“Sagaryn did, and he said you and Dolemis were with him, two months ago at Lapinina.”
Rogaris frowned, tilted his head, then looked down. Finally, he spoke. “Oh . . . that, but they didn’t really ask any questions. Well . . . we’d been talking about girls, and Aemalye, and Sagaryn said that you were lucky to have Seliora interested in you because a lot of imagers had trouble with women. One of the fellows at the next table made a comment about you being one of the few artists to become an imager, but it wasn’t a question. It was like he already knew.”
“Did he ask anything else?”
“He made some comment about imagers not having much time for women, and Sagaryn said that you were the type not to let one like Seliora pass by. That was it.”
“Do you remember what they looked like?”
Rogaris shook his head, then stopped. “Just one thing . . . the one who talked had an old-style beard.”
“What about the other one?”
“He never said anything to us.” There was a pause. “I remember . . . he had sort of thick bushy eyebrows, because I was thinking you could almost define him in a portrait by them.”
And that was about all I got from Rogaris.
As the driver headed the carriage toward Beidalt Place, just beyond Bakers’ Lane, I thought over what they had told me. The square-bearded man might have been the first assassin, and the bushy-browed fellow could have been the Ferran, but there was certainly more than one man in L’Excelsis with an old-fashioned square beard-and more than a few with bushy brows.
The same apprentice who had opened the zinc-green-trimmed white door to Master Estafen’s studio the last time did so again. He looked at the imager grays and turned pale.
“I’m here to talk to Master Estafen on imager business.”
His eyes flicked past me to take in the gray coach, drawn by the pair of matched grays. If anything, he turned even more pale. “Yes, sir. If you’d come in . . .”
I did, and in less than a few moments, the rotund master portraiturist appeared. He looked at me, then nodded. “I might have guessed. What sort of imager business is this?”
“I’m part of a group trying to track down assassins who have killed several junior imagers, Master Estafen. I was fortunate enough to survive the attack on me, and the Collegium thought I might be of use in looking into this, especially since the guild appears to be involved, at least indirectly.”
“The guild? Involved? How could that be? If it is, shouldn’t you be talking to Master Reayalt?”
“The guildmaster is next, but you were closer. The reason I came is that last weekend I talked to Emanus because it had been brought to my attention that he might have knowledge that might be helpful. The next day he was dead, but he did provide some interesting insights.”
“Interesting does not mean accurate, Imager Rhennthyl. Nonetheless, how might I help the Collegium?” His words were smooth and assured.
“Has anyone asked you about me since I became an imager?”
“Why would they?”
I offered a smile. “That’s what we’re trying to discover. Several members of the guild were approached and observed by one man who fit the description of one of the assassins. It’s possible that others were approached, and since I do have some knowledge of the guild I was asked to follow up on it.”
Estafen nodded, and I had the sense he was not quite so tense. “I can assure you that no one, except Master Reayalt, has even so much as mentioned your name to me.”
“Do you have any idea why someone who has been assassinating junior imagers would be interested in Emanus?”
“I have no idea. Emanus made a few enemies, but those I know of are long dead, and even were they alive, they would not have associated, even indirectly, with common killers.”
I asked questions for almost a quarter glass . . . and learned nothing more. Again, I took my leave, feeling I had learned little, and returned to the Collegium coach.
By the time I left the coach at Guildmaster Reayalt’s dwelling, on the south end of the Martradon area, three blocks south of the Midroad, the sun was just above the rooftops and casting a long reddish light across L’Excelsis.
Reayalt himself opened the door, but he was clearly surprised to see me. “Oh . . . Imager Rhennthyl, it is Imager, isn’t it? I was expecting Master Schorzat.”
“I’m certain he’ll be here shortly. I’m here on a different matter, and it shouldn’t take very long.” I paused. “By the way, I didn’t thank you for sending the study I did to my parents. That was a most kind and thoughtful thing to do, and both they and I appreciated it.”
“From what I know of imager training, it was not likely that you would have been able to recover the painting, and it is quite good. Oh . . . please come in. If you wouldn’t mind, we could just talk in the foyer here.”
“That would be fine.” Without much preamble, I launched into my explanation of my task, but not mentioning Emanus, ending with the same question I’d used before. “Has anyone made any inquiries about me?”
“No. That is, no one outside the guild. Elphens did ask about you a few days ago, because he thought the workmen building his new dwelling and studio had seen you there. There had been an imager there, he said.”
“I was there. I hadn’t realized that Madame Caliostrus had left L’Excelsis, and I wanted to ask her much the same question as I just asked you.”
“Ah . . . that explains much.”
“There’s another aspect to this that may involve the guild, if indirectly.”
He stiffened ever so slightly.
“Emanus . . . or Grisarius . . .” I went on to offer my incomplete story about the old artist.
“I had not heard that,” offered Reayalt. “It is regrettable, but perhaps understandable.”
“Why might that be?”
“Emanus always did take too great an interest in matters political, and even some dealing with intrigue, but I thought he had learned his lesson.”
“I’d heard that there was more to his removal as guildmaster than just selling a representational painting.”
“Most definitely. That was just a convenient, if true, reason to cover up an indiscretion so that the guild would not be tarnished by untoward gossip.”
“Do you think his death might be related to those . . . indiscretions?”
Master Reayalt shook his head. “I cannot say that it is not possible, but it would be highly unlikely. Most of those involved are now dead.”
“The High Holder . . .?”
He looked at me sharply. “It might no longer matter, but I still see no reason to go into that.”
“You don’t think it could involve his daughter, then?”
“Most certainly not. She may not . . . be all that her peers would like, but she is well above any reproach or scandal, unlike her mother. How . . .” He shook his head.
“If that is so, it puzzles me as to how Emanus might know about assassins, and why anyone now might wish to kill him,” I offered.
“It doesn’t puzzle me,” replied the guildmaster. “Emanus was truly brilliant, as well as the finest portraiturist of his time. He watched everything, and could deduce what people might be doing or have done from the smallest of intimations. Yet for all that brilliance, he never truly understood how dangerous that knowledge was to himself, and to the guild.”
“That was why he was removed?”
“Essentially.”
I asked a few more questions, the replies to which offered nothing new, and inclined my head. “Thank you. You’ve been most kind. If you or others do hear of the kind of inquiries I’ve mentioned, I would appreciate knowing of them. The Collegium does not like to lose young imagers, especially when most have still been in training.”
“I can see that, Imager Rhennthyl.”
His glance toward the door reminded me that he was expecting company, and further inquiries would intrude on dinner. So I took my leave and made my way back to the coach, asking the driver to return to
the Collegium, but by the lower part of the Boulevard D’Imagers.
Sitting in the coach, I considered what I’d learned. Someone had been looking for me well before I’d been shot. It was likely that the Ferran had hired the first assassin and both were working for someone else. Based on what Master Reayalt had let slip, I was convinced that Emanus’s daughter’s mother had indeed been a High Holder, and that the scandal had been hushed up. What that had to do with the killings of junior imagers I had no idea. I hadn’t talked to Dolemis or Aurelean, but I’d never spent that much time with them, and Aurelean was so wrapped up in Aurelean that he wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone very much about anyone else, and he wouldn’t have remembered what he’d said-unless it bore on his future.
I studied the sidewalks as the coach neared the Bridge of Hopes, but I didn’t see anyone looking even vaguely like the Ferran. But then, if he were there, he wouldn’t be looking as I’d seen him. Master Dichartyn wasn’t in his study, and I hurried to the dining hall, arriving very late, when most were lingering over dessert. But I did sit with Dartazn and Menyard, and we discussed the state of the world, about which we’d heard nothing new. Since we hadn’t, I supposed that war had not yet broken out.
Afterward, I again stopped by the administration building, but no one was there.
57
Numbers can mislead,
but less so if one understands what lies behind them.
On Mardi morning, it was a struggle to get up in time to stagger off to Clovyl’s exercise group, but I reached the exercise rooms just after the sun’s first rays angled over the east side of the quadrangle and just before Master Dichartyn.
“Rhenn!” he called from behind me.
“Yes, sir?” I stopped and waited.
“Meet me in my study before you take the coach to the Chateau.”
“Yes, sir.”
That change in schedule required more rushing, and a very hurried shower and breakfast so that I could get to Master Dichartyn and still have time to make the duty coach. How he managed it, I didn’t know, because he was waiting behind his writing desk, looking calm and unrushed, neither of which I felt.
“What did you discover, if anything, last night?”
“Someone was looking to find me as early as around the end of Avryl. There were two men. They matched the general description of the Ferran and the man who shot me . . .” I told him what I’d discovered, and my suspicions about Master Estafen and Grisarius. “Oh . . . I also talked to Guildmaster Reayalt. He said no one had asked about me . . . but he was expecting Master Schorzat for dinner.”
“That’s not surprising. They’re cousins.”
“I don’t mean to be forward, sir, but Reayalt became guildmaster and had something to do with Emanus being forced to step down-”
“Master Schorzat is aware of that and has confirmed certain circumstances with his cousin. For the moment, that is all you need to know.”
“Yes, sir.” I was already getting a little more than tired with Master Dichartyn’s secrecy. So far, it hadn’t done all that much to protect me, and I certainly hadn’t done anything to jeopardize the Collegium. “Should I make more inquiries or wait a few days?”
“Do you think that you’ll learn that much more from the others you could easily talk to?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Then I’d suggest you wait. We’ve traced Madame Caliostrus to Cleville-that’s a small town near Rivages. We’re waiting on a report.” He paused, then said, “You’d better catch the duty coach.”
“Yes, sir.” I rose, inclined my head, and hurried off in my messenger/guard uniform.
The only interesting event of the morning was when a purported stonecutter on his way to see Councilor Alucion “tripped” and rolled down the grand staircase. The duty coach carted him back to the Collegium to recover. I didn’t get to ask about that until lunch, when Baratyn sent Martyl and me down to the kitchen, where we sat in the small alcove and with platters of creamed rice and fowl.
“How did you know he wasn’t a stonecutter?” I took a mouthful of the rice and fowl, bland, but probably filling, trying to ignore how hot the kitchen area was.
“The little things. He tried not to say much, but he was too well spoken. His hands were too pale and too soft, and he wore soft-leather boots that were almost new.”
“He tried something before you even reached the councilor?”
“He had a pistol hidden in his jacket. I waited until we were on the stairs and suggested that he shouldn’t take it in to see the councilor. He tried to use it on me and lost his balance.”
I didn’t press on that. “Who do you think he was?”
“Jariolan, if I had to guess. The Ferrans usually don’t attack councilors in the Chateau, and the Caenenans are usually darker. Besides, their new High Priest is sending an envoy to work out a trade agreement. That’s what I overheard High Councilor Suyrien telling Glendyl.”
“Their merchanters are all bottled up in Caena, and they’ve lost their High Priest, and we’re talking about a trade agreement?”
Martyl laughed. “It’s better than calling it a surrender agreement, isn’t it? They’ll probably have to lower tariffs on our goods and pay damages. The Council cares more about golds and results, not what they’re called.”
My mouth was full, and I nodded, then took a sip of the grisio that had come with the meal. The wine was the best part.
“Did you hear about Selastyr?” asked Martyl.
“Is he the tall blond third who works with Menyard?”
“Worked. He had a girl who lived with her older sister and her husband near the Sud Bridge. He went to see her last night. When he got out of the hack, someone shot him. He died right there.”
“No shields . . . then.”
Martyl shook his head. “Most of the imagers who do equipment work and design can do detail imaging, but they don’t manage shields well. And . . . Reynol, he may be an expert with ledgers, but he wouldn’t know a shield if he ran into it.”
“Are field imagers and security imagers the only ones who can handle shields?”
“We’re not the only ones, but we’re most of the ones who can.”
Although I’d suspected the answer before I’d asked the question, I was glad for the confirmation. “It seems to me that we’ve lost a lot of junior imagers this year.”
Martyl nodded, then swallowed, and took a sip of wine before replying. “That’s what Baratyn said. Usually, most of the ones who die get killed by their own mistakes, and that’s maybe three or four in a whole year.”
If I’d counted right, four had been shot since I’d been at the Collegium, five if I counted the attempts on me. But then, I wondered about those killed by “mistakes.” I’d seen three of those in half a year, and those were the ones I knew about. The more I saw, the more I realized what I wasn’t seeing. “We’ve had something like two or three attempted attacks here every week. Is that usual?”
“That’s about right.”
Two or three a week-and the Council was in session, on and off, for thirty weeks out of fifty That was between sixty and ninety attempted assassinations of councilors a year. Was Solidar that hated?
“You’d think that they’d learn, but it keeps happening.” Martyl shook his head. “Some of them are local, too. They think there are too many High Holders on the Council or too few guild representatives, or like that Madame D’Shendael, they think that there ought to be councilors elected directly by the people. Can you imagine where that would lead?”
I could.
When we finished eating we had to hurry back up to the main level to relieve Baratyn and Dartazn.
58
Do not concentrate on sums when nothing adds up.
For the rest of the week, little or nothing beyond the routine occurred at the Council Chateau. That did give me a chance to practice more in the way of observation skills. I did note that Baratyn flicked his eyes up for just a moment before he gave
directions.
Nor did I hear anything from Master Dichartyn. In fact, at the morning exercise sessions, he scarcely even looked in my direction. In the running, he was just slightly slower than I was, but over three milles, it generally meant I finished a good fifty yards ahead of him.
Then, just before I left the Chateau on Vendrei, looking forward to a pleasant weekend, especially on Samedi, Baratyn handed me a message.
“It’s from Master Dichartyn.”
I opened the envelope and read the short message.
In my study at fifth glass.
Under the single line was a spare “D.”
I had just enough time to get back to the Collegium and change into my grays and get across the quadrangle to the administration building before the bells in the anomen tower to the south began to strike.
Master Dichartyn was standing by the open window of his study and motioned for me to enter. I did close the door, but I didn’t sit down because he didn’t.
“We finally have that report on Madame Caliostrus.” Master Dichartyn looked both stern and weary at the same time. “She and her son Marcyl were killed back in early Avryl. She was staying with her sister. The sister and Caliostrus’s daughters had gone to market, and the husband was at work on the river. The boy and his mother had their throats cut. There wasn’t much of a struggle.”
“Thelal?”
Master Dichartyn’s smile could have been a shrug. “Most of the golds were missing from the strongbox.”
“She didn’t believe in banks. That was a sore point between her and Master Caliostrus.”
“The other thing is that I talked to the Civic Patrol again.” He shook his head. “Some of the wall stones around one of the windows in Caliostrus’s studio were blown out.”
“Paraffin and waxes won’t do that.”
“No, and that suggests some sort of explosive was involved. Thelal was an ironway laborer for a time. He was dismissed for small thefts.”
All that made a sort of sense. If Thelal had planted-or even just hidden-the explosives in the studio, waiting for the right time, I’d inadvertently committed his murder for him. “But . . . why would he hide explosives in the studio?”
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