Treachery's Tools

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Four guards in maroon and carrying heavy rifles flanked the main entryway, but the same footman Alastar had seen earlier greeted the High Holder with a deep bow, then retreated to one side of the door as Staendyn descended from the coach.

  Alastar stepped behind the hatchet-faced and angular High Holder in his pale blue doublet and matching breeches, with cream hose and boots, and followed Staendyn up the stone steps, across the portico, and past the footman into the circular high-ceilinged entry hall beyond the bronzed double doors.

  Alastar could see the footman twitch, but the man said nothing as Alastar followed the High Holder, still trying to step lightly. Staendyn moved decisively down the corridor and took several steps into the receiving study before halting.

  Alastar stopped as well, surveying the room. Only two sets of armchairs were set around a conference table that had replaced the usual low table, a clear indication that Meinyt was not expected.

  Cransyr turned from where he stood by the window. “Greetings.”

  “Was this really necessary, Cransyr?”

  “How could it not be, Staendyn? We are engaged in an enterprise, if you will, that will remake all Solidar.”

  “You think Alastar and the Collegium will stand by idly?”

  “Not idly, but by the time they understand what is at stake, it will be too late. We’re already ringing their little isle with hundreds of marksmen. That will totally isolate them. You’ve seen their reaction. Maitre Alastar is not the maitre he once was, and Cyran … well … he wishes to be liked all too well.”

  “I understand Alastar’s wife is also powerful.”

  “She’s only a woman.”

  Only a woman. Alastar reminded himself to relay that comment to Alyna, as he eased away from Staendyn, who had moved toward the conference table. Both men turned as a third figure, dressed in dark blue, entered the receiving study, and Alastar took the opportunity to position himself in the inside corner of the room between two bookcases, listening intently.

  “Olefsyrt…” offered Cransyr.

  “Cransyr. I take it that Meinyt won’t be here.”

  “It’s best for his health that he’s not.”

  “Hah … after I heard he met with Maitre Alastar, it’s probably for the best.”

  “Are your forces ready?”

  “They’re positioned within an easy glass of Lorien. Our … friend has been most cooperative.”

  “As if he had much—” began Staendyn, but broke off as Souven entered the study.

  “We might as well be seated,” announced Cransyr smoothly.

  The footman quietly closed the study door as the four High Holders settled around the table.

  “To begin with,” said Cransyr, “do any of you know about any signs that anyone not involved knows anything about our … efforts?”

  “Paellyt has been asking when the High Council is going to do something to put the factors in their place,” said Olefsyrt. “He’s been most insistent.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That we needed to wait until Lorien denied all the legal petitions before deciding on a course of action. He already knew that Lenglan’s petition had been dismissed.”

  “Just tell him that he’ll be among the first to know when the High Council decides to consider the matter,” replied Cransyr. “Just keep him quiet for a while. The last thing we need is a hothead like Paellyt getting the Collegium stirred up. It’s much better that they remain turtlelike on Imagisle.”

  “Are the letters to all the High Holders of influence ready to go?” asked Staendyn.

  Cransyr gestured to the table in the corner opposite the one where Alastar stood within his concealment. “Ready to dispatch. There’s a stack for each of you.”

  Alastar judged that here were close to a hundred envelopes there.

  “They outline—” began Souven.

  “All our grievances against that idiot Lorien, and against the meddling of the Collegium, and the reasons for our actions, just as you insisted.” Cransyr’s words were both mellifluous and smoothly delivered.

  “What about the Army High Command?”

  “Just as I explained. High Holder Caervyn’s assistance, direct and indirect, and that of his sister, will prove helpful in the last stages of our efforts to restore High Holders to their rightful position, as will that of our other ally, who while unable to join us physically at the moment, for reasons we all understand, is more than eager to accept a less active role in governing than his soon-to-be predecessor.”

  As the last section of the puzzle clicked into place, Alastar just stood there, stunned, yet not exactly surprised.

  The question in his mind was not what to do, but how exactly to accomplish it … and how to do so in a way that left the cause and whoever was behind it … ambiguous.

  “What about the Collegium?”

  “That, too, will take care of itself, as we planned,” declared Cransyr.

  “But…” began Souven.

  “Enough. We all have work to do.”

  Staendyn nodded, and began to stand.

  Alastar realized he was almost out of time. With that, he imaged a block of wood into Souven’s heart, followed by blocks into the hearts of Cransyr, Olefsyrt, and Staendyn. He might have learned more by waiting, but he likely never again would have had the opportunity to take out all the top conspirators at once. And who knows how much damage will be done even now?

  Still holding a concealment, he eased to the door, then gently opened it and peered out. The footman stood in the archway between the entry hall and the corridor, but because the door opened inward, he had apparently not noticed. Alastar eased out into the corridor, trying to close the door silently, but there was still a slight click.

  The noise was loud enough that the footman turned and began to walk toward the study, slowing as he saw the door was closed. Alastar moved quietly toward the main entry, staying on the far side of the corridor from the footman. The main door was closed.

  Alastar paused. Any effort to open the door would definitely alert the footman, if not others in the chateau. Still …

  He readied himself, then moved to the door, opening it swiftly, but as quietly as he could. There was only a low grinding, barely audible, but the footman turned and started toward the door.

  Alastar stepped out onto the portico, and immediately imaged his best imitation of an oversized cannon shell into the receiving study—with a white-hot iron splinter going into the charge. As he did, he moved out far enough that he was beyond the four armed guards before flattening himself on the stone tiles.

  Crummmptttt!

  After a moment, Alastar looked around. The armed guards stood frozen, then rushed toward the entry. Avoiding them, Alastar climbed to his feet, moving toward the steps down to the stone lane, avoiding the three coaches lined up under the covered roof. His eyes went to the study windows, all of which had blown out, along with a substantial amount of masonry. Surprisingly, at least to Alastar, the stories above the study did not seem to be that damaged.

  Which means secondary measures are necessary.

  Alastar imaged a flaming ball of oil into the center of the study, then hurried down the lane as flames burst from the shattered windows. His head throbbed, painfully, and all the soreness that he thought had left his muscles returned, uncomfortably, but not agonizingly, most likely from the effort of imaging from behind shields and a concealment.

  The gate guards gaped, then rushed toward the chateau.

  Alastar slowed to a fast walk, but kept moving. He had to lift the gate bolt himself and shove the gate open enough to squeeze out, but no one was even looking in his direction. Black and gray smoke continued to billow out of the study windows, and flames were also shooting up the front of the chateau.

  He dropped the concealment as he neared the corner of the wall.

  “Sir…?”

  “It’s me.” Alastar replaced the concealment and continued onward until he almost bumped into Belsio
r’s mount. “Expand your concealment a bit.”

  Belsior did, and Alastar took the gelding’s reins and mounted, then turned in the saddle and extracted one of the water bottles. “We need to get back to the Collegium. Things are even worse than we thought. There may already be a hundred or more sharpshooters around Imagisle. If not, there likely soon will be. That’s just the beginning.” He turned the gelding to head back south along the West River Road.

  “What happened here, sir?”

  “It looks to me like someone planted a cannon shell in the Chateau D’Council. Doesn’t it look that way to you?”

  “Ah … yes, sir.” After a moment, Belsior spoke again. “If four of the five councilors were there, won’t that … stop matters?”

  “You’d think that it would, but, in this case, there are at least three other High Holders involved, and we have no idea where they are.” Not to mention whatever Marryt and Hehnsyn are already doing. “We’d best maintain at least blurring shields from here until we near the bistro north of the Bridge of Desires. Then we’ll have to resume full concealments.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “A blur concealment for a while will help, sir.”

  “Good.” Alastar glanced back. There was no pursuit, not that he expected any, but relying on expectations wasn’t the way to survive anything chancy. He uncorked the water bottle and took a swallow. Warm or not, the dark lager was welcome, and he kept drinking, intermittently, until they neared the Nord Bridge and the Boulevard D’Ouest, when he replaced the water bottle in the saddlebag.

  “From here on,” Alastar told Belsior, “keep your eyes open for sharpshooters, in any position that might bear on Imagisle. Or anything that looks in the slightest fashion out of the ordinary.” That was easy enough to say, but Alastar wasn’t certain he’d noted the terrain and buildings on the west bank of the Aluse intently enough to recognize minor discrepancies.

  He needn’t have worried. Even from north of Belsior’s “favorite bistro” on the West River Road, Alastar had no trouble making out the revetments flanking the causeways to the Bridge of Desires and the south bridge—or the angled iron shields that topped them, with slots through which heavy rifles could be fired. He judged that there were two companies in sight, one at each west bridge, and most likely another at the east bridge.

  Just as obviously, there were no horses and riders, no carriages, and no wagons on the West River Road south of the bistro and neighboring bakery.

  “Why are they doing that?” asked Belsior.

  “I’d guess the idea is simply to keep imagers on Imagisle.” Alastar wasn’t totally guessing, not with what he had heard at the Chateau D’Council. “The question is what to do with them.”

  “They’ve been shooting at imagers,” said Belsior.

  “That’s true. But they’ve been ordered to shoot at imagers. The High Holders who suffered the unfortunate consequence of having a cannon shell explode before them gave that order. Besides, what happens if we kill all of these men when most of Solidar will consider them to only be doing their duty? Does that help the Collegium?”

  “Ah … probably not.” Belsior paused, then asked, “But do most people care?”

  Alastar laughed. “Good point. Probably not, but it’s better not to get in the habit of unnecessary killing. Why don’t we at least start by imaging lots and lots of fine red pepper into the revetments around the Bridge of Desires? Once we get closer, I’ll take the revetments on the north side, and you do the ones on the south side.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two continued riding south until they were less than fifty yards from the end of the north revetment, when Alastar said, “This is close enough.” He reined up. “Ready to image pepper?”

  “Right now?”

  “Now.” As he spoke, Alastar image-flooded the fifty- to seventy-yard length of the revetment with a mist of red pepper so thick it looked like a red fog. As he studied the results, another thought struck him, something that he should have realized earlier—to make all those iron shields had required a great deal of advance planning.

  A very great deal.

  As he watched the revetment, he also realized that considering the implications of that would have to wait. There had to be close to fifty men in the revetment on the north side of the short road leading from the West River Road to the causeway, and perhaps twenty crawled out, keeping low and trying to make it to and beyond the West River Road without drawing iron darts from the imager sentries. Most carried their weapons.

  Alastar had to say that he was both impressed and concerned—impressed by the ability of so many men to remain confined with that much red pepper and concerned that there had been no response from Imagisle. He glanced to the revetment on the south side. Only about ten men were fleeing, again with weapons. He imaged again, this time a myriad of tiny white-hot iron needles—into both revetments.

  More men began leaving the revetments when a tall blond man stood up, and shouted, “Hold your ground! Pepper and needles won’t kill you, but I will!”

  Alastar imaged, regretfully, flaming oil around and onto the man, who was likely the equivalent of an undercaptain, who immediately sprinted toward the river. Alastar put an iron dart through his skull.

  At that, the remainder of the armed shooters withdrew, in various degrees of order or disorder.

  “Now, we’ll see about the south bridge revetments.”

  “Ah … yes, sir.”

  Alastar could almost hear the queasiness behind Belsior’s words. “In these circumstances, one graphic and grisly death is much to be preferred to a hundred neat killings. We can hope the shooters in the southern revetments are more amenable to dispersal.”

  Alastar turned the gray gelding southward. Belsior followed, then drew up beside Alastar without speaking.

  Not quite a half mille farther south, Alastar reined up at the eastern edge of the road. “This should do. Ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  While the red pepper fog was not sufficient to clear the revetments, the white-hot iron needles were. As the shooters retreated, however, Alastar image-projected his voice across the retreating shooters. “We were merciful. This time. If you return and attempt to shoot at Imagisle, each of you will die!”

  Once the last of the brown-clad riflemen had departed, Alastar dropped the concealment, but not his shields, and urged the gelding onto the causeway. By the time he and Belsior crossed the south bridge and reached the end of the causeway on Imagisle, Alyna, Shaelyt, and Tiranya were waiting for them.

  “We need an immediate meeting of the senior maitres,” Alastar declared before turning to Belsior. “For the moment, until we can send some junior maitres, you have the defense of the south bridge. It’s not likely you’ll see anything soon, but who knows, the way things have developed. Let Shaelyt and Tiranya have your mount, and Alyna will ride double with me. It’s not that far.”

  Belsior immediately dismounted, while Alastar helped Alyna up to ride behind him, not that she needed much assistance. In moments, the gelding was at a fast walk toward the administration building.

  “What was the reason for allowing those shooters to set up to block the bridges, not that it hurt that much in the end—although we’ll have to do something about those on the East Bridge. I assume they’ve got people there, too.”

  “They do. Cyran thought we should wait before doing anything, since they weren’t shooting at anyone,” said Alyna. “I agreed that we should wait, but no longer than fourth glass.”

  “Maybe I should deal with the East Bridge before—”

  “We should deal with the East Bridge.” Alyna turned in the saddle. “Tiranya, Shaelyt, get the others together for a senior maitres’ meeting. Akoryt’s at the Bridge of Desires. We’ll go to the East Bridge.”

  When Alyna and Alastar were somewhat farther from Tiranya and Shaelyt, she demanded, “Now … what happened at the Chateau D’Council?”

 
; “A cannon shell apparently exploded in Cransyr’s receiving study…” Alastar gave Alyna a brief summary of what he’d heard and done.

  When he finished, she said quietly, “Then there’s more, much more, about to occur.”

  “Lorien and his family are in danger. That’s for certain. But we need to disperse the shooters on the East Bridge quickly and then meet—a short meeting. I’d thought about just taking some maitres to the Chateau D’Rex immediately, but … well … I needed to think about it, and to make sure all the senior maitres understand what’s involved. But it has to be quick.”

  “Lorien doesn’t deserve saving.”

  “No, but Solidar deserves not having a war of succession, especially given who wants to succeed him.”

  “I’ll grant that.” Alyna’s laugh was short and acerbic. “Ryel has to be behind this.”

  “I’d judge so, but we haven’t seen any sign of that.”

  “Would we?”

  Alastar didn’t bother answering the question as he reined up well back from the East Bridge.

  Cyran hurried toward Alyna and Alastar as they dismounted from the gelding. Standing closer to the bridge were three other imagers, including Taurek and Khaelis, and another man that it took Alastar a moment to recognize—Julyan. “They moved in iron shields all across the end of the bridge.”

  “Have they shot at anyone?”

  “They’ve hit my shields twice. I tried to suggest that they should leave or face the consequences. I didn’t want to do more until I knew how you had fared with the High Council.” The Maitre D’Esprit raised his eyebrows.

  “The meeting had an explosive conclusion. Something like cannon shell hit the study where they were meeting, just after they’d concluded an agreement to marginalize the Collegium and replace Lorien. Now … let’s remove these annoyances.”

  “You’re not going to—”

  “I hope not.” Alastar walked to the end of the causeway. Immediately, he felt the impact of a bullet on his shields … and it was painful. Get this over. He looked to Alyna, beside him. “Fine red pepper as thick as fog.”