Imager (39 page)

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?”

“Where else could he put them? Most nights, he didn’t know where he’d be sleeping.”

“Then you think that Thelal doesn’t have anything to do with my shooting?”

Master Dichartyn frowned. “The patrollers don’t think so, but I don’t like coincidences. Every male in that household is either dead, or nearly so, in your case. The surviving daughters are more than a hundred milles away. Are you certain that you didn’t see something?”

“Once or twice, I overheard Madame Caliostrus mention things like ‘your worthless brother.’ She didn’t like him around at all, but I only saw him once or twice a year, I’d guess.”

“He knew you were there, then.”

“He had to. I was there more than ten years.”

“Please think about it, if you will . . . and try to be more observant. If you had been when you were a portraiturist . . .” He shook his head.

I couldn’t change the past. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Should there be?”

I felt that there should be, but what, I couldn’t have said. “Not that I know, sir.”

“Rhennthyl . . . never mind. You can go.” He paused. “I’ll be gone for a few days.”

I left. Master Dichartyn was clearly worried about more than who had been shooting at me, because the circles under his eyes were deep and dark, but he didn’t want to say. Or didn’t dare.

Was that part of what I had to look forward to as a counterspy imager? I couldn’t say I was a counterspy yet. I was just a hidden security guard for the Council, but, if I ever wanted to be more, would I have to keep more and more secrets?

I decided to go look for Dartazn or Reynol. Martyl was going off Imagisle for a dinner with relatives, and Menyard had mentioned at breakfast that he was leaving for the weekend. He didn’t have to deal with Clovyl’s exercises and runs on Samedi morning.

When you finally’ think you understand things is most
likely when you don’t.

On Samedi morning, Clovyl’s exercise group was markedly smaller. Out of the ten or so who appeared regularly, the only ones I knew personally—or even by name—were Martyl, Dartazn, Baratyn, and Master Dichartyn. The other six ranged in age from their late twenties to twenty years beyond that, but all were well-muscled and trim, and several of the older men ran faster than I did, although no one came close to Dartazn. That morning, while I knew Master Dichartyn would not be there, neither was Baratyn, nor were two others. Given their absences, and the circles under Master Dichartyn’s eyes, as I struggled to keep up close to Dartazn in the run that ended the morning workout, I couldn’t help but wonder what they might be doing.

After recovering from the run on my walk back to the quarters, I took a cool but thorough shower and shaved. Then I dressed and headed across the quadrangle to the dining hall, where I met Martyl. Dartazn joined us as we sat down at the long table. I poured a full mug of tea and waited for the platters of sausage and fried flatcakes to reach us.

“Master Dichartyn and all the seniors were gone. Did he say anything to you yesterday?” asked Martyl.

Dartazn laughed. “He never tells anyone anything they don’t have to know. Not me, not you, not Rhenn.”

“He only told me he’d be gone for a few days, after pointedly reminding me that I should have been more observant back when I was a portraiturist and didn’t know I needed to remember every conversation within ten yards.” My words came out edged with vinegar.

They both laughed.

“It’s one thing to tell me that about what I do now . . .” I stopped and just shook my head.

“He’s done that to all of us,” Martyl said.

“Something’s afoot.” Dartazn paused to take a healthy helping of sausages.

None of us spoke for a time, perhaps because we enjoyed the sweet berry syrup on the flatcakes and because we were hungry after having been up and active for several glasses.

“What do you think is happening?” I finally asked. “You two have been imagers longer than I have.”

“Most other lands know that starting a war with Solidar isn’t the best idea,” said Dartazn slowly, “but their rulers often face pressures to do something. That can lead to attempts at assassinations, sabotage, that sort of thing.”

“That sounds like Master Dichartyn has gotten wind of something.”

“It could be . . . or it could be that they’re all off meeting to go over what might happen.”

We talked for a time, speculating to no real result, and before long, Martyl rose. “I’m to meet my uncle at the ironway station, and I’d better be there. He’s never been to L’Excelsis.”

We all walked out of the dining hall together, but then I had to hurry out to my studio to work on the portrait of Master Poincaryt—except he didn’t come. Instead, Beleart arrived just after eighth glass had chimed.

“Master Poincaryt won’t be able to make the sitting today, sir. He will be here next Samedi.”

After Beleart departed, I headed back to my own quarters, Once there, I sat down at my desk and thought about the day ahead. Although I would be having dinner with Seliora and her family, I needed to talk to a few more people—perhaps even Elphens and Aurelean. It couldn’t hurt to see if Father or Khethila had any ideas or suggestions, or if either had seen anything.

I decided to start with Father at the factorage and walked from my quarters over the Bridge of Desires to West River Road. That was actually closer to my quarters, but had I been taking a hack directly to my parents’ house, it would have been more costly, not that I lacked coins. In fact, I had more funds than I’d had in years, and I’d actually used the tiny one-room branch of the Banque D’Excelsis in a nook off the dining hall—just an unmarked door behind which was a single teller cage—to open an account. Even with what I’d spent on hacks and food over the summer and early harvest, I had slightly more than five golds put by. Unlike poor Madame Caliostrus, I felt better not having to worry about a strongbox. I also had no doubts about the Banque; it wasn’t about to short the Collegium.

As I stepped onto the bridge, I was holding full shields. That made a warm morning even warmer, but I could see clouds to the north and west. That could herald a cooler afternoon, or one just as hot—and steamy. Just off West River Road, I hailed a hack.

“Alusine Wool—south on West River, a half mille past the Sud Bridge, on the west side.”

“Yes, sir. We can do that.”

When I left the hack in front of the factorage, I took a moment to study it. The building was still the same old yellow-brick structure that stretched a good seventy yards along West River Road. The loading docks were out of sight in the rear, and the covered entry was centered on the middle of the building. As I climbed the three steps to the double oak doors, I noted that they had been sanded clean and then revarnished, and the dark green casement trim repainted.

Inside, it was darker, and cooler, and I took several steps farther into the open area before the racks that held the swathes of various wools. To one side was another set of racks with the lighter fabrics—muslin, cotton, linen. Despite the name of the factorage, Father had always carried a wide range of fabrics, colors, and patterns.

“Master Rhennthyl . . . we’d not expect you here.” The balding man who stepped forward was Eilthyr, who was now in charge of the day-to-day work on the floor.

“I thought I’d drop by.” My eyes flicked to the raised platform at the back, from where Father could sit at his desk and survey everything, not that he sat there much if there were potential customers.

Khethila was at the desk—looking at me. I had a very unsettled feeling about that.

“Yes, sir . . . your father . . .”

“Mistress Khethila can help me, I’m most certain. But . . . thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

As I skirted the sample racks, I could hear the exchange between the warehouseman, who had appeared from somewhere, and Eilthyr.

“The imager . . .?”

“That’s the factor’s eldest . . . used to be an artist.”

“. . . looks more like a commando . . . wouldn’t want to cross him . . .”

“. . . takes after the old man, that way . . .”

I had to smile at the thought of my taking after my father.

Khethila was standing by the time I walked up the low steps to the desk. “Rhenn . . . I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’d actually wanted to ask both you and Father about some things, but I have the feeling he’s not anywhere around.”

“Neither Mother nor Father are. Mother took the ironway to see Aunt Ilena, and Father went back to Kherseilles.”

“Rousel made a mess of the accounting, didn’t he?”

Khethila looked at me, her eyes too bright. “It’s awful. He borrowed against his inventory, and when the shipments from the Abierto Isles took longer to arrive, the interest was higher, and he borrowed more . . .”

“Father won’t lose everything, will he?” That was my greatest fear.

She shook her head. “No, but it could cost close to two hundred gold crowns.”

“Two hundred?”

“That’s if everything goes wrong. Father and I worked out a way to amortize the debt against the building there that will lower the interest on what Rousel owes.”

“You’re running things here, aren’t you?”

“Mostly.” She grinned. “Father’s surprised. I do have to be very careful and always say that I’ve checked with him, and I do when he’s here.” After a pause, she asked, “What did you want to know?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone outside the family, but people have been shooting at me, and I had to wonder if you’ve noticed anyone lurking around the house or coming in here and asking about me.”

“You told me you’d been shot. I didn’t tell Mother, you know?” She paused. “You said shooting. Has someone else . . .?”

“Someone has been following me, and they did shoot at me again,” I admitted. “I’m fine. They didn’t come close to hitting me.” In a way, that was deceptive, but I didn’t feel I could explain. “Master Dichartyn thought I should ask everyone I knew, and my family, if they’d seen anything strange.”

Khethila shook her head. “I haven’t seen anything like that, but I will keep an eye out, just in case.” She glanced past me, toward an older man who had entered and was walking toward Eilthyr. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” I glanced down at the book on the corner of the desk. It didn’t look familiar. “What’s that?”

She flushed. “It’s my guide . . . sort of. Madame D’Shendael wrote a volume on the basics of commerce and finance for the wives of High Holders and factors. She said it was a treatise for women who lost their husbands through illness and accident, to help them understand matters so that they were not helpless.”

“It’s much more than that, isn’t it?”

That brought a grin.

“How did you find it?”

“I finished her
Poetic Discourse
and her
Civic Virtue,
and I went to the bookshop near the square. The only book of hers I could find was this one.” She held it up. The name on the spine was
A Widow’s Guide.
“I almost put it down, but since there wasn’t anything else there, I started to read. I almost burst out laughing, right in the bookshop, by the third page. There are things in there that Father never even thought of, but I didn’t tell him where I got them.”

“How many books has she written?”

“Not that many. There’s one other one, and I ordered it, but I don’t remember the title. It’s about the role of women in fostering culture, I think.”

“She’s quite the writer.”

“She is, and she writes well.”

“I know. You’ve quoted her at me a few times.”

“She’s worth quoting.”

I just smiled. “How long will you be in charge here?”

“Father hopes to be back by next weekend. I gave him a set of guidelines for Rousel. I told him to tell our dear brother that they came from an old treatise on commerce.”

“But they came from that?” I gestured toward
A Widow’s Guide.

She nodded. “Can you join me for dinner?”

I shook my head. “I have an engagement.”

“Who is she?”

“Someone . . .” I grinned.

“Rhenn!”

“If it turns into something really serious, you’ll be the first to know. Come to think of it, you are the first to know that there is a someone.”

“She’s part Pharsi and dark-haired, isn’t she?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’ve never looked at any other kind.”

“Yes . . . and that’s all I’ll say.”

She grinned once more. “And she’s as poor as . . . as a bookkeeping clerk?”

“I answer your questions, and you’ll figure it out. Besides, I have to talk to a few other people, hopefully before they start shooting at me again.”

Her grin vanished. “You will be careful? Promise?”

“I will.”

She gave me an embrace, and I headed for the door.

Outside, I only had to wait a bit to hail a hack, and before long we were headed north on the West River Road, then over the Nord Bridge and east on the Boulevard D’Este.

When I finally reached Master Kocteault’s studio and knocked on the door, Aurelean was the one to open it. His eyes widened. “Rhenn? You’re an imager? I had heard something of that. I do suppose that is natural for one with artistic pretensions . . . I mean abilities.”

“That’s true. You always have been outstanding at determining pretensions . . . I mean abilities, Aurelean. But enough of the trivial. I’m here on imager business. Might I come in?”

“Oh, of course. Imager business, how droll.” He stepped back and let me enter and close the door. “What can I do for you? Master Kocteault is not here.”

Was he ever there? “You’re the one I came to see, and it’s rather simple. Has anyone asked you about me, or where I might be found? Or for that matter, have any strangers showed up at the hall who have asked questions . . . any time that you can recall since last spring?”

“That sounds more personal than imager.”

“It’s not. Several imagers have been shot at. I’m only one of them, and other imagers are tracking down the others, but the Collegium thought I might know best whom to talk to among the artists.”

“Shooting at imagers,” mused Aurelean, the superciliousness gone for a moment, “that’s not good.” He frowned. “I don’t remember when it was, except it was a cold Samedi in spring, I think. I did see two people talking to one of the apprentices—it might have been the one who drowned last month, now that I think of it. I remembered it because one of them had the square-cut beard that all the poseurs who think they might be artists used to affect.”

“That was the only time you saw anything like that?”

“Nameless, no. I’m sure there were other strange things. There are always strange occurrences if one only looks, but that is the sole occasion that I can recall.”

I nodded. “Thank you. If you do see anything, or recall anything, you could drop me a note at the Collegium.”

“I could, I suppose.”

I smiled. “By the way, even if you did it to flatter Master Kocteault, it was a very good portrait of his daughter.”