Imager (49 page)

After three of my attempts, she turned and glided toward me, trailed by the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar.

“Young man?”

“Yes, madame?” I did turn to her, smiling pleasantly. “Might I be of some assistance?”

“You seemed, shall we say, less than fully interested in your duties, whatever they might be.”

“Madame, that is doubtless true. I was attempting to see, without being too obvious, if you looked like the etched portrait in the front of
On Art and Society
. My sister has all of your books. I don’t know whether she’s finished that one, because she just got it. Even though she’s never been married, she found
A Widow’s Guide
invaluable . . . I beg your pardon.”

She laughed, a sound somehow harshly melodic, but not mocking. “So I still have readers.”

“Yes, madame.” I needed to get Vhillar closer. “You haven’t changed that much since Emanus painted that miniature . . .”

I could sense her stiffen . . . ever so slightly.

“That’s less than common knowledge. How would a young man such as yourself know such a distinguished portraiturist?”

Vhillar kept a pleasant smile on his face, but edged closer.

“I was a journeyman portraiturist before I came here. Emanus liked a chess study I did, and offered several comments about it. We talked several times.” At that point, I extended the faintest image-probe, and immediately sensed a shield reaction—of the same sort of shield that I had sensed outside Terraza. There couldn’t be another foreign shield like that—not unless there were far more imager agents in L’Excelsis than Master Dichartyn knew, and that was doubtful, but still a disturbing possibility.

His eyes widened, if only fractionally, and I could sense a strengthening of his shields, but I concealed my surprise, both at his shields and his reaction, although I had half-expected to find him an imager, for reasons I could not have explained.

“You are rather young for this kind of approach, are you not?” offered Vhillar without any hesitation. “And such familiarity with a lady you do not know might not be considered . . . seemly . . . by your superiors.” His smile was pleasant and polished, as was his voice.

“I confess brashness, madame . . . and sir, but only because of my admiration and that of my sister for Madame D’Shendael for her writings and all she has endured . . . to bring those words to life so that others can read them. Admiration and the wish to hear the words of one so distinguished is certainly not undue familiarity.”

“Such artistry in flattery,” Vhillar offered. “Such charm beyond your years and experience.”

I only smiled, looking at Juniae D’Shendael and inclining my head politely. “My thanks for your words, madame.”

“He means well, I believe, Klauzvol,” replied Madame D’Shendael. “Presumptuously, but with honest brashness. Shall we dance?”

“My honor, madame.” Vhillar glanced at me quickly as he swirled her onto the dance floor, but the look was one that committed my face to memory.

I’d have to be more than careful. I’d revealed to Vhillar that I knew what he was, and I doubted he wanted anyone to know that, but how else could I have discovered it? Then, it could be that Master Dichartyn already knew, and that was a reason why he was here.

I scanned the great receiving hall, slowly, trying to do so casually, but I didn’t see Master Dichartyn or Baratyn. Besides, Baratyn wouldn’t understand, nor was I going to have the time to explain the complexity of the situation. If he’d been the one with the Ferran outside Terraza—and I was almost certain he was—he’d already killed, or arranged the killing of close to ten imagers, not to mention at least four attempts on me. In addition, he was friendly with an influential High Holder with ties to those on the Council—and that High Holder’s father had most likely been killed because of his conversation with me. And from that last look at me, it was clear that Vhillar knew exactly who I happened to be—and that I knew who and what he was.

I still couldn’t see Master Dichartyn, but I didn’t want to chase him down, not at the moment, with the formal toast about to occur. Since Vhillar was an imager, that would be a perfect opportunity to create havoc. He might not, but . . . I was supposed to prevent that sort of thing—if I could.

I moved toward the table where the formal toast would take place, trying to use the deft but purposeful moves of an assistant who needed to be somewhere but did not wish to offend. I also tried to project that feeling, and some must have picked up on it because people moved aside just slightly. Before long I had stationed myself behind and to the left of the small table behind which Councilor Suyrien would make the toast. With my back to the wall, I looked out at the dancers.

Among those closer who were waiting to watch the toast was the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar, with Mistress Cyana D’Guerdyn-Alte now at his side. He did not look in my direction, and they were positioned so that the equivalent of two lines of people were between them and the open space separating those gathering to watch from the small toasting table. I didn’t see Madame D’Shendael.

As the last bells of ninth glass died away, Councilor Suyrien emerged from a group of High Holders and their wives or daughters or mistresses and stepped toward the table. The sounds of the orchestra faded away, followed by a drum roll and then a quick trumpet call I did not recognize.

A uniformed server brought three bottles to the table, still corked and sealed. The councilor said something, and the server quickly removed the foil and cork from one of the bottles, then set a goblet down and poured the sparkling white into it.

I watched the goblet, hoping I’d guessed correctly.

The wine settled—then trembled—and I knew, not that I’d ever be able to prove it.

I concentrated, trying to image what was in the toasting goblet away, and replacing it with wine from the second unopened bottle.

This time the trembling was more pronounced, but no one seemed to notice. Certainly, Suyrien D’Alte did not as he picked up the goblet, raised it, and declaimed, “For Solidar, for the Council, and in thanks for a fruitful harvest!”

Then he lowered the goblet and put it to his lips. At that moment, I extended a shield on one side of the glass—the side between Vhillar and the councilor.

Something, a tiny something, hit the invisible shield and rebounded, unseen by most, except for the older woman in front, over whose shoulder a fine mist sprayed. She merely frowned, then used her scarf to brush away the misty drops.

“For Solidar, for the Council, and in thanks for a fruitful harvest!” came a low echo from the bystanders.

Not terribly enthusiastic, I thought, but I had the feeling that High Holders were not given to much in the way of public enthusiasms.

I could feel eyes on me, but I continued to survey the crowd. As my eyes passed those of Vhillar, I could see his eyes narrow. Abruptly, he looked away, then guided Mistress D’Guerdyn-Alte out onto the dance floor as the orchestra resumed playing.

Councilor Suyrien had left the toasting table, as if glad to be done with that task, and resumed his conversation. To one side, perhaps five yards, I could see Councilor Haestyr murmur something to Councilor Caartyl. They talked for a moment or two, then nodded to each other and returned to those they had escorted.

I began to move away from the toasting table, trying to convey the sense that I’d finished another task and still trying to locate Master Dichartyn, when a voice called to me. “Young man.”

I turned. The summons came from Madame D’Shendael. What exactly did she want? I smiled and moved to her. “Yes, madame. Might I be of assistance?”

“You may. I find I need a partner.”

She was a good dancer, better than Iryela, but still not quite so good as Seliora, and she said nothing until we had gone halfway around the floor.

“Was what you said about your sister total nonsense or truth used to a purpose?”

Obviously, she didn’t believe in High Holder circumlocution. “It was quite truthful, madame. My sister found a number of the financial advisements of great use in the family business. She was also first captivated by your
Poetic Discourse
and later by
Civic Virtue
.”

“I don’t believe you answered my question.”

“I believe I answered it as well as I can, madame.”

She smiled. “That is an answer, of another kind. What is your name?”

“Rhennthyl.”

“Rhennthyl D’Imager, I would imagine. No . . . I know you cannot comment. A rather silly fiction, if you ask me. What about Emanus? Was that true as well?”

“Yes, madame.”

“It is rumored that he was killed by an imager, and that you visited him shortly before he died.”

Rumored? Most likely, Vhillar had told her it was a rumor, possibly as a way to discredit the Collegium. “I had heard something to that effect, but he was well when I left him, and, frankly, madame, I was looking forward to talking to him again. I was shocked to learn of his death, and I did not know of it until several days later.”

That
surprised her, and her surprise and her choice of words confirmed what I already knew, even if I could not prove it.

“I am truly sorry for you, madame.” That was a risk, but someone should have expressed some sympathy for her father’s death, especially after all he had suffered for her.

Her lips tightened, as if she were about to retort. Then she nodded. “It is sad when a great artist dies and is not able to be recognized.”

“I have studied the works of all the current masters, and none exhibits his excellence. I suppose that was one reason why I was so pleased when he praised my chess study.” That wasn’t quite true, because I hadn’t realized how great an artist he was until later, when I’d seen the miniature, but the spirit of my words was true.

She was silent for a time as we circled the floor. As we made one turn, I caught sight of Martyl dancing with Alynkya, and the young woman looked happy. I couldn’t help but contrast her to both Iryela and Madame D’Shendael, both surrounded by intrigue and plotting.

Then the music ended.

“Thank you, madame.”

She smiled. I think there was pain behind the smile, but I don’t know that anyone else would have seen it, except Seliora, had she been there. “Thank you, Master Rhennthyl. Take care.” There was the slightest emphasis on the last two words. I escorted her back to her husband, who did not even turn as she rejoined whatever conversation was in progress.

After that, I moved around the dance floor, always watching, but no one else seemed to need rescuing, and no one else asked me to dance. Master Dichartyn was still nowhere to be seen, and although I glimpsed Baratyn across the dance floor, he was headed toward the grand staircase. Should I follow him?

It was nearing tenth glass, midnight, when the Ball would end.

Suddenly, a jolt of something shivered my shields, and my entire body began to tremble, until I managed to erect a second set within the first. Still shaking inside, I turned slowly.

From a good ten yards away, the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar gave the faintest of nods, and a knowing smile, before turning away, High Holder Guerdyn’s daughter on his arm.

I understood what was behind that. Vhillar clearly wanted to lure me into trouble, or something to precipitate a scandal. Or worse, he would just leave so that he could strike later, and he was letting me know that. I couldn’t let him do that. Yet, what could I do? Master Dichartyn was nowhere to be seen, and I was getting tired of being a target and a lure. A lure? What had Master Poincaryt said? A lure didn’t have to be defenseless, and I could act in the best interests of the Collegium. The Collegium certainly didn’t need a hostile and renegade imager loose in L’Excelsis—envoy or not—and if I waited to discuss such matters with Master Dichartyn I wouldn’t have the chance to stop being a lure and a target.

No matter what both Maitre Poincaryt and Maitre Dichartyn said about my value to the Collegium as a lure . . . they weren’t the one being attacked time after time. I slipped away with the purposeful stride of a man headed for the jakes, except once I neared there, I turned to the steps.

“Sir?” asked the obdurate guard.

“I need to get something for Baratyn.” I tried to project urgency.

“Ah . . .”

“I won’t be long.” I was past him and headed down the steps, quickly, but not at a run. Once on the lower level, I took the west-side service door and eased along the narrow maintenance walk next to the foot of the wall, using a cloak of shadows. Someone might well see someone in the shadows, but not more than a dim figure at best. I found the ornamental topiary that I recalled, the one offering the most concealment close to the outside stone steps, and sat down behind it, where I could view all the steps down to the drive where the coaches and carriages were beginning to queue up.

I waited a good half glass out there, watching as guests departed and worrying about whether Baratyn or Master Dichartyn would come looking for me. That was the last thing I wanted. I was Nameless-tired of being the target, and no one seemed that interested in solving the problem, only in using me to flush out the guilty. Well, I’d flushed him out, and I’d figured a way to deal with him as well—if it worked, I reminded myself.

Vhillar was among the later guests to leave, and he moved casually, yet deliberately, his eyes scanning the area on each side of the outside stone steps. Was he expecting me to act? I had the feeling he was concerned. He should be.

He paused after descending several steps, then spoke a few words to Mistress D’Guerdyn-Alte. After a moment, he escorted her down another few steps, before stopping to exchange a few words with another couple. He glanced toward the outer open carriage gate, and then back toward the east side of the Chateau. That worried me. What besides me was he seeking? Or was something else planned?

I shook my head. For the moment, I needed to concentrate on Vhillar—before he was too far away for my imaging to reach him.

First, I imaged colorless oil across the steps, three deep, directly below him, and well beyond his shields, and used a partial shield—something Maitre Dyana had taught me—to block any reflections from the lamps flanking the stone steps.