That didn’t reassure me.
“There’s one other matter. Usually some new messenger, or occasionally a relative of one of the councilors, generally a young woman, will ask if you’re an imager or insist that you must be. You are to say you are assigned to serve the Council. If they get very insistent, you may say that they can believe what they wish, but the truth is that you are assigned to the Council. That is what you are to say, and all you are to say. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Master Dichartyn stood. “Go put on your messenger uniform. I’ll meet you at the west duty-coach station behind the dining hall in half a glass.”
I walked quickly back to my quarters and changed. The messenger uniform was made of a fine lightweight black wool, trimmed with a gray piping so faint in color that it was almost white. Fine as the wool was, and thin as the pale gray shirt that went under the short-waisted jacket was, I did hope that I didn’t have to spend much time in the sun, not in the summer.
My changing was swift enough that I was walking up to the duty coach at almost the same moment as Master Dichartyn. He said nothing, but gestured for me to enter the coach.
Because he had not spoken, I waited until the coach began to move before I asked, “Do you know what is happening with our fleets and the Caenenans, sir?”
“No more than is in the newsheets, Rhennthyl.”
That was little help because neither Veritum nor Tableta contained anything but vague speculation. “What do you think will happen?”
“The Caenenans and their High Priest will do something foolish out of pride, and, hopefully, we will do something less foolish to keep open warfare from flaring up.” He fingered his chin, then lowered his hand.
I waited. Sometimes silence was a better way to get a response.
“Life is always about power. When men or nations talk about honor, what they mean is how others perceive their power. When a man claims his honor has been affronted, what he is saying is that another’s actions, if unchallenged, may diminish his power in the eyes of others. The same is true of nations. The Collegium does not care about the popular perceptions of power, unless those perceptions actually diminish Solidar’s power. Often our duties require redressing the balance of power without any overt use of military or economic force. That is all I will say for now, but I trust you will consider my words carefully as you watch the Council and those who move around it, prating of honor when they are in reality merely seeking to have the Council increase their power or diminish that of another.”
I already understood that. A wool importer benefited when import tariffs were lowered, and I had heard my father rail on about the lack of honor in the Council in not tariffing certain finished fabrics, but that was because those fabrics went to other factors.
My eyes strayed outside as the coach carried us over the Bridge of Desires, not the other bridge on the west side of Imagisle, which was the Bridge of Stones, because that was used almost entirely for heavy wagons and the like. We rode west past the modest spires of Council Anomen, so named because it was the anomen closest to the Council Chateau, not because the councilors necessarily attended services there, and then down the Boulevard D’Council a good mille and a half to Council Hill, ringed by a wide avenue, with the Square of Justice on the plaza to the south. Eight avenues or boulevards radiated from the ring road, but none of them were all that heavily traveled, not the way those east of the river were. The coach turned south on Council Circle, then came to a stop on the east side, just opposite a small postern gate in the white alabaster wall. I got out and waited for Master Dichartyn.
He walked up to the black iron gate. I followed him. The guard standing behind the chest-high grillwork wore a black uniform similar to mine, except for a thin black cotton waistcoat rather than a full coat. He also had a large pistol in a belt holster and a truncheon.
He nodded. “Another messenger, Master Dichartyn?”
“Yes. This is Rhennthyl. He starts today.”
The guard studied me, then nodded. I realized that he was an obdurate, but that made sense. He opened the iron gate.
Behind the wall and gate was a narrow stone walk-also white, but white granite-that led to an equally narrow set of steps leading up the side of the low hill on which the Chateau sat. Even so, there were more than a hundred steps before we reached a stone terrace surrounded by a waist-high alabaster wall. By then I was sweating, but I wasn’t breathing hard, and that I owed to Clovyl. Neither was Master Dichartyn, either, and he’d set a quick pace up the steps. The terrace had but two exits-the steps and a door in the wall of the Chateau.
“This is the way you always enter-unless you have specific instructions otherwise.” Master Dichartyn opened the door, and we stepped out of the glare of the blazing sun into what seemed cool gloom, although I knew that was only by comparison.
Inside was another armed obdurate guard. Master Dichartyn nodded in my direction. “This is Rhennthyl. He’s the newest messenger.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beyond the guard was a circular foyer with narrow corridors leading out of it both to the left and right. Master Dichartyn took the right corridor. The walls were plain white stone, old but spotless, each block precisely cut, with but the thinnest line of mortar at the joins. The floor tiles were of polished gray slate. Despite the immaculate appearance, there was a sense of age, perhaps because there were no embellishments or decorations.
The short corridor ended at a wider one, the main corridor running north and south on the east side of the ground level of the Chateau. There, Master Dichartyn turned left, stopping at the first door, which was open.
“Baratyn . . . I’ve brought you your new messenger.”
The study was small and without windows, although there was a ventilation grate high on the east wall, and held a modest desk with drawers and a wooden file case on one wall. Two chairs stood before the desk and one, with arms, behind it.
“Master Dichartyn.” Baratyn stepped forward and beckoned for us to enter. He was a few digits shorter than I was, with short-cut brown hair, a squarish chin, and eyes that seemed to change colors, from brown to hazel to light green, even as I looked at him. Like me, he wore the gray-trimmed black uniform, except on the short stiff jacket collars were two small pewter triangles-one on each collar. “You’d be Rhennthyl.”
“Yes, sir.” I inclined my head.
He nodded, then turned toward Master Dichartyn.
“That’s all. Rhennthyl will be here mornings until the Council reconvenes officially”
“That should be long enough to get him squared away.”
Even before Baratyn finished speaking, the senior imager was gone.
Baratyn looked to me. “Basyl will be here in a moment. He’s one of the senior regular messengers. He’ll show you around. If he asks where you’re from, tell him where your family lives.”
I was spared having to answer because at that moment we were joined by Basyl, a thin, almost frail man, a good ten years older than me by his looks, with wide gray eyes under brown hair so dark it was not quite black and a narrow chin. “You sent for me, sir?”
“I did. Rhennthyl here is the new security support messenger.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I offered.
He nodded politely. “The same.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d give Rhennthyl a tour of the Chateau, particularly the routes and places he’ll need to know as a messenger once the Council reconvenes.”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded somberly. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
As soon as we stepped out of Baratyn’s study, Basyl gestured down the long corridor. “On this level are the studies for the advisors to the councilors. They have the bigger studies, the ones with the windows. The smaller studies are for the staff, like Baratyn and Pelagryn.”