The two great warhorses thundered past each other, their iron shod hooves throwing up great clods of dirt. A lance exploded against a shield and the knight in cream and gold staggered in the saddle. Both knights kept their seats as they raced to the end of the quintain and wheeled their horses to a stop. Squires ran forward with fresh lances, cups of wine, and damp cloths to sooth their principals.

 

Theophanna fanned herself elegantly with a printed paper fan from distant Chin. It was a beautiful item given to her by the Convent as part of her dowry and it drew avaricious glances from all the nearby ladies. Basalia did not enjoy a high martial reputation among these westerners, although this likely had more to do with the fact that Basalian army was largely made up of commoners, paid for and trained by an Imperial Exchequer that far outstripped anything the feudal lords could manage, but Basalian wealth was almost axiomatic. Theophanna felt her loyalty was more to the Convent than to the State but had been forced to sit through more than her fair share of swaggering braggarts making comments. Loyalty. The Convent, Basalia, Terriche, Vence, Orbai, her husband: so many loyalties to keep track of.  The Convent was sometimes called the School of Mask but at times Theophanna had to wonder if there was any real person left under all the poses and poises. Sigfried’s hand squeezed her knee and she looked up from her musings to she him cheering with excitement as the knight in cream and gold, Sir Pavik of Gnor she recalled, sent his opponent sprawling into the dirt. Theophanna patted her husband’s hand dutifully and he removed to call for his page to enquire after the winnings for a bet he had placed.

 

They were seated in the ducal box, with four coats of arms hanging downward. All but the Falkenrath coats of arms were of ancestors who owed fealty to Tirrche, a signal that Orbai was, or at least wanted to be seen, as loyal to the crown. At least Theophanna thought it would be a signal, politics could be surprisingly murky or shockingly direct in a way it would never be in the sophisticated courts of the East. Perhaps Sigfried just liked the colors. Thoughts of the King drew her eyes to Jean du Cleson who continued to lounge about with his cronies. A steady stream of Imperial knights had visited him, each coming away looking like they had lost a livre and found a sous. That too might or might not be significant. What was significant was a knight was hassling her husbands page, the altercation only lasted a moment but it was clear he was asking the boy where he was heading. Was Sigfried planning something? Could he be without her knowing? No that wasn’t possible but that didn’t mean others didn’t think so. She let her eyes drift across the field to where Aristophanna set fluttering her own fan, she bid a subtle but steady pattern.

Watching. Priest. Help. Interrogative.

 

Fan speaking was a court past time in Brasalia but the dialect the Convent used was a closely guarded secret. It used simple words and many nonsense signals to confound attempts to decode it.

 

Priest. Bad. Knowledge. Theophanna sent back, smiling in spite of herself at the long suffering expression which came across her friends face. Theophanna wished she could talk to her friend but that might be dangerous for both of them, Il knew that two Basalian’s from the convent talking was assumed to be a plot and it ran a real risk of starting trouble even if there was none. What trouble? The situation with Albrecht was making her paranoid. Still she didn’t want anything she wrote to her friend to fall into unfriendly hands, as it almost certainly would if she sent a page. Maybe she could ask Sigfried to visit Aristophanna’s husband… Torm wandered into view looking, to Theophanna’s eyes, a little despondent. An idea occurred to her and she waved her kerchief at the young man at arms. Torm dutifully approached.

Theophanna scribbled a quick coded note on a scrap of parchment, then drew an emerald ring from a pouch. She slid the paper into the ring and dropped it into a pouch which she passed to Torm.

“Good sir, I ask a kindness of you, I am afraid I have lost a wager with my friend Lady Aristophanna Giovanna,” she said, making a gesture to the woman in her box.

 

“Would you convey her winnings to her, I would send a page but I simply don’t trust them not to run a foul of pickpockets in a place like this,” she asked innocently.