The Tor appeared to suffer from the delusion that he was actually participating in the discussion. “Did I tell you,” he replied, “that he gave Lebbick permission to torture her?”
That was an interesting revelation; but Master Eremis could guess its import too easily to pursue it. Instead, he inquired, “What conclusions can you draw? There are only two. The first is that Festten and Margonal are in alliance – and Festten trusts Margonal enough to give him time to capture the Congery for himself. And if you are able to believe that, I fear we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“Torture her,” repeated the Tor, “despite her obvious decency – and her proven desire to help him.”
“The second,” continued Master Eremis, grinning, “is that the Prince has cut us off from information which he himself possesses – from the knowledge that we are not indeed threatened by Cadwal at all. High King Festten has other intentions. He has mustered his army, not against us and Alend, but to wage another war entirely. And if you are able to believe that, I fear you have nothing left to say to anyone.”
“I begged her.” Fat tears rolled down the old lord’s aggrieved cheeks. “I should have begged him, of course, but he was past hearing me. I begged her. Betray Geraden. So that he would not be responsible for what Lebbick would do. So that he would not have her on his conscience.” He seemed unaware that he was weeping. His ability to speak so exactly when he was barely sober enough to keep his eyes from crossing was delightful, even entertaining, like a trick done by a mountebank. “But she has the only loyal heart left in Mordant. She would not betray Geraden, even to save herself from Lebbick.”
Master Eremis was so pleased that he could hardly contain his relish. Because his exuberance absolutely had to have some outlet, he spun the ends of his chasuble like pinwheels.
“My lord Tor,” he asked nonchalantly, coming at last to the point, “what has he been doing all this time, while his people riot, and mirrors are shattered, and women are maimed and murdered? What has good King Joyse been doing?”
As if the word had been surprised out of him, the Tor replied, “Practicing.”
“Practicing?” A brief giggle burst from the Master: he couldn’t hold it down. “What, hop-board? Still? Has he not given up that folly yet?”
The old lord shook his head, as morose as cold potatoes and congealed gravy.
“Swordsmanship.”
That stopped Master Eremis’ mirth: it made him stare involuntarily, as if the Tor had somehow, miraculously, opened a pit of vipers at his feet – or had told him a joke so funny that he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t laugh at it until he had thought about it for a while. Swordsmanship? At his age? Was he strong enough to do as much as lift a longsword?
“My lord Tor,” Eremis said casually to conceal the intensity of his attention, “you jest with me. Our brave King cannot swing a sword. He can barely stand without assistance.”
Abruptly, with an effort that seemed to make his whole body gurgle, the Tor heaved himself to his feet. He hadn’t looked at Master Eremis since the start of the conversation. Dully, as if he were losing his gift for enunciation, he announced, “Got to have wine.”
With his hams rolling unsteadily under him, he lurched away.
Master Eremis was about to spring after him, pull him back, wrench an explanation out of him, when the true point of the joke struck home. King Joyse intended to fight – and he was years or even decades past the time when he was strong enough to do so. That shed a new light on everything – on every sign that the King knew what he was doing, that he did what he did out of deliberate policy rather than petulant foolishness. He intended to fight because he didn’t know or couldn’t admit he no longer had the strength. He wasn’t self-destructive or apathetic: he was just blind to age and time. He risked his kingdom in an effort to prove himself still capable of saving it.
That was a rich jest, too rich for any coarse display of mirth. Instead of laughing aloud, Eremis whistled cheerfully through his teeth as he continued on his way to see Master Barsonage.
The mediator answered his door wearing only a towel knotted around his middle – a style of dress which emphasized his girth at the expense of his dignity. Water glistened on his pine-colored skin, his bald pate: apparently, Master Eremis had caught him bathing, and his servants were out. His flesh didn’t sag on him as the Tor’s did, however; his bulk was solid, tightly packed over muscle and bone. He didn’t seem especially embarrassed to receive Master Eremis in this damp, disrobed condition.
In fact, he sounded almost friendly as he said, “Master Eremis, good day to you. Come in, come in.” He stood back from the door, waved a dripping arm. “It is an honor to be visited by the man who saved Orison. Let us hope that you have saved us permanently. Have you recovered from your ordeal? You look well.”
Master Eremis laughed lightly at Barsonage’s uncharacteristic gush. “And a good day to you, Master Barsonage. I have clearly come at an inopportune moment. I can return later.”
“Nonsense.” The mediator touched the sleeve of Eremis’ cloak, urged him into the room. “Orison is under siege. In one sense, all times are inopportune. In another, the present moment is always better than any other. Some wine?”
Thinking of the Tor, Master Eremis said deliberately, “With pleasure.”
He accepted a goblet of a very mediocre Armigite vintage, then seated himself in the chair Master Barsonage indicated. He had visited the mediator’s rooms on any number of occasions – disputes privately arbitrated at one extreme, formal feasts welcoming new Masters at the other – but whenever he came here he always took a moment to admire the furniture.
It had all been made by Master Barsonage himself.
Eremis did him the justice of admitting that the mediator was a competent Imager. In particular, the preparation for and execution of the Congery’s most important augury had been deftly done. On the other hand, he was much more than competent with wood: he was an artist. It was universally acknowledged around the Congery that his frames were better than anyone else’s: better made, better fitted; altogether finer. And his furniture could have graced the finest salon in Orison – or in Carmag, for that matter. The expanse of his table had been so well shaped and polished that it seemed to glow from within; the arms of his chairs flowed so naturally with the grain of the wood that it was surprising to find them comfortable.
Secretly, Eremis laughed at Master Barsonage for dedicating himself to his lesser talents – for wasting his time with Imagery when he could have contributed some real beauty to the world in another way.
And he wanted to laugh more now. Instead of leaving the room to put on at least a robe, Barsonage sat down as he was, drank off his wine in a gulp, wiped the water out of his stiff eyebrows, and began to prattle.
“You are much admired now, Master Eremis. Of course, you have always been admired. But it will not surprise you to hear that you have not always been liked. You are too able, too quick. And you mock people. You have not made yourself easy to like.
“Ah, but now—The refilling of the reservoir was a clever action as well as a courageous one. No, do not deny it,” he said although Eremis hadn’t moved a muscle. “The exhaustion of so much prolonged translation. If I had made that attempt, my heart would have failed me. Yet you did not hesitate to risk complete prostration. And, as I say, it was clever. Your reputation has not been the only beneficiary of your action. Your heroism and Master Quillon’s foul murder have combined to raise the esteem in which all the Congery is held.
“Shall I give you an example? My servants no longer sneer at me when I put them to work.”