Maze of Moonlight

that it did—Paul could indeed imagine Lake working himself up tot he baronage.
But Lake was reserved by nature, and a bit solitary, too. He was uncomfortable about people, especially important people, and Paul sensed that today he was uncomfortable for other reasons, too. “It's na an indenture, m'lord,” said Lake. “It's my daughter, Vanessa.”
“Vanessa. Ah! I remember her.” Paul had, in fact, never met her. “Lovely girl, simply lovely. Is she going to marry? You know as well as I, Lake, that you don't need my permission for that.”
“Nay,” said Lake. “It's na that.” He fidgeted. His gaze, downcast until now, involuntarily rose to meet Paul's, and for a moment, the baron wondered whether Lake's eyes were reflecting more light than they should have.
It was possible, he supposed. After all, his own mother, Janet Darci, had possessed a bit of elven blood. But Paul pretended not to notice. Though the current fashion had declared Elves to be a legend and belief in their existence to be heretical, it was dangerous, even for a daft baron to notice such things. “Certainly you can't be having any trouble with a suitable dowry, Lake.”
“Well . . . ah . . . that is . . . me and tha wife want sa'thing a little better for her. Vanessa is a . . . bright girl. I think that sa'day she could . . . ah . . .”
Yes, Lake had his lies, too.
“We thought,” said the farmer laboriously, “that maybe a position would be best for her. Perhaps in a trade. She could better herself.”
Paul nodded slowly. He understood. And Jehan had wanted to better himself, too. And Jehan was gone. “Ah,” he said brightly, “very commendable of you, Lake.”
“We thought you might be able t' help, m'lord.”
“Well . . .” Paul stared at the ceiling with eyes that he occasionally suspected showed a little too much light of their own. “I have the personal acquaintance of some artisans in Furze—they made the new hangings in the hall, Lake: have Nicholas show them to you on your way out—weavers and embroideresses . . . affiliated with the Béguines, you know.” Feeling Lake's increased discomfort, he winked. “They behave themselves, don't you worry a bit! My lord bishop doesn't worry about them. Actually, I suspect that he worries more about the Ypris benefices he lost to Benedict than about the Béguines, ha-ha!”
Lake was not reassured. “Please, m'lord,” he said. “Not Furze. We were thinking o' . . . ah . . . Saint Blaise.”
“Oh, the Free Towns.” Lies, lies, lies. Lake was plainly dissembling, but Paul could not help that. Lake did not pry into the delMari family and its visitors and customs, and Paul would not pry into the motives of his hard-working and talented tenant. “Very prosperous, the Free Towns.”
“Aye, and Saint Blaise is friendly.”
“Well, yes,” said Paul. “Quite friendly, especially since my father married the mayor's daughter.” Paul felt a genuine smile well up. What a couple that had been! Charles: courtly, amorous, studious; Janet: bright, practical, and intelligent, with a spark of immortal blood that made her every word and gesture a joy. Such a birthright he had received from them! With a pang, he wondered what kind of birthright he had given Jehan.
I want to play at tables, the boy had said in his last letter home, not do accounts on them.
Barons like Christopher delAurvre went off on crusades. Barons like Paul delMari, it appeared, stayed at home and gave parties. But Paul kept his smile. “Can't get much friendlier than that, can we?”
“Nay, m'lord.”
“Hmmm . . .” Paul examined Lake's request, found nothing amiss. Lake, father of two sons and three daughters, could well afford another dowry, even if Vanessa were exceptionally ugly, which, given the light in her father's eyes, Paul knew she was not. But Vanessa's inclinations might have been towards independence, and the Towns, though their legendary tolerance had been slipping for some years, still at least understood independence. A young girl with ambitions for more than marriage or a nunnery could do much, much worse than make her way to the Free Towns.
“I think it can be managed, Lake,” he said. “We can find her something in Saint Blaise. She's an intelligent girl, isn't she? Ha-ha, I knew it! She'll want something quiet, I'm sure. Can she read? Yes? Bonnerol doing his job, then? Good. How soon did you want to do this?”
“Please, m'lord: as soon as possible.”
Lake was anxious, eager. Lies. Everybody lied in one way or another. What was Lake's way?
Paul nodded slowly. “Yes, that would be for the best, wouldn't it? But . . .” He got up and went to the window. He knew what he could do for Vanessa. Simple, really. But that brought him straight back to Martin. And Martin made him think of Jehan. “But won't you miss her?”
Lake bent his head quickly.
The glass window gave a distorted and wavy view of the landscape below. Paul could see it, and yet much remained hidden, obscure. Just like that. Just like Paul delMari.
He had sent his son away, and now he was gone. He had to try to tell Lake about what might be the results of his request. “I miss my Jehan,” he said. “Just about ten years ago, he went off to Saint Blaise to be fostered with Mayor Matthew. The mayor's son, Martin, came here.” He shook his head sadly: even the daft could be melancholic upon occasion. “Jehan never liked people he deemed below his status. Manly little chap.” He laughed softly, but Jehan was gone. He had no son, only a much loved fosterling and a few memories. And Martin was leaving. “He left the household there after only a few years. Wandered off to make his own way. He'll turn up someday, I imagine, but Isabelle and I both miss him. He was our only child. . . .” He turned back from the window. “Are you sure you want to do