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“Yes, Rational style is all very well, but you do have to recognise the heritage, don’t you?” Camarl sounded amused. “Watch your footing.”
The glassy marble floor caught Temar unawares as he tried to identify the mythic figures among the intricate detail.
“When we were children we’d get a hearthrug and slide along here if we could escape our nursemaids,” gri
Temar laughed but thought all those choice ceramics set on spindly tables must have been horribly vulnerable to rampaging children. There had been no such hazards in the halls of his youth, where plain panelled walls were only relieved by stern-faced statues on plinths it took three men to shift. Ba
A florid platter displayed on a side table caught his eye. Arimelin sat weaving dreams in her bower and the trees reminded Temar of the tracery engraved on his sword, his grandfather’s gift before he sailed for Kel Ar’Ayen. The blade had been made for the uncle expected to be the next Sieur D’Alse
“Holm oak,” Temar said suddenly. “Could I take the holm oak as my badge?”
Camarl cracked his knuckles absently. “I can’t think of a House using it, not anyone of significance. The Archivists would have to check the lesser Names but we could argue for D’Alse
Would that help put him on an equal footing with these nobles always flaunting their finery, wondered Temar. His grandfather had never needed such display; face and Name were enough to command respect from equals and subordinates alike.
“Here we are.” Camarl nodded to the waiting lackey as they reached the end of the corridor. The leaves and flowers of the plasterwork frieze framed a marvellously lifelike swan, wings bating in defiance and neck arched with its head hovering right above the lintel as if it might peck at those passing beneath. Temar laughed.
“Just to remind people who they’re dealing with,” smiled Camarl.
The lackey flung open the double doors with the efficiency of long practice and Camarl strode casually through, Temar rather more stiffly by his side.
“People will call in through the afternoon, then go on to other things,” murmured Camarl. “We’re here to socialise, not talk trade, so don’t let anyone press you on colony business.”
Temar wondered just how exactly he was to manage that without giving offence, but he followed Camarl obediently down the vast room. This high ceiling was another triumph of the plasterer’s art, swags and garlands framing flowers, knots, beasts and birds, too stylised and too fantastical to be anything but insignia, Temar decided. The plain walls, by contrast, were a mere backdrop to an imposing array of gilt-framed paintings. Glazed doors in deeply recessed bays in the three outer walls gave on to terraces where Temar saw tempting glimpses of green foliage. The i
Two young ladies occupied one of these bays, prettily pink but appropriately demure in dull silk gowns of honey gold and jessamine yellow, collars of diamonds and pearls around their necks.
“Demoiselles.” Camarl’s dark eyes warmed with affection. “May I make known Temar, Esquire D’Alse
Both swept elegant curtseys, first to Temar, then to Camarl. “You’re horribly early,” accused the one in the honey-coloured gown, hazel eyes charming in a strong-featured face.
“Lady Cha
Resialle, the elder, stepped past Temar towards the empty length of the gallery. “Let’s walk a little, before the room becomes too crowded. I’m sure you’ve been wanting to see the pictures.”
Temar could take a hint as plain as a kick in the shins. “Demoiselle.”
She led him briskly out of sight of Camarl and her sister, silken shoes whispering on the woven rush matting. “This is the Sieur Tor Kanselin who was uncle to Inshol the Curt,” she said brightly, indicating a portrait of a balding man, chin on chest and arms folded, swathed in a black robe barely distinguishable from the vista of storm clouds dark behind him.
“He looks half asleep to me,” said Temar critically.
“That’s a pose of earnest contemplation, I believe. In a time of uncertainty, a show of wisdom helped maintain confidence in the Name.” Resialle stole a glance at Temar from behind a raised hand. She adjusted a discreetly jewelled comb pi
Temar winked at her. “You need not play the tutor just to get your sister and Camarl a little privacy.”
Resialle looked a little abashed. “He said you weren’t stupid.”
“Festivals were always a favoured time for match-making.” Temar smiled, resolutely looking her in the eye rather than letting his gaze fall to the low circular neckline of her gown.
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. “Iria
“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 pla
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 Iria
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.