shift the angles, and I changed the faint outlines on the canvas.
For almost a quarter glass, neither of us spoke, as I worked on the general shape of his face, concentrating on the broad cheekbones and wide forehead.
“Rhennthyl, what do you think of the Chateau? Is it close to what you had expected?”
“It is, and it isn’t, sir. I was taught so much . . .” How could I say what I meant without seeming stupid? I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I didn’t want to lie, either.
“But what you’ve been taught almost seems meaningless or irrelevant? Is that it?”
How could I answer that? Finally, I shrugged. “I know it’s not, but sometimes . . .”
“Watching corridors and escorting petitioners seems most uneventful, even boring.”
“At times, sir,” I admitted.
“That suggests that you are not observant enough, and that you are letting your mind lie fallow. Because you are an artist, I imagine that you could draw a fair likeness of the other imagers with whom you work, could you not?”
“Yes, sir.” My words were cautious.
“Could you describe exactly how each of them walks, or carries their hands, or what gestures are so habitual to them that they do not even notice themselves making such gestures? Or how they wear their garments, as much as what they wear? Or, more important, how they use words and arguments and even body postures to inform or dominate others?”
“No, sir.”
“You should practice that skill with every person you meet, until it becomes second nature. If you do so, you will find that there are times when it has saved your life. If you do not, your life may well be that much shorter.”
I couldn’t help frowning.
“Rhennthyl . . . think of it this way. What distinguishes those who are successful from those who are not is what they know and how they apply that knowledge. Because the world is governed by men, should you not endeavor to learn as much as possible about men? If you study men with the same diligence as you have studied art and the texts with which Master Dichartyn has plied you and examined you, you will gain great knowledge about how best to apply all you know.” He smiled. “That is my homily for the day, but I would ask you to consider it.”
Master Poincaryt was true to his word and did not offer a single other piece of advice, only thanking me for my diligence just before he departed and confirmed that he would be present the following Samedi at the same time.
As I cleaned up the studio, I realized something about Master Poincaryt and his advice. He’d only given me one suggestion. Because he had offered nothing else, I was likely to remember that suggestion far more than if it had been buried among a wealth of ideas. What he said certainly made sense, and I could certainly practice during the slow times at the Chateau.
After cleaning up the studio, I wandered back to my quarters before making my way to the dining hall for lunch. Once there, I spied Reynol.
“Could I join you?”
He looked to both sides-where both chairs were empty-then raised his eyebrows dramatically and grinned.
“I think you made your point.” I settled into the chair on his left. “Have you seen Menyard lately?”
“He’s out visiting some cousin today. That’s because he’s interested in her best friend. Whatever happened to the lady who saved your life?”
“She’s been away and just got back. I’ll see her tomorrow.”
“It must be nice to leave L’Excelsis in the summer.”
“It was a mixed blessing. She was accompanying her grandmother and her brother.”
“That could be a very mixed blessing.” Reynol passed a platter of cool fowl slices, and then one of rice fries.
I poured some of the red wine. “Would you like some?”
“Please.”
“What do you think about what might happen in Caenen?” I asked.
“Haven’t you seen the newsheets?”
“Not today.”
“The High Priest was leading some ritual meeting. He declared that we were whatever the Caenenan equivalent of the Namer was, when he dropped dead. Apparently, his heart stopped.”
“Oh . . . I see.” I had a good idea how that happened. “What’s likely to happen next?”
“We or Tiempre will be blamed.” Reynol shrugged, then added, “One would hope his successor would see the error of his predecessor’s ways. Sometimes they do, sometimes not.”
“Has anyone heard from Kahlasa or Claustyn?”
“We would have heard if something went wrong, unless it happened in the last few days.”
“Oh?”
“Their names would go up on the plaques of those lost in the line of duty. Those are the tablets on the wall to the right of the main entrance.”
I’d seen the plaques, and the names, but I had thought of them more as memorials to much older imagers. Until that moment, it hadn’t really struck me that the names of those I knew near my own age might appear on the them. After a moment, I asked, “What about Jariola?”
Reynol laughed. “The death of the High Priest of Caenen won’t matter to the Oligarch. He’s the kind that thinks nothing could possibly happen to him. Besides, it won’t. When their entire government is composed of a small number of people who think exactly the same way with the same interests and prejudices, what difference does it make to Solidar who’s nominally in charge? The Oligarch dies, and the next one acts just the same.”
Again, I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.
In the end, we came to no real conclusions about what might happen. Afterward, I picked up copies of both newsheets and sat on a shaded bench in the quadrangle and read them. I didn’t learn much. After that, I watched the younger imagers walking back and forth and tried to practice what Master Poincaryt had suggested. It was far harder than it had sounded.
At slightly before third glass, I crossed the Bridge of Hopes under a sky that held a high silvery haze that might have kept the day cooler, except that there was no breeze at all, and the air was still and sodden. Following Master Dichartyn’s instructions, I was holding full shields and hoping that I could do so for as long as necessary. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the streets were crowded, and so were the sidewalks. I had to wait several moments before I could cross East River Road, weaving my way through carriages and wagons, and the occasional rider.
The flower lady with the green and yellow umbrella was on the south side of the Boulevard D’Imagers, if a half block farther east, near the east entrance to the boulevard gardens. I saw no sign of the man who had been in the yellow vest-but there were scores of people moving along the broad walk bordering the gardens.
“Fresh flowers . . . the best for you, sir.” She turned toward me.
“How much are the daisies there?”
“For you, sir, a mere three coppers.”
I didn’t feel like haggling, but I did want to know a few things, and I tried to concentrate on observing the flower seller. “Last week you were talking to a man in a pale blue shirt and a yellow vest . . .”
“I talk to those who buy or those who might. That’d be scores every day.” She smiled, but her eyes remained tense and worried, and her shoulders stiffened. “Last week? I’d find it hard to remember who I saw this morning.”
I handed over the three coppers. “I just wondered because he’s a bravo. He could even be an assassin.”
There was the faintest twitch at my words.
“I see you do know him.”
“No, sir. Not by name. Everyone knows him as the Ferran. He talks just like you and me. He’s been on the streets here longer ’n me, and that’s longer ’n I’d like to count.”
