Imager (40 page)

He actually flushed. “Why, thank you.”

After I left Aurelean, I found another hack and had him drop me off at Elphens’s new dwelling and studio. No one was there, although it was clear he had moved in. I wished that I’d had the hack wait, because I had to walk to the end of Bakers’ Lane and wait more than a quarter glass to find another to take me down to the square. By then it was well past noon, and I was more than a little warm.

I slipped into Lapinina, but I didn’t seen anyone I knew, not surprisingly, because most artists would not have been there that early. I took the smaller of the two vacant tables.

Staela approached. “Sir?”

I looked up at her. “Whether I’m an imager or not, Staela, I’m still Rhenn. What do you have that’s cool to drink and light to eat?”

She was silent for just a moment. “There’s a Kienyn white we brought up from the cellar, and the chopped fowl salad is good.”

“I’ll have both.”

“Yes, sir.” She slipped away before I could say anything . . . or even sigh.

Within moments she returned with a tall fluted glass of a slightly bubbly amberish wine. “The Kienyn. That’s three.”

I put a silver on the table. “For the wine and the salad.”

She scooped the coin up and left two coppers before nearly fleeing.

I sipped the Kienyn and listened. No one was talking. The only sound for that moment was the buzz of a fly that circled somewhere above my head. I continued to sip and wait. Still, no one said anything.

Only when Staela reappeared with the greens and chopped fowl and I began to eat did a few words began to flow around the small bistro.

“. . . be hot like this for another two weeks . . .”

“More like three . . .”

“. . . think this is hot . . . ought be in Caena . . .”

“. . . their High Priest . . . changed his mind once the Navy blockaded his ports . . .”

“. . . different High Priest . . .”

‘They’re all the same . . .”

“. . . know the imager?”

“. . . might be the one who was an artist . . .”

“. . . too tall . . . too much muscle for an artist . . .”

As Staela tried to slip by, I motioned. “The Kienyn is good. Have you always had it?”

“No . . . just this summer. Would you like another?”

“In a moment.” I gestured to the chair. “Please sit down. I do have a few questions to ask you, and they’re on behalf of the Collegium. Imager business. Nothing secret.”

She did seat herself, if with an air of resignation.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but someone has been shooting at imagers, often young ones, or those in training. I was one of them. What the Collegium would like to know is whether you ever noticed anyone who seemed to be following me, or who asked about me, or talked about imagers.”

“Sir . . . I try not to pay attention to what people say. I don’t know as I recall anything like that.”

I nodded. “I can see that. Do you remember a man in a square beard—you know, the kind that you see in all the old paintings of artists, but the kind no artist has today?”

There was only a momentary frown before Staela replied. “There was one fellow. Some of the journeymen pointed him out when he left. They laughed and said he was a would-be artist. That’s why I remember. He used to come here on Vendrei nights and Samedi afternoons, maybe for a month this spring. He didn’t say much. He just listened to the others. He was here for a while, then never showed up again.”

“Did anyone ever come with him?”

“There was another fellow once in a while. He wore a yellow vest one time. I only noticed because he paid for the other one’s wine with golds. He didn’t seem to have a silver to his name. Just golds.” She looked at me directly for the first time. “That’s all. Honest. That’s all I remember.”

“Thank you. I would like another Kienyn.”

“Coming up.”

Staela wasn’t quite so stiff after that, but I could tell that she still wanted me to leave. While I didn’t gulp down the second glass, I also didn’t linger over every last drop, but I did leave her a half silver tip.

The only other place I’d ever visited even halfway frequently was Rozini’s, on the far side of the square. I wandered over there, and asked several of the servers, but no one remembered me or anyone asking about me. After that, I still had time to kill, and I didn’t really feel like going back to the Collegium. So when I saw the bookstore sign, I wandered inside.

A soft-looking young man with thick spectacles appeared almost immediately, emerging from behind a carrel of books. “Might I help you?”

“I was just looking.”

“We don’t see many imagers here, sir.”

I smiled. “I’m sure you don’t, but I’d wager you see my sister every so often.”

“Your sister?” While polite, his tone suggested the impossibility of an imager having sisters.

“Khethila D’Chenkyr. Tallish young woman, husky voice, likes books by Madame D’Shendael.”

“She’s very well read.” Again, the tone was condescending, suggesting that, whether we were related or not, no imager could possibly be well read.

“She is indeed, and I’m certain she got the habit from all that I read her when she was younger.” I smiled politely and turned away.

Before long, I did find the shelf that carried Madame D’Shendael. There were copies of both
Poetic Discourse
and
Civic Virtue,
but neither
A Widow’s Guide,
nor the other book were on the shelves. Because I’d heard enough of Khethila’s quotes from the
Discourse,
I picked up
Civic Virtue.
Right behind the frontispiece was an etching of a woman, and the scripted typeface below read
Madame Juniae D’Shendael.
There was something about the etching, and I studied it, wondering whether it had been done by Estafen, but the signature in the corner was that of Teibyn, who was known to be better at etching portraits than at painting them.

I flipped the page and came across the dedication:

To my mother, for reasons more than enough.

I would have been disappointed, somehow, if it had been to her father or any man, perhaps because of all that Khethila had said.

Then I leafed back to the portrait etching. At that moment, I recognized her. The etching showed her as a mature woman, but she was the same woman as the girl in the miniature . . . and that realization left me more confused than ever. How could she be Emanus’s daughter? High Holder status always ran through the male line—unless there were no male heirs—and then the eldest daughter, but only if she married within a High Holder family and her husband took the family name. In addition, High Holders were anything but forgiving. Or was the threatened disclosure of Juniae’s parentage why Emanus had let himself be removed? But why would he have been killed years later over that?

It was still only just past second glass. So I took a hack back to the Bridge of Desires, walked across it in the hot afternoon sun, back to my quarters. In the end, I did take another shower, because I was so hot and sweaty, and changed once more.

My timing was more precise than during my call on Seliora the Solayi before, and I stepped out of the hack just before the single bell proclaiming half past four struck. Unsurprisingly, Bhenyt was there to open the door and escort me up to the main living level.

Seliora was waiting, as lovely as ever in a dress composed of a flowing filmy dark green skirt and a black short-sleeved top, not terribly low-cut, but certainly not excessively modest, either. She smiled, then took my hands.

We did embrace and kiss, if relatively chastely and quickly.

“We decided we’ll need to eat on the terrace. It’s just too hot down here in the main dining room. We can go up now.”

I followed her up the steps and then out onto the terrace. She was right. It was definitely cooler there. I glanced to the northwest. Those same clouds I’d seen that morning still lurked in the sky, but they didn’t seem to have moved at all.

“We have a choice of drinks.” Seliora nodded toward a small cabinet-like table set just forward of the north wall, west of the double doors. A serving man in a white shirt and a dark green waistcoat stood behind it.

“Shall we see?” I smiled at her, enjoying being with her.

We walked to the portable sideboard where we agreed on white Cambrisio.

“The table on the east there is still in the shade,” Seliora pointed out.

Not only was the table shaded, but at that corner I could feel a light but cooling breeze. As we sat, I realized we were the only ones on the terrace, except for the serving man.

“The others will be here shortly. I told them all five.”

“You’re a devious woman.”

She laughed, musically “You’ll find I’m far more practical and less romantic than you think. Once everyone arrives, we won’t have a moment to ourselves.” She lowered her voice. “I like being with you, and I see them all every day.”

“How did your week go?”

“About the same as most others, except that High Holder Unsaelt finally decided that he wanted a new dining set for his hunting lodge out near Tacqueville. He has to keep the same crest, but he wanted to know if we could make it a bit less tired and more vital . . .”

For a time, I just listened.

Abruptly, she looked at me. “You’re very quiet. Is something bothering you? Have I upset you?”

“No.” I didn’t have to force the smile because my thoughts certainly weren’t her fault. “I’ve talked to a number of people today, and what I found out wasn’t exactly encouraging. First, I stopped by the factorage. Father’s gone back to Kherseilles, and Khethila’s the one holding things down. Rousel’s made some very bad decisions . . .” I went on and explained that, and then what I’d found out from Aurelean and Staela. “. . . Someone was after me in Avryl, but even after that, it sounds like they killed an apprentice to keep it quiet.”

“It had to be someone besides the first assassin,” she pointed out. “He was dead when the drowning happened. Could it have been an accident?”

“It could have been, but that makes more coincidental accidents than I’m comfortable with. Did your mother find out anything?”

“She wants to tell you herself.”

I wanted to know, but I could understand that. I heard steps and saw Shomyr walking toward the sideboard. “Have you ever read anything by Madame D’Shendael?”

Seliora shook her head. “I’m not that much of a reader, except books on looms and engines. They’re work to read, though. Madame D’Shendael . . . she’s the one who has the salon, and she had all those hard times.”

“What hard times?”

“She miscarried, lost a child, and her mother was executed for killing her father when she was nineteen.”

I almost froze at that. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, you hear things when you deal with High Holders, especially if you pretend you’re not listening.” She smiled. “It’s amazing what people will say when they think you’re well beneath them and say a lot of simpering ‘sir’s and ‘madame’s.”

More of Seliora’s family began to appear—Odelia, and then Aegina, followed by Betara, and Shelim . . . and then by a much older woman with steel-gray hair, who had to be Grandmama.

Betara and Shelim walked to the table where we were sitting. Each carried a goblet of either red Cambrisio or perhaps Dhuensa.

“You don’t mind if we join you?” asked Betara. “Grandmama Diestra will be here in a moment.”

Seliora and I just smiled, and Betara and Shelim settled into the chairs across the circular polished white oak table from us. “It is much cooler here than in the dining chamber. The dinner might be a bit cooler as well, since it has to travel two flights of steps to get here.”

Shelim stood again and pulled up another chair for Diestra before I could.

No one spoke for several moments.

“You asked Seliora if we could find out anything about people trying to shoot you,” Betara said casually. “We thought it might be better to dispense with that unpleasantness before dinner.” She paused to sip her wine, Dhuensa, I realized. “Grandmama Diestra talked to a few . . . acquaintances.” A wry tone entered her voice as she went on. “You must have offended someone a great deal. Late last spring a contract price was put out on a recently promoted imager tertius. They wouldn’t give a name, but they might as well have. Ten golds—that’s the price for a taudischef. Rumor has it that the morteprix was guaranteed by Artazt—he was a taudischef in the hellhole—because his brother was killed by the imager . . .” She paused and looked at me.

“Diazt was from the hellhole. He was the one who died when they tried to kill me.”

“It gets interesting after that,” Betara said with a smile.

I didn’t like the way she said “interesting.”

“The first assassin shot the imager, but was killed by him. That suggests that we’re talking about you, Rhenn.”

“I couldn’t have guessed.”

“Artazt wasn’t happy, and he went to the assassin’s family to demand back the golds he’d advanced, but when he left with the golds, he disappeared. His body was found garroted in a nearby alley, and a silver cord was knotted around the rope still twisted about his neck. Oh . . . and the golds were still in his wallet.”

I’d heard about the silver knot. It was the traditional indication that a High Holder was displeased, and that, unhappily, strongly suggested that High Holder Ryel had something far worse in mind for me than a simple execution.

“You do seem to make powerful enemies, boy.” That was Grandmama Diestra.

“It’s hard not to when people are trying to kill you,” I replied.

“If you weren’t an imager, you’d long since have crossed the Bridge of Stones,” offered Shelim.

“We all know that, Father,” murmured Seliora.

“What about the Ferran?” I asked.

Betara shrugged. “He’s local, but he’s not. That is, he’s been in L’Excelsis for years and years, but he wasn’t born here, and he has no relatives here. He’s an assassin, but no one has ever seen him when he’s killed someone, and no one knows who hires him. But it’s not someone that anyone in L’Excelsis seems to know.”

All that seemed to say that three different people had wanted me dead—or worse, in the case of High Holder Ryel—for differing reasons. The good news was that one was dead, and the manner of his death meant that his friends were likely to forget coming after me. The bad news was that two others, who were clearly more dangerous, were still after me.