Free Imager by L. E. Modesitt Page A

something anyone would want to reveal.
    “Rhenn! Come dance with me!” called Seliora. She had jet-black hair and eyes to match, and she wore a black jacket with crimson trim above a crimson skirt and black dancing boots. I’d heard that she worked as an upholsterer and embroiderer for one of the furniture crafters in the artisans’ area off Nordroad north of the Boulevard D’Este, but she’d never said, and I hadn’t asked. “You’ve talked long enough.”
    “If you would excuse me,” I said, “I’m being summoned by a pretty woman, and that doesn’t happen that often.”
    “It would if you’d let it,” quipped Rogaris.
    “You never said what you thought would happen in Caenen,” protested Dolemis.
    “We’ll send ships and troops, and people will fight and die, and they’ll still lop off heads, and then we’ll either kill enough of them that they’ll stop doing it, or they won’t, and then we’ll lose more troops until we quit and declare victory.” I called the last words over my shoulder as I hurried toward Seliora.
    “Declare victory about what?” Seliora asked as I slipped my arm around her waist and began to dance with her, ignoring the fact that the waltz seemed a bit fast to me.
    “The Caenenans . . . politics, again.” I really didn’t want to talk about it. I supposed I could be conscripted if the Council declared war, but they usually didn’t conscript journeymen artisans or crafters. Apprentices were often conscripted, as were journeymen without masters.
    “Dolemis always talks politics. Yvette said he even mumbled about them in his sleep.”
    “She actually listened?”
    “I think that was the trouble.”
    “Well, he can’t do anything about it, not unless he works and becomes a craftmaster, because the Council is elected from the guilds, the factors’ associations, and the High Holders, and you have to be a craftmaster to be eligible, and he never will be because he spends too much time talking about politics rather than crafting cabinets for Sasol,” I added with a laugh.
    For a time, I did not speak, just enjoyed dancing and holding Seliora. She wasn’t slender, but certainly not heavy, rather muscular. I enjoyed seeing her smile. Over the past year, we had talked and danced occasionally, and I knew she was interested in me . . . at least a little bit.
    When the musicians stopped, so did we, but she didn’t move away, and neither did I.
    She looked up at me. “Everyone says you think you’re too good to have a girl who might have actually lived within a few streets of the taudis or the Pharsis.”
    I had to laugh. “The first girl that I fell in love with was a Pharsi.”
    “How old were you? Five?” Seliora quipped back.
    “More like thirteen.”
    “And I suppose you threw her over for some factor’s twit?”
    “No. She threw me over for some factor’s twit, rather quickly. She married my younger brother almost two years ago. She said that when she saw him, it had to be.”
    Seliora looked hard at me. “Is that a joke?”
    “No. They’re expecting their first child this summer. They live in Kherseilles now.”
    The musicians began again, this time a fast variana, and Seliora took my hand. “Another dance.” Her words weren’t a request, but I was happy to comply, and she said nothing more as we moved to the beat of the music.
    When the musicians stopped, I was breathing a little faster than usual.
    “You shouldn’t let that spoil things,” she said. “You’re good-looking. Rogaris says your work is good enough that before all that long you’ll be a master artist with your own studio.”
    “At least three more years, and he’s being kind.”
    “Rogaris?” Seliora laughed.
    She had a point, but I shook my head. “It’s not just that. I’m just beginning to get commissions, and they’re still not all that frequent. How could I support a wife or a family?”
    “Some women do make more than a few coins in honest work.” She smiled