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“It’s very good, isn’t it?” said Resialle admiringly. “But Mother would have five kinds of fit if Iria
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 begi
“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 e
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 Ra
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.”
“Esquire D’Alse
Den Thasnet favoured Temar with a curiously close-mouthed smile that betrayed acrid tainted breath. “White feathers, is it, Ressy? But your Sieur refused to discuss Tayven’s suit with our designate, he said you weren’t open to offers.”
“If you’re going to be offensive, you can go away,” snapped Resialle.
“We’ll see you sniffing round any girl showing a white fan, will we, D’Alse
“Of course, your brother’s up before the assize, isn’t he?” A newcomer just beyond Resialle interrupted the youth. “So you’re honour bound to be the loudest arse in the room, if he can’t be present.” He inclined his head to Temar. “Maren Den Murivance, at your service.”
“That’s a spurious claim and you know it,” retorted Den Thasnet angrily. “That was our mother’s settlement. Den Fisce only wants it back because we’ve doubled the rents.”
“By rebuilding and reletting to lately come tradesmen with more money than lineage,” countered Den Murivance. “Perhaps Den Fisce’s concerned about the tenants you threw on to the streets when you tore down their houses.”
Temar kept his mouth shut and wondered who these families were, what their quarrels might be and whether or not he should make some effort to find out. A girl on the edge of the group tittered behind a fan shading from black to palest grey and Den Thasnet coloured unpleasantly. “At least I’m not begging charity round the coat hems of my betters. You’ve made quite the fool of old D’Olbriot with your nonsense, haven’t you?”
He thrust his face belligerently at Temar, who realised everyone close by was waiting with interest for his response. He wondered if punching the lout in the mouth would split the seams in this tight-sewn coat.