

the edge of insolence, Stelli at the best of times was no prize; and

now, since the news of Zhen's arrest reached the chfiteau, she'd waxed

utterly incompetent. Within the space of two hours she had broken a

vial of perfume, overturned a jar of powder on the dressing table, torn

the lace on a morning negligee, and botched her mistress's coiffure so

abominably that Eliste, in despair, was forced to liberate the glinting

mass of fair curls, which now hung loose and unfettered as a child's.

It was really too tiresome. And yet Eliste, regarding herself in the

gold-flamed mirror on the dressing table, was forced to admit that the

juvenile style suited her very well. Her hair was certainly one of her

chief beauties, and what better way than this to display its enviable

sheen and extravagant length? Moreover, the curly tendrils spilling

over a clear white forehead somehow emphasised the changeable lustre of

the largest pair of thick-lashed grey eyes in the entire province, if

not in all the land of Vonahr. At seventeen, passionately loath to

play the ingenue, she aimed for sophistication.

For all of that, there could be no denying the effect of that great

honey cloud framing her heart-shaped face was delightful. She would

let it stay that way, at least for the rest of the day. Perhaps that

sulky jade Stelli had done her a good turn, if only by accident.

The mirror reflected most of the sunlit bedchamber, in all its

disorder. Open boxes and trunks stood scattered about the floor. The

armchairs and window seat were heaped high with gowns, petticoats,

fichus, shawls and manteaux, scarves, feathers and ribbons.

Hat boxes stood piled against one wall, silk and woollen stockings

dangled from the open bureau drawer, fans and gloves cluttered the

escritoire, shoes and boots and chopines lay underfoot, snowdrifts of

crumpled tissue paper rose in the corners. It was another week before

Eliste was scheduled to depart for the capital city of Sherreen to take

her place at court as a maid of honour to the Queen, but packing was a

protracted affair-one for which Stelli, as usual, displayed neither

aptitude nor enthusiasm. Even as Eliste looked on, the maid crushed a

thin muslin nightgown into a tiny ball, which she thrust by main force

into the depths of a too-full trunk.

Eliste stiflened with an irritation disproportionate to the offence.

It would have been different had she not been so certain that the other

girl, but a few years her senior, was deliberately destructive.

It was one thing to know, quite another to prove it. If taxed, Stelli

would doubtless plead inadvertence, in that monosyllabic, elusively

impertinent manner of hers. The thing was impossible to verify, and in

any case, really beneath notice. Taking a deep breath, the Marquis's

daughter addressed her maid with studied composure.

"Not there, girl. Take it out, fold it and put it in another box."

With a barely perceptible shrug, Stelli obeyed. Every movement a

wordless insult, she sauntered across the room, treading on scattered

garments as she went. An ivory fan cracked beneath her heel.

"Take care, clodhopper!" The exclamation burst from Eliste, and she

regretted it immediately for she, like many of the more progressive

among the Exalted class, deemed it cruel to reproach inferiors for the

limitations of intellect and ability imposed by Nature.

Stelli, however, appeared unmoved. The thick-skinned, dull

insensitivity of her kind armoured her against insult, or so it

appeared. In which case, what in the world accounted for the

maidservant's chronic ill-humour? Surely the girl, who owed her

present comfortable situation solely to the high esteem in which her

brother Dref was held by the vo Derrivalle family, ought to appreciate

her own singular good fortune? How could she be so stupidly

ungrateful? Occasionally Eliste wondered.

Stelli slouched to the bureau and began to sort through the jumble,

tossing hairpins and jewellery around with minimal efficiency and

maximal clatter. Presently she dropped the curling iron- perhaps by

accident, perhaps not- and the implement hit the floor with a solid

thunk.

Eliste started, jaw muscles tightening. Deliberately she relaxed,

striving to suppress all annoyance. In that instant she realised that

what she felt exceeded mere irritation, amounting to actual dislike,

which was clearly inappropriate. One might reprimand a clumsy or

incompetent servant one might express displeasure or dissatisfaction -

but one did not stoop to personal animosity.

Curiously, the reverse did not hold true. An easy, pleasant

condescension marked good breeding. Many of Eliste's friends and

family members liked certain individual serfs and servants; sometimes

even regarded them with warmth bordering upon real affection. She

herself liked Stelli's brother Dref immensely, and always had. She

liked him so much, in fact, that she would be sorry -yes, actually

sorry to leave him behind in a week's time. She might even miss him a

little. Did that, as she sometimes suspected, carry liking too far,

perhaps to the verge of absurdity? No, certainly not. Dref pleased

her, but she was equally fond of Hussy, the red satin mare that she

rode nearly every morning. She would miss beautiful Hussy. Likewise

she was fond of Prince vo Plume, the modishly minute lap dog that she

intended to carry with her to Sherreen. There was nothing ridiculous

in such affections they were indicative, in fact, of the tender if

wholly artificial sensibility appropriate to marriageable daughters of

the Exalted class. The gush of fashionable sentiment, however,

remained at all times suitably channelled, dammed as required by

standards of behaviour precluding so much as an instant's forgetfulness

of the vast gulf existing between Exalted and all other mortals.

Aristocratic education notwithstanding, Eliste personally disliked her

maid.

Having consciously recognised that fact at last, the mental response

was prompt: I will not take that sour slattern with me to Sherreen, she

thought. 1'll get another one and train her. That little wench

Kairthe, in the dairy- she looks bright and pleasant, she should do.

I hope Drefwon't be too disappointed that I don't want his sister.

If he is, too bad. The jade has been given every fair chance. Having

reached this decision, her mood improved at once.

Stelli was still jangling brooches and bracelets. She had not bothered

to pick up the fallen curling iron. Knowledge that the other's

blighting presence was but temporary enabled Eliste to speak

pleasantly. "Put that aside for now, girl. Come here and brush my

hair." Stelli dropped a handful of jewellery. One of the bracelets

rolled off the bureau and on to the floor. She ignored it. In silence

she crossed to the dressing table, took up the brush and attacked her

mistress's hair as if raking burrs from the tail of a plough horse.

Eliste endured the punishment in silence for a time. At last a

particularly vicious tug yanked her head backward so violently that a

cry of angry pain was wrung from her.

"You stupid, clumsy slut, get out of here before I slap you!"

Instantly Eliste coloured to the roots of her hair. Never before had

she spoken so to an inferior. She was always kind to animals and

serfs, and she entertained great contempt for women who beat their

servants without good cause. In yelling and threatening, she violated

her own standards of behaviour, and was correspondingly ashamed.

Stelli seemed neither frightened nor offended. Rather, her black brows

rose slightly, and her lips curled in the satisfaction of confirmed

expectation. She laid the hairbrush on the dressing table with

elaborate care.

[LLUSION I

Ridiculous, absurd, humiliating, to engage in a contest of wills with

an insolent servant, as if she were an equal. Sure Iv the liberality

of such so-called ell lightened modern philosophers as Rees-Raas

Zhumeau and Stalvo Jouvelle, who prated of human fraternity and

universal education, was never meant to include recalcitrant menials?

The puerile rantings of renegade lawyers and journalists like Karri

Del, or the dangerous Shorvi Nirienne. who openly called for the

restriction of traditional Exalted privilege certainly these things

inspired entertaining debate with house guests in the quiet hour before

dinner. But they were stimulating intellectual exercises, nothing more,

and what had they to do with reality? The real world held no place for

such impracticality.

Stelli hadn't gone yet. She was still standing there, feet planted

firmly, arms akimbo, stance expressing a graceless, dogged

determination. Was she deaf as well as disagreeable?

"Didn't you hear me, girl?" Eliste could rarely bring her sell' to

pronounce the other's name. "Get out. Go busy yourself elsewhere.

Tell the housekeeper to find you something to do." This was a

deliberate insult. A lady's maid was never expected to lower herself

to the level of the ordinary household servants. An angry tirade could

scarcely have expressed Eliste's disapprobation more forcefully, but as

always, Stelli seemed indifferent. Incredibly, she did not move.

Still she stood there, staring at her mistress's face in the mirror.

Eliste's brows drew together, and her cheeks flushed. Given the

provocation, she had proved patient; at this point, however, additional

indulgence could only be interpreted as weakness, which ought never to

be displayed. Serfs were notoriously quick to exploit the weakness of

their masters, but they were calmer and actually happier when ruled

with a firm hand. Eliste drew a deep breath, but the reprimand died

unspoken on her lips as she met her servant's reflected gaze. Stelli's

eyes- dark as obsidian and usually about as expressive now blazed with

an odd mixture of defiance and something that almost seemed like fear.

The expression was so startling that Eliste forgot her anger.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked, kindly enough.

Stelli, fully prepared to withstand verbal assault, was taken unawares

by the unusual forbearance. Scowling and uncertain, she folded her

arms.

"Come, what is it?" Eliste persisted, curiosity aroused.

Stelli hesitated. The olive-skinned face beneath the frilled mobcap,

ordinarily so impassive, now reflected conflicting emotions.

Eliste waited expectantly, and at last the maid replied with an effort,

"It's Zhen... miss." As always, she pronounced the honorific with

perceptible reluctance. "Who?" "Zhen Suboson. My lord the Marquis

has Zhen locked up in the stable. What will happen to him now?" "Oh,

the boy caught with the pamphlets, is that who you mean?" Stelli

nodded.

"Well' Eliste shrugged, 'he'll be punished, no doubt. He certainly

deserves it." Deserves?" "He disobeyed my father's orders.

What's more, he must have done so quite intentionally. The Marquis can

hardly let that pass, can he?" "What will be done to Zhen?" "Oh-'

Perceiving the other's concern, Eliste responded with easy compassion,

'nothing too dreadful. Perhaps a few stripes, scarcely more. Father

is no barbarian. The lad need hardly fear for his limbs." Her

reassurance was more than rhetorical. In an earlier, more violent age,

erring serfs were commonly subject to mutilation and dismemberment.

Times had changed, however, and the current enlightened generation of

the Exalted limited corporal punishment to flogging, kicking and the

pillory, except in extreme cases.

Stelli seemed to have trouble translating her feelings into words.

At last she replied, with evident difficulty,

"Zhen mustn't be beaten." "It won't be so bad. It will be over

quickly, and then his slate will be clean." "No. He mustn't be

beaten." "What, are you saying he's innocent?" "Yes. Innocent.

That's right." "Foolery. He was caught carrying Nirienne's

scribblings. How do you account for that?" "It's only paper and ink.

He shouldn't be beaten for such a trifle." "Don't you understand the

principle involved? My father has banned Nirienne's writings from this

estate. Your friend Zhen wilfully disobeyed, and that is why he must

be punished. He won't really be hurt, and if this teaches him to

behave himself, then everyone will be the better for it. Can't you see

that?" "Zhen's done nothing so bad."

Stelli's grasp of principle appeared weak. "He mustn't be beaten. He

can't bear it." "Well, I'm afraid he'll have to. If he's a bright

lad, then he'll learn his lesson, and there's an end to the affair. No

one will hold a grudge against him." "You don't understand." "What do

you say to me?" Again, Eliste's astonishment overcame anger at the

servant's remarkable impudence.

"You don't understand. Zhen mustn't be beaten, he can't bear it.

He isn't strong. He isn't like most of us, he can't endure abuse."

"Abuse? You don't know what you're saying. Really, you are stupid."

"No doubt. Well, you're the smart one here. miss." A touch of

sarcasm? Would she dare? It was unclear, and in any case, too trivial

to bother about.

"What I'm saying is, Zhen's always been kind of puny," Stelli continued

with unwonted expansiveness. "He's skinny, he's got a weak stomach, he

can't take the heat in the fields, and he gets these fainting fits."

"The details are unnecessary." "He's sort of weak, and not meant to

take a beating. And I've been thinking-' Clearly it was difficult for

Stelli to ask for anything, but the cause overcame her reluctance and

she continued stoically.

"I've been thinking that you might ask your father to go easy on Zhen.

Will you, miss?" "Well I don't know, it might not be quite so simple

as that." Intrigued by the novelty, Eliste swung round in her chair to

face her servant. "To begin with, Father's angry, and not all that

likely to heed my advice. Beyond that, I'm not quite certain this is

right. It might be best in the long run that the boy learn his lesson

now- "He's learned it, miss. He's learned it, you may be certain of

that." "You sound very definite. Do you know him so well, then?" "He

is my intended." "Ah?" Eliste regarded her maid with interest. It

would seem that the sullen Stelli was human after all, and the rush of

surprised cordiality at the discovery threatened to overwhelm old

hostility.

'1 didn't know you were promised." "Zhen and I came to terms about

eight weeks ago, miss. Last week the steward handed down his

lordship's permission, and I thought our troubles were over. And now

this." Stelli's habitual insolence was expediently diminished. For

the moment at least, she looked and sounded almost winsome. "Zhen's

got no harm in him, he's just a dreamer. He wants looking after."

"Well. I never guessed." Eliste's sympathies were now fully engaged.

"We must see what we can do about this." "You'll speak up for Zhen,

miss?"

"Gladly." A sunrise smile lighted the servant's face she looked years

younger when she smiled and Eliste added,

"You mustn't rejoice too soon, Stelli. Father's annoyed, and he might

not listen to me. But I'll do my best- that much I can promise." "No

one could ask for more, miss. It's good of you, it truly is." Stelli

was unmistakably surprised. "It's very good. With you and my brother

both to speak up, Zhen's bound to come out of this healthy." "Your

brother? What's Dref to do with all this?" "He's promised to talk to

the Marquis." "Oh, that's a bad idea. He'd better not do that." "Why?

Dregs a real good talker." "Indeed he is- few better- but now isn't

the time. You see the fact is It was extraordinary to be explaining

matters to a servant, but somehow it seemed appropriate in this case.

"My father is now feeling that literacy among you people ought to be

discouraged, or perhaps forbidden altogether. It's too late in Dregs

case, of course.

Dref's been reading almost as long as I have-' "Longer." Stelli

mouthed the word silently, almost unconsciously.

' - but there's no point in reminding the Marquis of that just now - it

would only make things worse. Best to keep Dref out of this for the

moment. You understand me?" "Very well, miss, but I'm afraid it's too

late." Eliste's brows arched, and Stelli added,

"Dregs set to put his voice in with the Marquis. He's already on his

way. He'll be here any moment." Automatically Eliste rose and stepped

towards the window, then stopped as she realised her error. Her

bedroom was at the front of the house, its windows affording a view of

the manicured lawn and the long, tree-lined drive leading to the grand

front entrance reserved for family members and visitors of rank. Dref

would go to the back door, of course; his approach invisible from her

present vantage point.

She turned back, lifting her eyes to Stelli's face.

Eliste was moderately tall, but the other girl towered above her by

half a head, an unusual circumstance in a land where physical height

commonly denoted correspondingly high birth. Moreover, Stelli was

strapping and almost majestic; erect of carriage, broad shouldered,

strong, and so heroically proportioned that Eliste's slender form

seemed almost insubstantial by comparison. It was vaguely offensive

that a servant should look down upon her mistress from such imperial

height. It was more than presumptuous, it was somehow threatening, at

least in Stelli'scase. But Eliste was not thinking of that now. "Run

down to the kitchen door," she directed. "When you see DreL tell him

to go away. No, wait," she changed her mind, before Stelli had taken a

step. "You stay here and mend my gown you tore. 1'll tell him

myself." Without another word, she turned and hurried from the room.

After a moment, Stelli quietly followed.

Though her disordered sitting room sped Eliste, ignoring the plaintive

yaps of Prince vo Plume; out into the corridor whose ancient wall

hangings, remnant of a medieval past, depicted the warlike deeds of the

mailed vo Derrivalle ancestors; down the dog legged stairway, with its

dark bulbous balustrade heavily carved and fluted in the manner of the

past century; through chambers of old-fashioned, agreeably battered

size and comfort: along the uncarpeted pass-through to the vast

kitchen, unchanged for generations, without regard for the startled

stares of the lounging scullions; and thence through the tiny

mud-closet and out on to the old stone landing upon which the servants

were wont to promenade when the rainy season transformed lane and path

into rivers of mud. It was not the rainy season now. It was early

summer, and the hot, dusty air hazed softly over the Derrivalle fields,

pastures and vineyards. For weeks now, the weather had been fine. The

roads between the chfiteau and the city of Sherreen were now quite dry,

in optimal condition for Eliste's impending journey by coach. And that

was as it should be. For surely it was only right and proper that

Nature should accommodate herself as required to the needs of the

Exalted, her own most favoured children?

Eliste gazed south across the level green lawn bounded by an

undisciplined boxwood hedge. Behind the hedge lay the flower gardens,

and beyond the gardens the fields began, the cultivated rows stretching

on as far as the eye could see. To the south-east, a stand of

Derrivalle timber rose, the tall trunks masking the green brown

fishpond. On the far side of the pond, quite invisible from the house,

a cluster of cottages inhabited by the serfs; and then the thickly

forested hills, a picturesque and mysterious realm, reputedly the haunt

of brigands, ghouls and renegade magicians; and beyond doubt the site

of Uncle Quinz's rustic hermitage. The popular philosopher Rees-Raas

Zhumeau claimed that Man in a natural setting manifested his noblest

qualities. Such theories appeared vindicated by the existence of Quinz

vo Derrivalle, sweetest and most unworldly of Exalted recluses. It was

said that Quinz's mastery of the traditional forms of Exalted magic was

extraordinary, almost unparalleled. Eliste could not have answered for

that, for she never thought about it. But she knew beyond doubt that

he was loving and lovable, kind, naive as a child was commonly supposed

to be, and sometimes capable of truly entertaining magical tricks.

The south-west view was less inspiring. There could be seen the neat

sturdy outbuildings stables, carriage. house, springhouse, smokehouse,

henhouse, dairy and so forth the vineyards and winery, and then the

long rutted road leading down the slope to the dull little village

inhabited by peasants owing their feudal duties to the Marquis vo

Derrivalle.

A static scene, save for the soaring birds and the tiny mannequin

figures of the serfs labouring in the distant wheat fields. And then

through the gap in the hedge broke a tall, lean figure, and Eliste's

blood quickened in pleasurable anticipation. Silly but then, Dref

Zeenoson always had that effect upon her, absurd though it was.

Well, perhaps not so absurd, after all. Dref was amusing, beyond

doubt. A serf possessed of such freakish quickness and cleverness was

surely worthy of unusual regard. It was because of that mental agility

that he had been her companion since earliest childhood hers, if not

his, as he was the older. Some fourteen years earlier, just at the

time that Eliste's education commenced, the remarkable abilities of the

ten-year-old Dref Zeenoson had been directed to the notice of the

Marquis vo Derrivalle. Dref, it was noted, could add, subtract, divide

and multiply sickeningly long columns of figures in his head, producing

the correct sum within seconds. Never mind the fact that serfs lacked

the logic for mathematics- he could do it.

When shown a scene, or a collection of objects, he could later describe

what he had seen with an accuracy leaving no doubt that he viewed

concrete images within his mind. Before he was three he knew his

letters, and more important, understood their application.

He learned to read, almost upon instinct, it seemed, and he remembered

all that he had read. Before he was seven, he had acquired a

pen-knife, and used it to carve out the interlocking parts of little

wooden machines powered by wind and water. He could play the flute,

the harmonica, the ocarina, the fooge and glass organ like a son of the

Exalted. He made up tunes, wrote them down according to his own system

of notation, then played them upon a variety of instruments. He could

sculpt in clay and plaster; paint in water colour and tempera; ride or

shoe a horse, compose a poem, cobble a shoe, catch and clean a fish,

set a snare, cook a pheasant to perfection, build a model folly or

fortress. In short, there was almost nothing the remarkable boy could

not do, and it was commonly supposed that he must carry Exalted blood

within his veins, as no other explanation for such unserfiike talents

appeared to exist.

The Marquis had taken note. It occurred to his lordship that the young

prodigy's abilities so potentially profitable of use should be

cultivated. Thus Dref Zeenoson had been granted the almost

unbelievable privilege of an Exalted education. He had taken his

instruction alongside the Marquis's own daughter, questioned her

tutors, devoured the contents of the manor library and then proceeded

to secure scores of additional volumes of his own by bartering with the

visiting pedlars. He had even gone so far as to assist the bright but

inattentive little Eliste with her lessons. He was seven years older,

and infinitely more knowledgeable than she.

During the earliest years of her education, Eliste had loved and

admired him to the point of idolatry. She had followed him everywhere

about the estate, quoted his sayings, nagged him continually to play at

Blue Cat with her.

A little later on, of course, she had come to recognise his inferior

status, and admiration inevitably dwindled. The reproof and ridicule

of family members alerted her to the impropriety of her affection. She

was, they informed her, growing up; and a young lady, a daughter of vo

Derrivalle, did not run wild and barefoot through the woods in the

company of serfs. A vo Derrivalle chose her friends among her equals,

carried herself with dignity and, above all, never forgot her position.

Unless, of course, she preferred to live among serfs.

If she preferred it, Eliste was certainly quite free to leave the

chfiteau, to march on down the lane to the little smoke-filled

sweat-smelling cottages where the serfs dwelt amidst their fleas, and

there she might make her home beneath a mouldy thatched roof. Quite

likely she'd be happy in such a setting, what with her affinity for

serfs. They'd teach her how to till the soil, shovel dung, scrub

floors, eat offal and pick lice. She might take her cup and dish when

she went, but not the silver spoon engraved with her name and family

crest, because it was obvious a mistake had been made. She could not

be Eliste vo Derrivalle, daughter to his lordship. Clearly she must be

some lowborn imposter, a peasant's whelp switched at birth with the

Marquis's child. Only this could explain her attitude and behaviour.

Eventually the little girl's worst tendencies were corrected.

New-found comprehension of her own rank was marked by an increase in

self-conscious dignity. Familiarity on the part of inferiors was no

longer tolerated. At age eight, Eliste vo Derrivalle was a very

haughty young lady indeed, much given to verbal and physical rebuke of

servants. It did not last long, of course. Before much more time

passed, she had developed the easy confidence, the sense of serene

native superiority characteristic of her class.

Conspicuous self-assertion gave way to a more relaxed assurance, and

she adopted the air of casually authoritative kindness to which most

underlings responded so well. Most but not all and never Dref.

Difficult to assume an air of careless superiority with him he had ways

of making her feel ridiculous when she tried it. Her assumptions of

Exalted dignity were wont to provoke the sarcasm for which, as he well

knew, she would not have him punished. Old attachments died hard, and

she could not rid herself of her affection for Dref; but it was a

mistake to let him know it he was apt to presume. Really, he was

entirely too free in his manner, addressing her without deference as if

he imagined himself her equal, or even her intellectual better- more

experienced and more knowledgeable than she. In all conscience, she

ought not to tolerate it. Her weak indulgence only encouraged his

insolence.

And there, even at a distance, the insolence proclaimed itself in his

upright carriage, in the free swing of his long stride, in the

unsuitably proud lift of his dark head. It was difficult to put into

words, but something about Dref Zeenoson's very appearance was subtly

offensive to Exalted sensibilities. Like his sister, Dref was taller

than a serf ought to be. His legs were too long, his figure too

attenuated, agile rather than powerful; his features too chiselled;

lean, sharp-]awed face too mobile, too expressive, sometimes

dangerously so; hands too fine and adroit, too well-tended; no black

semicircles under the short nails, no embedded grime. Unlike the

typical serf, Dref Zeenoson was fond of bathing. Weather permitting a

plunge in the pond, he contrived to keep himself clean, thus obviating

the need for costly perfume to which he would in any case have had no

access. (But Dref, she reminded herself, would have obtained perfume

if he had ever wanted it. If he couldn't get it by barter, he'd have

concocted his own, using flowers, herbs, oils and extracts, whatever

came most readily to hand. Dref was like that.) The young man's lack

of ordinary peasant stench was refreshing but subtly presumptuous. A

cart-horse should not resemble a racehorse, and a serfs style should

not ape that of his betters.

He had dressed in his best for the occasion, she noted. He had

abandoned his patched yellow-grey smock in favour of a shirt of white

linen, coarse but clean and decent. Over it he wore a short jacket and

a neckerchief. In place of his usual baggy pantaloons he wore

knee-breeches and a pair of threadbare white stockings. The hideous

wooden sabots had given way to hand-me-down leather shoes, with steel

buckles carefully cleansed of rust. The scrupulously neat appearance,

intended as a mark of respect, was ill-timed.

He looked too spruce, too independent, too in definably - uppish.

Just now, the Marquis vo Derrivalle would only resent the effrontery.

He looked up, saw her waiting there and waved. She returned the

salute, smiling, and watched without moving as he made his way across

the lawn and mounted the old stone steps. An instant later he was

bowing low before her- all very well, in theory, but somehow it came

off wrong, like so many of his ostensibly servile gestures. Serfs and

peasants were wont to bob like arthritic drunkards, shoulders hunched,

knees stiff, arms either locked or dangling lira ply. But Dref, with

his spare, loose-jointed frame, could make a leg worthy of a dancing

master. Sometimes it seemed as if those faultless courtesies were

almost burlesque in their perfection, almost insolent in their fluid

grace or so it looked to Eliste, who knew him. Perhaps no one else had

ever noticed. And yes, he was doing it now, bending just a satiric

shade lower than propriety demanded. He straightened, and she spoke

without thinking. "Why don't you just grow a forelock and tug it?

That would suffice, and you wouldn't need to bow." "But I prefer to

bow. It's a splendidly expressive gesture." His voice was pleasantly

low and his speech singular. The excellent grammar and literate

fluency were incongruously linked with the drawling accent of a

northern provincial peasant.

"I know. Too expressive, Id take care, if I were you." "Gladly.

How shall I achieve perfect discretion?" "Perfect impertinence is more

your style, but you will never achieve it, being wholly imperfect."

"Then my constant imperfection achieves a perfect consistency." "Thus

destroying its own constancy." "And preserving perfect

imperfection."

"Serfs should not aspire to paradox." "To what shall we aspire, beyond

subservience?" "Oh-' She considered. "Loyalty. Duty. Reliability."

"So much you demand of your horses and dogs. Nothing more?"

"Honesty.

Unfailing amiability." "You ladle out a sorry mess of watered

gruel."

"A malcontent might think so. But simple fare is most nutritious,

you'll grant." "Come, your imagination lags. What more?"

"Humility,"

she suggested helpfully. "Proper respect for your betters." "How

shall I know them? The judgements of nature and society rarely

coincide."

"It's hardly your place to make the distinction." "Burdened as I am

with eyes and a brain, how shall I avoid it?" "Don't be impudent."

"Surely I have not offended?" he inquired with intolerable

solicitude.

"Oh, you won't offend me- I hardly take you so seriously. But don't

try your nonsense on anyone else, or you are looking for trouble."

"It's never necessary to look for trouble. It comes unsought and

unwelcome as your father's tax collector in autumn." "And like my

father's tax collector, tarries with the refractory." "And to prolong

the conceit most abuses those incapable of self defence." "The

innocent need hardly fear abuse." "There you reveal your own ignorant

innocence, child." "Ignorance! Innocence! Child! How dare you? Take

Paula Volsky - Illusion

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