Sune. “Ramus has made the arrangements himself!”
“But he might not be urged. The process is not automatic.”
In disquietude Sune peered into Mieltrude’s face. “Do you know definitely how events will go?”
“I have heard my father speak. Quorce and Mneiodes will not certify.”
Jubal became aware that frivolity had vanished. Mieltrude seemed to be playing a cat-and-mouse game with Sune.
“Angeluke and your father remain; we need only a single acclamation.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Then why do you cast doubts? Surely your father will acclaim?”
“So I would suppose. Why else would he put me in such a peculiar situation?”
“Then we need not fear,” said Sune confidently.
Mieltrude looked out the window, her glance passing Jubal as if he were air.
Sune presently spoke in a low voice: “There are many hateful things abroad… You know that, don’t you?”
“Our world is as we have made it.”
“It is cramped and dull,” said Sune positively. “It needs remaking. Ramus speaks often to this effect.”
“Maske is far from perfect: agreed.”
“So Ramus must be acclaimed!”
The carriage, entering Travan Square, was forced to halt by reason of a multitude of folk streaming toward the Parloury. 13 The driver spoke through the voice-pass: “Shall I press on, Lady Mieltrude? There may be delay.”
Mieltrude uttered a quiet expletive and looked across Travan Square. “We’d better walk,” she told Sune, “if we’re to meet my father.”
Jubal jumped to the ground and gallantly prepared to assist Mieltrude and Sune. They looked at him with raised eyebrows, as if he had performed an odd antic, then, descending from the carriage by the opposite door, the two set off across Travan Square toward the Parloury. The crowd impeded progress; Mieltrude and Sune moved this way and that, trying to make haste. Jubal followed, a half-smile frozen on his face.
Arriving at the Parloury, the two girls went to a side entrance marked with the five iron emblems of the Servants: a squat fer, a Dohobay slange, a gryphon, a four-finned fish, a winged two-headed snake: tokens respectively of the Mneiodes, Ymph, Quorce, Angeluke, and Hever ilks. Two guards in black and purple uniforms saluted Mieltrude and Sune, but stepping forward crossed ceremonial maces to bar Jubal. “Let him through,” said Mieltrude. “He’s a courier with a message for my father.”
The guards drew back their maces; Jubal was admitted. Mieltrude and Sune hurried along a passage, with Jubal trotting behind in what he felt must be a ridiculous fashion. They entered a salon illuminated by a green glass cupola and carpeted in dark green plush. A dozen men and women in formal robes stood by a white marble sideboard taking refreshment. Mieltrude scanned the group then spoke to an elderly man, who responded with an inclination of the head and a gesture. Mieltrude signaled to Jubal. “Give me the letter; I will take it to him. He has gone to our private box.”
“Impossible,” said Jubal. “You may or may not be reliable.”
Sune laughed; Mieltrude looked at her with a careful absence of expression and Sune stopped laughing.
Mieltrude said to Jubal: “Come along, then. We still may catch him.”
She hurried off along a passage, halted at a door, urged Jubal to haste with an imperious jerk of the head that set her pale hair flying. She touched a lock; the door slid back and all three passed through, into a wood-paneled booth at the front of a vast chamber, now crowded to capacity with the magnates of Thaery. Conversations, muffled laughs, subdued ejaculations created a musical murmur. Scents enriched the air: attars from Wellas, polished wood, cloth and leather, the exhalations of three thousand magnates and their ladies; their snuffs and pastes and pastilles and sachets.
A pale slender man in robes of black and white stood on the rostrum, not fifty feet away. Mieltrude signaled but he failed to notice. Mieltrude beckoned to
“But he might not be urged. The process is not automatic.”
In disquietude Sune peered into Mieltrude’s face. “Do you know definitely how events will go?”
“I have heard my father speak. Quorce and Mneiodes will not certify.”
Jubal became aware that frivolity had vanished. Mieltrude seemed to be playing a cat-and-mouse game with Sune.
“Angeluke and your father remain; we need only a single acclamation.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Then why do you cast doubts? Surely your father will acclaim?”
“So I would suppose. Why else would he put me in such a peculiar situation?”
“Then we need not fear,” said Sune confidently.
Mieltrude looked out the window, her glance passing Jubal as if he were air.
Sune presently spoke in a low voice: “There are many hateful things abroad… You know that, don’t you?”
“Our world is as we have made it.”
“It is cramped and dull,” said Sune positively. “It needs remaking. Ramus speaks often to this effect.”
“Maske is far from perfect: agreed.”
“So Ramus must be acclaimed!”
The carriage, entering Travan Square, was forced to halt by reason of a multitude of folk streaming toward the Parloury. 13 The driver spoke through the voice-pass: “Shall I press on, Lady Mieltrude? There may be delay.”
Mieltrude uttered a quiet expletive and looked across Travan Square. “We’d better walk,” she told Sune, “if we’re to meet my father.”
Jubal jumped to the ground and gallantly prepared to assist Mieltrude and Sune. They looked at him with raised eyebrows, as if he had performed an odd antic, then, descending from the carriage by the opposite door, the two set off across Travan Square toward the Parloury. The crowd impeded progress; Mieltrude and Sune moved this way and that, trying to make haste. Jubal followed, a half-smile frozen on his face.
Arriving at the Parloury, the two girls went to a side entrance marked with the five iron emblems of the Servants: a squat fer, a Dohobay slange, a gryphon, a four-finned fish, a winged two-headed snake: tokens respectively of the Mneiodes, Ymph, Quorce, Angeluke, and Hever ilks. Two guards in black and purple uniforms saluted Mieltrude and Sune, but stepping forward crossed ceremonial maces to bar Jubal. “Let him through,” said Mieltrude. “He’s a courier with a message for my father.”
The guards drew back their maces; Jubal was admitted. Mieltrude and Sune hurried along a passage, with Jubal trotting behind in what he felt must be a ridiculous fashion. They entered a salon illuminated by a green glass cupola and carpeted in dark green plush. A dozen men and women in formal robes stood by a white marble sideboard taking refreshment. Mieltrude scanned the group then spoke to an elderly man, who responded with an inclination of the head and a gesture. Mieltrude signaled to Jubal. “Give me the letter; I will take it to him. He has gone to our private box.”
“Impossible,” said Jubal. “You may or may not be reliable.”
Sune laughed; Mieltrude looked at her with a careful absence of expression and Sune stopped laughing.
Mieltrude said to Jubal: “Come along, then. We still may catch him.”
She hurried off along a passage, halted at a door, urged Jubal to haste with an imperious jerk of the head that set her pale hair flying. She touched a lock; the door slid back and all three passed through, into a wood-paneled booth at the front of a vast chamber, now crowded to capacity with the magnates of Thaery. Conversations, muffled laughs, subdued ejaculations created a musical murmur. Scents enriched the air: attars from Wellas, polished wood, cloth and leather, the exhalations of three thousand magnates and their ladies; their snuffs and pastes and pastilles and sachets.
A pale slender man in robes of black and white stood on the rostrum, not fifty feet away. Mieltrude signaled but he failed to notice. Mieltrude beckoned to
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