Imager (35 page)

Violence is everywhere, but most will see only that
which they must.

Vendrei was slower than Jeudi, with only a handful of visitors and petitioners for the councilors. Whoever was not on corridor patrol handled those few. Even so, I found time dragged when the corridors were empty more often than not. We were all pleased when we returned to the Collegium late on Vendrei afternoon.

The brightest spot of the day was a short note from Seliora that was waiting in my letter box when I checked just before dinner. She apologized for being so late in replying, but explained that her grandmama had insisted they leave Pointe Neimon early in order to stop by another textile manufactory, this one in Kephria, and Seliora had found no place to post a letter until she had returned to L’Excelsis. She also wrote that she looked forward to seeing me on Solayi and that she hoped I could come at the first glass of the afternoon.

I couldn’t help smiling at that.

When I finally climbed into my bed on Vendrei night, I was still smiling, thinking of Solayi. That was before I realized I still had to get up early the next morning for Clovyl’s exercise session, and then be at my studio to work on Master Poincaryt’s portrait.

I did manage to make it to the exercise area on Samedi morning—and not be the last. Dartazn was. One good thing was that it was far cooler that early. I tried not to think about what that might mean in winter. Of course, Dartazn outran us all again.

After showering and dressing in my grays, I had breakfast and hurried out to the workroom studio, where I set up the canvas and materials. Then I began to sketch designs. I should have done that earlier, but there never seemed to be enough time. The second one seemed to fit, with the chair angled slightly, and Master Poincaryt looking not quite forward. I’d decided to make the background indistinct, both for practical and symbolic reasons. Just before the bells began to ring, he walked into the studio and sat down. I could see immediately I’d need to shift the angles, and I changed the faint outlines on the canvas.

For almost a quarter glass, neither of us spoke, as I worked on the general shape of his face, concentrating on the broad cheekbones and wide forehead.

“Rhennthyl, what do you think of the Chateau? Is it close to what you had expected?”

“It is, and it isn’t, sir. I was taught so much . . .” How could I say what I meant without seeming stupid? I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I didn’t want to lie, either.

“But what you’ve been taught almost seems meaningless or irrelevant? Is that it?”

How could I answer that? Finally, I shrugged. “I know it’s not, but sometimes . . .”

“Watching corridors and escorting petitioners seems most uneventful, even boring.”

“At times, sir,” I admitted.

“That suggests that you are not observant enough, and that you are letting your mind lie fallow. Because you are an artist, I imagine that you could draw a fair likeness of the other imagers with whom you work, could you not?”

“Yes, sir.” My words were cautious.

“Could you describe exactly how each of them walks, or carries their hands, or what gestures are so habitual to them that they do not even notice themselves making such gestures? Or how they wear their garments, as much as what they wear? Or, more important, how they use words and arguments and even body postures to inform or dominate others?”

“No, sir.”

“You should practice that skill with every person you meet, until it becomes second nature. If you do so, you will find that there are times when it has saved your life. If you do not, your life may well be that much shorter.”

I couldn’t help frowning.

“Rhennthyl . . . think of it this way. What distinguishes those who are successful from those who are not is what they know and how they apply that knowledge. Because the world is governed by men, should you not endeavor to learn as much as possible about men? If you study men with the same diligence as you have studied art and the texts with which Master Dichartyn has plied you and examined you, you will gain great knowledge about how best to apply all you know.” He smiled. “That is my homily for the day, but I would ask you to consider it.”

Master Poincaryt was true to his word and did not offer a single other piece of advice, only thanking me for my diligence just before he departed and confirmed that he would be present the following Samedi at the same time.

As I cleaned up the studio, I realized something about Master Poincaryt and his advice. He’d only given me one suggestion. Because he had offered nothing else, I was likely to remember that suggestion far more than if it had been buried among a wealth of ideas. What he said certainly made sense, and I could certainly practice during the slow times at the Chateau.

After cleaning up the studio, I wandered back to my quarters before making my way to the dining hall for lunch. Once there, I spied Reynol.

“Could I join you?”

He looked to both sides—where both chairs were empty—then raised his eyebrows dramatically and grinned.

“I think you made your point.” I settled into the chair on his left. “Have you seen Menyard lately?”

“He’s out visiting some cousin today. That’s because he’s interested in her best friend. Whatever happened to the lady who saved your life?”

“She’s been away and just got back. I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“It must be nice to leave L’Excelsis in the summer.”

“It was a mixed blessing. She was accompanying her grandmother and her brother.”

“That could be a very mixed blessing.” Reynol passed a platter of cool fowl slices, and then one of rice fries.

I poured some of the red wine. “Would you like some?”

“Please.”

“What do you think about what might happen in Caenen?” I asked.

“Haven’t you seen the newsheets?”

“Not today.”

“The High Priest was leading some ritual meeting. He declared that we were whatever the Caenenan equivalent of the Namer was, when he dropped dead. Apparently, his heart stopped.”

“Oh . . . I see.” I had a good idea how that happened. “What’s likely to happen next?”

“We or Tiempre will be blamed.” Reynol shrugged, then added, “One would hope his successor would see the error of his predecessor’s ways. Sometimes they do, sometimes not.”

“Has anyone heard from Kahlasa or Claustyn?”

“We would have heard if something went wrong, unless it happened in the last few days.”

“Oh?”

“Their names would go up on the plaques of those lost in the line of duty. Those are the tablets on the wall to the right of the main entrance.”

I’d seen the plaques, and the names, but I had thought of them more as memorials to much older imagers. Until that moment, it hadn’t really struck me that the names of those I knew near my own age might appear on the them. After a moment, I asked, “What about Jariola?”

Reynol laughed. “The death of the High Priest of Caenen won’t matter to the Oligarch. He’s the kind that thinks nothing could possibly happen to him. Besides, it won’t. When their entire government is composed of a small number of people who think exactly the same way with the same interests and prejudices, what difference does it make to Solidar who’s nominally in charge? The Oligarch dies, and the next one acts just the same.”

Again, I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.

In the end, we came to no real conclusions about what might happen. Afterward, I picked up copies of both newsheets and sat on a shaded bench in the quadrangle and read them. I didn’t learn much. After that, I watched the younger imagers walking back and forth and tried to practice what Master Poincaryt had suggested. It was far harder than it had sounded.

At slightly before third glass, I crossed the Bridge of Hopes under a sky that held a high silvery haze that might have kept the day cooler, except that there was no breeze at all, and the air was still and sodden. Following Master Dichartyn’s instructions, I was holding full shields and hoping that I could do so for as long as necessary. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the streets were crowded, and so were the sidewalks. I had to wait several moments before I could cross East River Road, weaving my way through carriages and wagons, and the occasional rider.

The flower lady with the green and yellow umbrella was on the south side of the Boulevard D’Imagers, if a half block farther east, near the east entrance to the boulevard gardens. I saw no sign of the man who had been in the yellow vest—but there were scores of people moving along the broad walk bordering the gardens.

“Fresh flowers . . . the best for you, sir.” She turned toward me.

“How much are the daisies there?”

“For you, sir, a mere three coppers.”

I didn’t feel like haggling, but I did want to know a few things, and I tried to concentrate on observing the flower seller. “Last week you were talking to a man in a pale blue shirt and a yellow vest . . .”

“I talk to those who buy or those who might. That’d be scores every day.” She smiled, but her eyes remained tense and worried, and her shoulders stiffened. “Last week? I’d find it hard to remember who I saw this morning.”

I handed over the three coppers. “I just wondered because he’s a bravo. He could even be an assassin.”

There was the faintest twitch at my words.

“I see you do know him.”

“No, sir. Not by name. Everyone knows him as the Ferran. He talks just like you and me. He’s been on the streets here longer ’n me, and that’s longer ’n I’d like to count.”

“After all those years, no one knows more than that?”

She shook her head. “Even the streetwalkers avoid him. They say one of ’em learned something about him, and she washed up against the barge piers downriver two days later.”

“Then I won’t press you.” I took the daisies. “A good day to you.”

As I turned away from her, stepping out from under the umbrella and into the direct sunlight, the faint crack and the sharp impact against my shields were nearly instantaneous. I was pushed around, back toward the cart. A second crack followed.

The flower seller sprawled beside her cart, the dark redness of blood welling across the thin blouse. She shuddered several times, and was still. I managed to turn, but I saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary—except a handful of people staring in my direction.

Then, from behind the wall, Master Dichartyn and a civic patroller appeared and hurried toward me.

“Are you all right, Rhennthyl?”

“I’m fine.” I glanced down at the dead flower seller, then back at Master Dichartyn and the patroller. He was older, graying, and that definitely bothered me. “Did you see him? Whoever shot her?”

Master Dichartyn shook his head. “He shot from the garden on the other side. He waited for an opening in the traffic.”

“You were talking to her. Did she tell you anything?” That was the patroller.

Before I said a word, I looked to Master Dichartyn. He nodded.

“Not much. I asked about the man in the yellow vest. She only knew his street name, and she didn’t want to know more. People who discovered anything about him ended up dead. They called him the Ferran. She didn’t know why because he talked like everyone else.”

The patroller looked to Master Dichartyn. “Your man here has enemies with expensive tastes and wallets to match.” He glanced around the stone of the wide sidewalk, as if searching for something, then hurried westward where he picked up something. I had the feeling it was the bullet that had hit my shields.

“You’re going to get a great deal of experience with shields, Rhennthyl.” Master Dichartyn kept his voice low.

What he didn’t say was that, if I didn’t whenever I left Imagisle, I’d soon be dead. “Do you think this was . . . linked to Johanyr?” My voice was equally low.

“No. This is something else. I don’t know what.”

From his lack of expression, I could tell he didn’t like not knowing.

The senior patroller returned. He looked at me, then at Dichartyn before holding up the bullet. The end was squashed at an angle.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did Master Dichartyn.

“Nasty business,” the patroller finally said, adding conversationally, “I don’t think anyone in headquarters would look into matters much if this Ferran were found dead.”

“Possibly not,” replied Master Dichartyn, “but if he died now, whoever hired him would just hire someone else.”

As we stood there, a Collegium duty coach pulled up. Master Dichartyn gestured. “It’s to take you to your parents’ house. There’s nothing more you can do here.”

I didn’t argue.

In the coach on the way to my parents’, I thought about what had just happened. Why was Master Dichartyn so convinced that the Ferran had not been hired by High Holder Ryel? Based on what I’d learned from Maitre Dyana, the likely answer was that the High Holder regarded mere murder as too kind, but there had to be other reasons. I just didn’t know what they were.

When the driver took the South Middle Road, rather than staying on the Midroad, I started to worry, until he took Sangloire, and then the back lanes, ways to the house that I’d only seen Charlsyn use. That familiarity raised other questions, but there was no one to ask. The driver did wait after he pulled up outside the house, watching as I walked up onto the portico.