Imager (37 page)

“Oh . . . Rhenn. You don’t . . .” Her headshake conveyed a mixture of affection and exasperation. “Go on.”

“I’d just crossed the bridge and was getting some flowers to take to my sister. I had just asked the flower seller about the Ferran, because he’d said a few words to her the week before. That was when he was talking to her so that he could follow me—but I didn’t know that until later. Yesterday, she told me that he was the Ferran, and right after that he shot at us both. He killed her. There was a civic patroller not ten yards away, and he couldn’t even see the shooter. Neither did I, but it had to be him.”

“Are you sure?”

I shrugged. “It’s either him, or I’m in even bigger trouble than I thought.”

“Do I understand that a week ago this person—the Ferran—was following you and yesterday you think he shot at you and killed the flower woman?”

“He was trying to kill us both. Me because I’m the target and her because she told me about him.”

“Why would anyone want to kill you?”

I had to shrug. “I don’t know. No one at the Collegium does, either, but it must be tied to Emanus—”

“Rhennthyl D’Imager.” Her voice was stern. “You’re only telling me bits and pieces. Tell the whole story from the beginning.”

So I did, leaving out what might reveal too much about the Collegium and my real duties.

Afterward, she looked at me and shook her head. “It has to have something to do with High Holder Ryel. A connection with Emanus doesn’t make sense. You only talked to him twice, and the first assassin tried to kill you before anyone could have known you were going to talk to him the second time.”

“I just don’t know. Master Dichartyn is convinced that’s not the way High Holders do things. That’s why I wanted to know if you could find out about the Ferran.”

“I can ask Mama. I don’t have those contacts, but Grandmama is . . . involved in many things.”

I’d already gathered that.

Then, I heard the four bells ringing. “I need to go.” I stood.

So did Seliora, gliding around the small table and putting her arms around me. I didn’t need any more encouragement.

It was a bit before we stepped apart.

“You’re coming next Samedi at half past four.” Her words weren’t a question.

“I said I wouldn’t miss it.”

“If it’s too hot, we’ll eat up on the north terrace. We often eat there in the summer and early harvest.”

“And I might meet your grandmama?”

“She said she would meet you when the time was right. I thought she meant today.”

We walked slowly down to the second level and then down to the main entry foyer. Seliora stood at the top of the steps as I made my way down the last set of steps. Someone had sent Bhenyt down and out into the street, because, by the time I stepped out of the door and walked down the steps, a hack was waiting, and Bhenyt was standing beside the stoop.

“Thank you, Bhenyt.”

“My pleasure, Master Rhennthyl.”

The ride back to the Bridge of Hopes was uneventful, but I did hold full shields when I left the coach and walked across the bridge.

Dinner was also without incident, and Dartazn and I sat with Menyard and Reynol, and we all speculated about what might happen with Caenen and Jariola, not that there was anything new in the scandal sheets. And, of course, we went to services, where, as was often so, Chorister Isola had some interesting things to say in her homily.

“. . . one of the deadly sins is that of Naming. We all talk about the snare of the Namer and praise the life and works of Rholan the Unnamer, but how often do we consider why Naming is indeed a deadly vice? There are two kinds of hunger in life. One is physical. That is based on the need for bodily nourishment, and eating too much becomes the sin of gluttony. The other hunger in life is for self-worth. All men and all women need to feel that they and what they do are of value. But just as eating to stop hunger can become gluttony when carried to excess, so the seeking of ways to show self-worth can quickly turn into Naming. A proud factor builds more and more factor-ages to prove his worth, and then he engages in practices to undermine other factors and drive them out of business. Will being the wealthiest factor in Solis, or Westisle, or even L’Excelsis prove to be enough? A High Holder, already wealthy and respected, still schemes to bring down and even ruin other High Holders to prove he is among the more powerful High Holders. A nation, such as Caenen, or Jariola, or in the past, even Solidar, wants to prove its power—and that is an extension of self-worth—and uses that power to humiliate or defeat other lands. All these are examples of Naming, seeking to exalt one’s name and reputation above others, not through honest effort, but by trying to undermine, ruin, or defeat and destroy others . . . and this is why Naming is the greatest sin of all, because the unbridled hunger for greater esteem can never be satisfied . . .”

I couldn’t say that I really believed in the Nameless, but so much of what surrounded and infused the services made sense. Could I believe in the doctrine without believing in the deity?

Seemingly unrelated tiny pieces comprise
images; whoever sees those pieces as a whole earliest
comprehends first.

Lundi, like Vendrei, was a slower-paced day, at least after the morning exercise and run, and I did have time to slip my letter to my parents into the outgoing post in between my duties at the Council Chateau. Besides escorting two very condescending factors from Estisle to see Councilor Diogayn and carrying sealed messages from Councilor Reyner to Councilor Glendyl, all I did was watch the corridors and try to sharpen my observation skills on the few who did come my way. Councilor Glendyl had a tic in his right eye when he spoke, but not when he listened. Councilor Alucion still had massive calluses on his palms and walked with the swaying gait of a man who must have carried great weights when he was younger—as he might have, since he was the representative of the Stonecutters’ Guild. Councilor Haestyr was younger than I’d realized and was cheerful to everyone, but I thought his green eyes were cold.

Because Lundi was such a slow day, we were released before fourth glass. I’d already decided that I needed to talk to more people in the Portraiture Guild, if only to see if someone had been talking to them about me . . . and because I had no idea where else to continue in trying to track down who was after me. Seliora’s family would probably find out more than I ever would, but I had to try. Rogaris might tell me something, if for no other reason than to get me to leave, because he had been clearly uncomfortable the last time I’d seen him. Could that have been because he and Sagaryn knew something?

When we reached the Collegium, I didn’t even have a chance to get to my chambers to change, because a fresh-faced prime was waiting for the duty coach. “Imager Rhennthyl, sir? Master Dichartyn would like to see you immediately, sir.”

Both Dartazn and Martyl shook their heads as they slipped away. I’d have wagered they were just glad they hadn’t been summoned. I followed the dutiful youngster to Master Dichartyn’s study, where the door was open.

“Come on in, Rhenn,” he called.

I entered and closed the door, then took the seat across the desk from him.

“Rhennthyl, there are some other items which the Civic Patrol neglected to mention to me.” Although Master Dichartyn’s voice was pleasant, his eyes were cold.

“Yes, sir?”

“Is there anything you can add to what you’ve told me—anything at all.”

“Sir, I thought I told you what I knew, but there may be more that I thought I told you and did not.” That was the safest answer.

He nodded. “Please let me know if you recall more after I tell you what else I have discovered. The rooms in the pension where Emanus lived were modest, but his savings were not enough to pay for them and food. I had some investigations made. He was receiving a monthly stipend from the Banque D’Excelsis, but the funds came blind from the local branch of the Banque D’Abierto, and we have no way of determining the sender.” He looked at me.

“I cannot say I’m surprised, sir. I did ask him if he had allowed himself to be removed as guildmaster—”

“He was a guildmaster?”

“Didn’t I tell you that, sir?”

“It could be. Matters have been less than serene. Go on.”

“He said he had been, and that he had allowed a scandal to be trumped up because it was better that way, and no one else got hurt. I asked if he’d allowed it to protect someone in his family. He didn’t answer except by asking why I’d ask that. I think he was protecting someone.”

“That might well be. The other thing that the patrol found, hidden inside a leather case made to look like a book, was a miniature portrait of a young woman. Since Emanus had no other known family, they let me have it for the moment.” He held up the portrait of a dark-haired young woman, set in a simple oval ebony frame, no more than five digits from the top of the oval to the bottom, then extended it. “Do you know her . . . or recognize the artist?”

I studied the unfamiliar image of a dark-haired girl perhaps the age of Khethila, also looking closely at the surface texture. “I’d guess it’s close to twenty years old, sir, but I don’t recognize her. The technique is outstanding. I’d judge that Emanus painted it himself, because I don’t recognize the technique, because it’s better than anyone painting in L’Excelsis today, and because it’s unsigned. All works that are sold have to be signed. This was never meant for sale, not with that frame.” I paused. “I’d say that he knew the girl very well. This wasn’t done just for golds. The detail is too good, almost loving.”

“Almost loving . . . of course!” He held out his hand for the portrait. “We need to keep this safe.”

“Might I ask?” I handed back the miniature.

“You may, but I’d rather not say right now. If I’m wrong, it could be rather . . . embarrassing for the Collegium.”

“Oh . . . that has to be his daughter,” I blurted. “That’s why.”

That brought Master Dichartyn up short. “Why do you say that?”

“The portrait is twenty years old. At least, I think it is. Grisarius—Emanus—had to be more than sixty. I got the feeling, from all the serving girls I talked to, and from when I talked to him, that he had never pursued any of them. Yet he was friendly to them, and there were no rumors about male lovers. That means either a wife, a mistress or lover, or a daughter. You said he had no family, and no one has ever mentioned a family. Since he would have been over forty when this was painted, a daughter fits better than a lover, especially when he talked about not wanting to see anyone hurt. Usually people talk about children more that way than about lovers.”

A wry smile crossed Master Dichartyn’s face. “That’s a rather interesting speculation. What else might you think about this daughter?”

“She’s probably married, and probably, from the clothes, either from a very wealthy merchant . . . no . . . the cloth . . . that has to be, I’m just guessing, from a High Holder household.”

“You think that was why he was killed?”

“No, sir. If the painting is of a daughter, and she was close to eighteen when it was painted twenty years ago, it couldn’t be a husband’s vengeance or another lover’s revenge. He was too visible to have avoided a killer for so long. It had to be something more recent.”

“So why do you think he was killed?”

“I have no idea, but it has to tie in to my visit. Otherwise, why would it happen then, and in that way? A renegade imager doesn’t come cheap, and that suggests a High Holder or someone with great wealth and connections.”

“It may,” replied Master Dichartyn, “but there’s not a shred of proof.”

“You know who she is, don’t you, sir?”

Master Dichartyn sighed. “Every once in a while, Rhennthyl, I can see why others might have a reason to murder you.” He paused. “I have not told you who she is. That should tell you that I have a reason for not telling you. Such a reason is either for my safety or yours, or because it might endanger someone else. When such an occasion occurs, keep the speculation to yourself. And spare me the old canard about no question being stupid. Some are.”

“Yes, sir.” That spiel told me he was worried—more than worried—and that I should be even more concerned, because it indicated that more people wanted to get rid of me than I even knew. “Your messenger reached me just before I was going out to talk to acquaintances in the Portraiture Guild. What would you recommend I do, given what you know that I don’t?”

“That’s much better. I would suggest that you talk to more than a few people about Emanus’s death—if only to protect them.”

I did understand that. If I talked to one person, that person was at risk. More than a handful, and it would be difficult . . . I almost smiled, because I had a very nasty idea.

“Can I tell people I’m following up on something for the Collegium?”

“What would you tell them?”

I’d already thought that out. “Wasn’t there some speculation that the first bravo, the one that shot me, had shot some other junior imagers?”

“And you want to tell them that you thought Emanus might have known something?”

I nodded.

“Since he’s dead, he can’t very well contradict you. But you’ll have to use full shields, and you’ll be on your own this time. I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”

“I will be, sir.”

“Oh . . . take the duty coach for your first stop. That way, if anyone’s watching the bridge they won’t see you cross it. I’ll have Beleart let them know.” His eyes flicked toward the door.

I stood immediately. “Thank you, sir.”

“Best of fortune.”

As I walked back to my quarters to change into imager grays, I wondered why Master Dichartyn was suddenly so interested in people who were trying to kill me . . . and who the woman was. She couldn’t just be anyone, or it wouldn’t have mattered if I knew. She also was still alive, for the same reasons.

After changing quickly, I hurried back to the duty-coach stand and found two coaches there.

“Imager Rhennthyl?” asked the wiry obdurate driver of the first coach. “I’m to take you wherever you want to go, all evening if necessary. Master Dichartyn decided it would be quicker and safer that way.”

Not to mention giving me greater authority, but I forbore mentioning that. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a problem, sir.” The driver smiled. “Where to?”

“Daravin Way, off Duoeste Lane to the east of Plaza D’Nord. It’s about the third dwelling from the corner, heading east.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’d already thought that I’d begin with Sagaryn, since Chasys’s studio was the farthest from the Collegium, and then work back as I could. I climbed into the coach. The driver took the Bridge of Desires, then the West River Road north to the Nord Bridge before crossing the river and heading east. That route made sense, because there were far fewer coaches and wagons on it than on the Boulevard D’Imagers. It also might throw off anyone looking for me.

Even so, it was close to a quint before fifth glass when the driver stopped the coach in front of the small two-story dwelling. This time, when I used the bronze knocker on the outside studio door, Sagaryn was the one who greeted me, if a surprised look and an open mouth amounted to a greeting. Finally, he stammered, “Rhenn . . . I didn’t . . . you’re the last person . . .”

“It isn’t a personal visit, Sagaryn. I’m here on imager business.”

“Chasys isn’t here.”

“That’s fine. You’re the one I came to see, at the behest of the Collegium.” I thought that was a correct, if indirect, way of putting it.

“Ah . . . come in.”

“Thank you.” I still held my shields as I stepped inside and he closed the door.

In the studio beyond, I could see a portrait on the easel, barely outlined. “New portrait, I see?”

“Yes. I’m sure you didn’t come about that. Not on imager business.”

“No. I’ll make it as quick as I can. You might recall Emanus . . . the old artist who sometimes came to the hall. They usually called him Grisarius.”

“I saw him. I never spoke to him.” Sagaryn’s eyebrows knit in confusion or puzzlement.

“He’s dead. It’s very likely because of what he knew. I don’t know if you’d heard, but there have been several shootings of junior imagers over the last few months. I was one of those shot, and where I was shot was known to only a few people, most of them connected to the guild. We don’t think anyone in the guild had anything to do with the shootings, but we do think that whoever did must have talked to several people in the guild.” I smiled. “So I’m here to see who outside the guild asked you about me.”

There was the slightest movement at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment, his eyes flickered away from me. I just waited.

“Ah . . . it’s been a while, maybe as far back as around the beginning of Mayas—it could have been the end of Avryl. Rogaris and Dolemis and I were at Lapinina. I think it was a Jeudi night, and we were talking about how Seliora and her cousin took you to the Samedi gathering, and how the guard’s eyes near popped out when you walked in with them. There was this fellow, and he’d just sat down at the next table, with another fellow. He said something like, ‘Was that the imager who used to be a portraiturist journeyman?’ Rogaris asked him what business it was of his, and the fellow smiled and said that he’d supplied things to Caliostrus, and that he’d remembered that you’d become an imager because there weren’t many who’d been artists.” Sagaryn shrugged. “That was pretty much it, except I did hear the other fellow mention something about NordEste Design—the furniture people—and how it was where Seliora worked. They stayed a bit and then left.”

“What did they look like?”

“That was two months ago, Rhenn. Both of them, they just looked like anyone else.”

“Did either one of them wear a yellow vest?”

“No. One fellow had a square-cut beard, old-style, you know, the way the some of the old representationalists did.”

A square-cut beard. Not many men had square-cut beards anymore, and the man who had shot me had one. That could be a coincidence. Or it might not be. “Do you remember anything else?”

Sagaryn shook his head. I kept asking, but he couldn’t add any more.

Before that much longer, I left, and the driver made his way through some back lanes even I didn’t know to get us to Sloedyr Way, where Rogaris opened the brown-painted door to Jacquerl’s studio.