“Sir . . . I understand. You pointed out to me when I first arrived at the Collegium, and that was slightly more than half a year ago, that I would be required to learn not only the written and formal rules of the Collegium, but the equally important and unspoken ones as well. That is all well and good, but I can learn what is unspoken only if I can observe, or if I can deduce from what I do not see, what I should or should not do. From Master Schorzat’s reaction and other observations I have made, I realized that requesting any such documentation from anyone in the Patrol would be a mistake, and I have requested nothing from anyone in the Patrol.” I didn’t see much point in stating that I had observed enough documents to learn what I needed.
His face softened, just slightly. “You don’t really expect anyone in the Patrol to adhere to the standards of public conduct expected of imagers, do you?”
“No, sir.”
He paused. “What else have you noted?”
“About the conduct of the Civic Patrol and its officers, I’ve seen nothing new in the way of what might be termed proof. The patroller with whom I’ve been doing rounds for the past two weeks has been promoted and transferred. I agreed to do rounds with his partner, who has been on leave, for the next week. After that, I have no idea what either Captain Harraf or the commander or subcommander have in mind for me.”
“Has anything occurred with regard to the High Holder?”
“Nothing has changed there, either, sir.” That was true enough. I had learned more, but it hadn’t changed the situation at all.
“What have you been doing, then?”
“Learning as much as I can, sir, but as you have pointed out, if what I have learned does not qualify as proof, that knowledge, by itself, does not change the situation.”
Abruptly he laughed, shaking his head. “You sound like Maitre Jhulian.” The laugh faded all too quickly. “Patrol Commander Artois is concerned that you are concerned with issues beyond learning about the Patrol.”
This time I laughed. “I have not spoken to the commander since the first day I was at headquarters. Nor have I spoken to the subcommander in almost a month. The only three officers I’ve exchanged words with are Lieutenant Mardoyt, Captain Harraf, and Lieutenant Warydt. I find that most interesting, sir.”
“Oh . . . it’s interesting enough, and I know what your suspicions are. But suspicions aren’t proof, and in the meantime, even assuming, just assuming, that they’re correct, you’ve been unable to come up with proof. When the working of an institution is at stake, or its integrity is, one must have proof of wrongdoing, or come up with results to correct the problem if one cannot properly charge a malefactor, and those results must seem accidental and unrelated to you or the Collegium.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now . . . there is one other item . . .”
I didn’t care much for it when he was almost done and then said, “Now . . .” It usually meant a reprimand or a very pointed question. “Yes, sir?”
“You know the Ferran envoy—Stauffen Gregg?”
“No, sir. I never met or saw him. I would have thought he would have left L’Excelsis after the Council declared war on Ferrum.”
“He and his staff left L’Excelsis for Westisle on the twentieth, but they did not actually leave Solidar proper until earlier this week, Mardi, in fact, because of the difficulty in obtaining passage on a neutral vessel that would take them somewhere from which they could hopefully take a Ferran ship to Ferrial. That will be risky indeed. But . . .” Dichartyn paused meaningfully. “Certain investigations revealed that some of the Ferran staff serving the envoy had vanished. Our first thought was that they had gone underground. But when we captured and interrogated some of the Ferran agents we have been following, none had ever heard or seen the missing staff members. They truly vanished. Interestingly enough, about the time they did, the shootings of imagers ceased. Did you happen to have anything to do with this?”
“No, sir. I can say in all honesty I did not even know that any Ferrans had vanished, let alone that they belonged to the envoy.” That was absolutely true, even though, in retrospect, I had a very good idea what had happened to them. “Do you know what they were doing?”
“We suspect that they were the ones who killed Thenard and one other junior imager. There were a number of shootings . . . and then they stopped. As I recall, you were shot at twice.”
“Yes, sir, and it’s just as you said. In fact, I’d been wondering about that. I mean, I’ve taken shots since then, but those have been Patrol- and taudis-related. The first ones were when I was in public places.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to them?”
“No, sir.” And I hadn’t.
Dichartyn nodded. “We’d best leave it at that.”
He suspected what I knew, but neither of us had any proof.
“That’s all for now. On Vendrei, you can take one of the duty coaches with me to go to the Council’s Autumn Ball. Don’t forget to wear the imager’s pin, either.” At that point, he walked past me to where he could see the easel. “It does look like him, even unfinished.”
I forbore saying that creating a lifelike resemblance was precisely the point of a portrait, but just nodded and watched as he left. I’d gotten his message, all right, as if I hadn’t already begun to understand. I understood. I definitely did.
After a time, I shook myself and went back to painting.
Master Rholyn appeared just as the bells were striking eighth glass. “Good morning, Rhennthyl. There’s a definite chill in the air this morning, isn’t there?”
“That there is, sir.”
Rholyn took the position on the crate, and I began to paint.
After a time, he spoke. “You’ll be at the Autumn Ball?”
He had to know that, but I merely said, “Master Dichartyn has insisted that I be there.”
“It might be best if you did not attach yourself closely to any envoys, Rhennthyl.”
“I had not thought to seek any out, sir.” Before he could suggest more, I added, “Did you meet the second Ferran envoy?”
“Only briefly, when he presented his credentials to the Council. It is highly unlikely that he was an imager, or that anyone on his staff was.” Rholyn smiled politely. “But that matters little, since he departed as soon as we declared war. He did have to take an Abiertan ship. I might point out that it is most likely that envoys from almost all the other lands involved in the current unpleasantness will be at the Autumn Ball.”
“Including a Caenenan envoy?”
“Hardly. They conduct all diplomatic affairs through the Gyarlese envoy, and he’s an equalifier of Puryon, because no true believer in Duodeus will live anywhere in Solidar.”
I frowned, if inadvertently. “I thought they sent an envoy to work out trade terms some months back.”
“He was officially a negotiator, and he stayed at the Gyarlese envoy’s compound.” Master Rholyn’s tone carried an edge.
I decided not to press. “Thank you, sir. I did not realize that the Caenenan dislike of Solidar even permeated the question of envoys.”
“It does, and it has, and the Council may yet have to consider Councilor Caartyl’s proposal to remove our envoy from Caena.”
Caartyl again. His name had cropped up more than a few times with regard to issues not exactly favorable to the High Holders’ interests, and now Master Rholyn was suggesting that Caartyl was not exactly one of his favorite councilors.
I concentrated more intently on finishing the right side of Master Rholyn’s face.
He said little more, beyond pleasantries when he departed, except to confirm that he would be available for another sitting the following Samedi.
I worked almost to lunchtime, as much to see what I could do to complete Rholyn’s portrait as well—and as quickly—as possible. While I didn’t particularly like Master Dichartyn or his outlook, I did respect him. I was coming to realize that I neither liked nor respected Rholyn, even if, ag
ain, I had little of what Master Dichartyn would have called proof to support my feeling. I also understood something else, something that Master Dichartyn would never say directly. Proof was what was necessary to act officially. It wasn’t necessary for other actions—so long as they seemed accidental or someone else’s fault, but if such actions failed, the imager would always be held totally at fault if they ever came to the official attention of the Collegium, the Civic Patrol, or the Council.
That realization only gave me more to worry about.
The damp and chill morning had given way to a sunny, if crisp, day, and the walk down the west side of the quadrangle cheered me. When I entered the dining hall, I saw a familiar face at the thirds’ table. Kahlasa was standing, talking to Meynard and Reynol. I immediately walked over and joined them.
“I’m glad to see you back,” I offered, noticing that her curly blond hair was longer than when she’d left, and that there was a darkness behind the brown eyes. Had it always been there, and I’d failed to notice it, or was it the result of her last mission? Or did all field imagers hold that darkness in their eyes? That wasn’t something I was about to ask.
She turned. Her smile contained pleasure and sadness, almost in equal measure. “Rhenn! I heard that you’re now a master. Congratulations.”
I nodded. “I’m fortunate to be in a position where my talents are openly recognized.” I paused just slightly. “You must have had a difficult set of tasks with all that’s going on in the world.”
“Not so difficult as Claustyn.”
“His death . . . I was . . . he’d been so helpful to me,” I finally said.
She smiled more warmly, then inclined her head to Reynol. “I heard.”
“I also have my doubts that your tasks were any less difficult.”
“You’re kind.”
I shook my head. “I think not. How long will you be here, or do you know?”
“We never know, but Master Schorzat has promised me at least two months and until after Year-Turn. It could be longer. There are . . .matters to be considered.”
After we talked pleasantly for a time, I finally inclined my head to her and slipped away to the masters’ table. Just from her bearing and choice of words, it was clear to me that she was at least a Maitre D’Aspect, but held it as a hidden rank, as Claustyn had. That bothered me, but was that because she was a woman, who had probably had to work far harder? I wasn’t certain I wanted to know what she had been doing . . . even if someone had been willing to tell me.
Chassendri and Isola sat on one side of the masters’ table, and I joined them. Chassendri stopped whatever she was saying and looked to me. “I hadn’t seen the portrait of Maitre Poincaryt until today, Rhenn. It’s good.”
“Thank you. But I have to say that he made it easy for me to depict him.”
“That’s one of his talents,” she replied.
“It’s a skill that’s helpful for whoever is in charge of something like the Collegium,” added Isola.
I almost responded, but instead I thought over her words. If making things easy was necessary and important, why did so many people, like Mardoyt, Subcommander Cydarth, and Harraf go out of their way to make matters difficult? For that matter, why did Master Dichartyn?
With Master Dichartyn, I thought I knew, but how he reacted to what I had in mind would settle that one way or another.
“You look rather thoughtful,” observed Isola.
“I’ve discovered a few things about which to be thoughtful,” I said with a laugh. “That’s what comes of discovering you’re an imager comparatively later in life.”
“Having been an artist first must be an advantage,” suggested Chassendri.
“It’s a mixed blessing. That training made it easier to visualize objects, but as an artist, in a way, you feel things, but you also stand outside them. You’re not supposed to act in other people’s lives, just observe them, but all too often what an imager does affects the lives of others.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to say more.
“Especially if you report to Master Dichartyn,” said Chassendri dryly.
I laughed again.
The remainder of lunch was less introspective, and we actually talked about art. I enjoyed it enough that I lingered somewhat and had to hurry to get to the Bridge of Hopes.
My hurrying didn’t matter, because Seliora didn’t arrive until a quint past one, and she emerged from the hack by herself. Her determined and quick stride suggested all was not well.
I hurried to meet her. “Is everything all right?”
“I had to explain to the wife of the younger son of High Holder Devoult why she could have the pattern she wanted or the price she wanted, but not both. She didn’t want to understand that at the price she wanted, if word got around and everyone else demanded the same, we’d lose so much that we wouldn’t be in business. So her threats to have her father-in-law drive us out of business were meaningless. Her husband is slow, but not stupid, and he finally managed to explain the problem.” Seliora shook her head. “Some of those men . . . why do they marry such idiots?”
“Because they probably have no real choice. They can’t marry out of their class, and their parents and older brothers don’t really want them to marry anyone with brains, not unless the younger son has none.” I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. That was as much as I thought wise, given her mood.
“And then, Shomyr ran off to see Haelya, and left all his worksheets scattered all over the design spaces.”
“You’ve definitely had a long morning.”
“Today was calm, compared to yesterday . . .”
I took her arm and guided her toward the more direct walkway that led to my studio, the stone path that angled across the north end of the buildings on the quadrangle. I listened as she continued.
“. . . the Ealityr mill in Kephria sent five bolts of fabric with the wrong shade of blue . . . they’ll have to replace it . . . but that means another three weeks, and the penalty clauses won’t repay all of our costs . . .”
We had almost reached the studio before she turned and looked at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rail on and on at you. You didn’t do any of this.”
“I can certainly listen. You’ve listened to my frustrations enough.” I sincerely hoped that the problems with the mill weren’t a result of more interference by Ryel, but I had no way of knowing whether NordEste Design was suffering from mere incompetence at the mill or worse.
She smiled wryly. “There are reasons for your problems. Mine come from people’s stupidity.”
“That is a reason as well,” I pointed out.
Seliora did laugh.
“After the sitting, and before we go to my parents . . . do you suppose we could take a wagon out to Ryel’s estate?”
“No.” Her voice lilted, though, and I caught sight of a glint in her eye.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a pleasant afternoon, and it would be better to ride out there. It would also be faster, and we wouldn’t have to wash the wagon and clean up nearly so much. That will also give you practice. You need it.”
“I’m certain I do. I’d best bring a spare outfit, then.”
“That might be a good idea.”
No one intruded while I was working on the portrait, not that I expected it, and I finished most of the right side of her face, and her neck. Painting a woman’s neck is difficult. It was for me, anyway, because of the changing curves and the muscles and because unless the neck is correct, the face always seems wrong. In that sense, the neck is part of the face.
That left me at a good stopping point, and I had Seliora sit down while I cleaned up.
Then we went back to my quarters—or I did. She waited in the entry below while I quickly folded another outfit into the carrying bag.
We actually reached NordEste Design before half past two.
There, I learned more about saddling the mare, a patient creature, as Seliora instructed and watched as I struggled w
ith blankets, and girths, and the saddle. Eventually, I did manage all those details, and we rode out of the courtyard, me on the mare, and Seliora on a much friskier chestnut.
We took the direct route, and in roughly half a glass, the Plaza D’Nord was behind us, as well as most of the carriages and wagons that had thronged the Boulevard D’Este. I wouldn’t have claimed that I rode well, but I was finally developing some sense of what I was doing.
“Is the ride helping put the past days behind you?” I asked as we turned northward on the paved road leading to the estate.
Seliora’s first response was a faint smile. “I’d already done that.”
“You’re worried, still.”
“Knowing you, how can I not be worried?”
“Farsight?”
“Not really. Not mostly. You’ve made an enemy of one of the more powerful High Holders. You’re a powerful imager. He’s too arrogant to back off, and that leaves you with no choices.”
I’d known that for a long time. So had Seliora, I suspected.
“Rhenn?”
“Yes?”
“High Holders don’t believe in mercy or fairness. Their honor is based on power. Nothing else. I understand that. Please remember that I understand.”
“You’re one of the few outside the High Holders and the Collegium who does. Or who’s willing to say it.”
“My whole family knows.” Her tone declared that they knew personally, and that she’d tell me when the time came. And that such a time might never come.
I nodded.
We reached the low rise to the south of the one on which stood Ryel’s chateau, and I studied the lands once more. Even at a glance, I could see that there was but one gate in the long wall around the estate—that part I could see—and that was the massive entry gate. Again, I was struck by the tower that rose off the terrace at the end of the chateau’s south wing, overlooking the formal gardens that stretched a good half mille down to the stream flowing in a swale whose far southern side was less than a hundred yards from the southern wall.
To the east of the gardens was what looked to be an orchard, and then a small woodland farther east. From what I could determine, the grounds were modest—for a High Holder—roughly three-quarters of a mille north to south and possibly twice that from west to east.
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