“Good evening, sir. You will note that I have followed every formality.”
“You have, and you could not have made Ryel more determined to destroy you had you planned it,” offered Master Dichartyn.
“No,” I replied. “He had already determined that.” His comment about Rousel had made that clear, because he could not have known had he not been involved. “Nothing I did Tonight would change that. Groveling would only have gained contempt.”
“Are you now a High Holder?” The gentleness of his voice only intensified the sarcasm.
“No, sir. I am an imager. I will always be one.”
Surprisingly, he only nodded. “The duty coaches will be outside waiting at a quint past midnight. We should observe as the guests leave.”
I followed him toward the archway that opened onto the open area at the top of the grand staircase. I could see that as many as a third of the guests had already slipped away.
42
Samedi would have been a good morning to sleep in, what with the chill and the wind gusts that splattered icy rain against my windows, but I didn’t. By the time I’d finished breakfast and was on my way to the studio for Master Rholyn’s sitting, the clouds had blown over, leaving a chill and pale sky, and the wind had gotten even stronger and colder. I was grateful for being able to sit at the masters’ table, because I’d been alone, with no one to ask me about the Ball.
I’d glanced through Veritum, after seeing headlines that had proclaimed a Jariolan victory. The Jariolans had taken advantage of a severe early winter storm to launch a counterattack that resulted in the destruction of more than forty Ferran landcruisers and more than four thousand Ferran casualties. Unless I missed my guess, over the winter those losses would become greater because the Ferran machinery wasn’t up to the Cloiseran winters. I put aside the new-sheet after I entered the studio and loaded and stoked the stove, then set to work.
Master Rholyn arrived almost a quint before eighth glass, but I was ready for him, since I’d been working on some touches to his waistcoat.
“Good morning, Rhenn. Yesterday’s hearing was rather interesting.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I spent most of my time in the witness chamber. They let me hear the verdict, and that was all, except for when I was testifying.”
“I’m not sure Dichartyn was all that enthused about having a public hearing with a renegade imager. He does prefer a quieter resolution of such matters.” Rholyn moved to the crate and took his position. “I thought that the total intransigence of the taudischef provided an important illustration, especially to those in the Collegium who don’t have to deal with people like that. Too many imagers think that the world outside Imagisle is a reasonable place, and that there’s always a solution that doesn’t hurt too many people. Most people aren’t reasonable, and every solution hurts someone.”
“Many aren’t reasonable, I’ve discovered.” I wasn’t certain I thought that of most people, but it seemed to be more true of those with power.
“The fellow had such imaging ability. Such a waste. Yet . . . so few of the ones from the taudis actually are able to become successful imagers. You saw that with the one . . . Diazt, was that his name?”
“Diazt came out of the hellhole, and that’s one of the worst, I understand. Still, I’m hopeful for young Shault.”
“Ah . . . yes. The dark-haired one. He works hard, Ghaend says. But then, he’s younger than those few we usually get from the taudis.” Rholyn tilted his head. “How did we come by him so young? You were the receiving master for him, weren’t you?”
“I was. I had the duty. His uncle brought him in.”
“For the golds, I imagine?”
“He didn’t turn them down, but I had the feeling that the man was actually trying to do what was best for the boy. His mother has visited, and I’m fairly sure that Shault is giving much of his earnings to her.”
“Dichartyn says that he looks up to you.”
“I don’t know why, but I’ve tried to be supportive.”
“You settle him down, Ghaend said. After the hearing yesterday morning, he was very upset, but he was calm that afternoon. Ghaend asked him, and young Shault would only say that you explained things to him.”
“I tried. I wasn’t sure I was successful, but I’m glad to hear that he settled down.” I looked at him closely. “If you’d turn your head just a touch away from me . . . there. That’s good.”
After that, I just painted, and Rholyn didn’t say much more, or ask any questions. As he gathered his cloak and prepared to leave, he did ask, “How many more sittings, do you think?”
“Not more than two. If things go well next week, it could be the last.”
“Good. No offense, but . . .”
“Yes, sir. I know. It takes time.”
He smiled politely, nodded, and departed.
I continued to work on his portrait until close to noon, when I hurried over to the dining hall. Maitres Dyana, Chassendri, and Ferlyn were all there, beckoning to me.
“How was the Ball?” asked Ferlyn, even before I slipped into the seat beside Maitre Dyana. “I saw you leaving the Collegium last night. Rather splendid, you looked.”
I smiled and glanced at Maitre Dyana, who was wearing, as usual, a brilliant scarf, this one of purple, edged in pink. “The red or the white?”
“White. It is midday.” A faint smile lingered on her lips.
I poured us each a half goblet from the carafe, then let her hand the carafe to Chassendri. “Do you think we’ll see an early snow?”
Ferlyn snorted. “Now you sound like Maitre Poincaryt. That’s what he does when he doesn’t want to answer a question.”
“Does he?” I kept my voice innocent.
Ferlyn shook his head, then said to Chassendri in a lower voice, “All of the security types are the same. They just tell you what they want you to know.”
He was right, but I’d come to see why. I grinned. “It was a quiet evening as such events go. There were scores of people dressed far more impressively than I was. There were no accidents and no explosions, and only a few young ladies needing dance partners when they’d been inadvertently left standing alone.”
“See what I mean.”
I laughed. “I can’t tell you what didn’t happen.”
Ferlyn snorted, but poured red wine for himself and white for Chassendri. “We will have an early snow, but not this weekend.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” replied Maitre Dyana sweetly.
At that point, the cutlets arrived, with a light brown sauce, followed by roasted potatoes and a steamed cabbage. The cabbage was sweet, as it only was in autumn, and the dessert wasn’t bad, a rather plain cake drizzled with congealed heavy blueberry syrup.
For the rest of lunch, conversation centered on the latest events from Cloisera. In one way or another, they all expressed the idea that the Ferran attack on Jariola so late in the year had been unwise. There was such unanimity that I wondered if I might have been mistaken, because unanimous opinions, I’d begun to believe, were usually in error.
After lunch I made my way to the Bridge of Hopes. This Samedi, Shomyr did escort Seliora, but he stayed only long enough to see that I met her before he departed.
I found myself embracing Seliora tightly in the middle of the bridge, my arms almost pinning her inside the heavy black wool cloak.
“Are you all right, Rhenn?”
“I’m glad to see you.” I slowly released her, then kissed her gently on the cheek.
“What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you, but not in the middle of the bridge.”
We walked off the bridge and to one of the stone benches where I’d waited so often the previous spring. I stopped by the bench, gesturing, then stopping. “It’s wet.”
“I can stand. Tell me what happened.” She took my hands in hers, and it was as though warmth flowed from her and released a chill I had not even known had encased me.
I turned to face her. “The patrol rounds on Lundi were all right, but that night I went to deal with Mardoyt-”