Khethila hurried toward me. I didn’t see Father.
“Rhenn . . . how did you know?”
“I had a feeling I should come.” That was accurate enough. “What happened? How bad is it?”
“Someone pried open the boarded-up window in the small storeroom—the one Father converted—and threw something in—something like a glass jug of lamp oil. Everything there is ruined, but Sherol—the night watch—he stopped the flames. He was burned badly.”
“He’s dead?”
She shook her head. “Father doesn’t think he’ll live, but he’s still alive. He’s at the South Hospital of the Nameless.”
“Where’s Father?”
“He’s in back. The Civic Patrol and the fire brigade left a while ago. The Patrol wasn’t that helpful. Oh, they were nice enough, but how can you find someone that no one even saw? It’s not like they stole goods that might be traced, or even golds. Even before this, it wasn’t that good a week.”
“Something happened in Kherseilles?”
She nodded wearily. “One of the properties adjoining the factorage building was sold. The new owner required a survey. He claims the building wall and the courtyard wall were built on his land. He’s asking that they be removed—or for five hundred golds to convey the property that the walls were built on. The discrepancy is all of half a yard. Five hundred golds for a strip twenty yards long and half a yard wide.”
“Who’s the new owner?”
“Rousel doesn’t know. The Banque D’Rivages is handling it through the Banque D’Kherseilles.”
“How long since Father built the place?” I thought it had been ten years.
“Nine years.” She shook her head. “Ten, and it wouldn’t matter.”
“Can’t Father require compensation from the original surveyor?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh.” I had a very good idea who was behind what had happened, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the surveys and documents presented had even been forged or altered, but, again, with the surveyor dead, and the details almost ten years old, I doubted that there was any way to prove what I instinctively knew.
“Rhenn . . . do you know something?”
“No.” I didn’t know. “Seliora’s family might be able to find out who’s behind it. Or I might. Even if I can, though, it will be hard to find any proof.”
“That’s what Father said.”
“He might ask his friend Veblynt, though. He knows people.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“I’m going back to see Father.”
“He’ll be glad to see you.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I made my way through the racks of woolens, most of which would require a good airing out, if not more. Some of them might not be salvageable.
Father was standing in the doorway of the small storeroom. Two men I didn’t know were using large sponges to collect water and squeeze it into buckets that they emptied out through the window that had been boarded shut and pried open by the arsonists.
Father turned. “Khethila thought you might be here.” He gestured around the small room. Most of the racks were charred. “A good three to four hundred golds’ worth of ruined wool, and a good man who saved us from total ruin who will like as not die.”
He turned from the room and shut the door before looking at me. “Do you know who might have done this?”
“It’s not someone who knows the business,” I said. “They would have forced one of the doors next to the loading docks, and they would have used more oil.”
“That means it’s someone who just wants to hurt factors—like those Tiempran religious fools or Jariolan sympathizers. Or it’s personal.”
I nodded. “Has anyone gotten mad at you lately? Or have you had to collect?”
Father shook his head. “Oaletyr’s been a season late in paying all year, and there are a couple of tailors I’ll never get paid by, but they wouldn’t do this. Have you upset anyone?”
“A dead Ferran envoy, and a few dead assassins, but people don’t usually attack imagers’ families because we can’t inherit anything.”
“You can’t?” His tone of voice told me that he hadn’t known that.
“No. And it can’t go from you to any children. Now . . . if I married Seliora, her property and golds could go to them, but nothing from my family.”
“Then . . . why . . . who?”
“You might ask your friend Veblynt, and I’ll see what I can find out.” I wasn’t about to tell Father what I suspected, because, first, there was no proof, and second, if I happened to be right, no one in my family should know anything at all. I didn’t even like telling Seliora, but her family at least had experience in dealing with what I suspected I and mine were facing.
We walked slowly back to rejoin Khethila.
“I’ve been checking the bolts out here,” she said. “Most of them will be all right.”
While there wasn’t that much that I could do, it was two glasses later before I felt that I could leave, and it took nearly half a glass to get a hack headed back north.
Seliora and I had not made any specific plans for the evening, just that I would arrive around half past four, but the hack dropped me off outside the private entrance closer to a quint past third glass. I held shields and glanced around carefully as I made my way to the steps, despite Seliora’s statement a week earlier about Grandmama Diestra calling in some favors. Still . . . no one shot at me.
Bhenyt was the one to open the door and greet me. “You’re early.”
“Something happened. If you’d tell Seliora, I’ll wait in the main foyer, if that’s all right.”
With a nod, Bhenyt was gone, and another quint passed while I sat on the chair that had been designed for the ruined High Holder Tierchyl, thinking about exactly what I could do and how. I certainly couldn’t go running off to wherever Ryel’s main holding house was. First, I didn’t know where it was. Second, I didn’t know where he was. Third, I had no idea exactly how to best do what needed to be done—or what exactly that might be, given the way High Holders clearly held grudges. Fourth, I needed to make sure that whatever I did would not run afoul of the rules of the Collegium, although Maitre Dyana’s words suggested I could do almost anything so long as it never became public or linked to me. And, fifth, while I suspected, even knew, that Ryel was behind the arson, if I acted before his acts became known, I’d end up destroying myself, if not my entire family.
When I heard Seliora’s steps, I immediately stood and walked toward the archway at the bottom of the staircase. She was wearing deep green trousers, a paler green blouse, and a jacket to match the trousers. Her earrings were silver studs with green stones, and she wore a silver chain with a pendant that looked to be jadeite, matching the earrings.
She gave me a hug and a warm kiss, then wrinkled her nose. “You smell . . . like smoke.”
“I’m certain I do. I think I’m going to need even more help. I’ve just come from the factorage. Last night, someone set a fire there. . . .” I explained as quickly as I could what had happened there—and in Kherseilles.
“It has to be Ryel,” she said. “Who else would have the golds—or care that much?”
“I know that, but there’s not a shred of proof. Even the card with the silver ribbon couldn’t be traced.” I stopped. “There’s one other thing. On Meredi night after I talked to Horazt . . . Oh, I need to tell you about that as well . . . but, first . . . I was walking back down South Middle, and I felt this flash in my head. That’s what it felt like, and I saw flames leaping from a hole in a brick wall—”
“You had a farsight flash?”
“Is that what you call it? I feel so stupid. I didn’t even recognize what I was seeing, I mean, where it was. But it’s been a good ten years, if not longer since I’ve really looked at the back of the factorage, on the north end away from the loading docks. There’s nothing there, just plain old grimy bricks.”
She shook h
er head. “Rhenn . . . you may be an imager master, but you need help. What do you plan on doing?”
“Nothing . . . not until I learn enough to know what I can do and how. For the moment, I need at least a rough map to High Holder Ryel’s estate—the one here, north of L’Excelsis, and a way to get there. According to what Maitre Dyana has said, Ryel won’t do anything for a while now. He’ll drag it out so that he can be sure that I’ll suffer and yet not be able to do anything. That’s the way they work. Also, if something happens too soon . . .” I shook my head. “I’m just guessing. If I act too soon, I’ll end up in trouble I can’t escape, and if I wait too long, I’ll run out of time.”
She nodded. “He’ll be expecting you.”
“I’m certain he will be, but he can’t very well stop everyone passing by his grounds and gates, and I may find a better approach, but I need to look.”
“We can take you there in one of the wagons. We’ve often delivered things on Solayi.”
“Not to Ryel?”
“No, but no one cares what tradespeople do, especially if we look to be working.” She looked at me more intently. “You’re pale. Have you eaten?”
“No,” I admitted. “Not since breakfast.”
“We can go over to Terraza. They’re open all afternoon on Samedi. It will be quiet. Then we can come back here and discuss what you need and how we can help.”
That was fine with me.
I arrived at NordEste Design at half before noon on Solayi. I carried a bag inside which were exercise clothes and the field boots that went with them, as well as more than a few sheets of drafting paper, some marker pencils, and a small drawing board.
Seliora was the one to greet me. She wore faded heavy blue trousers and a jacket of similar material. Her hair was up and covered by a dark blue scarf. She looked at the bag. “Working clothes?”
“Such as I have. Exercise clothes and field boots. I need somewhere to change.”
“Methyr can show you one of the guest chambers. It’s likely to be one of the few times you’ll see one.” Her smile was sad.
I understood her feelings, because she’d learned early on that imagers could sleep only in lead-lined rooms—or in places well away from anyone else—not for their own health, but for the safety of others.
“Oh . . . I have some good news,” I announced, thinking it might cheer her up. “I’ve worked it out so that I can paint your portrait. We can even do it in my studio at Imagisle.”
“You’re not placating me, are you?”
“No. I just managed to get approval on Vendrei, and with everything that happened yesterday . . . I forgot to tell you. We could start next Samedi afternoon, and then go out to dinner . . .” Was she upset at coming to Imagisle? “Odelia can come, if . . .” I flushed slightly.
Seliora laughed. “I wouldn’t need her in the studio.” A more pensive expression followed. “It might be best if we traveled together, at least on those occasions when you aren’t with me.”
“You think Ryel . . . ?”
“Not yet, but . . .”
I understood that, as well. I was also getting even angrier. Ryel’s eldest son Johanyr had been a total bastard, and exactly what right did his mightiness High Holder Ryel have to attack someone who had stopped his son from continuing abusive ways? My lips curled. I knew the answer—the right of power. And the only way to stop such abuse was to remove that power in a way that did not lead back to me . . . and the Collegium.
“That was a rather cruel smile, Rhenn.”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about Ryel.” I shook my head. “Thoughts don’t count. Actions do.”
The sad smile returned to her face. “There’s more Pharsi in your background than your mother could ever know.”
“And it’s the side you don’t like,” I said gently.
“It’s necessary,” was all she said.
Necessary? That was a bit cruel. What choice was I being given by either Ryel or the Collegium? If I did nothing, my family would likely be destroyed, and eventually I’d end up dead. I wanted to bring up what Mardoyt had said about Seliora . . . but now wasn’t the time. I was too angry to be objective.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m angry. Not at you. I feel like I’m being pushed into doing things I’d rather not do because the alternatives are worse.”
“Sometimes, that’s life.”
“I know.” But I didn’t have to like it.
“We’d better get going,” she said, turning to beckon Methyr from where he was sitting reading on a settee near the back of the hall.
I followed Methyr up the side staircase to the third level and to a chamber next to the passageway leading to the east terrace, where Seliora and I had often sat and talked over the late summer and harvest. I changed quickly and hurried back downstairs, carrying the drafting paper, markers, and drawing board.
Seliora was waiting. “You look less like an imager.”
“My wardrobe is rather limited, since all my work clothes got burned in the fire at Caliostrus’s place.”
“No one will look that closely. Shomyr’s in the courtyard getting the wagon ready. I’ll be with you in a bit.”
I had to look embarrassed. “How do I get there?”
Seliora laughed. “I forgot. You’ve never gone that way. Methyr!”
Once again, Methyr led me to my destination, although it wasn’t that difficult—to the south end of the foyer and down a set of steps hidden behind a false panel, then along a narrow corridor with doors every so often.
“Those lead to the different workrooms,” Methyr said casually.
“Which one do you work in?”
“I like the woodworking best, but I’m supposed to learn something about them all.”
At the end of the narrow corridor was another door, which he unlocked and opened.
I stepped out onto a narrow stoop at the top of a set of five steps leading down to the narrow northern end of the courtyard opposite the stables, outside of which Shomyr was checking harnesses on the two mules hitched to the wagon, a simple oblong box, with a frame above, covered with oilcloth that had once been a dark brown, but now appeared mottled with various shades of brown.
After I crossed the paved courtyard and neared the wagon, Shomyr turned from the mules and their traces and surveyed me. “You look more like a factor’s son playing at being a workman.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? So long as I don’t look like an imager?”
He smiled, then walked to the back of the wagon, reached inside, and tossed me a worn, stained, and patched leather jacket. “That should help. Boots are boots, and yours are well worn, and no one looks at trousers.”
I set the drawing board on the wagon seat, on top of the paper, and pulled on the jacket, a trace snug, but I didn’t need to fasten it.
“You’re broader than you look,” Shomyr said.
I had Clovyl and Master Dichartyn to thank for that. I glanced into the interior of the wagon, empty except for a single chair, wrapped heavily in cloth.
“One of the sample chairs,” explained Seliora, coming up behind me. “In case anyone asks. That’s unlikely.”
A temporary bench seat had been wedged in place inside the wagon, but just behind the driver’s seat. That was for me.
“We might as well get rolling.”
Shomyr vaulted up onto the driver’s place, and I clambered up and inside, settling onto the bench, in the middle, where I’d be able to look out between Seliora and Shomyr. I set the drawing materials beside me as Seliora vaulted up into her seat with grace.
Shomyr drove the wagon down Nordroad and then turned northeast on the Boulevard D’Este.
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“With the wagon this light, a little more than a glass,” offered Shomyr.
“Have you ever been at Ryel’s?”
“No. We’ve driven past the grounds. High Holder Tierchyl’s chateau is on the west side of the road
a bit farther out.” Seliora paused. “Will his family keep it now that he’s dead?”
“It depends on what’s left after Ryel extracts his pounds of flesh. Tierchyl’s family is probably still there for now.”
“Not for long, from what we’ve heard of Ryel,” suggested Shomyr.
“What do you recall of Ryel’s estate here?” I asked.
“It’s near the top of one of the hills to the north, the ones between the higher ground and the valley, but not at the top. At least, the chateau isn’t . . .”
I listened until Seliora and Shomyr could say no more, and then we talked more about family. I did tell Seliora that her aunt Staelia was very much her partisan.
While we conversed, Shomyr drove on, through the Plaza D’Nord and along the boulevard for another mille before turning due north on an unmarked but well-paved road.
“To find those with golds, just follow the best roads,” Shomyr said cheerfully.
“Or the worst roads with the deepest ruts,” countered Seliora.
Before all that long, as the wagon began to head down a gentle slope, Shomyr nodded. “There it is, on the hill ahead, the right side, in the middle of the walls.”
I immediately put a sheet of paper on the drawing board and began to study the grounds framed by the wall. The chateau was set on the east side of the road, and dominated the gentler slope just below the hilltop, the building itself a good three hundred yards from end to end. It made the Council Chateau look tiny by comparison, and I would have guessed that it well might be smaller than Ryel’s chateau on his main holding north of Rivages. A gray stone wall a little more than two yards high extended around the grounds.
I began to sketch, not wanting to waste a moment, since I was imposing on both Seliora and Shomyr.
From what I could tell as we approached, the structure was laid out in a “Y” shape, with the base of the Y running parallel to the road. The southern extension ended at what looked to be a cliff—one created artificially by digging away the hillside and running a solid stone foundation straight up. A squarish tower was set on the southern-most section of the terrace overlooking the gardens and valley. It appeared no more than five yards on a side, but rose another three levels above the roofed and pillared but otherwise open terrace.
Imager's Challenge Page 16
