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Urusander had sat motionless through this, knife point thrust through a sliver of meat and suspended halfway to his mouth. When Kadaspala finished, he set the knife down and reached once more for his wine. ‘But I am not a critic,’ he said.
‘Indeed not, Lord, which is why I said I wasn’t curious about your opinion. I am curious about the opinions of critics. But about the opinions of those with no agenda beyond the aesthetic, I am interested.’
Urusander snorted. ‘Take some wine, Kadaspala, you have just earned it.’
The mouthful he took was modest.
‘Other nights when we sit here,’ Urusander said, now frowning, ‘you will finish off an entire carafe on your own.’
‘Other nights, Lord, I am subjected to war stories.’
Urusander laughed, the sound startling the servants with its booming thunder. Somewhere in the kitchen something crashed down to the stone floor.
‘The wine,’ said Kadaspala, ‘is exceptional, Lord.’
‘It is, isn’t it? And do you know why I have not served it before this night?’
‘Every morning, Lord, I check my jugs of cleaning spirits, to ensure Hunn Raal has not plundered them.’
‘Just so, artist, just so. Now, let us eat, but keep your wits about you. On this night, let us stretch our minds in dialogue.’
Kadaspala spoke with utter honesty. ‘Lord, pray we talk these candles down as the only measure of the evening’s passage.’
Urusander’s eyes were narrow and thoughtful. ‘I was warned to expect nothing but foul and bitter regard when in your company.’
‘Only when I paint, Lord. Only when I paint. Now, if it pleases you, I am interested in hearing your thoughts on my work thus far.’
‘My thoughts? I have but one, Kadaspala. I had no idea I was so transparent.’
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Urusander had sat motionless through this, knife point thrust through a sliver of meat and suspended halfway to his mouth. When Kadaspala finished, he set the knife down and reached once more for his wine. ‘But I am not a critic,’ he said.
‘Indeed not, Lord, which is why I said I wasn’t curious about your opinion. I am curious about the opinions of critics. But about the opinions of those with no agenda beyond the aesthetic, I am interested.’
Urusander snorted. ‘Take some wine, Kadaspala, you have just earned it.’
The mouthful he took was modest.
‘Other nights when we sit here,’ Urusander said, now frowning, ‘you will finish off an entire carafe on your own.’
‘Other nights, Lord, I am subjected to war stories.’
Urusander laughed, the sound startling the servants with its booming thunder. Somewhere in the kitchen something crashed down to the stone floor.
‘The wine,’ said Kadaspala, ‘is exceptional, Lord.’
‘It is, isn’t it? And do you know why I have not served it before this night?’
‘Every morning, Lord, I check my jugs of cleaning spirits, to ensure Hunn Raal has not plundered them.’
‘Just so, artist, just so. Now, let us eat, but keep your wits about you. On this night, let us stretch our minds in dialogue.’
Kadaspala spoke with utter honesty. ‘Lord, pray we talk these candles down as the only measure of the evening’s passage.’
Urusander’s eyes were narrow and thoughtful. ‘I was warned to expect nothing but foul and bitter regard when in your company.’
‘Only when I paint, Lord. Only when I paint. Now, if it pleases you, I am interested in hearing your thoughts on my work thus far.’
‘My thoughts? I have but one, Kadaspala. I had no idea I was so transparent.’
He nearly dropped the goblet. Only the quick intercession of a servant saved him.
Enesdia, daughter of Lord Jaen of House Enes, stood frowning at the silvered mirror. The dye in the dress was said to come from a tuberous vegetable, which when simmered produced a deep and pure scarlet. ‘It’s the colour of blood,’ she said. ‘This is what everyone in Kharkanas is going mad for?’
The seamstresses flanking her in the reflection looked pale and drab, almost lifeless.
Seated off to the left on a settee, Cryl of House Durav cleared his throat in a manner all too familiar to Enesdia, and she turned, brows lifting, and said, ‘And what shall we argue about this morning, then? The cut of the dress? The style of the court? Or is it my hair that now dismays you? As it happens, I like it short. The shorter the better. Why should you complain about it, anyway? It’s not as though you’ve let your hair go long as a horse tail just to fit in with the day’s fashion. Oh, I don’t know why I invited you in at all.’
Mild surprise played with his even features for the briefest of moments, and then he offered up a lopsided shrug. ‘I was just thinking, it’s more vermilion than scarlet, isn’t it. Or is it our eyes that are changing?’
‘Idiotic superstitions. Vermilion… well.’
‘Dog-Runner wives call it the “Born of the Hearth”, don’t they?’
‘That’s because they boil the root, fool.’
‘Oh, I would think the name more descriptive than that.’
‘Would you now? Haven’t you somewhere to be, Cryl? Some horse to train? Some sword to whet?’
‘You invite me only to then send me away?’ The young man rose smoothly. ‘If I were a sensitive soul, I might be offended. As it is, I know this game — we have played it all our lives, haven’t we?’
‘Game? What game?’
He had been making for the door, but now he paused and glanced back, and there was something sad in his faint smile. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me, I have a horse to whet and a sword to train. Although, I should add, you look lovely in that dress, Enesdia.’
Even as she drew a breath, mind racing for something that made sense — that might even draw him snapping back on his leash — he slipped out and was gone.
One of the seamstresses sighed, and Enesdia rounded on her. ‘Enough of that, Ephalla! He is a hostage in this house and is to be accorded the highest respect!’
‘Sorry, mistress,’ Ephalla whispered, ducking. ‘But he spoke true — you look lovely!’
Enesdia returned her attention to the blurred image of herself in the mirror. ‘But,’ she murmured, ‘do you think he’ll like it?’
Cryl paused for a moment in the corridor outside Enesdia’s door, near enough to hear the last exchange between her and her handmaid. The sad half-smile on his face remained, only fading as he set out towards the main hall.
