A Man Rides Through (51 page)

"My lord Tor," he asked nonchalantly, coming at last to the point, "what has he been doing all this time, while his people riot, and mirrors are shattered, and women are maimed and murdered? What has good King Joyse been doing?"

As if the word had been surprised out of him, the Tor replied, "Practicing."

"Practicing?" A brief giggle burst from the Master: he couldn't hold it down. "What, hop-board? Still? Has he not given up that folly yet?"

The old lord shook his head, as morose as cold potatoes and congealed gravy.

"Swordsmanship."

That stopped Master Eremis' mirth: it made him stare involuntarily, as if the Tor had somehow, miraculously, opened a pit of vipers at his feet—or had told him a joke so funny that he couldn't believe it, couldn't laugh at it until he had thought about it for a while.
Swordsmanship?
At
his
age? Was he strong enough to do as much as
lift
a longsword?

"My lord Tor," Eremis said casually to conceal the intensity of his attention, "you jest with me. Our brave King cannot swing a sword. He can barely
stand
without assistance."

Abruptly, with an effort that seemed to make his whole body gurgle, the Tor heaved himself to his feet. He hadn't looked at Master Eremis since the start of the conversation. Dully, as if he were losing his gift for enunciation, he announced, "Got to have wine."

With his hams rolling unsteadily under him, he lurched away.

Master Eremis was about to spring after him, pull him back, wrench an explanation out of him, when the true point of the joke struck home. King Joyse intended to fight—and he was years or even decades past the time when he was strong enough to do so. That shed a new light on everything—on every sign that the King knew what he was doing, that he did what he did out of deliberate policy rather than petulant foolishness. He intended to fight because he didn't know or couldn't admit he no longer had the strength. He wasn't self-destructive or apathetic: he was just blind to age and time. He risked his kingdom in an effort to prove himself still capable of saving it.

That was a rich jest, too rich for any coarse display of mirth. Instead of laughing aloud, Eremis whistled cheerfully through his teeth as he continued on his way to see Master Barsonage.

The mediator answered his door wearing only a towel knotted around his middle—a style of dress which emphasized his girth at the expense of his dignity. Water glistened on his pine-colored skin, his bald pate: apparently, Master Eremis had caught him bathing, and his servants were out. His flesh didn't sag on him as the Tor's did, however; his bulk was solid, tightly packed over muscle and bone. He didn't seem especially embarrassed to receive Master Eremis in this damp, disrobed condition.

In fact, he sounded almost friendly as he said, "Master Eremis, good day to you. Come in, come in." He stood back from the door, waved a dripping arm. "It is an honor to be visited by the man who saved Orison. Let us hope that you have saved us permanently. Have you recovered from your ordeal? You look well."

Master Eremis laughed lightly at Barsonage's uncharacteristic gush. "And a good day to you, Master Barsonage. I have clearly come at an inopportune moment. I can return later."

"Nonsense." The mediator touched the sleeve of Eremis' cloak, urged him into the room. "Orison is under siege. In one sense, all times are inopportune. In another, the present moment is always better than any other. Some wine?"

Thinking of the Tor, Master Eremis said deliberately, "With pleasure."

He accepted a goblet of a very mediocre Armigite vintage, then seated himself in the chair Master Barsonage indicated. He had visited the mediator's rooms on any number of occasions—disputes privately arbitrated at one extreme, formal feasts welcoming new Masters at the other—but whenever he came here he always took a moment to admire the furniture.

It had all been made by Master Barsonage himself.

Eremis did him the justice of admitting that the mediator was a competent Imager. In particular, the preparation for and execution of the Congery's most important augury had been deftly done. On the other hand, he was much more than competent with wood: he was an artist. It was universally acknowledged around the Congery that his frames were better than anyone else's: better made, better fitted; altogether finer. And his furniture could have graced the finest salon in Orison—or in Carmag, for that matter. The expanse of his table had been so well shaped and polished that it seemed to glow from within; the arms of his chairs flowed so naturally with the grain of the wood that it was surprising to find them comfortable.

Secretly, Eremis laughed at Master Barsonage for dedicating himself to his lesser talents—for wasting his time with Imagery when he could have contributed some real beauty to the world in another way.

And he wanted to laugh more now. Instead of leaving the room to put on at least a robe, Barsonage sat down as he was, drank off his wine in a gulp, wiped the water out of his stiff eyebrows, and began to prattle.

"You are much admired now, Master Eremis. Of course, you have always been admired. But it will not surprise you to hear that you have not always been liked. You are too able, too quick. And you mock people. You have not made yourself easy to like.

"Ah, but now— The refilling of the reservoir was a clever action as well as a courageous one. No, do not deny it," he said although Eremis hadn't moved a muscle. "The exhaustion of so much prolonged translation. If I had made that attempt, my heart would have failed me. Yet you did not hesitate to risk complete prostration. And, as I say, it was clever. Your reputation has not been the only beneficiary of your action. Your heroism and Master Quillon's foul murder have combined to raise the esteem in which all the Congery is held.

"Shall I give you an example? My servants no longer sneer at me when I put them to work."

Grinning, Master Eremis raised his hands to ward off the babble. "Master Barsonage, please. I did not come to you for flattery. I am precisely aware of my own virtues, and they do not merit this praise."

"Really?" the mediator returned. "I think you are too modest." His eyes were as bland as bits of glass. "But if praise is offensive I will cease. Of course you did not come for flattery. How may I serve you?"

"I am well rested now, as you see," Eremis answered. "And another matter which required my attention has come to an end. It is no secret that the maid Saddith was my lover." He spoke with admirable sincerity. "After I recovered my strength, I spent much of my time with her. She needed friends—

He grimaced. "Sadly, she would not give up her hatred of our good Castellan. There was nothing I could do with her." Grief wasn't his best pose, but he projected as much of it as possible. As if he were putting Saddith and her death behind him by an act of will, he said, "Master Barsonage, I am ready."

The mediator raised an eyebrow. As his skin dried, it looked more and more like cut pine. "'Ready'?"

"I have heard that the Masters are busy—that since Quillon's death you have rediscovered your sense of purpose. I am ready to rejoin the work of the Congery."

"Our work?" Master Barsonage's features reflected nothing. "What work do you mean?"

Master Eremis had difficulty suppressing a smile. The mediator was almost ludicrously transparent. Fixing him with a glittering gaze which was intended to express indignation as well as penetration, Eremis replied slowly, "So it is true. I am still not trusted. That is the reason I have not been summoned to any of your meetings—to any of your labors. I have saved Orison from a quick fall to Alend. I did everything any man could do to keep Nyle alive—and I was the only man here who so much as made the attempt. I have been striving with unmatched diligence to find some means to avert Mordant's fate. It was not
I
who disbanded the Congery. And I am
still
not trusted. That murderous puppy, Geraden, casts a few groundless aspersions on my good name, and suddenly nothing I can do is enough to redeem it."

"Oh, no, Master Eremis." Barsonage put up a thick hand in protest. "You misunderstand me. You misunderstand us all." In a tone as bland as his expression, he explained, "You fail to grasp, I think, how high your standing has become. The man who refilled the reservoir—the man who did so much to save Nyle—is not someone who can be 'summoned' to meetings like an Apt. He cannot be put to labor like a packhorse. You have been much involved in your own concerns—and you have earned the right to be. The Congery does not distrust you. We only respect your high standing—and your privacy."

Firmly, Eremis resisted a giddy temptation to snort, During a
siege?
With Orison's fall tied like a noose around your neck, and no hope anywhere? Can you truly believe me silly enough to swallow that lie? The mediator, however, didn't look like a man who had an opinion about Master Eremis' silliness, one way or the other. He looked—his blandness itself betrayed him—like a man who had spent some time preparing for this encounter.

Master Eremis sat forward in his chair; his relish for the conversation sharpened.

"Perhaps," he said in a skeptical drawl. "You will forgive me if I reserve judgment on that point.

"It remains true, does it not, that there have been meetings to which I have not been invited? That there is work in progress which I have not been asked to share? That the Congery has rediscovered its purpose?"

Master Barsonage nodded. "Indeed." Something about him—perhaps it was the way his eyebrow bristled—suggested an intensification which his mild gaze contradicted. "I am glad to say that is the case."

"Am I permitted to ask how it came about?"

"Certainly. At last we are able to see clearly that the lady Terisa is an Imager."

Eremis scowled to conceal the fact that he didn't like what he heard. "Master Barsonage, that is an answer which explains nothing."

"Well, perhaps not." Apparently, the mediator had prepared himself quite well for this encounter. "A man of your assurance and ability may have difficulty understanding men whose chief talent lies in their capacity for doubt.

"Nevertheless in practice—as distinct from theory—the great stumbling block for the Congery has been the question of the lady Terisa. What does she signify? What does her presence among us indicate? Is there a
reason
for her unexpected appearance, or was Geraden merely the agent of a monumental accident?

"If she is an accident, then all Imagery is accidental in the end, and our research, like our morality, is only foolishness. Geraden's role in the augury has no meaning."

Master Eremis nodded as if the truth were obvious to him.

"But if," the mediator continued, "there is a
reason,
then two conclusions are inescapable. So inescapable," he commented without discernible sarcasm or humor, "that even our most contentious members have accepted them. First, the responsibility she represents falls upon us. Imagery is our demesne. Second, since the problem she represents exists it must have a solution. What one Imager can do, another can understand and counter.

"It has been demonstrated," he concluded, "that there
is
a reason. She is an Imager. We can regret that she has chosen to ally herself with Master Gilbur and arch-Imager Vagel, but we cannot shirk either the responsibility or the hope which that knowledge implies."

"Yes, very well." Master Eremis made an impatient gesture. "That is all reasonable as far as it goes, but you have not yet explained it. How do you know she is an Imager? What evidence has she given? Lebbick reports that Gilbur freed her from her cell. He killed Quillon. He took her to the room where Havelock's mirrors are kept. Lebbick found them there. After Gilbur felled Lebbick, he and she disappeared from Orison. What does that demonstrate? Gilbur's ability to come and go is as well established as Gart's—and as unexplained. There is no reason to attribute Imagery to her."

Master Barsonage shrugged, scratched his chest. As if to compensate for his baldness, his chest was matted with yellow hair. Water clung to it like beads of sap. "That is true," he replied without hurry or hesitation. "On the other side, it could be argued that Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager would have no reason to free her—just as the High King's Monomach would have no reason to kill her—if she were
not
an Imager. Speaking only for myself, I have examined that argument and found it persuasive. In fact, it persuaded me to accept the position of the Congery's mediator once again.