“Only briefly, when he presented his credentials to the Council. It is highly unlikely that he was an imager, or that anyone on his staff was.” Rholyn smiled politely. “But that matters little, since he departed as soon as we declared war. He did have to take an Abiertan ship. I might point out that it is most likely that envoys from almost all the other lands involved in the current unpleasantness will be at the Autumn Ball.”
“Including a Caenenan envoy?”
“Hardly. They conduct all diplomatic affairs through the Gyarlese envoy, and he’s an equalifier of Puryon, because no true believer in Duodeus will live anywhere in Solidar.”
I frowned, if inadvertently. “I thought they sent an envoy to work out trade terms some months back.”
“He was officially a negotiator, and he stayed at the Gyarlese envoy’s compound.” Master Rholyn’s tone carried an edge.
I decided not to press. “Thank you, sir. I did not realize that the Caenenan dislike of Solidar even permeated the question of envoys.”
“It does, and it has, and the Council may yet have to consider Councilor Caartyl’s proposal to remove our envoy from Caena.”
Caartyl again. His name had cropped up more than a few times with regard to issues not exactly favorable to the High Holders’ interests, and now Master Rholyn was suggesting that Caartyl was not exactly one of his favorite councilors.
I concentrated more intently on finishing the right side of Master Rholyn’s face.
He said little more, beyond pleasantries when he departed, except to confirm that he would be available for another sitting the following Samedi.
I worked almost to lunchtime, as much to see what I could do to complete Rholyn’s portrait as well-and as quickly-as possible. While I didn’t particularly like Master Dichartyn or his outlook, I did respect him. I was coming to realize that I neither liked nor respected Rholyn, even if, again, I had little of what Master Dichartyn would have called proof to support my feeling. I also understood something else, something that Master Dichartyn would never say directly. Proof was what was necessary to act officially. It wasn’t necessary for other actions-so long as they seemed accidental or someone else’s fault, but if such actions failed, the imager would always be held totally at fault if they ever came to the official attention of the Collegium, the Civic Patrol, or the Council.
That realization only gave me more to worry about.
The damp and chill morning had given way to a sunny, if crisp, day, and the walk down the west side of the quadrangle cheered me. When I entered the dining hall, I saw a familiar face at the thirds’ table. Kahlasa was standing, talking to Meynard and Reynol. I immediately walked over and joined them.
“I’m glad to see you back,” I offered, noticing that her curly blond hair was longer than when she’d left, and that there was a darkness behind the brown eyes. Had it always been there, and I’d failed to notice it, or was it the result of her last mission? Or did all field imagers hold that darkness in their eyes? That wasn’t something I was about to ask.
She turned. Her smile contained pleasure and sadness, almost in equal measure. “Rhenn! I heard that you’re now a master. Congratulations.”
I nodded. “I’m fortunate to be in a position where my talents are openly recognized.” I paused just slightly. “You must have had a difficult set of tasks with all that’s going on in the world.”
“Not so difficult as Claustyn.”
“His death . . . I was . . . he’d been so helpful to me,” I finally said.
She smiled more warmly, then inclined her head to Reynol. “I heard.”
“I also have my doubts that your tasks were any less difficult.”
“You’re kind.”
I shook my head. “I think not. How long will you be here, or do you know?”
“We never know, but Master Schorzat has promised me at least two months and until after Year-Turn. It could be longer. There are . . .matters to be considered.”
After we talked pleasantly for a time, I finally inclined my head to her and slipped away to the masters’ table. Just from her bearing and choice of words, it was clear to me that she was at least a Maitre D’Aspect, but held it as a hidden rank, as Claustyn had. That bothered me, but was that because she was a woman, who had probably had to work far harder? I wasn’t certain I wanted to know what she had been doing . . . even if someone had been willing to tell me.
Chassendri and Isola sat on one side of the masters’ table, and I joined them. Chassendri stopped whatever she was saying and looked to me. “I hadn’t seen the portrait of Maitre Poincaryt until today, Rhenn. It’s good.”
“Thank you. But I have to say that he made it easy for me to depict him.”
“That’s one of his talents,” she replied.
“It’s a skill that’s helpful for whoever is in charge of something like the Collegium,” added Isola.
I almost responded, but instead I thought over her words. If making things easy was necessary and important, why did so many people, like Mardoyt, Subcommander Cydarth, and Harraf go out of their way to make matters difficult? For that matter, why did Master Dichartyn?
With Master Dichartyn, I thought I knew, but how he reacted to what I had in mind would settle that one way or another.
“You look rather thoughtful,” observed Isola.
“I’ve discovered a few things about which to be thoughtful,” I said with a laugh. “That’s what comes of discovering you’re an imager comparatively later in life.”
“Having been an artist first must be an advantage,” suggested Chassendri.
“It’s a mixed blessing. That training made it easier to visualize objects, but as an artist, in a way, you feel things, but you also stand outside them. You’re not supposed to act in other people’s lives, just observe them, but all too often what an imager does affects the lives of others.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to say more.
“Especially if you report to Master Dichartyn,” said Chassendri dryly.
I laughed again.
The remainder of lunch was less introspective, and we actually talked about art. I enjoyed it enough that I lingered somewhat and had to hurry to get to the Bridge of Hopes.
My hurrying didn’t matter, because Seliora didn’t arrive until a quint past one, and she emerged from the hack by herself. Her determined and quick stride suggested all was not well.
I hurried to meet her. “Is everything all right?”
“I had to explain to the wife of the younger son of High Holder Devoult why she could have the pattern she wanted or the price she wanted, but not both. She didn’t want to understand that at the price she wanted, if word got around and everyone else demanded the same, we’d lose so much that we wouldn’t be in business. So her threats to have her father-in-law drive us out of business were meaningless. Her husband is slow, but not stupid, and he finally managed to explain the problem.” Seliora shook her head. “Some of those men . . . why do they marry such idiots?”
“Because they probably have no real choice. They can’t marry out of their class, and their parents and older brothers don’t really want them to marry anyone with brains, not unless the younger son has none.” I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. That was as much as I thought wise, given her mood.
“And then, Shomyr ran off to see Haelya, and left all his worksheets scattered all over the design spaces.”
“You’ve definitely had a long morning.”
“Today was calm, compared to yesterday . . .”
I took her arm and guided her toward the more direct walkway that led to my studio, the stone path that angled across the north end of the buildings on the quadrangle. I listened as she continued.
“. . . the Ealityr mill in Kephria sent five bolts of fabric with the wrong shade of blue . . . they’ll have to replace it . . . but that means another three weeks, and the penalty clauses won’t repay all of our costs . . .”
We had almost reached the studio before she turned and looked at me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rail on and on at you. You didn’t do any of this.”
“I can certainly listen. You’ve listened to my frustrations enough.” I sincerely hoped that the problems with the mill weren’t a result of more interference by Ryel, but I had no way of knowing whether NordEste Design was suffering from mere incompetence at the mill or worse.
She smiled wryly. “There are reasons for your problems. Mine come from people’s stupidity.”
“That is a reason as well,” I pointed out.
Seliora did laugh.
“After the sitting, and before we go to my parents . . . do you suppose we could take a wagon out to Ryel’s estate?”
“No.” Her voice lilted, though, and I caught sight of a glint in her eye.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a pleasant afternoon, and it would be better to ride out there. It would also be faster, and we wouldn’t have to wash the wagon and clean up nearly so much. That will also give you practice. You need it.”
“I’m certain I do. I’d best bring a spare outfit, then.”
“That might be a good idea.”
No one intruded while I was working on the portrait, not that I expected it, and I finished most of the right side of her face, and her neck. Painting a woman’s neck is difficult. It was for me, anyway, because of the changing curves and the muscles and because unless the neck is correct, the face always seems wrong. In that sense, the neck is part of the face.
That left me at a good stopping point, and I had Seliora sit down while I cleaned up.
Then we went back to my quarters-or I did. She waited in the entry below while I quickly folded another outfit into the carrying bag.
We actually reached NordEste Design before half past two.
There, I learned more about saddling the mare, a patient creature, as Seliora instructed and watched as I struggled with blankets, and girths, and the saddle. Eventually, I did manage all those details, and we rode out of the courtyard, me on the mare, and Seliora on a much friskier chestnut.
We took the direct route, and in roughly half a glass, the Plaza D’Nord was behind us, as well as most of the carriages and wagons that had thronged the Boulevard D’Este. I wouldn’t have claimed that I rode well, but I was finally developing some sense of what I was doing.
“Is the ride helping put the past days behind you?” I asked as we turned northward on the paved road leading to the estate.
Seliora’s first response was a faint smile. “I’d already done that.”
“You’re worried, still.”
“Knowing you, how can I not be worried?”
“Farsight?”
“Not really. Not mostly. You’ve made an enemy of one of the more powerful High Holders. You’re a powerful imager. He’s too arrogant to back off, and that leaves you with no choices.”
I’d known that for a long time. So had Seliora, I suspected.
“Rhenn?”
“Yes?”
“High Holders don’t believe in mercy or fairness. Their honor is based on power. Nothing else. I understand that. Please remember that I understand.”
“You’re one of the few outside the High Holders and the Collegium who does. Or who’s willing to say it.”
“My whole family knows.” Her tone declared that they knew personally, and that she’d tell me when the time came. And that such a time might never come.
I nodded.
We reached the low rise to the south of the one on which stood Ryel’s chateau, and I studied the lands once more. Even at a glance, I could see that there was but one gate in the long wall around the estate-that part I could see-and that was the massive entry gate. Again, I was struck by the tower that rose off the terrace at the end of the chateau’s south wing, overlooking the formal gardens that stretched a good half mille down to the stream flowing in a swale whose far southern side was less than a hundred yards from the southern wall.
To the east of the gardens was what looked to be an orchard, and then a small woodland farther east. From what I could determine, the grounds were modest-for a High Holder-roughly three-quarters of a mille north to south and possibly twice that from west to east.
Once we followed the road down and into its lowest point between the two rises, I eased the mare to the right side of the road, letting her walk slowly as I studied the wall that surrounded the estate. The wall stood close to two and a half yards high, but the top was set with a mortared surface from which protruded all sorts of sharp objects-broken glass and crockery, nails, the edges of shattered blades. The gray stone had a slightly irregular finish, but not rough enough to afford handholds. The only break in the wall occurred where the stream-a small river-flowed between two stone pillars. There the walls turned at a right angle and ran back another five yards or so along the stream, but they had been set so that they constricted and deepened the stream and so that it rushed through the gap and down a short rapids before entering a culvert that continued under the road.
Beyond the stream, the road rose more steeply, so that if I looked forward, I couldn’t see the chateau from the side of the road. I glanced around. While there were a few low bushes, there were no trees. Some of the bushes looked fairly sturdy.
Beyond the wall, I could hear dogs-a combination of deep barks and baying. Doubtless, the beasts ran free at night, although since all the sounds came from one general area, I felt they were presently kenneled.
When we rode past the gates, I scarcely looked at them. Although there were no guards stationed outside, I had the feeling that someone watched us through the iron grillwork.
Neither Seliora nor I said anything until we were a good hundred yards past the gate.
“That’s just his small estate in the capital.” Her words were light.
“Set among another hundred or so of lesser holders, I’d judge.”
“His is among the more impressive I’ve seen, but he’s one of the wealthiest High Holders.”
There was little to add to that. I just said, “We can stop and rest the horses at the turnaround.”
“There’s a trough there. We can water them some, but not too much.”
“I leave that judgment to you, dear lady.”
My words, or my tone, did bring a brief smile to her lips.
While we watered our mounts and tarried a bit, I studied the grounds even more, if not obviously, I hoped. From the north side, I could see the tower in perspective. Its uppermost level was almost level with the hilltop turnaround . . . or so it seemed.
When we headed back, I realized, as with all too many things I’d planned in recent weeks, that I’d underestimated the time required. It was close to sixth glass when we reined up in the NordEste courtyard.
“We’re going to be late,” I confessed as I dismounted.
“What time are we supposed to be there?”
“In about a quint.”
Seliora just looked at me.
“It’s my fault.”
Then she grinned. “So long as you tell them that.”
“I promise.”
How we managed it, between stabling and grooming and washing up and changing, I wasn’t quite certain, but it wasn’t that much past half past six when the hack rolled up before my parents’ dwelling.
Seliora looked beautiful-and far more composed than I felt when I lifted and dropped the knocker.
Mother immediately opened the door. “I was getting worried.”
“I know. I’m sorry we’re a bit late. That was my fault.”
From where she stood behind Mother, Khethila laughed and looked at Seliora. “You’re definitely good for Rhenn. He’d never have admitted that a year ago.”
“He wouldn’t have admitted it three months ago,” Seliora replied cheerfully as she stepped into the house.
I closed the door and followed them into the family parlor. That was a good sign.
Even before we could sit down, Khethila asked me, “Dare I ask what you were doing?”
/> “She’s teaching me to ride, and I thought we could go farther than we should have. I didn’t listen to someone.” I shrugged. “Horses get tired, too, and it takes longer to return . . . and to groom them.”
“Greetings, Seliora,” Father said as he rose from his armchair. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad to be here.”
Father half turned to me, gesturing for everyone to sit down. “It seems to me that you’re being trained, or training yourself, more like an Army commando than an imager.”
“Imaging is far more work than most people could believe,” I answered. “I’ve never ridden before, and when I mentioned it to Seliora, she decided that it was a good idea. I’ll probably be sore enough tomorrow that I won’t be so sure that it was a good idea.”
“What’s a good idea?” asked Culthyn, slipping in from the kitchen with a smudge of something on his cheek.
“Have you been in the tarts?” demanded Khethila.
“Rhenn was late. I was hungry.”
“And you couldn’t have had a piece of bread or a biscuit or an apple, I suppose?” asked Father.
Mother looked hard at Culthyn. “Then you have had your dessert. Please join us.” She patted the settee and the open space between her and Khethila. “I don’t believe you’ve met Seliora. I understand she has a younger brother close to your age.”
Culthyn as much as slunk onto the settee as seated himself. He kept his eyes averted from Mother and me.
“Methyr is two years younger, from what Rhenn has told me,” Seliora said. “You both share a fondness for sweets. Last night, he shaved a slice off Odelia’s pie when she wasn’t looking.”
“Is he still walking?” I asked.
“He was moving a little stiffly this morning, I thought.”
Culthyn’s eyes widened a touch, and Khethila concealed a smile.
“Rhenn was a bit more indirect, as I recall,” Mother said. “He’d take the dough, before it was baked, and roll it around something sweet-jelly or jam or honey-when no one was looking. It took a while for the cook to figure out why the pastry was often short when he was around.”
“I never heard that,” said Khethila.
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