Madness in Solidar (6 page)

Dylert flushed. “I didn't know she was anywhere near. I wouldn't have done it if I knew she was.”

“
She
was? Or anyone?”

“Anyone, but…”

“But especially her? Why?”

“It's just … sir…” Dylert's mouth moved, spasmodically, before he finally added, “It's … she looks … like … she knows everything … and everyone else … they're stupid…”

“I see.” There was obviously something more to Seconda Thelia.
You should meet with her. But then, you should meet with each of the student imagers … and before too long.
Along with everything else. “It's clear she knew enough to keep that burn from being worse. It's also clear that you knew what you were doing wasn't something you should have been doing. Where were you? In that grassy space behind the quarters that's surrounded on three sides by bushes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For now, you're restricted to Imagisle. Once your arm is healed, you'll have some extra duties to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Alastar turned and left the room.

“What did you tell him?” asked Gaellen when Alastar reached the infirmary entrance. “Besides his being fortunate he didn't kill himself?”

“That he would if he didn't concentrate more when he imaged … and that he's restricted to Imagisle.”

“In the past…”

“
That
will change … if it takes locking up imagers in a lead-lined room.” Alastar nodded and made his way from the infirmary. He still had trouble believing how far the Collegium in L'Excelsis had fallen in a generation.

Dareyn looked up from his desk as Alastar walked back toward his study. “I have that information, sir.”

“Come on in.” Alastar had to force pleasantness into his voice. He stopped beside his own desk and turned, but did not sit down. “What have you found out?”

“Both Haebyn and Nacryon have residences in L'Excelsis. I have directions to each.”

“Good … and thank you. I'd like to have a few moments with Haebyn in the next day or so. I'll draft a polite request, and you can send one of the imager couriers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also need to start meeting with each of the student imagers. We'll start next week with the older thirds … no more than a quint of a glass with each…” Alastar went on to explain how he wanted Dareyn to explain the meetings to the students … and to any other imagers who asked.

Once he finished with that explanation, he picked up the visor cap from the side table, donned it, and headed for the stables. As he strode along the paved walk close to the carriage house, he nodded as he saw the broad-shouldered, but almost squat and stocky figure of Petros, the graying Maitre D'Aspect who was in charge of the stables, mounts, wagons, and carriages of the Collegium. Petros was instructing one of the teamsters about a harness, it appeared.

Alastar waited until the other maitre stepped away from the teamster. “Good afternoon, Petros.”

“The same to you, Maitre Alastar. What might you be needing?”

“I'd like you to accompany me on a ride along the East River Road. I need a maitre who's been here awhile and who has a strong stomach. And some other experience.”

“Heading south, perhaps?” Petros grinned.

“I had that in mind. I'll tell you more once we're on our way.”

Petros nodded. “Do you need your mount saddled?”

“I'll do that myself.” Alastar had a little time, and he didn't want to get totally out of the habit of doing so.

A quint later, the two rode across the narrow stone span of the east bridge, only wide enough for a single horse or a small cart at best, another aspect of the Collegium that Alastar had not had a chance to pursue, since most of the people in L'Excelsis lived on the east side of the River Aluse.
But then, the Collegium gets most of its provisions from the west.
Still …

That inquiry would have to wait.

At the east end of the bridge, Alastar gestured to the left. “We'll ride up to the Nord Bridge and then back.” The smell of sewage was muted, most likely because the light wind was coming out of the northwest.

“What are we looking for?”

“Where the odors from the sewers are the worst and what might be the causes.”

“You know I'm not the most accomplished of imagers, sir?”

Alastar was well aware of that. Petros barely met the standards of a tertius, but he'd been granted the rank of Maitre D'Aspect because of his value to the Collegium in his position as stablemaster, trainer, and quartermaster. “That's not why I wanted you to come. I understand that you were the one who supervised the repair of the sewers for the newer student quarters.” “Newer” was a relative term, since those buildings were more than a century old.

“Yes, sir, but I couldn't do the imaging. Not much of it, anyway. Young Cyran did the most.”

And he's no longer so young.
“I'm interested in your expertise, not your imaging.” Alastar guided the gelding to the side of the road in order to avoid a high-sided wagon filled with barrels, most likely either ale or lager, then slowed the gelding as a beggar stepped forward, then scuttled back as he saw the gray imager jackets and trousers. The east side of the East River Road—actually a stone-paved avenue with stone sidewalks—north of the bridge to Imagisle was lined with shops of various sorts, including a milliner, two tailors in the first block, a cabinetmaker with a display window featuring an elaborate sideboard in what looked to be cherry, and several caf
é
s. South of the bridge there were more factorages … and an older narrow stone building with barred windows bearing the signboard proclaiming
BANQUE D'EXCELSIS.

Alastar reined up at the end of the first block, catching sight of the Yellow Rose, a theatre favored, so he had heard, by the younger merchanters and some offspring of High Holders, perhaps because most of the “productions” featured music and attractive young women who were often less than fully clothed, if tastefully so, according to Cyran. After a few moments, he and Petros continued northward, but even the faint odor of sewage vanished after another block, at which point he turned the gelding back south. Less than half a block past the narrow bridge to Imagisle, he could again begin to smell the odor of sewage. After another block it was almost overpowering. The paving blocks in the middle of the avenue slumped so that those in the middle were almost a hand lower than those on each side. While Alastar could see no signs of liquid, the mortar around the paving stones, where it even existed, was cracked and crumbled, and the odor was even stronger in the middle of the road.

He reined up at the west side of the road and motioned for Petros to join him, then said, “There's likely a problem here. I've done some searches of the records and made some inquiries. The top of the sewers here are only two yards down, if that, and they run down the middle of the road. The tunnel is an oval a yard and a half high and a yard across at the base, where it's flattened into a gentle curve that's almost level except for a slight depression in the center. They're supposed to be flushed all the time using a covered canal that takes water from the river a mille north of the Nord Bridge.”

“It looks like the tunnel is leaking and the ground is sinking. The sewers ought to be deeper, below the cellars of the buildings.”

“We can't change that. I was thinking of uncovering them section by section where the odor is the worst and having the imagers repair the breaks and the drains from the buildings and the street. What would you suggest?”

Petros laughed, gruffly. “About what you have in mind, sir. Then you'll see whether it works.”

Alastar laughed as well, adding, “No.
We
'll see. You're going to be with me on this.” He studied the center of the avenue. The depressed section of the pavement extended some fifty yards. “Can we do this part in a day, with all the senior imagers and the best five or six Maitres D'Aspect?”

“If you can keep folks away … maybe…”

“Maitre Cyran and I will also do what we can.”

“You might be able to do that. After you do, you may find other leaks farther south.”

“Let's hope that they're far enough south that the stench doesn't reach Imagisle.” He shook his head. “If it does … we'll deal with that.” He paused. “We might as well ride farther south, just to see.”

The next three blocks showed no overt signs of sewer leakage, and the stench was less farther south, despite the slight breeze from the north.

“We can head back now.” Alastar turned the gelding around in front of a large factorage bearing the name Alamara Artisans. He couldn't help but notice that there was no display window and that the single door was stout and brass-bound—and closed.

You can't pursue every strange situation you observe, not when you can't even resolve the problems you have.
He resolutely turned away from the brass-bound door and urged the gray gelding northward toward the bridge.

 

4

Alastar was one of the first in the dining hall on Vendrei morning, after his run and washing up, as was usually the case, and he seated himself at the masters' table. He'd be fortunate if even one or two others joined him, since Taryn was the only other senior master who was not married, and of the eleven Maitres D'Aspect, only five were unmarried, including the only two female maitres. The unmarried status of the two women scarcely surprised Alastar.

He was sipping his tea and waiting for egg toast and bacon that he hoped was not too greasy when Taryn took the seat to his left. Shortly, Shaelyt and Alyna took seats to his right, but Shaelyt left an empty chair between himself and Alastar.

Alastar glanced at the pair of junior maitres and then at Taryn. “I haven't seen them together before.”

“They're friends. Nothing more, I assure you.”

“That's too bad,” murmured Alastar. He didn't have to say why. Every senior imager knew that, almost always, the child of two imagers was also an imager, usually a girl—and female imagers were all too rare.

“You'd do anything to strengthen the Collegium, I think,” replied Taryn, his voice low, but with a wide and humorous smile.

“Almost anything … almost.” Alastar managed not to look dismayed when a server slipped a platter before him with egg toast so brown it was almost black and bacon that was anything but crisp. The small loaf of bread was warm, but might have served equally well as a brick, were there any need to build anything at the Collegium.

“Have you heard anything from His Mightiness, Rex Dafou?” inquired Taryn.

“It's best that reference remain behind closed doors. If junior imagers hear us calling him that, and they do the same…” He raised his eyebrows. “We're not exactly in anyone's good graces. I'm not disputing the judgment behind the appellation, just the wisdom of using the term.”

“It's used openly by some of the High Holders.”

“Did you hear that from Maitre Alyna? Or elsewhere?”

“She has friends her own age who still occasionally talk to her…”

Friends her own age …
Taryn's words took Alastar aback, since he wasn't that much older than Alyna or most of the Maitres D'Aspect, just ten to fourteen years older than the youngest … and he was actually younger than Lhendyr or Mhorys or Petros.
Or is it the gray hair that makes them think you're that much older?

“… also heard words to the same effect from Tiranya, and I believe she might have heard them from Tertius Arion.”

“I have my doubts that he was the source, but if she said she heard them, then I have no doubt she did. It's still not a good idea here.”

Taryn nodded, then cut a piece of egg toast, wrapping it around a chunk of greasy bacon before eating both.

A low round of laughter ran along the table occupied by several seconds. Alastar focused on the table, where a thin-faced young secondus with too-long floppy brown hair mimed trying to saw through his chunk of bread, then lowered his knife with a smile of mock despair. The youth's expression was so despairing that Alastar had a hard time not laughing. So he turned to watch as Shaelyt gulped down the last bites of his egg toast and swallowed what remained in his mug, then rose, looking at Alyna as he said, “I need to prepare for the seventh-hour class with the primes and new seconds on government.”

“… think about it…”

Shaelyt smiled and hurried from the dining hall.

Alastar wished he had heard more of what the two had been discussing. He still wasn't convinced they were merely friends.
But that could be wishful thinking on your part.
He looked down at the dark brown egg toast and greasy bacon, and then resolutely took his cutlery in hand and set to eating. When he finished, he made his way back to the kitchen, not really wanting to, but if the cooks were serving him that badly cooked a breakfast, only the Nameless knew what the students were getting..

Shabrena, the head cook, hurried toward him, worry spread across her broad face. “Maitre…”

“I know you and the others try hard, but egg toast should not arrive looking as though it were almost charcoal … and if the stoves are that hot, why is the bacon so undercooked?'

“We had … some trouble this morning, sir. It won't happen again.”

Alastar smiled, politely. “Sometimes, those things do happen. We all understand that. They just shouldn't happen often. I'm sure you can make sure they don't.”

“Yes, Maitre.”

“Good.” He smiled and turned.

In the short time between his entering the kitchen and then leaving, a number of primes and seconds had entered the dining hall and seated themselves, one table for primes, another for seconds, and a last one for thirds. The servers provided platters of egg toast and bacon, along with baskets of bread, for each table, replenishing them as necessary. As the number of imagers increased, so did the muted cacophony of conversation.