From the city to Sedad Vix by the shore is a fair twelve leagues,
through the most fertile fields in all Dossola, now jumping with new
green, orchards blooming in a row and pale yellow jonquils. Another time
Rodvard had found the trip after they crossed the high bridge pure
pleasure; but now he felt having missed his sleep, and the travel-mate
in the opposite seat was a good-looking pregnant woman, who said she was
going to join her husband, and babbled on about his position in the
royal orchestra till one could not even doze. The Blue Star said coldly
that she was a liar and talking to hide the true fact, namely that she
hated her husband and pregnancy and the love of any man, and as soon as
she was free of her condition, hoped to catch the eye of some wealthy
lady and to be maintained for pleasures impermissible—so vile a thought
that Rodvard closed his eyes. The man next to him was a merchant of some
kind by the badge in his cap; he kept addressing heavy-handed
compliments to the dame, saying that he would dance with her at the
spring festival and the like. Rodvard, turning, could see he thought her
licentious, and was determined to profit by it at some future time. At
Masjon, where they stopped for lunch, the merchant-man bought a whole
roasted chicken and a bottle of that fine white Tritulaccan wine which
is called The Honey of the Hills.
Rodvard himself was a little faint from lack of food when he reached the
royal villa after a solid half-league of trudging beyond the stage-post,
nor did the under-butler who received him offer food, but took him at
once to a cabinet looking out over a terraced flower-garden, at the back
of the rambling building. This guide said to wait for the arrival of Ser
Tuolén, the butler-in-chief. The name had a Kjermanash sound; and sure
enough, the tall man who came after perhaps half an hour’s retard, had
the high-bridged nose and curling hair of that northern land. Rodvard
stood to greet him with extended hand, and as he looked into the eyes,
received a shock that ran through him like poison-fire, with its
indubitable message that he was facing another wearer of the Blue Star.
“You are Ser Bergelin?” The eyes looked at him fixedly though the lips
did not cease smiling. “What is your function to be?”
“Writer to the Count Cleudi for the conference,” Rodvard managed to say.
(One almost seemed to drown in those eyes, liquid and northern blue, but
he could not read a single thought behind them.)
The smile expanded. “You will find it easier to meet others who _know_
when you have borne that stone for a time. I perceive it is a novelty to
you. There are not many of us. Hmmm—I suppose it is little use asking
you why Count Cleudi wishes a Blue Star with him. No matter; I have
watched him before, and it is no secret that he wishes to be Chancellor;
even Lord Florestan knows that. I trust you are not an Amorosian or one
of that band of assassins who call themselves Sons of the New Day?”
“No,” said Rodvard (and thought with the back of his mind that this was
why all plans to deal directly with the court had broken, and others of
the brotherhood been laid in the toils of the provosts, this Star-bearer
here.) With the front of his thought he concentrated on looking at the
detail in the painting of a milkmaid just beyond Tuolén’s ear.
The butler-in-chief turned. “It is by Raubasco. He was not satisfied
with the highlights in the middle distance, as I discovered by a means
you will understand, so it was easy to persuade the painting away from
him. Do you intend to bring your wife?”
“No,” said Rodvard, (thinking quickly on Lalette and as quickly away).
“Oh, there is something wrong with the personal relation. Perhaps it is
just as well if you do not; Her Majesty is not prudish, but she does not
approve of witches at the court. Your room will be at the depth of the
west wing, beyond the hall of conference. I will have one of the
under-butlers show you.” He stood up, then paused with one hand holding
the bell-rope.
“One last word. A Bearer finds himself in a strange position here
without his witch. I suppose your wife has given you the usual warning
about infidelity, but you are clearly new to the jewel and young, and
there are not a few ladies who might make the loss seem worth the
gain—since you can read their desires. In particular I warn you to stand
clear of the Countess Aiella of Arjen, in whom I have noted something of
the kind. She is involved with the Duke of Aggermans, a man who’ll
protect his own dangerously. . . . Drop in tomorrow night after Cleudi
releases you; it will be a pleasure to compare things seen with another
Bearer. I have not met one for long.”
In the room was a tray of food on the table, ample and well selected,
with a bottle of wine; three or four books also, but they were all
gesling-romances, and of a kind Rodvard found it difficult to bear even
when well written, as these hardly were. He glanced at each in turn,
then tossed them aside, and was only rescued from boredom by Mathurin’s
coming, who pressed his hands, and said he would come the next evening
again, but for the now, he must hurry.
Rodvard replied that the high butler Tuolén was the bearer of a Star,
and Mathurin must either avoid his eye or keep his own thought on
innocuous subjects.
“And his witch? Wait, no, that explains much.”
“I do not see,” said Rodvard.
“Why, fool, the hold the court party has. No sooner a man turns up
that’s in opposition than your Tuolén knows his most secret purpose, and
I do not doubt that his wife witches the man. This is something for the
High Center of the New Day.”