“Good morning, sir,” the maid said.

“Good morning, Bette. Could you bring me something light? Butter, bread, and preserves, say? I haven’t yet eaten.”

“The cook has a nice grouse, sir.”

“I don’t think so. I shouldn’t be here long enough.”

“Very well, sir. Tea?”

“Anything hot. This rain will give us all the rheumatism.”

Dantice prowled nervously after the woman departed. So many books! They represented so much wealth and knowledge they intimidated him. He had no formal education. His limited literacy skills he had garnered from his father, who had troubled to learn only because he was too mean to hire clerks.

Aral was sensitive about his ignorance. His contacts with the court had shown him the value of literacy. His association with Mist had underscored it. She had opened his eyes to uncounted new ideas….

Aral Dantice called himself a realist. He did not believe in the free lunch. His peculiar romanticism lay askew from that of his acquaintances. His relationship with Mist was an alliance of convenience. They were one another’s willing tools… so he told himself when he worried.

So why this untamed interest in matters neither commercial nor political? Why did she take time to teach him when the lessons were so elementary they had to be excruciatingly boring? When his long-run value was severely limited and localized? Why did he?… It had come at him from his blind side. It had jumped and mauled him, and had left him with feelings and visions that were new to him. And he was frightened. This was not the right time. And Mist was not the right woman.

She was old. She had been old when his grandfather was a babe. Maybe she had been old when Varthlokkur was a pup, and the wizard had stalked the world for four long centuries. And she was a princess of the Dread Empire. No cosmetic could hide that fact, no term of exile change it. The cruel blood of tyrants coursed her veins. Even now she harkened to its roar.

But she was the most desirable woman alive. When her melting eyes poured fire on a man, he couldn’t help but become their slave. Only some gonadless creature out of the same devil’s jungle that spawned her could ignore her.

He wondered, perhaps for the hundredth time, just what went on behind her perfect mask of a face. The male thaumaturges of the Dread Empire concealed themselves behind hideous beast dominoes. She hid behind beauty.

He scanned all the titles and finally selected the book he chose each time he came here. Bette brought bread and butter and tea. He sipped and nibbled while studying meticulously prepared, hand-pressed woodcuts of the architectural wonders of the age.

He had seen the real structures during the war. The representations were woefully inadequate. “Damn!” he swore softly. “There’s got to be a better way.”

Michael claimed there were painters in Hellin Daimiel who could portray people perfectly. Why didn’t they try place portraiture?