After dismissing us, he beckoned to me and drew me aside. “One other thing, Rhenn . . . for purposes of the Ball, when guests are announced, in the case of unmarried women you may hear something like Mistress Mearjyn D’Something-Alte. The suffix ‘Alte’ is added so that all know she is the daughter of a High Holder. You should note that whenever possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not just a formality. It has been known that some of such daughters have asked those who have served as you are serving to dance, and it is well that you know their status. Oh . . . the suffix is also used for unmarried sons as well, but that shouldn’t prove a problem. They won’t be asking you to dance.”
In short, treat them with great respect and charm, I translated, unless you want to be on the bad side of their sire, which is something that the Collegium would prefer not to occur. But then, how could I be on much worse footing with High Holders than I was? I caught myself on that. Being on the bad side of two High Holders would be far worse than having only one wanting to do worse to me than killing me.
We left the Collegium early that afternoon, because the Council had adjourned at noon so that they could prepare and dress properly. From the duty coach, on the other side of the ring avenue circling Council Hill, I noticed the same high-sided and roofed wagon I had seen on Solayi evening. It was the kind that had several small porthole windows. The single horse was the same old gelding, and the teamster was apparently trying to adjust something with the traces, although I couldn’t be sure, but I caught myself wondering what that sort of wagon was doing there, especially twice in a week. If it happened to be there when we returned, I’d let Baratyn know.
70
The difference between an imager and a councilor is that the first understands the limits of the world, while the second only understands the limits of government.
The duty coach brought us back to the Council Chateau just before seventh glass, and I didn’t see any sign of the old wagon or of anything else out of the ordinary.
The Council’s Harvest Ball began officially at half past seventh glass, but as we had been warned by Baratyn, no one even began to arrive until a quarter before eight. Moments after the first carriage arrived, others pulled up in the drive below the main entry steps, a drive that was normally restricted to councilors alone. Then people began to walk up the outside stone steps and in through the grand foyer past the ceremonial guards and finally up the grand staircase. They took their time on the grand staircase.
“Councilor Hemwyt D’Artisan and Madame D’Hemwyt!” The deep voice announcing the first arrival boomed from a small balding man standing at the left side of the center archway into the great receiving hall.
While people entered and were greeted by the three councilors on the Executive Council, Baratyn and I stood against the west wall just inside the Hall, which was on the south end of the Chateau and effectively occupied the space above the grand foyer. Dartazn and Martyl were stationed along the east wall.
“Councilor Etyenn D’Factorius and Madame D’Etyenn!”
“The Honorable Symmal D’Juris and Madame D’Symmal!”
In less than a quint glass I had begun to lose track of all the names, and in another quint, I was sure I had no idea of all those who were at the Ball.
“In a few moments, when most of the councilors and their guests are here,” Baratyn said quietly, after edging toward me, “I want you to move until you’re along the wall about even with the middle of the dance floor.”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded, then almost froze at the names I heard being announced.
“Dulyk D’Ryel-Alte and Mistress Iryela D’Ryel-Alte . . .”
The names sounded like they were Johanyr’s brother and sister, something I didn’t care for at all, and I moved slightly to the left to get a better look at the couple as they stepped through the central archway into the hall. She was blond, almost white-blond, and petite, if shapely, and wore a gown of silver and shimmering blue, with a glittering silver scarf, trimmed in black. Her brother was a younger and leaner version of Johanyr. Although he was of slightly larger than average height and moved gracefully, there was also a sense of smallness and pettiness surrounding him, although I could not have explained why I felt that.
They vanished into one of the groups of younger people on the east side of the hall, near the sideboards that held various vintages, with uniformed servers behind each.
“Shendael D’Alte and Madame D’Shendael.”
That name caught my attention as well. Madame Juniae D’Shendael could not have been said to be unduly attractive, but rather handsome, with a strong chin and nose, and mahogany hair cut as short as any woman I’d seen in L’Excelsis. Her husband was wiry, shorter, and blond.
“The Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar, envoy of Ferrum, and Mistress Cyana D’Guerdyn-Alte.”
The Ferran envoy coming right behind Madame D’Shendael? Was that just coincidence? And escorting a High Holder’s daughter, when supposedly the Ferrans weren’t exactly fond of the High Holders as a class?
“The Honorable Dharios Harnen, envoy of the Abierto Isles, and Mistress Dhenica Harnen.”
He’d brought his daughter, who looked younger than Khethila and slightly ill at ease.
“The Honorable Herrys Charkovy, envoy of Jariola, and Madame Charkovy . . .”
Apparently, the envoys had arrived at the same time, just after Madame D’Shendael. Given her criticisms of the Council, I wondered who had invited her, and I looked toward Baratyn. “Madame D’Shendael?”
He grinned. “Councilor Caartyl always invites her. It irritates Councilor Suyrien no end.”
Caartyl . . . there was something there, but I couldn’t grasp it for a moment. Then it hit me. Caartyl was the guild member on the Executive Council, and he was the one that the strange factor Alhazyr had visited-a visit that had disturbed Master Dichartyn.
In the background, the orchestra, set on a temporary dais at the south end of the hall, opposite the entry archways, began to play. Baratyn nodded to me, and I began to edge toward my designated station.
A good half glass passed as I watched the dancers, and those moving to and from the sideboards, or standing and talking, holding wineglasses. Dartazn danced past several times with an older woman I did not recognize, perhaps a relation of some sort.
As the orchestra paused between dances, I couldn’t help but notice a slender woman in blue and silver walking in my direction, casually half-twirling the end of a long black and silver scarf. As she drew closer, I realized that she was Iryela D’Ryel. I also had the feeling that I had seen her sometime before, but I couldn’t place where it might have been. How could I have seen her? I kept a pleasant smile on my face and waited for her to pass.
She didn’t. Instead, she stopped and looked at me, closely. “You’re Rhennthyl, aren’t you?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Please . . .” She offered a smile that was half wry and half tired. “I’m Iryela, and you’re an imager tertius, at least.” Her voice was pleasant enough, if slightly higher than I would have preferred. “You’re also the one who put my brother in his place.”