She stopped. “Put it on,” she said, and he looked up at her. The cloak did not conceal the fact that she was still dressed for evening; a leg showed through the slit in her dress. “I have not seen you before.”
“No, your grace. I only arrived last night.”
“I am a writer to the Count Cleudi for this conference.” (He dared to look into the eyes a finger-joint length below his own; behind them there was boredom with a faint flicker of interest in himself and the thought of having spent a bad night; a weary thought.)
“Count Cleudi, oh. You might be him in disguise.” She laughed a laugh that trilled up the scale, slipped past him with a motion as lithe as a gazelle’s and up the path into the red-doored pavilion. Rodvard looked after her until he heard the gardener cackle, then, a little angry with himself, stamped on round the turn of the path, trying to recover the glory of the morning. Some of it came back, but not enough to prevent him thinking more on the comparison between this countess and Lalette than the difference between this day and any other day; and so he reached Cleudi’s door, with its device of a fishing bird carved into the wood.
Mathurin greeted him properly in words to show he and Rodvard barely had met each other. The pavilion was all on one floor, the Count in a room at the side, with a man doing his hair while he sipped hot spiced wine, from which a delicious odor floated. Rodvard had heard of, but never seen this famous exile and intriguer; he looked into a narrow face with a broad brow above a sharp nose and lips that spoke of self-indulgence. Mathurin pronounced the name of the new writer; a pair of dark eyes looked at Rodvard broodingly (the thought behind them wondering what his weakness was and how he would cheat). Said Cleudi:
“I do not ask your earlier employment, since it is of no moment if you are faithful and intelligent. I cannot bear stupidity. Can you read Tritulaccan?”
“You will gain nothing by attempting to flatter me with the form of address. On the side table are pens and papers, also a horoscope which has been cast in Tritulaccan and a poem in your own musical language. Make fair copies of both in Dossolan. Have you breakfasted?” (His accent had the slight overemphasis on S which no Tritulaccan ever loses.)