Charyn understood and slipped away, thinking over Kathila’s remarks about who might have been behind the attack on Elthyrd. Several who might wish a change. That raised another question—not only who might wish a change, but why they might wish that change.
After making a mental note to consider that more when he had time, he eased toward Roblen and his wife Ghemena, standing alone and looking almost bewildered in a corner of the reception room. “We didn’t have much of a chance to talk when you arrived.”
“It’s all very strange, Your Grace,” said Ghemena. “Factors’ wives don’t often get invited here.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Charyn.
“You’re about the only one close to our age,” she said.
“That’s true enough. I didn’t expect to be Rex at my age.”
“I didn’t expect to have the factorage and manufactorage at my age,” replied Roblen dryly. “We can’t always predict those things.”
“You know my story,” said Charyn, “but I don’t know yours.”
“I was the younger son, but my brother, Gherard, turned out to be an imager. He died at the Collegium doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. Father never really got over it. He died a little over a year ago.”
“I understand that can happen. My sister is an imager.”
“She is?” asked Ghemena, her eyes widening. “She’s at the Collegium?”
“That’s where all imagers end up.”
“But … she was the daughter of a Rex.”
“She’s far better off being an imager,” said Charyn. “And she’s happier there.”
“As an imager?” questioned Roblen.
“She’s freer there than at the Chateau. She can choose whom to marry, or not to marry, and she’s with other imagers.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” mused Ghemena.
Roblen still looked puzzled. After a long pause, he looked around, almost furtively, then asked, “Did you really suggest that there should be a two-copper-a-day minimum wage?”
“I brought it up. Neither the Factors’ Council nor the High Holders’ Council wanted it to be law. Why do you ask?”
“I’m already doing that. We haven’t had any trouble.”
“Is it costing you?”
Roblen shrugged. “It’s tighter than I’d like, but I don’t have the golds to rebuild.”
“Are there others like you?”
“Not many.”
Ghemena looked hard at her husband.
“I don’t know many. Ghemena thinks more factors are paying two coppers now, and not saying anything.”
“As Rex, I’d be the last to know.” Charyn smiled. “What do you think of the wine?”
“It’s the best I’ve ever tasted,” admitted Ghemena.
After a time of pleasant small talk, Charyn eased away and made his way to a group containing Saratyn and Hisario and their wives.
“Rex Charyn,” asked Hisario, “is the white a Montagne?”
“No, it’s from Tacqueville. It’s my favorite.”
“I told you so,” said the thin-faced Saratyn, who then turned to Charyn. “The crystal … do you know where it was made?”
“That crystal is doubtless older than I am, and I have no idea who made it or where. The Chateau archives might say … but they might not.”
“Well … if you need more, I can match any pattern you have … and for a good price,” declared Saratyn heartily.
He doesn’t exactly sound like a factor devastated by the loss of a warehouse. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
For the rest of the evening, Charyn tried to talk as little as possible and listen as much as he could. No one else even came close to mentioning the fires, workers, or two-copper wages. Nor had anyone mentioned Elthyrd’s death, except Kathila. Several wives, including Eshmael’s consort, did ask if Charyn had his eye on a possible wife.
He answered that it wasn’t his eye that counted but their response.
By the time the last factor had departed, Charyn felt worn out, and he turned toward the base of the grand staircase, where Chelia stood waiting.
“I didn’t learn much, but I didn’t expect to. At least one factor is quietly paying two coppers a day to avoid trouble, and several women want to know when I’ll get married. Did you discover anything? Especially from Eshmael?”
“Nothing you say is likely to change his mind. For that matter, nothing anyone says will.”
“Anything else?”
“Besides that Factoria Kathila has a daughter who’s a maitre imager?”
“I found that out the other day. I should have mentioned it.”
“She also believes that you’re a bit more ruthless than you seem?” Chelia raised her eyebrows.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“What else?”
“Some of the wives just wish their husbands would pay the workers. Of course, they’re married to the ones least likely to.”
“Like Eshmael?”
“You may well have to do something with him. Or find a way around him.”
“I’ve gotten that impression. Elthyrd said he’d be difficult.”
“I told several of them that you had viewed the damaged or destroyed buildings at length with Eshmael and met with him twice about the difficulties. Kathila said to offer you her condolences.”
“That’s promising. I think she has more influence than she claims.”
“With a few factors, but not with Eshmael or the other members of the Council.”
That made sense to Charyn. “I have the feeling that a few factors would accept my proposal, just to end the violence.”
“That may be, but will they go against Eshmael?”
“Estafen might.”
“You need better than ‘might.’”
Charyn nodded. He definitely knew that.
“You’ve been exchanging more than a few letters with Alyncya D’Shendael.”
“She doesn’t want to rush into something.”
“Do you mind if I talk to her next week?”
“Not at all.”
“You say that with considerable certainty.”
“I think she can hold her own. If she can’t or prefers not to … then, in all likelihood, it wouldn’t work out.”
“You have great confidence in her, or too much concern about me.”
Charyn laughed. “There’s no answer to that. I do have confidence in her, but I also have confidence in you.”
“Sometimes, you do have to choose, Charyn.”
“Sometimes, as you have pointed out, Mother, you have to know when a choice is necessary and when it is not.”
This time, Chelia smiled. “I’m looking forward to conversing with Alyncya.”
“I’m certain you’ll find her most interesting. She also is very good on the clavecin.”
“Better than you?”
“Most likely. Her repertoire is far greater than mine.”
“Good. You’d never be happy with someone who can’t match you, or sometimes exceed you.” After the slightest of pauses, she added, “I think the dinner accomplished some of what you wished. How much, you’ll see in the next weeks. Good night. I’m not so young as you are.” With that, she turned and headed up the grand staircase.
Charyn couldn’t help but think about her remarks about Eshmael … and Kathila’s. Charyn could see why Eshmael wanted to be a factor councilor, but the more he saw of the man, the more he doubted that Eshmael was the type to be indirect enough to hire bravos and restrained enough to keep it quiet. So the better question might be who would prefer Eshmael to be the factor councilor, rather than Elthyrd or Kathila … and why.
45
With so many thoughts swirling through his head, one of which, Charyn had to admit, was how to best reply to Alyncya, he didn’t get to sleep early, and, as a result, slept far later than he usually did, even on a Solayi. So he was much later getting down to the breakfast room, w
here Bhayrn looked to be finishing up.
“Good morning,” Charyn offered as he sat down across from his brother.
“It’s not bad. Except it’s smoky, and that means another factorage was burned. When are you going to do something about those miserable ruffians?”
“I’m working on it. That was another reason for the dinner last night.”
“Pandering to the factors won’t do anything. You should be able to see that by now.”
“Bringing in the army will only make matters worse unless the factors back off, and using the army against them won’t help, either.”
“Use it against them both. Oh, I forgot. You never moved more troopers back to L’Excelsis so you can’t.”
“That wouldn’t do much. There are problems in Solis, Ferravyl, and Nacliano as well.”
“How did you manage that?”
“They were coming on long before I became Rex,” said Charyn, accepting the mug of tea from Therosa, and saying to her, “Cheesed eggs and ham strips.”
“You have an answer for everything.” Bhayrn paused, then asked, “Are you going to services at Imagisle again this evening?”
“I’d thought to. Aloryana enjoys it. Would you like to come?”
“I told you. I have no desire to ever set foot on Imagisle.”
“Why do you have such an aversion to the imagers? Malyna saved both our lives.”
“She’s a High Holder as well as an imager. Also, as you discovered, she’s a relative. That makes it different for her, I suppose for Maitre Alyna as well, and Aloryana. But the imagers were responsible for Grandsire’s death. Father told me so. In a way, that also contributed to his own death.”
“How can you believe that?” asked Charyn. “Uncle Ryel would still have tried to kill Father. Besides, everything imagers did kept father Rex far longer than would have otherwise been the case. Just remember, Uncle was a High Holder, not a factor, and he was the one who had Father assassinated.”
“That was because Father turned against him by siding with the factors.”
“How? By insisting Uncle become head of the High Council?”
“You don’t understand, Charyn, and you never will. That’s because you and Father listen too much to the imagers. Most of them are just factors with a few extra abilities.”
“Why do you keep ignoring the fact that it was a High Holder who had Father assassinated?”
“You really don’t understand, Charyn. You look for the causes everywhere but under your own nose. For someone who calculates so much, you really see so little.” Shaking his head, Bhayrn stood. “Which coach will you take for your rewarding evening with the imagers?”
“You can have the unmarked one,” Charyn replied.
“Thank you, honored elder brother.” Bhayrn turned and left the breakfast room.
Only a few moments after Bhayrn had departed, Chelia entered, accompanied by Iryella.
As Iryella sat down, Chelia glanced back toward the door, raising her eyebrows.
“A mild difference of opinion,” replied Charyn. “He suggested that imagers were merely factors with a few extra abilities, and that I should treat them as such.”
“All of us are just people with varying abilities,” replied Chelia after sitting down beside her niece. “It’s what one does with background and those abilities that matters.” She looked to Iryella. “You need to remember that, especially. It’s not who finds it the easiest to play a clavecin at first, but who plays best in the end. Your cousin Charyn is a good example of that. I never thought he’d play as well as some musicians.”
“Yes, Aunt Chelia.”
Chelia turned to Charyn. “Musician Palenya said you had another lesson yesterday.”
“I did. I needed some help on a new piece. It’s an older Covaelyt work—‘Variations on a Khellan Melody.’ Some of the rhythms are dance-like, but since I didn’t know the dances…” Charyn smiled ruefully.
“I saw the music in the cabinet the other day. I don’t recall it.”
“Alyncya D’Shendael played it. I remarked upon it, and she sent the copy she engraved herself.”
“It looked like the work of an engraver.”
“I thought so as well, but she apologized that it was hers.”
“I’ll definitely look forward to talking to her.”
“Are you going to marry her, Your Grace?” asked Iryella, definitely not guilelessly, and with a smile that bordered on a smirk.
“I am interested in her, Iryella. Neither of us knows each other well enough to decide anything like that.”
“Men get choices. Girls don’t.” Iryella sniffed.
“Actually, Lady-heir Alyncya does,” said Charyn. “She’s the oldest daughter. Her father’s a widower, and she has no brothers.”
“I’d never marry if I were the heir,” declared Iryella firmly.
“There are advantages and disadvantages to that, Iryella,” said Chelia firmly. “We’ll discuss them later.”
Iryella started to speak.
“Later, I said,” declared Chelia even more firmly.
Iryella shut her mouth.
“The other day Elacia hinted that Ferrand might soon be asking a young lady. Do you know anything about that?”
“Only that he was interested in someone, but didn’t want to say anything yet.” That was largely true.
“Even to you?”
“He knows you’re very good at finding out what I know.”
“You’re obviously getting better at not letting me know what you don’t wish me to know.”
Charyn grinned. “And who might have taught me that?”
Chelia smiled back good-naturedly.
After finishing breakfast, Charyn took his pistols and went to the covered courtyard to practice. Still seething after his conversation with Bhayrn, he thought about imagining one of the targets was his brother, but decided against that. Fratricide, even imagined fratricide, was not a good idea. Instead, he visualized that one of the targets was Eshmael. That helped, and, even angry, he managed to improve his aim, if only a little, but, surprisingly, more with his left hand.
After shooting for a time, he cleaned and reloaded the pistols, replaced his favorite in the special angled holster concealed by his tunic, then made his way to his study. There he sat down at his desk and opened Alyncya’s book of verse, and began leafing through it, trying to decide which verses to mark before writing the letter to her.
Choosing the first poem was easy enough, and Charyn smiled as he read it aloud.
“A LOVER’S QUESTION
“The beauty of your sweet beguiling voice
Has brought too oft my senses to a halt,
Enraptured so I cannot make a choice.
In loving haze, I hear nor see no fault.
Will then you choose love chaste or fierce desire,
The ice of purity or heat of my desire?”
In the end, he chose two other verses, as well as six others that he’d decided to copy for himself, including one that he’d likely never send, but which just appealed to him.
THE STREETS OF GOLD
When Variana’s streets were paved with gold,
And the Pharsi of Naedar were still recalled
In wistful tales of heroes now untold,
I strove to make the world more appalled,
With words begriming every sordid deed,
And drawing children starving in the street.
Each pasture neglected and left to weed,
With no act depicted as right or meet.
Words fell like spears on most receptive ears,
So now I seldom see a cheerful face,
Nor hear most others speak, except of fears.
Oh, how I long for days of vanished grace.
He would have liked to have kept the entire book, but the markers had been there for a purpose, and that purpose required returning the book. He could have had Wyllum copy the book, but that felt wrong as well. However the interactions between Aly
ncya and him played out, they had to be just between them. That was also just another feeling, but …
Next came drafting the letter, and that was harder than selecting the poems had been, although he knew it should not be so, yet the final version would have to be from his heart … and without too much contrivance. Or too much apparent contrivance.
Three drafts, and some considerable time later, he read over what he had written.
My dear Lady-heir Alyncya—
Now that I have read the poems of Pyetryl D’Ecrivain that you most graciously sent for me to read, I could not wait until this coming Samedi to respond. While each and every poem has its appeal, just as you selected three, in return I have marked the three that seemed to offer my most honest response, in both heart and mind, to those you marked.
I have taken the liberty of copying several of the poems that most appealed to me, so that I could read them again, but I could not bear the thought of retaining a volume clearly so close to your heart, although I earnestly hope that I may be able to read it time and again in the near future.
With deep affection,
Again, he signed simply with his name, then locked both the letter, in its sealed envelope, and the book of verse in the hidden compartment in the bookcase behind the table desk.
On one level, their correspondence might seem like a game, but how else could they communicate without Charyn compromising her position? Or without limiting her ability to make a truly free choice?
You can’t put her in that situation. Once, even if it had not been entirely his doing, was once too many. But then, no one ever said learning was without regrets … or pain. And Charyn had already seen and felt enough of both. He also knew there would be more to come, which made mandatory for him the precluding of unnecessary suffering where possible.
He locked the study and made his way to the music room, where he practiced for more than a glass before repairing to his apartments, and his dressing room, where he donned his uniform as an undercaptain of the Chateau Guard, then settled into the armchair in his sitting room and resumed reading in Devoryn’s History of Solidar. He smiled, recalling his mother’s indirect condemnation of the Sanclere History. She’d never said it wasn’t good, just that she was glad to see he was reading Devoryn and not Sanclere.
Endgames Page 40