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?” “Yes, your Grace.” “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.) “Yes, thank you.” The symbols on the astrological chart were new to Rodvard; he had to copy each by sheer drawing and then translate the terms as best he might. The poem was a sonnet in praise of a brown-haired lady; its meter limped at two points. Rodvard managed to correct one of them by a transposition of words and presently laid both papers before Cleudi, who knit his brows over them for a moment and smiled: “You are a very daring writer to improve on what I have set down, but it is well done. Mathurin, give him a scuderius. Well then, you are to wait on me in the conference at nine glasses of the afternoon. Everything I say is to be set down, and also the remarks of the Chancellor Florestan, but most especially those of the Baron Brunivar, for these may be of future use. Of the others, whatever you yourself, consider worth while. You are dismissed.” Mathurin saw him to the door. “The scuderius?” asked Rodvard. “Goes into the treasury of our Center,” said the servitor. “But I have no money, no money at all,” protested Rodvard. “Pish, you do not need it here. Would you starve our high purpose to feed your personal pleasure in little things? I will come to your room tonight.” 8 HIGH POLITIC