Chapter 17

Chapter 17

After the Ensign was gone, Roka stared at the water in front of her. Serious and silly? She heard the former quite often, and she felt her conversation with Elise King had been thoughtful, if not serious. Where did silly come from? What had Roka last said? That she and her master were close.

Her head came up. Did Elise King think Roka had implied a more intimate relationship with her master? Youthful infatuation frequently came hand in hand with the concept of girlish silliness.

Roka wrinkled her nose and shook her head. No, the idea was absurd. Not only were her interactions with her master entirely platonic, but she had also done nothing in Elise King’s presence to indicate otherwise.

The more she thought about it, the very idea disgusted her. While Yusubru could not replace her actual father, he came very close. Never in the six years they had traveled together had either of them come close to anything approaching romantic or sexual.

And Roka thought her master was riotously ugly. Other women did not share her sentiment, but there was no physical attraction on her part. She was certain Yusubru felt the same toward her.

She dunked her head in the bath, held it there for a second, and then came out, hoping the water washed away the detestable thoughts. There must have been something else that Roka had done to make Elise King think she was “silly.”

She couldn’t think of anything. If only the woman hadn’t stormed off, Roka might have been able to get her to explain. Elise King was an odd person. Roka could not hope to understand her sensibilities.

Roka finished her bath and returned to her room in the Citadel Proper. Her master had not yet returned from his own bath.

Her ceremonial c’tono waited on her bed where she had laid it out that morning before Yusubru had told her she wouldn’t need it for their visit with the emperor. The dress had probably never been worn before. All Sentinel possessions were communal, picked up or dropped off at holds as needed. The only exception was a Sentinel’s sword, which was an intensely personal piece of equipment. A new sword was forged for each new Sentinel. Clothes were not so personal, and so all members of the order were expected to share. However, Sentinel women were uncommon, and so Roka rarely had to wear clothing spoiled by one of her sisters.

She shrouded herself in the c’tono. Not much separated the piece of clothing from her normal wrappings. It reached farther down her legs to the calf and incorporated a wide shawl she draped around her shoulders, but the color of the garment remained a singularly flat sandy brown, the universally recognized uniform style of the Sentinels.

Her hair troubled her momentarily. Tying it into its normal pair of buns seemed inappropriate for a choral ball in the citadel, but it had been a long time since she had been able to care for it so that it would look nice hung down. She did not have any of the oils or tools she used in her home village. Her hair was clean and that was all. She decided the buns would have to do.

Before she left her room, she tied her sword around her waist. It was part of her ceremonial uniform as well, regardless of its practicality for the situation.

Outside, she heard her master moving around in his room. She waited for him to finish getting ready, wondering if he would wear his armor or not. He often attended formal functions in armor, but she had never seen him at something so formal as this. The armor might be too utilitarian for such a fancy event.

When he finally did leave his room, he walked out like he expected to charge into battle.

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“Master,” Roka said, “is it truly necessary to drape yourself in so much steel and leather for this party?”

He looked down at his wardrobe. “Why would I change my style now?”

Roka considered bringing up the point that a high-class event in the heart of the citadel generally required a change of style, but something else caught her up.

“You consider this your style?” she asked. “I just thought you were paranoid.”

“My style is preparedness.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is encumbrance.”

He laughed. “Just be glad I decided not to bring a helmet.”

“I have never in my life seen a Sentinel wear a helmet. Did you even use them during the invasion?”

“No, but it’s ceremonial for all of the attending guards and officers. I considered I might show solidarity with them, but I knew you would object.”

Roka walked over to him and looped her right arm through the crook of his left. “You know me well.”

As they made their way through the Citadel Proper to the Castle of Marvels—the Donparsh-designed building linked to both the Citadel Proper and the emperor’s residence—Roka briefly considered that she and her master probably looked too close for Elise King’s liking. But Roka wasn’t going to let the strange woman dictate her actions. Walking arm in arm was a perfectly platonic activity for attending a choral ball.

“Is something amiss?” Yusubru asked, looking around as they walked. Others of the citadel were gathering around them, all flowing in the direction of the castle.

“Nothing serious,” Roka said, surprised her master noticed her inner conflict, if it could be called conflict. She thought she had kept it well-hidden. “I met Ms. King in the bathhouse this afternoon. She said something that bothered— no, puzzled me. You need not worry about it.”

She could feel her master giving her a side eye. “Are you sure I should not be concerned? This is an Ensign we are discussing.”

“She is merely unfamiliar to me. And while I appreciate that you were more courteous to her than the cart driver yesterday, you should probably try a little harder still. Remember what the emperor said.”

“The emperor says a lot of things.”

“I think when he says them directly to you, you should probably listen. Anyway, it’s probably my face and its pox marks. Once Ms. King knows I’m not always scowling at her, she’ll feel more comfortable around me.”

Yusubru chuckled. “You do scowl quite a lot, and I know the difference between your marks and one of your looks.”

“Excuse me?”

Their conversation cut off as the loose stream of partygoers approaching the castle alongside them became thick with colorful couples and groups. The average citizen of the empire did not share the Sentinel’s desire for drab brown. Far from being flat, their wraps and robes and dresses were dyed in chromatic kaleidoscopes of every shade imaginable. No one garment was a single color. Every courtier embodied a completed puzzle of abstract colors, and no puzzle resembled another.

The people of her home village kept similar costumes stored away for their own choral festivals, but the richness and diversity that came from being in the beating heart of the empire dazzled Roka’s senses. She could not determine if so much silky wealth constituted an injustice against the people of the land, or if this was simply a necessity born from running the empire. It was a judgment she would have to make in time, assuming she was given the chance to linger and work among these people.

The Donparsh guests sprinkled through the crowd were the natural exception to the color of the night. They wore clothing similar to what Elise King had been wearing during the day. Both the men and the women wore largely black and white with the occasional burst of color in the form of a button on a lapel or breast pocket. Some of the Donparsh ladies wore dresses, but they were muted in comparison to that of the imperial partygoers. They made up for the lack of color in the quality of cloth and with elaborate frills and stitching. All of the Donparsh looked weighed down and hot in their chosen garb, where the local guests seemed free and cool.

Roka and her master moved with the crowd as it slowly filtered through the doors to the Castle of Marvels. The dull hum of singing emanated out of the giant white building, washing over the slow-moving mass of people, driving them to join in the song. Roka recognized the tune as one of the oldest and most popular carols in the empire, but the men and women around her chose different words for each note. Yusubru joined in with the correct lyrics, his voice rich and loud. Roka contented herself to hum along.

They passed into the castle and into an enormous, three-story dance hall. A mob of swirling colors cavorted at the center of the hall, moving in time to the music. Rows and rows of other courtiers and special guests lingered at the edges of the dance floor, standing side-by-side and giving their full throats to the song. The far south corner of the castle held a series of tables with white sheets covering food dishes. The feast would be uncovered after the ceremony began in earnest.