brashness. Shall we dance?”
“My honor, madame.” Vhillar glanced at me quickly as he swirled her onto the dance floor, but the look was one that committed my face to memory.
I’d have to be more than careful. I’d revealed to Vhillar that I knew what he was, and I doubted he wanted anyone to know that, but how else could I have discovered it? Then, it could be that Master Dichartyn already knew, and that was a reason why he was here.
I scanned the great receiving hall, slowly, trying to do so casually, but I didn’t see Master Dichartyn or Baratyn. Besides, Baratyn wouldn’t understand, nor was I going to have the time to explain the complexity of the situation. If he’d been the one with the Ferran outside Terraza-and I was almost certain he was-he’d already killed, or arranged the killing of close to ten imagers, not to mention at least four attempts on me. In addition, he was friendly with an influential High Holder with ties to those on the Council-and that High Holder’s father had most likely been killed because of his conversation with me. And from that last look at me, it was clear that Vhillar knew exactly who I happened to be-and that I knew who and what he was.
I still couldn’t see Master Dichartyn, but I didn’t want to chase him down, not at the moment, with the formal toast about to occur. Since Vhillar was an imager, that would be a perfect opportunity to create havoc. He might not, but . . . I was supposed to prevent that sort of thing-if I could.
I moved toward the table where the formal toast would take place, trying to use the deft but purposeful moves of an assistant who needed to be somewhere but did not wish to offend. I also tried to project that feeling, and some must have picked up on it because people moved aside just slightly. Before long I had stationed myself behind and to the left of the small table behind which Councilor Suyrien would make the toast. With my back to the wall, I looked out at the dancers.
Among those closer who were waiting to watch the toast was the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar, with Mistress Cyana D’Guerdyn-Alte now at his side. He did not look in my direction, and they were positioned so that the equivalent of two lines of people were between them and the open space separating those gathering to watch from the small toasting table. I didn’t see Madame D’Shendael.
As the last bells of ninth glass died away, Councilor Suyrien emerged from a group of High Holders and their wives or daughters or mistresses and stepped toward the table. The sounds of the orchestra faded away, followed by a drum roll and then a quick trumpet call I did not recognize.
A uniformed server brought three bottles to the table, still corked and sealed. The councilor said something, and the server quickly removed the foil and cork from one of the bottles, then set a goblet down and poured the sparkling white into it.
I watched the goblet, hoping I’d guessed correctly.
The wine settled-then trembled-and I knew, not that I’d ever be able to prove it.
I concentrated, trying to image what was in the toasting goblet away, and replacing it with wine from the second unopened bottle.
This time the trembling was more pronounced, but no one seemed to notice. Certainly, Suyrien D’Alte did not as he picked up the goblet, raised it, and declaimed, “For Solidar, for the Council, and in thanks for a fruitful harvest!”
Then he lowered the goblet and put it to his lips. At that moment, I extended a shield on one side of the glass-the side between Vhillar and the councilor.
Something, a tiny something, hit the invisible shield and rebounded, unseen by most, except for the older woman in front, over whose shoulder a fine mist sprayed. She merely frowned, then used her scarf to brush away the misty drops.
“For Solidar, for the Council, and in thanks for a fruitful harvest!” came a low echo from the bystanders.
Not terribly enthusiastic, I thought, but I had the feeling that High Holders were not given to much in the way of public enthusiasms.
I could feel eyes on me, but I continued to survey the crowd. As my eyes passed those of Vhillar, I could see his eyes narrow. Abruptly, he looked away, then guided Mistress D’Guerdyn-Alte out onto the dance floor as the orchestra resumed playing.
Councilor Suyrien had left the toasting table, as if glad to be done with that task, and resumed his conversation. To one side, perhaps five yards, I could see Councilor Haestyr murmur something to Councilor Caartyl. They talked for a moment or two, then nodded to each other and returned to those they had escorted.
I began to move away from the toasting table, trying to convey the sense that I’d finished another task and still trying to locate Master Dichartyn, when a voice called to me. “Young man.”
I turned. The summons came from Madame D’Shendael. What exactly did she want? I smiled and moved to her. “Yes, madame. Might I be of assistance?”
“You may. I find I need a partner.”
She was a good dancer, better than Iryela, but still not quite so good as Seliora, and she said nothing until we had gone halfway around the floor.
“Was what you said about your sister total nonsense or truth used to a purpose?”
Obviously, she didn’t believe in High Holder circumlocution. “It was quite truthful, madame. My sister found a number of the financial advisements of great use in the family business. She was also first captivated by your
“I don’t believe you answered my question.”
“I believe I answered it as well as I can, madame.”
She smiled. “That is an answer, of another kind. What is your name?”
“Rhennthyl.”
“Rhennthyl D’Imager, I would imagine. No . . . I know you cannot comment. A rather silly fiction, if you ask me. What about Emanus? Was that true as well?”
“Yes, madame.”
“It is rumored that he was killed by an imager, and that you visited him shortly before he died.”
Rumored? Most likely, Vhillar had told her it was a rumor, possibly as a way to discredit the Collegium. “I had heard something to that effect, but he was well when I left him, and, frankly, madame, I was looking forward to talking to him again. I was shocked to learn of his death, and I did not know of it until several days later.”
“I am truly sorry for you, madame.” That was a risk, but someone should have expressed some sympathy for her father’s death, especially after all he had suffered for her.
Her lips tightened, as if she were about to retort. Then she nodded. “It is sad when a great artist dies and is not able to be recognized.”
“I have studied the works of all the current masters, and none exhibits his excellence. I suppose that was one reason why I was so pleased when he praised my chess study.” That wasn’t quite true, because I hadn’t realized how great an artist he was until later, when I’d seen the miniature, but the spirit of my words was true.
She was silent for a time as we circled the floor. As we made one turn, I caught sight of Martyl dancing with Alynkya, and the young woman looked happy. I couldn’t help but contrast her to both Iryela and Madame D’Shendael, both surrounded by intrigue and plotting.
Then the music ended.
“Thank you, madame.”
She smiled. I think there was pain behind the smile, but I don’t know that anyone else would have seen it, except Seliora, had she been there. “Thank you, Master Rhennthyl. Take care.” There was the slightest emphasis on the last two words. I escorted her back to her husband, who did not even turn as she rejoined whatever conversation was in progress.
After that, I moved around the dance floor, always watching, but no one else seemed to need rescuing, and no one else asked me to dance. Master Dichartyn was still nowhere to be seen, and although I glimpsed Baratyn across the dance floor, he was headed toward the grand staircase. Should I follow him?
It was nearing tenth glass, midnight, when the Ball would end.
