She hoped not. There was something likeable about the man despite his wizened appearance and abruptly aggressive mannerisms. True, he was sly in his slanted insults and innuendoes, but much could be forgiven a man of demonstrated talent. She must talk to him, take advice on the matter, ask Gustav for his opinion. That, at least, should please him-not often did she consult with her consort.
Closing her eyes, she looked at the face of her husband painted from memory against the inner surface of the lids.
Young-they had both been young. Strong enough in his fashion and handsome as any with hair piled high in a crested mane and eyes which, in their subtle slant, seemed to hold an inner wisdom. Eyes which contained a secret laughter which had made light of her early worries. The mirth which he had used as armor against the slights and hurts time and the pressure of office had brought. He was a man chosen to impregnate her womb and there had been too many to remind him of that. Too many to drive home his basic insignificance. A stallion selected for his lineage to father the future rulers of Esslin. To sire the daughters which-
No!
No-it was better she did not think of that.
Of the first miscarriage following the news of the rebellion when Clarice Duvhal had turned the entire southern region into flame with the aid of hired mercenaries. Of the second when she had been almost assassinated by a rival-the unborn child giving its life to save her own. Of the successful birth when, finally, she had lifted her daughter in her arms and felt the glow of true happiness.
One that had failed to last.
"My lady?" Shamarre was standing at her side. "You feel rested?"
"Yes." A touch and the humming, easing contact of the fields ceased. "Fetch me wine."
Drinking it, she stared into a mirror and studied the familiar lines and contours of her face. One which had worn too long now to ever hope that it could turn into a thing of beauty. It held strength and determination, she knew-without either of those attributes she would never have been able to survive-but the brows were too thick and straight, the lips too thin, the jaw too prominent, the nose too hooked.
Gustav had made fun of it.
"You are a strong and lovely bird, my dear. One who sits and watches and strikes when the need arises. Other women are cats or mice or foxes. Many are spiders. You, above all, are honest."
How little had he known!
Or had he really known but had played the game in the only way it could be played if either was to find a degree of contentment in their union? And, certainly, when he had come to her after the birth and stooped to kiss her she had seen that within his eyes which had given her food for thought. An expression repeated when he had, later, kissed the child. A tenderness. A yearning. A look which could have been one of love.
"My lady!"
"Yes, I know. Time is passing and duty calls." She finished the wine and threw the woman the empty glass. "Well, what is next on the agenda?"
"Maureen Clairmont of the Elguard Marsh needs more workers if she is to expand her holdings as she intends. If she is allowed to bid unchecked, the price will rise to the detriment of others. And, should she grow too strong, would be a source of potential trouble."
"I'll see to it. And?"
"A meeting with the Hsi-Wok Combine."
Entrepreneurs who, like hungry dogs, were eager for the chance to tear at a bone. Give them their way and within a decade they would have gutted the planet and turned it into a cesspool of vice.
"And?"
A list of trivia which she could have done without and would ignore should the need arise. But such work served to fill the hours and, while thinking of the minutiae of rule, she could lessen the impact of despair. One item caused her to frown.
"Hylda Vroom? On the field?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Didn't she join up with some slavers?"
"Yes, my lady. With Abra Merenda. Apparently she got herself killed during their last raid and Hylda took over the command."
And brought her catch to where she knew there was a market. Kathryn nodded, thinking the incident might be put to good advantage. An open auction with primed bidders who would force up prices against Maureen Clairmont and so make it uneconomical for her to expand. With luck she could be left with ridiculously expensive slaves and the display of bad judgment on her part would turn any backers she might have against her.
The plan amused her. It was better than a naked display of open force which, while demonstrating that it was she who ruled and none other, could arouse dissension. To make the woman look a fool would be sweet revenge.
Then she lost her smile as the communicator hummed. Answering it, Shamarre turned, her face a mask.
"The monk," she said. "He is waiting, my lady. In the Octagonal Room."
He stood in the exact center as if taking up the position to maintain the symmetry of the chamber. Eight walls, each elaborately carved with depictions of men and animals locked in attitudes of combat or mutual caresses; the skill of the artist made it impossible to be certain. Tints and colors interwoven to give the impression of garments, of fur and feather and scale, of gossamer and hair and glitters which could have been the exudations of natural fluids. Lights were carefully positioned to accentuate suggestive shadows and, together, the panels formed a series designed to catch and hold the attention, to intrigue, to shock, to startle.
The roof matched the walls, groined, fluted, carved and colored to give the appearance of the interior of a shell. The floor was a polished mosaic which traced a complex pattern. There were no furnishings. Had he wanted to sit, the monk would have had to squat on the floor, but Brother Remick had no desire to sit. He was accustomed to waiting.
He was tall, old, the thrown-back cowl of his brown, homespun robe framing a near-bald skull, a face lined with privation and relieved only by the burning intelligence and compassion of his deep-set eyes, the lips which curved in gentle humor. Rough sandals hugged his naked feet and the hands which he held folded before him displayed swollen knuckles and wrists.
A dedicated man who had chosen to serve the Universal Church which preached that all men were brothers and the pain of one was the anguish of all. And that if all could but recognize the truth of the credo, there, but for the love of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.
He would never live to see it. No monk now alive would see it but, one day, it would come and until it did he would do what he could to ease the lives of those who needed help.
Now he could only wait until Kathryn Acchabaron, Matriarch of Esslin, should condescend to hear his report.
She came sooner than he expected and one look at his face was enough.
"You failed!" From the first she had known it and yet hope had survived. Now the old, familiar sickness and despair turned into a sudden and vicious rage. "You failed! I should have you stripped and beaten and impaled! You fool! You useless fool!"
"Sister-"
"Don't call me that! I'm not one of your spineless flock! I am the ruler of this world and you had best not forget it!"
Pride blazed from her as if she had been a fire and with it came the arrogance of wealth, the indifference to the concern of others which he had met so often before. He dealt with it now as he had then, standing, waiting for the emotional storm to pass, ready to submit without argument to any punishment she might choose to inflict. The way of those serving the Church which had gained scars and dealt for many of them, respect for many more. Always the strong can recognize an equal strength even if demonstrated in a manner different from their own.
Now, calming, she said, "What happened? Report!"
"As you say, my lady, I did not succeed. I found it beyond my skill to aid the poor creature you placed in my care. But how could it be otherwise?"
"You are a master of hypnotism and skilled in medical science." As he lifted his head she made an impatient gesture. "Don't bother to deny it. I've had you watched and know of your work among the poor. The medications you give them, the operations you perform, the manner in which you eradicate pain."
"Herbs," he said gently. "The lancing of boils and the setting of broken limbs. A little suggestion-there is nothing harmful in that, my lady."
"Did I say there was? Am I even blaming you? I'd hoped-God, how I'd hoped-but never mind." She drew in her breath, accepting what she could not avoid, another failure to add to the rest. "Your work is done here. You may go."
Brother Remick said, "Before I do, my lady. May I have a word?"
"Well?"
"You asked too much of my poor skill. How could I hope to succeed where others have failed. And there have been others? Men trained in the field of mental sickness?"