around and marveled anew that the world was so overwhelmingly huge. To east and north the sky was deep indigo; south-westward it paled to buttermilk. The great bulge of Ocean lay in that direction, but so far off that it was lost in the sky's blue.
As he hesitated, debating whether to wait for Ingeld or head home and catch up on lost sleep, a clawed finger poked his ribs. He looked down and laughed.
'Twelve blessings, old mother.' He gave her a careful hug.
Molith was Ingeld's most trusted servant, and incredibly ancient. Her gnarled face split in a smile, toothless and welcoming, but not wide enough to imply that all was well.
'We heard that you had died of a wasting sickness.'
'It has not been that long!'
'Too long.' The smile had gone. 'The lady said to go by the roseberry trees and wait for her.'
That was a surprise. 'Thanks, old mother.'
She caught his wrist in a frail grip. Filmed eyes peered up anxiously at him. 'Oh, be careful, lad!'
'Of course. I'm always careful.' He wandered away, trying to be inconspicuous without actually slinking.
Ingeld must have given those instructions before she began the pyromancy, which was before anyone could have told her of the events at the audience. So how had she known he was coming?
Stupid question. Scary answer.
¦
Having been hunted through the palace so often by Cutrath and his pack of stone-throwing curs in bygone years, Benard Celebre knew it as well as any mortal could. He made his way to a rooftop littered with servants' sleeping mats. From mere it was an easy slither over a wall and a short drop into a wooded park where men were not supposed to venture, although it was known to the young bloods of the palace as the Baby-Making Place. There he was supposedly visible to rooftop guards, but they were merely armed men, not Werists, and would be paying scant attention in the heat of the day.
A massive roseberry tree grew in one corner. Clutching his sketch in one hand, he jumped, caught a branch with the other, and pulled himself up into the foliage. The boughs interlocked with those of an adjacent roseberry, providing safe passage over a wall whose coping bristled with bronze spikes. He dropped nimbly to the grass in an even more private courtyard and made his way to an unobtrusive but extremely solid gate in the corner.
It was bolted, of course, but he knew that bolt very well. Laying a hand on the timber, he closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer to holy Anziel, calling up visions of the private garden beyond. When he was satisfied that there was nobody there, he reminded Her of the beauty he sought and asked Her to open the way for him. That was a little harder, but soon he sensed the bronze slide aside; he remembered to open and close the gate gently, knowing how its pivots squeaked. A stroll across a flower-decked lawn, between two shaded ponds where gold and silver fish floated in reflective silence, brought him to the lady's room.
Ingeld was both a state and religious personage and her private life was rarely private, so her chamber was very large, as befitted a hall of state, and pentagonal because it was sacred. Attendants bathed her in that huge bath of black granite, she stood on that dais to give audience, and even the children she had conceived and borne on the oversized sleeping platform had been matters of state. Five slim columns around the pentagonal hearth merged at head height to form a chimney reaching to the high corbeled roof. Although the day was warm, coals in a small brazier glowed to honor holy Veslih.
For sheer beauty as well as the memories it held for him, this was Benard's favorite room on all Dodec. Although the style was utterly different, something of its taste and beauty stirred dim memories of his father's palace in Celebre. A balmwood stool, a table holding alabaster pots of unguents, inlaid chests—the room held many lovely things and flattered them with opulent use of space. Cool in summer, with one side open to the garden's dappled flowers and silky pools; snug in winter behind massive doors of bronze-clad timber, when bright rugs deadened the chill of floor tiles and a vast log fire roared and crackled on the hearth, defying the storms ... this was a fittingly perfect place for Ingeld. Soft mats of ibex hair adorned the sleeping platform. A faint familiar scent of her haunted the room. He saw that the bath was still beaded with water, as was the tiled gutter that drained it; she would have bathed before going to consult her goddess.
Brilliant polychrome glazes adorned the bricks of the walls, two of which bore bright friezes above shoulder height. The one depicting the Twelve, the Bright Ones, had been Benard's masterpiece, which had won him acceptance into both the artists' guild and the mystery of the Hands of Anziel; later it had gained him the Pantheon commission.
He looked instead at the other, Ingeld's personal wall of memory, executed by Master Odok. The central figures depicted what she claimed were good likenesses of her long-dead parents, who had died together on the day Stralg seized the city. Nars Narson, the last state consort, stood there eternally in his black robes, silver-maned and exactly as bony-jawed and stubborn as his legend required. The lady Tiu wore the robes of a pyromancer. Ingeld said her mother's hair had been the same rich bronze as her own, but glazing technique had limited Odok to using a gold luster, a three-firing technique formula normally used only by potters.
Off to the side stood the twins, Finar and Fitel, a little older than Cutrath was now, smiling proudly as newly initiated Heroes in brass collars. They had been six years older than Cutrath, and sixty-sixty times as worthy to be immortalized, although one picture would have served for both. Odok's glazes had barely cooled from the kiln before the twins had gone off to the war and died without ever reaching it.
Now another portrait had been inserted in Ingeld's wall of memories. There really was no accounting for a mother's delusions. Although Cutrath smirking in his new brass collar should not be regarded as an improvement to any room, even a latrine, Benard grudgingly conceded that the old master had excelled himself, for this was obviously more of Odok's work. The background tones matched the original perfectly; every fold of the pall crossed every tile boundary in perfect alignment. And when he stepped back to admire the whole, Benard reluctantly conceded that the young brute really did have an impressive body. Pad out the muscles to full adult mass, correct the brawler's battered features, catch that ghastly arrogance half as well as Odok had done... and Cutrath would do very well as a model for unholy Weru.
Disgusted, Benard leaned his sketch board against the wall below Cutrath's feet to show how much more handsome Horold had been, then wandered across to the sleeping platform. He kicked off Thranth's sandals and lay down. Ingeld's scent enveloped him in a mist of nostalgia, but he detected none of Horold's sour animal reek. That one deserved a stall with dry straw, nothing more. Benard assumed she was not required to function as the monster's wife these days, although that was not something one could ask. It was not something a man could even think about.
