Within the first ten minutes of the carriage ride, it became obvious to Anna that Tam was much more experienced with farm wagons in the open countryside than with a carriage in heavy traffic.  His knuckles were white on the reins and he wore an expression of suppressed panic.  “You’re doing fine,” she ventured, from the carriage window.  “Watch out for that post!”

They made it at last, via Anna’s careful perusal of city maps, and stopping for directions twice, with Anna as translator. Tam’s hands were shaking a little by the time they pulled up in front of the Berdrach collection. 

“It’s all right,” Anna soothed.  “The cat got off clear.  Really.  And we didn’t even dent the post.”

“We’ve dented the hotel’s carriage,” Tam hissed quietly.  “How am I to pay for it?”

“It isn’t real gilt, Tam, it’s just paint.  I could fix it myself.  I will.  Maybe you should just take a couple turns about the grounds, to get a better feel for this thing.” 

“Are you sure?  Should you be alone?”

“I won’t do anything stupid,” Anna assured.  “I promised Lady Blackfeather, didn’t I?”  

Tam grudgingly agreed, and after a moment to regain his nerves, he took the carriage round the drive at a leisurely pace.  Anna turned and walked up to the gates of the impressive manor house.  A moment later, Varden Chauncellor’s carriage pulled up, swiftly and gracefully in the hands of an experienced driver.  Varden left the carriage, and looked up at her with a slow, nervous smile.  He won’t turn my head, no he won’t, Anna told herself.  Who knew he could smile like that? 

The sound of a frightened “Whoa!” brought her attention back to Tam, who had barely reined up in time to avoid another gaudy carriage pulling up with more passengers.  She winced, and quickly greeted Varden, to pull his attention away from Tam. 

“I apologize for my lateness.  I hope I haven’t kept you long.  You look, er, very well, Lady Anna,” Varden said.

I’m still as pale as a fish, Anna thought.  “You are very polite.  Thank you again for this kind opportunity.  I haven’t been waiting long at all.” 

Varden took her arm, and together they were admitted through the wrought iron gates.  Anna spared one backward glance for Tam, carefully navigating the circle once more.  He waved, a little helplessly.  Anna smiled.  Varden caught her smile and returned it, that same nervous smile he’d had upon first seeing her.

Oh, no, my head’s not turned at all.  I’m supposed to be looking at art today.  Remember the art.

Remembering the art proved no problem at all, once Anna was immersed in it.  The paintings were wonderful, and everywhere, and much better in quality than the awful, stilted conversation being shared between the nobles viewing them.  Anna spoke Germhacht quite well, and was pulled into more than one truly inane conversation while trying to admire paintings. 

“My family owns a Vonfreir,” a girl in maroon ruffles said.  “But Mother had the room redone in chartreuse and the colors clashed, so we had to put it away.”

“How, um, unfortunate,” Anna said.

“Not really,” the girl said.  “We put up my aunt Greita’s still life of flowers and oranges.  Or maybe they’re lemons.  Anyway, the Vonfreir is some dreadful old historical piece.  Isn’t that dull?  Only now how is anyone to know we own a Vonfreir?”

Anna smiled tightly and moved away before she said anything inappropriate.  She narrowly escaped another conversation on the travails of having a new ladies' maid to train, and the rudeness of a particular seamstress who refused to make a sixteenth new alteration on a dress.  If she were the seamstress, Anna was sure she’d have felt it was the wearer who needed the alteration.  Varden was similarly harassed by an old school fellow he seemed not to remember fondly, and an elderly gentleman who had some business with Varden’s father that he wanted to pass along.

Anna knew that she should be listening for any important news about the elder Chauncellor, or the theft, or the Pumphrites, but all she really wanted to do was lose herself in the amazing panoply of brush strokes and colors before her, or the intricate old Germhacht pieces where every painted pearl looked like it could be plucked off the smooth board.  Varden seemed to want the same, and he steered them into the quieter galleries, where they looked at the works in companionable silence.

While moving between salons it was impossible to avoid awkward introductions to people she would never meet again and was obliged to be polite and correct to.  She dodged a few awkward questions about her family by being brief, and gritted her teeth and stayed silent when the fresh piece of scandal about the Blackfeather family’s possible involvement with thieves came up.  How fast did news travel?  Varden noticed her discomfort and led her away from the conversation into a room full of seascapes, where he spoke in a lowered voice.  “I know you let the boy fetch paints for you, but I’d advise you not to encourage him.  The Blackfeather family is less honest and upright than everyone supposed.”

“I haven’t heard a thing to back up that accusation,” Anna replied, carefully cool.

“Djaren was the last person seen in the library,” Varden said, “and then in the morning, an entire cabinet of antiquities from Narmos were found to be missing.”

“Second to last.  The last person saw fit to spread the rumors of Djaren’s having been there.  And to burst in with loud accusations the next morning.”

Varden’s lips thinned.

“Let’s not throw idle blame about,” Anna said, tired and miserable of it all. “I have a room near the Blackfeathers.  I saw Djaren return from the library with only books.”

“There was a thief seen—”

“And anywhere you see a thief, all are thieves?  I want more evidence than that.”

Varden paused.  She could see him weighing his words, being careful not to offend her.  “Who, then, do you suppose is behind the recent theft?” he asked, finally.

It seemed an honest question, so Anna took it as an opportunity.  “What about Mister Pumphrey?”

“Ugh, that horrible little fraud.”  Varden grimaced.

“He’s been trying to weasel into the Society, hasn’t he?  The Blackfeathers have open access to the libraries, so why would they steal anything there?  It’s Pumphrey who’s been mad to get inside.”

“It’s a theory,” Varden admitted.  “He and his hangers-on have been nothing but a nuisance to reputable scholars.  Narmos antiquities, though?  That’s hardly his field, if such sentimental pseudo-science can even be called a field. ”  He shook his head, changing the subject.  “Shall we chance the hall, to get to the Brechthold woodcuts?”

“Yes, lets.”

In the hall, however, Anna heard the name Pumphrey tumble through the hum of conversation.  She squeezed Varden’s arm, and they casually swung round to stand near the speakers.

“Those insufferable people of his,” a woman was saying.  “My uncle Elbert has been forced to retreat to his country estate, just to be rid of them.  Hunting, he says, but we all know the real reason.  Thank heavens I’m not a member of the Society.  Stars and virtues defend those poor beleaguered archeologists!”

“I don’t know,” a bald man with an expansive middle said.  “Maybe Elbert doesn’t need the money, but I wouldn’t think some of the others would mind the interest of an eccentric millionaire.  He’s a bit potty, to be sure, but he’s got good business sense. Even owns an island estate on the Western Rim, with gum trees and all.”

“He may have gum trees and half the islands of the rim,” an elderly man said, with an irritated quaver, “but what he doesn’t have is any real scholarship or business in archeology.”

Varden made a little snort of agreement and half-turned, as if to go, but Anna planted her feet and kept listening.  Since Varden was attached to her arm, he stayed, too.

“Why, hasn’t he?” the bald man said. “I thought he’d something to do with antiquities.  A collector, yes?  Lots of great stone slabs and idols and such, from his travels.  I’ve seen ‘em.  Can’t recall where from.  Namlos, or someplace.”

Anna glanced sideways at Varden.  He was listening too, now, face suddenly intent.

“But that’s not my line of work,” the bald man said, with a deep laugh.  “Wouldn’t know a real treasure from a fake.  I’m a rail man, myself.”

“Pumphrey is well traveled,” a pretty young woman with pouting lips said.  “But that’s all he is.  New money, you know.  Nobody had ever heard of him before he traveled to the near east and became enlightened or some such in a tiresome old dead empire.  And now we only wish he’d go back to obscurity, and take his dull antiques with him.”

The elderly man’s eyes, surprisingly sharp, caught Varden out from the crowd.  “Ah, Varden Chauncellor.  Aren’t those dead empires your area of expertise?  Lend us your professional opinion, here.  And whatever happened with that lecture your father was going to host?”

© Ruth Lampi 2010