“Kraljica, the Commandant ca’Rudka is here with his report.”
“Ah!” Marguerite blinked. She felt somnolent and lethargic, and shook her head to clear it. She wondered whether she’d been sleeping, and if anyone had noticed. “Send him up. Vajiki ci’Recroix, I’m afraid that our session is over for today.”
The painter bowed and pressed his paint-stained hands to his forehead, leaving behind a smudge of vermilion. “As you wish, Kraljica.
When should I return? Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps? The lighting I want to capture on your face is that of the late day-the light looks so dramatic on your face, coupled with the Sun Throne behind you. …”
“That will be fine-Renard, make certain there are a few turns of the glass in my schedule for Vajiki ci’Recroix before Third Call. And please clear the room so that the commandant and I have some privacy; I will meet with the court afterward in the Red Hall for supper.” As Renard bowed and went to the courtiers, as the painter began to gather up his oils and brushes, Marguerite rose from the crystalline seat. The light in the Sun Throne dimmed and faded, making the room seem dark as the courtiers noisily filed out of the room. “I would like to see what you’ve done,” she told the artist.
Ci’Recroix was visibly startled by the request. He dropped the brushes he was holding on the small table next to the easel and quickly draped a white sheet over the canvas. “You cannot, Kraljica.”
“I cannot?” Her head tilted slightly to one side with the word, and an eyebrow lifted.
“Well. . I would strongly prefer that you do not, Kraljica,” ci’Recroix quickly amended, with another pressing of hands to forehead. He picked up the brushes again and began to place them in a case. “I’ve only just made my sketch and began to place the undertones on the canvas. You would be more pleased if you could wait until I have something substantial to show you. It’s the way I work with my subjects; I want to surprise them with an image of themselves, as if they were looking into a mirror, but this. .” He waved his hand at the hidden canvas. “This would only disappoint you at the moment, I’m afraid. So if it would please the Kraljica, I beg you not to look. In fact, perhaps it would be best if I took it with me. . ”
His face seemed so comically distressed that she nearly laughed.
“I’ll manage to contain my curiosity for the time being, Vajiki,” she told him, then did laugh at the relief that softened the hard lines of his thin face. “Leave your canvas here; no one will disturb it.”
A knock came on the doors at the far end of the room. “Enter,” arguerite said; the door opened and Commandant ca’Rudka strode
into the room, walking quickly toward them, his bootsteps loud on the tiled floor. His sharp eyes flickered over to ci’Recroix even as he quickly touched hands to forehead yet again; the painter stared openly at the man’s silver nose.
“Kraljica,” the commandant said. “You’d do well to open your windows. The stench of the oils. .” He strode to the windows nearest the dais and pushed them open. Fresh, cold air wafted in and the Kraljica shivered, but the breeze did seem to clear her head.
“Thank you, Sergei,” she said. “Vajiki ci’Recroix, if you have everything. .”
The man nearly jumped, still watching ca’Rudka. He grabbed the case of brushes under his left arm and took up the valise that held the jars of mixed paints in the same hand, then picked up the miroire a’scene by a handle; it seemed rather heavy, judging by the way ci’Recroix leaned to one side while holding it. “Forgive me, Kraljica. I’ll see. . uh. .”
He hesitated.
“Renard cu’Bellona. My aide,” she reminded him.
“Renard cu’Bellona. Yes. That was the name. Remember, Kraljica, ou shouldn’t look. Umm. . tomorrow, then.” He started to bring hands to forehead, remembered that he was holding something in each hand, and set them down again to salute her. Then he picked up case, valise, and miroire a’scene and lurched toward the doors, grunting with the effort. He knocked on one of the doors with a foot; the hall garda opened them and he went out. The garda saluted the Kraljica and closed them again.
“That is a very strange man,” ca’Rudka said. He was staring after the painter.
“But a talented one, from what I’ve seen.” She glanced at the draped painting on its easel. “You’ve questioned the assassin, Sergei?”
Ca’Rudka nodded. He looked at his hands as if making certain that they were clean. “Yes.” He told her, briefly, what had happened during the interrogation at the Bastida-leaving out, Marguerite suspected, some of the more brutal details. She did not press him for them.
“So this ce’Coeni was a rogue,” she said when he’d finished. “Nothing more. He may have been in the Numetodo faction, but you’re satisfied he was acting on his own, not on their orders?”
“That’s my conclusion, Kraljica. Yes.”
“I assume you have a signed confession.”
He smiled at that. “Indeed. One that you may. .” He paused. “. .use as you wish.”
“Did he name Envoy ci’Vliomani as the instigator?”
Sergei shrugged. “Only if you wish it to be so.”
Marguerite sniffed. Her fingers trailed along the hem of the cloth over her painting. “At this point, I don’t know what would be to our best advantage,” Marguerite answered. “The confession can remain blank for now, until we know better. Envoy ci’Vliomani has sent over an urgent request to meet with me, along with an official statement denying any connection with the attempt on the Archigos’ life.”
“That’s not surprising. He’s no doubt shaking in his Paetian boots at this, knowing that it’s only going to inflame the anti-Numetodo sentiments in the city. You’ve refused, just to make him worry some more?”
A smile: Sergei knew her well. Sometimes too well. “Yes. I thought perhaps you should talk with him first. Then, if you think I should, I can meet with the man. He’s been very patient thus far.”
“Indeed he has. I’ll make the arrangements. You heard how the Achigos was saved?”
Yes. An acolyte’s spelclass="underline" a girl from the cu’Seranta family. I also understand that the Archigos will giving her a Marque in gratitude.”
“He already has,” Sergei told her. “The Archigos made the girl an o’teni and placed her on his private staff.” Marguerite glanced again at the windows and the darkness beyond, seeing the bright lights shimmering along the Avi a’Parete. How long had she been sitting there, half-asleep? That was unlike her. “Kraljica, my contacts among the teni tell me that she reacted more like an experienced teni than a raw acolyte; in fact, some of them think what she did may have been against the Divolonte. There are some. . rumors among the teni also-that the girl’s mother was suffering from Southern Fever and that after years in a weak dream-state, she’s suddenly recovered completely. The talk is that a healing might have been performed.”
Marguerite’s eyebrows sought her forehead with that. “Then I’ll need to meet her and the Archigos, won’t I? But that can wait until tomorrow, surely.”
“As the Kraljica wishes. Do you want me to brief the A’Kralj?”
Marguerite shrugged. “If you can find him at this time of night. My son is often. . out.” She didn’t need to say more; it had, after all, been Sergei who alerted her to Justi’s nocturnal wanderings and what they implied. For the moment, her son’s dalliances could be tolerated, but Marguerite knew that she would have to do something to disengage him, and soon.
She had done it several times before, after all.
“If that’s the case, then I will see the A’Kralj in the morning. If the Kraljica will excuse me. .?”
Marguerite gestured dismissal, and Sergei saluted and strode quickly to the door. She watched him leave, standing next to the easel. She waited, her breathing slow, taking in the scent of oiled pigments and dust, looking down at the little table set next to the painting, speckled with a thousand colors. The breeze from the window touched the cloth masking the portrait and rippled the candle flames, and the swaying of cloth and light seemed to mock her.