It was hard to say anything, of course. A dining room was only as "private" as the Fireheart itself. They would need to talk more, elsewhere. Now they were all just cautiously learning what they could expect from each other.
Marguerite's Laurent wristwatch glared in his eyes with reflected candlelight from where she had "accidentally" put her hand on the table beside him, twisting her arm to best demonstrate certain aspects of her figure. Certainly she must know that he knew what she was doing. He was not without experience with women. Even without that, a part of a High Ruler's education was comprised of exactly what guiles a member of the other gender could try. She smiled at him half-provocatively, catching his gaze, every little motion timed as if she knew when exactly he was thinking of her.
She might as well, and it had better be nothing more than the intuition of a woman experienced with men. Or the intuition of a High Lady—something regular. Rianor narrowed his eyes. The wristwatch glared at him again as she shifted slightly, the light bringing Audric back to his mind, as well as other thoughts of hidden paths and secrets. Rianor chased Audric away. Next he would have thought of clocks that worked with mechanisms and not Magic, but such thoughts were not safe with these people and in this place. So he made sure he thought of nothing.
Marguerite pouted against him. "You seem distracted, my lord. Of course, I know that a great Scientific mind can travel many places at once, but"—she smiled again—"as a mere lady who does not understand such complexities I keep wishing that I could hold all of your attention."
Was this now mere flirting or a veiled threat of inconvenient knowledge? A mind that could "travel many places at once" would hint of possibilities that would warrant an invitation for a Mentor in non-noble circles, but here the phrase was not entirely unknown to have other meanings. It could be a compliment for someone smart, or it could be a good-natured (or not) joke aimed at a disorganized, easily distracted person. What did she mean? He was tired of all this.
"Do not doubt that my attention is focused on you, lady Margot."
She inclined her head, revealing her perfect white neck just as he was adding, "I do have a habit of listening to my conversation partner." The last part seemed to startle her, making her cast him a look that a cat might cast a bird presently on a tree, out of her reach. "I will get you," her look seemed to say. "Pulling away only makes you more interesting."
Of course, this look was gone in less than a second, and he wondered if he had been meant to see it, this being yet another part of her game. He might play with her a bit. He could enjoy surprising a woman who thought she could control him, and this one would probably perform well in bed, which might in turn help him get rid of all those mind-muddling notions regarding his lady apprentice. She was presently deep in conversation with lord Armand, the young First Counselor of Laurent, and if she looked at Rianor at all, her look was quite devoid of expression. She had not talked to him, either, except to pull him aside just before lunch to warn him about Marguerite's guards. He had known about them, of course, but she had hurried away from him before he could tell her this, or tell her anything else.
Armand was telling Linden something about his garden: what plants could grow with what other plants, and something about insects and birds. Why did he know so much about plants and animals? It was a gardener's job, not a lord's. Was his friendliness to Linden just friendliness, or was it flirting, or was it telling them all that Laurent held unconventional knowledge—and threat—of their own? Linden was listening with what seemed like interest, and Desmond, on her other side, seemed very content with the situation.
Only now did Rianor realize that Desmond had taken special care of Rianor walking and later sitting with Marguerite, and now he had set Armand between Linden and Inni. House relationships could always be "strengthened," even if Desmond was brave to try it with the Laurents. Only five minutes ago the conversation had been steered towards Waltraud, and lady Mabelle had sighed, saying something about "that evil House" and her own "poor boy," before she excused herself and came back with reddened eyes and freshly-applied lipstick. Yes, poor wonderful Giles, image of perfection. Rianor almost missed him himself, almost preferred it to be him talking to Linden now instead of nice, not-entirely-stupid Armand.
Rianor would have a talk with Desmond later.
"You are such joker, my lord." Marguerite again, reaching out to pat his hand, her wristwatch flashing in his eyes once again. He was presently more interested in the watch than in the woman. Interestingly enough, promising as she seemed for some power-matching and bed sport, he did not really want to deal with her. He pulled his hand away just as Linden snapped her head up, staring at Marguerite with a smile that, to him at least, was fake.
"Rianor is sometimes a joker, your observations are correct. However, do not let him give you the wrong impression that Science is too obscure, lady Marguerite. With the correct books, you could perhaps grasp a tiny bit of it, too."
So she was not so engulfed in her conversation with Armand.
"I am sure you are grasping some of it yourself, lady Linden." Marguerite's smile was sweetness at its fullest. "But I am sorry you had to go through this. I admit I consider Science the province of exceptional men, and I can only commiserate with a woman forced to deal with it. Of course, your previous circumstances might have entirely warranted you putting such a considerable effort into this."
Well, that was too much. He would not tolerate this from the first High Ruler of another House that Linden had met. Or from anyone else, even though at the moment he could hardly tolerate Linden herself.
"Of course my lady's previous circumstances have warranted Scientific involvement." He looked at Marguerite, angry enough for his gaze to make her swallow the next words she was about to say. "As do her present circumstances, which happen to be the same—she is an exceptional Scientist. Which, actually, is beside the question for this lunch gathering, so will both of you ladies just drop it? Lady Margot, I will appreciate it if you or anyone else from your House let us know soon enough what exactly you want from us and what you are offering in exchange. I have no time to waste with empty words, and honestly, I am tired of hidden meanings. If you want to talk to me, talk clearly."
There was silence for a time, but it was not a long time; probably it took lady Marguerite only a few seconds to react. "Very well." She actually smiled at him again. "You are direct, lord Rianor of Qynnsent. I do like direct men."
Well, House relationships had been broken for less, but obviously not in this case. She had managed to make herself sound as if she truly did like an attitude that to most would have been abusive. He should be careful. "There are plants that, the more you trample them, the more they spread and grow," Master Keitaro had once told him. "Seeds will stick to your shoes, and before you know it, you have planted anew what you wanted to destroy. There are people like those plants, too." Well, Rianor did not want to destroy plants, but as for people ...
"Wait a bit with sending the spring grain from Balkaene, High Lord. Both your own and what you have already sold to other Houses," lady Marguerite suddenly said. Just as he was thinking of plants. There was still a flirtatious smile on her face, but her eyes bore into his, and for a moment the smile seemed just a mask, an afterthought. Then the smile strengthened, and her whole body was flirting, inviting once again.
"There might be a considerable profit if you do so, at least in transportation costs, but of course I will say naught more here, where it might reach others' ears. We don't want Waltraud or Iglika, or even Maeron or Kadisha, hurrying up to get our profit for themselves, do we? Anything else, I will tell you in private, my lord."
"Certainly." He smiled at her, too, for she was right—others might be spying on them. Better that they appeased any suspicions. "Why don't you visit us in Qynnsent soon, my lady?"
"I will be glad. I am hoping our First Counselors can work on the details of the visit after lunch today. Armand may not be staying for the night, you see."
S
he was giving him advice with that, too, but he was already prepared. As Rianor and his own First Counselor had discussed yesterday, Desmond would not be staying, either. The House needed a reliable person there at night. Was Marguerite telling him now that her House had problems?
He did not know, and he could not ask now, and he did not feel like pretending to flirt any more, so for the rest of the lunch he stayed silent. He was fed up with people by the end of the lunch, especially as he expected a lecture from Desmond about how important politics were and how he should not have been so blunt earlier. How important people were—while Rianor did not want to see any people at all and could hardly bear the Fireheart. The more he knew people, the more he understood Audric. Would he, too, perhaps end up as a cranky old man whose purpose in life seemed to have been to draw quirky pictures and write insults whenever he got a quill and wherever he found a white space?
Audric again. Why had Audric been in his mind since he had first sat at the table in this room? Marguerite's wristwatch had also impressed him in some way, but with all the humans and clatter around him, he had not had time to examine his thoughts and see why.
When the Laurent party had finally left the dining hall, Rianor ran his thumb along his wrist, looking at his own watch. Just the symbol, and Marguerite's had only had the symbol of Laurent.
Audric's symbol, Audric's banners ... Suddenly Rianor rose and turned, narrowing his eyes at the wall that had been behind him while he had been sitting at the table. He had only glimpsed it upon entering, and it had been nothing special, just a freshly painted white wall with a painting hanging on it of small violet flowers in green grass. The green, however, had then, like now, jumped at him for some reason. He moved closer and saw nothing, then moved further away, towards Linden. She had just stood, and when he looked at her, she stumbled, gripping the edge of the table to keep herself straight.
This time he was closer to her than Desmond; he reached out and caught her arm, then offered her his. It was strange for her to be clumsy two times in such a short interval, however. If she was playing games with him now, she would regret it.
"Thanks, but there is no need." She did not take his arm and whispered so that only he could hear. "Last time there was a need, for I had to warn at least one of our besotted lords about the esteemed High Lady's men in the shadows. Now I have truly stumbled, so you can simply let me go."
"Do you want me to let you go?"
He did not want to. He wanted her touch. Marguerite had touched him, too, but he had not cared to touch her more; in his mind, he had determined what exactly he could get from the High Lady, but he had not cared to get it at all.
Linden did not reply.
"See the flowers in the painting?" A minute later, she opened her pretty mouth. "They are called violets. Armand saw them and was telling me about them: that he grew them, and how sweet they smelled. So sweet, he said, that some peasants in Balkaene believe—in aberration, of course—that if you pick a violet and give it to someone, this someone will fall in love with you."
Linden
Day 30 of the First Quarter—Guilds Day, Year of the Master 706
Linden's foot hurt, but right now she would not show that before Rianor. She gritted her teeth and stepped, letting the foot and the ridiculous high-heeled shoe accept her full weight. This kind of shoes must have been invented by someone like Marguerite, or some male who wanted to keep women helpless.
"It is interesting information that our dear Armand is giving us." Rianor stared at her, and if eyes could pierce his would have gone into her chest, out from her back, and into the wall.
"Our dear Margot had given us interesting information, too. An informative family, are they not?" She stared back at him.
Slowly, Rianor shook his head, and his eyes lost the tiniest bit of the cutting edge. "You are not used to all this, are you? We'll talk later."
"In private?" She could not look into his eyes after she said that.
"It is a beautiful painting." Rianor's voice was expressionless now, but he led her closer to the painting and she complied, even though the movement made sweat break out at her temples and brown spots flash before her eyes. For a moment her senses seemed to sharpen, too. She saw Jenne smiling at them and approaching, even though Jenne was quite into her peripheral vision, and she heard Desmond softly scold Inni about why she had not communicated more with lord Armand. She saw something in the painting, too, but then it was gone.
Linden turned her head towards Desmond. "This is not nice, you know? You are irritated mostly with Rianor, but you are directing your anger at someone who cannot make you shut up with just a look. Inni is not a matchmaking pawn."
Desmond looked at her without expression. "I would think I know my anger better than you do, but if you consider yourself such an expert in human emotions, we may make a Second Counselor out of you yet. If you would learn when to keep silent. As for you"—he looked at Rianor—"You know what I want to say to you, so there is not need to say it, is there, High Lord? Do clear your mind before you talk to members of any other House."
He stormed out of the room after he had let Inni and Jenne know that he was taking them for shopping in ten minutes. He wanted to stay with Rianor, Linden could sense it. But now he had to try to gather information from inconspicuous places without his High Lord being around, and later the House would need its First Counselor for the night. He would take Inni and Jenne home, too. They had rented all three suites not because they needed them, but to not make it obvious they were taking precautions.
Three guards trudged after lord Desmond and the two ladies. Mierenthian nobles had rarely been accompanied by guards in the Fireheart in the last hundred years—but times had changed.
Linden and Rianor would need to leave soon, too, for the Science Guild gathering.
"Excuse me for a moment." She softly extracted herself from his arm and walked stably until she passed the door. Dora, one of the two guards, fell into step a little behind her, and then rushed towards her when Linden had to lean on the wall, barely managing to free herself from the shoes before she would fall. Why was it popular for women, both ladies and commoners, to wear torture devices on their feet? She would have never stumbled and hurt herself, had she been wearing normal shoes. Dora was wearing boots, herself, footwear that looked functional and comfortable. They were green boots, of the special saturated dark color that was one of the two colors of Qynnsent, the same color like that of Dora's trousers and of the blazer she wore over her gray shirt.
"Let me help, my lady." Dora supported her, flashing her a quick smile, even though, from the little Linden had seen of her, her face was usually serious. The smile made her look girlish, even though she was perhaps forty years old.
"No need. Thank you, Dora." Linden smiled back and tried to make another step, but the woman gently stopped her. "No, my lady, I said I would protect you, and protect you I will. I am privileged, you know? Lazar and I threw a coin to see who would be your guard today."
"Really? Why did you both want that?"
The utmost devotion and respect in the woman's eyes was almost enough to make Linden cry. "Because of that night without fire, my lady. I had my day off and was in the city, but my brother, David, was there, and he told me all that happened. He said he was scared, but that you were never scared and thus gave him courage, that he was weak but you gave him and everyone strength. And Lazar was there himself, my lady—he ran that elevator with you." Yes, that was right. Linden had found the time to seek him out and thank him later, but Lazar, quiet and shy, had felt uncomfortable, so she had left him in peace. Rianor had said that he would reward him.
Now Dora looked away, briefly touching a sleeve to her right eye. "The Master must have sent you to us himself, my lady. The lord couldn't have found someone better."
"Thank you." Linden's voice was quiet, but her steps were more certain and her posture more erect, as she squeezed Dora's arm for a moment and walked towards her suite.
"He co
uldn't have found someone better." Dora's words were like Magic words. They were like the words of that Ber at the firewell, but instead of trying to bend Linden, they had brought her up.
Thank you, she said once again, this time in her mind, and the first thing she did when she entered the suite was to take the dress off and put on black, simply-cut trousers and a white shirt, followed by an elegant but functional black jacket and soft, comfortable shoes. She may look strange amongst the ladies in the Fireheart now, or she might not look like a lady at all, but so what? This was the woman who would make an elevator with Science and use it to save a House; the woman who at other times would write thoughts or draw diagrams all night, until her clothes were stained with ink and her fingers started hurting; the woman who would not even notice this because thinking or talking to Rianor about some idea would be more important—the woman who would not wriggle her hands but would creep inside a shaft to free a stuck rope. Why had she fallen into Jenne's trap of nails and stilettos and laces and silks and what-nots?
At a second thought, she tied a scarf in Qynnsent's dark-green and gray around her neck. The colors fit the lightness of her hair and made the black and white of the rest of her attire livelier, and she could afford to be beautiful when it did not sacrifice the things that truly mattered. And if some people would by any chance prefer a woman with a long blonde hair, blue eyes, high heels, a skimpy dress, and an amount of make-up that could have successfully been used by five women—these particular people should note that they had made a mistake in not choosing what was better.
Even if what was better turned out to still limp, despite the change of shoes.
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