After three of my attempts, she turned and glided toward me, trailed by the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar.
“Young man?”
“Yes, madame?” I did turn to her, smiling pleasantly. “Might I be of some assistance?”
“You seemed, shall we say, less than fully interested in your duties, whatever they might be.”
“Madame, that is doubtless true. I was attempting to see, without being too obvious, if you looked like the etched portrait in the front of On Art and Society. My sister has all of your books. I don’t know whether she’s finished that one, because she just got it. Even though she’s never been married, she found A Widow’s Guide invaluable . . . I beg your pardon.”
She laughed, a sound somehow harshly melodic, but not mocking. “So I still have readers.”
“Yes, madame.” I needed to get Vhillar closer. “You haven’t changed that much since Emanus painted that miniature . . .”
I could sense her stiffen . . . ever so slightly.
“That’s less than common knowledge. How would a young man such as yourself know such a distinguished portraiturist?”
Vhillar kept a pleasant smile on his face, but edged closer.
“I was a journeyman portraiturist before I came here. Emanus liked a chess study I did, and offered several comments about it. We talked several times.” At that point, I extended the faintest image-probe, and immediately sensed a shield reaction-of the same sort of shield that I had sensed outside Terraza. There couldn’t be another foreign shield like that-not unless there were far more imager agents in L’Excelsis than Master Dichartyn knew, and that was doubtful, but still a disturbing possibility.
His eyes widened, if only fractionally, and I could sense a strengthening of his shields, but I concealed my surprise, both at his shields and his reaction, although I had half-expected to find him an imager, for reasons I could not have explained.
“You are rather young for this kind of approach, are you not?” offered Vhillar without any hesitation. “And such familiarity with a lady you do not know might not be considered . . . seemly . . . by your superiors.” His smile was pleasant and polished, as was his voice.
“I confess brashness, madame . . . and sir, but only because of my admiration and that of my sister for Madame D’Shendael for her writings and all she has endured . . . to bring those words to life so that others can read them. Admiration and the wish to hear the words of one so distinguished is certainly not undue familiarity.”
“Such artistry in flattery,” Vhillar offered. “Such charm beyond your years and experience.”
I only smiled, looking at Juniae D’Shendael and inclining my head politely. “My thanks for your words, madame.”
“He means well, I believe, Klauzvol,” replied Madame D’Shendael. “Presumptuously, but with honest 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.