Treachery's Tools

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Who should I give Cransyr’s lands to … and those of the other three?”

  “Wait and see. Given that Cransyr was head of the council and that his son was part of the army rebellion, you can get away with confiscating his lands. The other three might prove a problem because there’s no proof—”

  “No proof? With a rebellion going on?”

  “There’s nothing I know of remaining that would tie them to the rebellion. Anything that might have done so didn’t survive the fire at the Chateau D’Council.”

  “Convenient for their heirs.… Now what should I consider for next year’s tariff levels?”

  Alastar could tell he wasn’t leaving the chateau for a time.

  30

  By Mardi morning, the rain had subsided to a drizzle and then to a mist, allowing Alastar and the group of imagers assembled by Akoryt to manage a morning run, if avoiding all the low spots on Imagisle that resembled miniature lakes, while brushing away more than a few mosquitoes. The River Aluse was little more than a yard below the top of the riverwall—and that was the highest Alastar had ever seen it. Because the air was warm and damp, Alastar, Lystara, Malyna, and Alyna were all thoroughly soaked all the way through by the time they walked up the steps to the Maitre’s dwelling after their run, a run that once more had left Alastar lagging his wife.

  “At least it looks like it’s going to clear up,” Alyna observed, stopping on the porch and looking eastward.

  “If it does, the river might not overtop the walls. I can hope, anyway,” returned Alastar. “Downstream will be worse, especially around Reyks. The ground there is barely higher than the riverbanks.”

  “Why did the rebels go that way, then?”

  “Because the road is good. It was built before the time of Rex Regis, but Quaeryt and his imagers improved it even more. Their bridges still look like they have been built in the past few years.”

  “You still wonder about him, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Alastar blotted his forehead with a sleeve that was not quite dripping wet. “Even Gauswn’s journals only give the slightest hint of what he was like and what else he did that we’ll never know about.”

  “Isn’t that true of everyone once those who knew them are gone?”

  Alastar laughed softly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” After a pause, she said, “We need to get ready for breakfast. We can’t eat like this.”

  Alastar couldn’t have agreed more.

  By the time the four had washed up, dressed in grays, eaten breakfast, and left the house, the rain had stopped completely, and Alastar could see patches of blue between the clouds to the northeast. He just hoped that they wouldn’t have more rain at least for a few days.

  Once at the administration building he immediately went to find Thelia to go over the supply list he had planned for the small imager force to accompany Wilkorn’s troopers. That took little more than a quint, and he then headed back toward his study. When he walked back into the anteroom, Maercyl stood waiting, holding an envelope. “This just came by army courier.”

  “Thank you.” Alastar took the envelope and entered his study, where he immediately opened it, and began to read, concentrating on the body of the text.

  Scouts report that the rebel battalions continued through Caluse. They halted on Samedi for the night at Reyks. They continued on Solayi toward Nordeau. It would appear that they will occupy the old army quarters there. My judgment is that they will wait at Nordeau for reinforcements, possibly either from local High Holders or from Commander Aestyn’s regiment.

  If they do march back north along the West River Road, my plan would be to meet them north of Caluse at a point where the terrain favors us. South of Caluse, the land is boggy and soft, and now that will be even less suitable.

  We will inform the Collegium and Rex Lorien daily on the position of the rebel forces.

  How long will they wait in Nordeau? Alastar wondered if it might not be better to attack them immediately, but he was no strategist or military tactician. Then, too, it might be better to let the rebels do all the marching—or most of it—especially given the recent weather. The mosquitoes were already bad enough in L’Excelsis. He couldn’t imagine what they’d be like in Reyks or Nordeau, especially with the red flies that infested the reeds along the river south of L’Excelsis.

  In the meantime, there was the problem of the brown-shirts that apparently still remained in or around L’Excelsis. Alastar nodded, then walked to the study door. Both Maercyl and Dareyn looked at him.

  “If you could, send someone to tell Maitre Cyran I need to see him. If he’s giving an instructional or otherwise occupied, it can wait until he’s finished.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Maercyl, rising.

  Alastar returned to the study, still thinking over the possibilities.

  Cyran appeared a bit less than three quints later, hurrying into Alastar’s study. “I hope I didn’t delay anything. I was working with Arthos on something.”

  “Image-forging?”

  Cyran nodded. “What do you need?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the brown-shirts. Even after the army battalions left, even after we killed most of the lot attacking the Chateau D’Rex, there were those that attacked Imagisle, those that fired the port tower, and the ones who laid waste to Naathyn’s factorage and family. That means they’re still around. Does the Civic Patrol have any idea where they might be lodged or hiding?”

  “I’ve asked Heisyt. He doesn’t know. They appear, and then they’re gone.”

  “It has to be fairly close to L’Excelsis, if not inside the city. I’d wager it’s also fairly close to the Collegium.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  “The fact that so few people see them suggests they aren’t riding very far, and that they know the city. They vanished almost immediately after firing Veritum…” Alastar paused. Just why had they set fire to the old port tower that had held the newssheet printing works? Who would have cared most about a newssheet?

  “Sir?”

  “You’d mentioned that High Holder Laevoryn had a place north of the Boulevard D’Este. Do you know anything about it?”

  “No, sir. Not any more than Commander Murranyt told me.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d find out. I’d like to see how large the stables are there.”

  “You think…?”

  “I have no idea, but the brown-shirts belong to High Holders. It won’t hurt to look at a few of their places to see which High Holders might be quartering them.”

  “Wouldn’t that be … rather obvious?”

  “If anyone is looking, but I imagine lots of riders enter most High Holders’ establishments. What if the grounds are extensive enough that there are other gates or entrances?” Alastar shrugged. “It can’t hurt to look.” Especially since there’s not much else we can do until we know what the rebel army is doing. “Do it quietly.”

  “It might take a while.”

  “For the moment, it appears that we do have time. Until the High Holders do something else, or some factor or his son decides they’ve had enough of some High Holder or his offspring.”

  “You don’t sound enthused about either.”

  “I’m not. The High Holders don’t care much who gets hurt in their efforts to hold on to their power. The factors want more golds, and they don’t care much who gets hurt so long as they obtain more golds.”

  Cyran stood. “I think I’ll better find out just where Laevoryn’s estate is. Do you want me to have scouts explore it?”

  “I’d rather take a look first.”

  “I’ll find out as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you.” Alastar did not rise as the senior imager left the study. Why was Cyran so eager to leave? Because he doesn’t like it when you’re so cynically accurate? Or because he thinks you’re on the edge of fury? Then again, in a way, Alastar was on the edge of fury, aimed at both High Holders and factors, not to mention Lorien on the
side. Can’t any of them see that life is changing and the old ways aren’t working?

  He was afraid that he knew the answer.

  After Alastar was certain that Cyran was well away from the administration building, he made his way outside and then walked swiftly to the west riverwall to check the water level. The swirling dark gray-blue water remained just a little over a yard below the top of the stone walls. Mixed among the water, frequent whitecaps, and dirty foam were branches, leaves, occasional planks or boards, and other debris. He didn’t see any bodies, either of animals or otherwise, but he had no doubts that he might have if he’d stayed and looked long enough.

  When he returned to the administration building, he couldn’t help thinking about Westisle. Why had Voltyrn inquired twice, the second time before Alastar could have sent a response, even had he been minded to reply instantly? From what he’d seen earlier, from the correspondence from Zhelan, and from the tone of Voltyrn’s missives, Alastar was getting a very strong impression that Westisle needed a maitre from L’Excelsis. The question was who? And even if he had decided he wasn’t about to send that maitre off to Westisle until the High Holder rebels were dealt with, one maitre probably wouldn’t make a difference, but there was little point in risking it, especially given that the rebellion had been planned months in advance, if not longer, and there might be yet other surprises. Might be?

  Cyran did not return until two quints past noon. He wore a wry expression on his face as he settled into the chair across from Alastar.

  “I had to wait to see Murranyt, and he really didn’t want to tell me much.”

  “I take it that he finally did.”

  “He wasn’t happy.”

  “Why not? Merely telling you where Laevoryn dwells isn’t Terahnar’s greatest secret. Or do you think he’s been pressed to keep away from anything dealing with Laevoryn and High Holders?”

  “He did say that he wished Hulet had never set foot in Laevoryn’s mansion. He’s also not terribly pleased with the Collegium. Several people were wounded, and one died, from stray bullets fired when those shooters attacked Imagisle.”

  “He’s less than pleased with us … when we were attacked then, and again on Vendrei evening?”

  “That was just my impression. I didn’t press.”

  “It’s likely better that you didn’t. It almost sounds like he’s related, if on the off side of the blanket, to some High Holder … or taking a few golds from one.”

  “That was my thought as well. I did find out where Laevoryn’s mansion and grounds are, though … after I hinted that it would be much easier than if I had to stop every patroller on the north side of L’Excelsis.”

  “Let’s go take a look.” At Cyran’s dubious expression, Alastar added, “Using concealments, of course.” He stood. “We might as well head out now.”

  Since Laevoryn’s L’Excelsis dwelling was north of the main part of the city, Alastar and Cyran rode out over the East Bridge and turned north on the East River Road. Once they crossed the Boulevard D’Este, they raised blurring shields. A half mille north of the Nord Bridge, the main road curved to the east, leaving little more than a narrow, if well-paved, lane paralleling the river.

  “Laevoryn’s main gate is off of the main road,” said Cyran. “The servitors’ gate is at the end of the lane.”

  “Let me guess. His predecessors didn’t want their access to the river blocked by the East River Road.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” replied Cyran, “but it makes sense.”

  “For a High Holder. We’ll look into the servitors’ gate … under full concealment.” As they rode forward at a slow walk, Alastar noted that there were no trees near the wall, itself a good three yards high, either inside or outside and along the lane. Given the apparent age of the wall stones, that suggested that Laevoryn and his predecessors had definitely valued their privacy.

  When they were within ten yards of the gates, Alastar murmured to Cyran, “Wait here.” Then he continued on toward the guardhouse.

  The guard posted there wore livery of a pale lavender. He was also gray-haired and looked to be almost half asleep. Alastar eased his mount forward until he reined up only about a yard from where the gates joined, each formed of plain iron bars running vertically in an oiled timber frame. There was no visible chain or lock, suggesting a simple drop bar on the inside. He stiffened as he caught sight of two more guards, wearing the brown uniforms with which Alastar had become too familiar, seated on a bench beside the paved drive leading from the gate into the grounds. Each had a heavy rifle in hand.

  The two looked bored, but one suddenly frowned and looked up. “Did you hear something?”

  “Just a rider going by.”

  “I don’t see anyone.” The guard who had spoken stood, rifle in hand, and moved toward the gates, peering one way and then another. Finally, he turned and walked back toward the bench.

  Alastar eased the gray away from the gate, his eyes still on the brown-shirt guards.

  The one stopped and turned, looking at the gate again, before shrugging and returning to the bench.

  Alastar continued to walk the mount back until he was inside the scope of Cyran’s concealment. Keeping his voice low, he said, “We’ll ride past the main gate now.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Two additional guards in the brown-shirt uniforms with rifles posted just inside the gate.”

  “You thought you’d find them, didn’t you?”

  “After I thought about Veritum being burned out, I felt it was likely.”

  As they rode back south and then rejoined the main road, where they resumed blurring shields, which had the advantage of letting others see a pair of riders, Alastar kept studying the wall that surrounded the estate. By the time they could see the front entry gate, Alastar judged that they had covered almost a mille, and he had not seen any other gates or breaks in the wall that remained a constant three yards in height.

  The two rode another two hundred yards before approaching the main entry, a much more elaborate structure with two gates with fluted iron grillwork topped on each side with a wrought-iron crest, whose center depicted a flower that Alastar did not recognize, crossed by a saber. The gatehouse was inside the gates, with two guards posted, both wearing the lavender livery. Alastar could not discern any other guards, but that didn’t surprise him, since, if there were any, he doubted they would be visible to passersby on the well-traveled East River Road.

  Once past the entry, Alastar continued to study the wall until they had covered another fifty yards, when he asked, “What did you notice about the main gate?”

  “Besides the fact that it was locked and there were two guards there on the inside? There wasn’t much I could see beyond that.”

  “Think over what Murranyt told you about how Hulet died.”

  Cyran frowned, then, after several moments, replied, “Murranyt said that Hulet forced his way into the house.”

  “Exactly how would an unarmed factor have been able to force his way through those gates and guards? Especially when the guards are inside the gates?”

  “It would seem rather difficult.”

  “More than a little. Now we need to find out how much farther Laevoryn’s grounds extend.”

  After riding another half mille, Alastar could see just ahead a cornice rising from the top of the wall. As he drew nearer, it became clear that the cornice marked a corner and that the wall turned there and headed due west, seemingly all the way to the river, or at least the riverbank. Alastar reined up opposite the corner and studied the wall for several moments, then turned the gelding to head back south.

  “What now?” asked Cyran as he eased his mount around to keep position with Alastar.

  “I think it’s time we paid a visit to Commander Murranyt. We’ll need to stop by the Collegium to pick up an escort who can handle the mounts.”

  “You want me to accompany you?”

  “Absolutely. Otherwise, he’ll claim to me th
at you misunderstood what he said.”

  “Have you ever met Murranyt?”

  “A few times, but only in passing.”

  Three quints later, after a stop on Imagisle to collect Tertius Beltran, the most available junior imager, the three imagers rode south from the East Bridge some eight blocks before reaching Fedre Street and turning east toward Civic Patrol headquarters, little more than a block east of the river, in a yellow brick building of two stories barely twenty yards wide.

  Alastar and Cyran reined up and dismounted in front of the single door, positioned five yards from the west corner of the building, and handed the reins of their mounts to Beltran before entering the building.

  Inside the well-oiled but battered oak door was an anteroom that stretched five yards on each side of the door. Benches set against the front wall flanked the entry. Directly opposite the door and in front of an archway was a large desk, behind which sat a beefy patroller. Beside him, on a stool, sat a much younger patroller.

  Cyran stepped up to the seated patroller, who looked up impassively. “Maitre Alastar is here to see the commander.”

  “Actually, both the senior imager and I are here to see him,” Alastar added. “It’s not a social call.”

  “Sandryt,” growled the duty patroller to the younger one, “go up and tell the commander that Maitre Alastar and Maitre Cyran are here to see him.”

  Sandryt immediately stood, ducked through the archway, and started up the stairs to the second level.

  “Don’t suppose it’s anything good that brings imagers here,” said the duty patroller.

  “I suppose,” returned Alastar cheerfully, “it’s like most matters that concern the patrol—good for some and much less than that for others … and always presenting challenges for the patrollers on the street.”

  Within moments, the young patroller was back. “This way, Maitres.”

  Alastar and Cyran followed him up the stairs to a narrow corridor and then to the second door on the right. Alastar let Cyran enter first, then closed the door.