that Delia did not think the ambitious queen could truly love Drak. Anyway, it was planned for Drak to marry Silda, Seg’s daughter. That would take careful thought and preparation, by Vox!
Again, she did not care to mention that Vomanus, her half-brother, had been born of her mother’s first marriage. There were too many worries and too many tangles. If it boiled down to being mistress of the SoR and nothing else, then she would accept nomination leading to almost certain election. Otherwise, she wanted only to be with her husband, and let the SoR manage without her for a little time.
She rubbed her right hand along her left arm, up from the wrist to the elbow, and back, in a smoothing and soothing rhythm of which she was barely conscious. Thalmi noticed, and smiled again, her teeth white.
“You do not practice enough.”
“I suppose you will cite that as another dereliction of my duty!”
“I could.” Thalmi sipped her wine and — lo! — the glass was empty. She reached out her hand for another goblet. “It is all one. You keep your Claw here. Have you no others at home?”
With a bitterness that shocked herself, Delia burst out: “Home? What I kept of my own possessions at my home — at my home! — is lost, gone, destroyed. I start again, and a revolution or a war or damned reiving flutsmen fly in and burn and steal! I had a Claw in its balass box in the palace at Vondium. Where it is now Opaz alone knows.”
“Drink some wine.” The pro-marshal proffered a glass.
“Very well.” Delia understood she had overreacted. But every time she thought of the way the homes over which she had slaved had been despoiled it made her blood rise up and demand a safety valve, as the headwaters of a dammed lake used the safety-valve overspill. “At least, my home in Djanguraj is still unspoiled.”
“And Strombor—”
“I have some ling furs there, soft and long and silky white, that are tatty now and need attention. I would not like to see those white ling furs stolen.”
“Possessions are chained weights about our characters.”
“You quote and it is true. But sometimes I know I have changed from the girl who accepted everything the SoR taught.”
“I believe it, to my sorrow.”
“If you remain true to me, I shall remain true to you.”
“Never think otherwise.”
Delia sipped her wine. “Then take from me the gift you and others are so eager to press upon me.” She lifted her left hand, still tingling from that reflexive massage, and waved. “And here comes Wilma so I suppose she will call the Conclave now.”
With the inevitability of their natures there ensued a certain amount of jockeying for positions as the women entered the Conclave Chamber, a certain amount of giggling and stern rejoinders, of quick whispers, and of meaningful glances. The majority maintained a dignified mien. They had work to do and they meant to do it and have done with it.
Thinking back uneasily to those last few exchanges with the pro-marshal at the bar, Delia wished, now, that she had not made so obvious a point about the “remaining true” business. If you had to keep on proclaiming undying friendship then one might suspect that the friendship was in need of continual sustenance. She had made many friends in the outside world and her husband’s blade comrades were her blade comrades. Every now and again some little vow, some small indication of the depths of feelings that existed between them might be in order.
Taking her seat in the comfortable but plainly furnished chamber, Delia rubbed her wrist and waggled the fingers up and down. No doubt about it. She was out of practice. The knack of using the Claw was taught at Lancival at an early age and the skill multiplied over the years of continual practice. This applied to most other weapons, of course — most, not all.
Some twenty women gathered in the Conclave Chamber. Those who had made their marks with Delia on her arrival, the various officers of the
Again, she did not care to mention that Vomanus, her half-brother, had been born of her mother’s first marriage. There were too many worries and too many tangles. If it boiled down to being mistress of the SoR and nothing else, then she would accept nomination leading to almost certain election. Otherwise, she wanted only to be with her husband, and let the SoR manage without her for a little time.
She rubbed her right hand along her left arm, up from the wrist to the elbow, and back, in a smoothing and soothing rhythm of which she was barely conscious. Thalmi noticed, and smiled again, her teeth white.
“You do not practice enough.”
“I suppose you will cite that as another dereliction of my duty!”
“I could.” Thalmi sipped her wine and — lo! — the glass was empty. She reached out her hand for another goblet. “It is all one. You keep your Claw here. Have you no others at home?”
With a bitterness that shocked herself, Delia burst out: “Home? What I kept of my own possessions at my home — at my home! — is lost, gone, destroyed. I start again, and a revolution or a war or damned reiving flutsmen fly in and burn and steal! I had a Claw in its balass box in the palace at Vondium. Where it is now Opaz alone knows.”
“Drink some wine.” The pro-marshal proffered a glass.
“Very well.” Delia understood she had overreacted. But every time she thought of the way the homes over which she had slaved had been despoiled it made her blood rise up and demand a safety valve, as the headwaters of a dammed lake used the safety-valve overspill. “At least, my home in Djanguraj is still unspoiled.”
“And Strombor—”
“I have some ling furs there, soft and long and silky white, that are tatty now and need attention. I would not like to see those white ling furs stolen.”
“Possessions are chained weights about our characters.”
“You quote and it is true. But sometimes I know I have changed from the girl who accepted everything the SoR taught.”
“I believe it, to my sorrow.”
“If you remain true to me, I shall remain true to you.”
“Never think otherwise.”
Delia sipped her wine. “Then take from me the gift you and others are so eager to press upon me.” She lifted her left hand, still tingling from that reflexive massage, and waved. “And here comes Wilma so I suppose she will call the Conclave now.”
With the inevitability of their natures there ensued a certain amount of jockeying for positions as the women entered the Conclave Chamber, a certain amount of giggling and stern rejoinders, of quick whispers, and of meaningful glances. The majority maintained a dignified mien. They had work to do and they meant to do it and have done with it.
Thinking back uneasily to those last few exchanges with the pro-marshal at the bar, Delia wished, now, that she had not made so obvious a point about the “remaining true” business. If you had to keep on proclaiming undying friendship then one might suspect that the friendship was in need of continual sustenance. She had made many friends in the outside world and her husband’s blade comrades were her blade comrades. Every now and again some little vow, some small indication of the depths of feelings that existed between them might be in order.
Taking her seat in the comfortable but plainly furnished chamber, Delia rubbed her wrist and waggled the fingers up and down. No doubt about it. She was out of practice. The knack of using the Claw was taught at Lancival at an early age and the skill multiplied over the years of continual practice. This applied to most other weapons, of course — most, not all.
Some twenty women gathered in the Conclave Chamber. Those who had made their marks with Delia on her arrival, the various officers of the
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