Imager (46 page)

Professional interrogators should study mothers.

Fortunately, Samedi morning was clear, cool, and with a light breeze that made the long run that followed Clovyl’s exercises and the session in physical self-defense seem almost pleasant. I finished somewhat closer to Dartazn, but not much. I hurried through cleaning up and eating, so that I could get to the studio and get some work done on some of the details of the portrait that didn’t require Master Poincaryt before he arrived.

He was as punctual as always, settling into the chair. “Good day, Rhennthyl.” He settled into the chair. “I apologize for my absence last week. There were some matters to deal with.”

“Beyond the infiltrators in the taudis, sir?”

A smile crossed his face. “You know, Rhennthyl, I find these sessions most useful. They provide a time when I am awake, relatively rested, and without people and details clamoring for actions and solutions.” He turned his head. “This way?”

“A touch away from me, just a little.” I paused. “Good.”

I had to admire the way he’d handled my question. Just a smile, and warm words on another subject, hinting that he wasn’t about to deal with my query. Before I lifted my brush, I just studied him again, looking from the canvas and back to him. Then I caught it. The way I’d painted his left temple was as though in a different light setting than the cheekbone below. I concentrated, trying to visualize it just so . . . and then it was just that way on the canvas. I had to smile. In a way, it was ironic.

I worked steadily for a good quarter glass before he spoke again.

“Master Dichartyn has briefed me on the situation in which you find yourself. How would you describe it? Honestly, but as dispassionately as possible.”

“The Collegium has been good to me, sir. That I cannot deny, and I’ve learned a great deal. At the moment, though, I do feel more like the lure for a large and unknown predator lurking somewhere out beyond the Collegium.”

“That’s a fair description of the situation. I would point out, however, as I am certain Master Dichartyn has already told you, that all imagers are in a sense lures. Our duty and responsibility is to draw such predators in order that they do not prey on Solidar itself.”

“He has said that, sir.”

“Good. I felt sure he had. You’ll be at the Council’s Harvest Ball next Vendrei, I trust?”

“Yes, sir. Won’t you?”

“No. On such social occasions, my presence would have, shall we say, a dampening effect on the atmosphere. The chief maitre of the Collegium must take care never to put himself in a position where he might be seen to challenge or dim the authority of the Council.”

I realized I’d already understood that without actually having thought it through. I just hadn’t applied it to the Ball.

“The Ball is one of those occasions when you have a chance to observe and learn without being observed that much yourself. If someone is observing you, of course, it is significant, and something to consider.” He paused. “How long before I might see the portrait?”

“You can look at it anytime, sir. I have your face mostly done, and the garments.”

“After we’re done today. I dislike surprises, especially those I can prevent.”

He said nothing more for the rest of the session, clearly lost in his own thoughts and concerns. When the first bell of ninth glass struck, he looked to me.

“Yes, sir. I have more than enough to work on before the next session.”

Master Poincaryt stood, stretched, and then walked toward the easel, circling it and then studying the unfinished work. After a moment, he nodded. “They were right. You’re as good as many of the master portraiturists.” A wry smile followed. “It’s accurate, and lifelike, but you’re an imager, and it’s not as flattering as those of Master Estafen. More accurate, but not so flattering.”

“Master Dichartyn has always stressed accuracy, sir.”

The chief maitre laughed. “Master Dichartyn also informed me that you have a certain . . . shall we say . . . way of reducing egos. I would suggest you not employ it at the Ball.” He stepped back from the unfinished portrait, looked at it once more, then turned. “Next week?”

“Yes, sir.”

He was almost at the door before he stopped and half-turned. “Rhennthyl?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Being a lure does not mean one is defenseless. Nor does it preclude action. Just make certain that such action is in your best interests and those of the Collegium.” With that, he smiled and left the studio.

I ended up painting for almost another glass, leaving just enough time to clean up and walk to the dining hall. With good fortune, I’d be able to finish the portrait in one or, at the most, two more sessions. It was a good work—perhaps not my very best, but better than that of many masters.

After lunch with Menyard, I stepped out into the foyer and walked to the main entrance. I glanced up at the plaques . . . and froze. Another name had been added: Claustyn, Maitre D’Aspect, 727–755 A.L.

Had he been the one to remove the old High Priest of Caenen . . . or had he just been killed as part of the operation?

Menyard stopped. “You didn’t know?”

“No. I don’t usually come this way, and I’m never here for lunch, except on Samedi and Solayi.”

We just stood there for a moment. I couldn’t say that Claustyn had been a close friend, but he’d been warm and welcoming when I’d first become a third and changed quarters, after the confrontation with Johanyr. He’d introduced me to other thirds with grace at a time when I’d needed and appreciated that kindness. It made me think. Had I been that way? No . . . but there hadn’t been any new thirds in the last few months, not near my quarters.

Still . . . that was something I needed to remember.

Menyard and I left the dining hall silently, and I walked along the west side of the quadrangle back to my quarters.

For a time, I just thought. Then I decided to go to the library to see what there might be on High Holder Ryel. Lures could learn, I supposed.

Once I reached the library and began to search the stacks, I began to realize how little written information there was. Oh, there was a listing of all the High Holder houses, but it was a century out of date. There was also a book on the limits of High Holder low justice, but after skimming that, I realized that it was just a simplification of what Master Jhulian had pounded into me—or forced me into pounding into myself. In the end, I spent almost two glasses learning that I wasn’t going to find that information in a book.

After that, I returned to my quarters, read a bit more of
On Art and Society
, then washed up once more, and headed out to pick up Seliora for our silent inquisition.

I took the Bridge of Desires and hailed a hack there—it couldn’t hurt to vary which bridges I used. Then, after we reached NordEste Design, I paid him to wait while I went inside to get Seliora. I supposed that he could have left, but I had the feeling that no hacker really wanted to stiff an imager.

The twins were the ones who opened the door, and this time it was Hestya who yelled up the stairs. “He’s here, Aunt Seliora!”

Hanahra just grinned.

“How was your birthday?”

“Good.” They both smiled shyly, looking away, then followed me up the stairs.

I only waited a moment, after the twins hurried away, before Seliora stepped through the archway from the staircase, wearing another dress I had never seen, this one with a black skirt emphasized by narrow panels of a brilliant but dark green silk. The bodice was also black, but the sleeves were of a filmy silk that matched the panels in the skirt, and her scarf was silver, trimmed in the same green. She also wore a jadeite pendant on a silver rope necklace with matching earrings.

“You look stunning!” And she did, more than stunning, in fact.

“I thought I had better.” She smiled. “Pharsi girls try harder.”

I winced at the out-of-context quote.

She bent forward and brushed my cheek with her lips. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t feel that way, but . . . let’s just say that it was a difficult week.”

“Some High Holder trying to be too familiar?”

“His son . . .”

“Do I know the name?”

“I don’t know.” She smiled, mischievously, and somehow sadly, all at once. “Alhyral D’Haestyr.”

“His father is on the Council.”

“Young Alhyral made that point . . . several times. I finally told him that his choice was between his father having no furniture and him not having me or his father having furniture and him not having me. Then he asked how I could possibly turn down the heir of a High Holder, especially one so supportive of merchants, crafters, and factors. I said that was the only option, because I was not raised to deal with High Holders, and he was not raised to deal with Pharsi women. He persisted, until I pointed out that Pharsi women don’t believe in sex without a binding commitment to marry, and that we also don’t believe in divorce, and that there are no unhappy Pharsi husbands. Some dead husbands and unfaithful fiancés, but no unhappy ones.”

I whistled softly. “And that was the polite version.”

“I didn’t have to use the pistol.” She laughed, softly, warmly, then wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

I kissed her, and she returned the favor with ardor—but only for a few moments. “I don’t think I’d better be too disheveled when I meet your family.”

She had a very good point, and I escorted her out to the waiting hack.

The driver smiled, as if to say that now he understood why I’d paid him to wait.

Once we were in the coach, I asked, “Have you heard about Madame D’Shendael?”

“Grandmama said that she had one last source to go with what she got from Ailphens yesterday.”

I didn’t press on that, because, if Seliora had known more, she would have told me.

We arrived just before fifth glass, and Khethila was the one to open the door. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t gape.

“Khethila, this is Seliora. Seliora, my sister Khethila.”

“I’m so pleased to meet to you,” Khethila said.

“And I, you,” replied Seliora warmly.

“Please do come in. The formal parlor is to the right.” Khethila stepped back to the left.

I let Seliora step through the open door first, then followed.

“She’s gorgeous, Rhenn,” Khethila leaned forward and murmured in my ear as I turned to escort Seliora into the formal parlor. “I’ll tell Mother and Father that you’re here,” she added in a louder voice.

Seliora and I barely stood in the parlor long enough for her to glance around the room before Mother and Father arrived, trailed by Khethila.

“Seliora, these are my parents. Father, Mother, this is Seliora.”

Seliora inclined her head demurely. “I’m honored to meet you both. Rhenn has said so much about you.”

“Not too much, I trust,” replied Father.

“Enough to know that you’re both exceptional. Anyone who has the understanding to let their son pursue art shows great perception.” Her words could have been artificial or glib, but Seliora offered them in full honesty and directness, in a way that could not be denied.

“Please, do sit down,” Mother said, her eyes barely leaving Seliora for a moment. “Would you like Dhuensa, or red or white Cambrisio?”

I glanced to Seliora.

“The Dhuensa, if you please.”

“For me, too,” I added.

“I’d like the white Cambrisio, and your father would like the Dhuensa.” Mother looked to Khethila, and I understood that unspoken command. Mother wasn’t about to miss anything.

“I’ll be right back,” Khethila said. “Don’t say anything too exciting.”

I understood that as well, but I didn’t say a word until Seliora and I were seated on the formal loveseat. “Where’s Culthyn?”

“Oh, he’s over at a friend’s for the evening,” Mother replied. “We didn’t want to inflict him on Seliora for her first dinner here.”

That wording was either accepting or encouraging. The latter, I hoped.

“He hasn’t gotten into too much trouble this week, has he?”

“No more than normal.” Father’s words were dry. “He is learning how to handle accounts and seems to like it.”

“That’s because Khethila’s the one teaching him, dear.” Mother smiled. “Seliora. That’s a beautiful name. Is it a family name?”

“I was named after my grandmother’s grandmother. I’m told that was because she had black hair and black eyes, also. It means ‘daughter of the moon’ in old Pharsi.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Two brothers, one older, one younger.”

At that moment, Khethila returned with a tray, quickly offering the goblets to each of us, and then taking the corner straight-backed chair.

“Rhenn hasn’t said much about your family or what they do,” Father injected.

Seliora glanced at me. “Rhenn can be very protective, I’ve already discovered. It’s an endearing quality. There’s no secret about what we do. My grandmother was the one who created the family business, and we’re all involved in it in some way or another. It’s NordEste Design.”

For the most fleeting of moments, there was a deep silence.

“
The
NordEste Design, on Nordroad?” Father asked.

Seliora nodded.