He did permit himself a brief glance at her cleavage, where a jewelled swan fashioned round the body of a single, splendid pearl hung on gold and white-enamelled chains linked by a diamond clip.
“Oh, the deal was done at Equinox, but they’ll be more than just a match.” Resialle caught up her fan and smoothed the pristine white feathers clasped in a golden handle set with fiery agates. “Irianne’s adored Camarl since before we put up our hair or lengthened our skirts.”
“Since he slid down corridors with her?” hazarded Temar.
Resialle laughed. “He told you about that? Yes, and shared sweetmeats with, and consoled over lost cage-birds—and teased mercilessly about her hopeless singing.”
“So when will the wedding be?” Temar asked idly.
“Mother’s doubtless planning it as we speak, but she’ll keep it to herself until the very last minute,” Resialle shrugged.
Temar was puzzled. “Why so?”
Resialle looked askance. “We hardly want people claiming a marriage entitles them to some handout from the Name. It can cost a small fortune to stop that kind of nonsense turning into a riot.”
So the nobility no longer celebrated a wedding by rewarding their faithful tenantry with feasting and gifts. Trying to conceal his disdain, Temar turned as the double doors opened for a handful of richly dressed young men and women.
Resialle laid a hand on his arm. “You could drop Camarl a hint, you know, that Irianne’s a grown woman. She’s threatening to have herself painted by Master Gerlach if he doesn’t at least kiss her soon.”
Her laugh, half scandalised, half admiring, plainly told Temar some response was expected. Unfortunately he had no idea what it should be. “That would make him realise?”
“You don’t know Gerlach’s work?” Resialle’s colour rose a little. “Of course you don’t.” She led Temar to the gallery’s most remote recess. “That’s one of his, our mother, painted as Halcarion, you know, in the allegorical style.”
Temar’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t decide what was more shocking, that any woman could be so impious as to have herself portrayed as the goddess or that she would do so in diaphanous gauzes clipped negligently over one shoulder leaving one glorious breast all but naked to be rendered in loving detail by the artist.
“It’s very good, isn’t it?” said Resialle admiringly. “But Mother would have five kinds of fit if Irianne suggested it before she was married.”
How was he ever supposed to meet this Maitresse Tor Kanselin without dying of embarrassment? Temar turned hastily to look for something more familiar, walking rapidly and gratefully towards a clutch of smaller pictures hung close together on the far wall. “This is more the style I remember,” he said inarticulately.
Resialle wrinkled her nose at the stiffly formal figures. “We consider that kind of thing very old-fashioned.” Her attempt to make light of her opinion fell as flat as the faces in the ancient portraits. “But there aren’t many families with pictures from before the Chaos, so we keep them on display.”
Awkward silence hung in the air until a steward broke it with ringing declaration. “Esquire Firon Den Thasnet and Demoiselle Dria Tor Sylarre.”
Resialle let slip a glance at the girl who looked back with avid curiosity.
Temar didn’t think he could cope with two of these girls and hurried to start some conversation to forestall introductions. “So how do we get from these to that?” Temar waved vaguely in the direction of the scandalous picture.
Resialle managed an uncertain smile. “Tastes change gradually, naturally. These old styles, the figure on a plain background, they were to convey presence, power, weren’t they? That square stance is all about strength.” She was clearly repeating something some tutor had drilled into her.
Temar shrugged. “I suppose so.” He’d never really thought about it, but then there’d never been anything different to look at.
Resialle moved down the gallery to some smaller canvases.
“These are from just after the Chaos.” Her tone became more animated. “That’s the Sieur D’Olbriot whose cousin was wife to Kanselin the Pious. It’s the old pose, but see the map beneath his feet. There’s Toremal with the sun’s shining on it, to show hope and renewal, while the lost provinces are all still in shadow.”
Temar studied the ominous darkness behind the solemn figure, broken only by a single shaft of light edging the clouds with gold. “I see,” he said politely.
Resialle’s smile betrayed relief. “Even when the backgrounds stay plain, the people become more natural-looking.” They walked slowly down the length of the room, gazing at the portraits increasingly viewed from an angle or the side, some looking away from the artist, clothes painted with soft realism.
“Later you have to look at what they’re holding,” explained Resialle as they halted in front of a hollow-eyed man with a forked, greying beard and an odd-shaped hood to his enveloping cloak.
Temar obediently studied the silver-banded staff in the old man’s hands. “And that means—?”
Resialle looked faintly disconcerted. “It’s the Adjurist’s rod.”
“Of course.” Temar hoped he sounded at least half convincing. He’d better remember to ask Camarl what in Saedrin’s name that was. No, he’d ask Ryshad. He looked up at the long-dead old man and realised this sombre elder’s father’s grandsire hadn’t even been thought of when Temar had left Toremal behind.
Resialle retreated behind noncommittal remarks as they continued their slow progress and Temar didn’t dare venture any comment of his own. A lackey brought crystal glasses of sparkling wine, which at least gave them both an excuse for silence. More people were arriving now, mostly much of an age with Resialle, but Temar noticed a few older ladies whose satin gowns were overlaid with lace from throat to hem. Resialle was casting longing glances at her friends so Temar stared at the pictures to avoid catching her eye. That was how sensible clothing had drifted into this nonsensical attire, he realised, seeing lengthening jerkins becoming ever more full cut. At least he’d not been woken to some of the more ludicrous excesses of fashion, he thought, gaping at a bloated lordling in a puff-sleeved coat, shirt poking through slashes in the fabric caught together with jewelled clasps. And if breeches had turned too close-tailored for Temar’s liking, at least that was better than the bagged and frilled style that cursed some earlier generation.
“Tiadar, Tor Kanselin as was, who married into the D’Olbriot Name nine generations since.” Resialle was beginning to sound bored, Temar realised. He studied the painting, desperate to find something intelligent to say about it. “That jewel!” He stared at the swan pinned to the scalloped neckline of the painted lady’s gown, faithfully rendered in minute detail. “That’s the one you’re wearing, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes,” said Resialle, brushing it with a finger and a touch of smugness. “It came back to our House with a daughter in the next generation but one. It’s been a Tor Kanselin heirloom piece since the Modrical era. It’s in all the portraits.”
“Are many jewels handed down like that? Do people make a point of having them painted?” Temar leaned forward to study the swan but remembered himself just in time.
“Yes,” Resialle said slowly. “The lately ennobled buy things and then break them up for new settinp, but decent families have a proper sense of history.”
Temar startled her with a beaming smile. “Most of those still sleeping in Kel Ar’Ayen entrusted themselves to their choicest jewels, rings and lockets. Vahil, my friend, Vahil Den Rannion brought them back to the Name that gave them leave to go,” he explained. “Do you think we might find them in a House’s pictures?”
Resialle looked nonplussed. “I don’t see—”
“Hello, Ressy. Doing your duty by Camarl’s poor relations, are you?” A spotty youth dressed in startling purple with silver edging to his lace appeared at Temar’s shoulder. “You want to be careful. Leeches are cursed hard to shake loose.”