Imager (50 page)

Vhillar took one step down, then another, then a third, before his boots slipped, one, then the other. His arms flailed as he let go of Mistress D’Guerdyn-Alte. She just stared, because I’d been accurate enough that she hadn’t stepped in the oil.

In that moment when Vhillar lost his concentration, and his shields faltered for a moment, I drove through them and imaged air, lots of it, into the major vessels in his brain, then imaged a blast of air at the back of his head—enough to drive him headfirst into the stone farther down the steps, angled so that his temple would hit first.

Mistress D’Guerdyn-Alte had frozen, watching as he fell, but then she screamed.

I imaged all the oil away.

At that point, I was more than a little dizzy, and all I could do was sit in the shadows as two guards came running down the steps. Others began to gather.

After several moments, when the dizziness passed, I slowly eased back along the wall and well out of sight.

I was almost to the west-side door when I saw a figure in the shadows outside the Chateau’s lower wall, moving to the west. I decided to keep moving around the Chateau past the west service door and toward the east-side door we used as imager messengers. Why I wasn’t certain, but it felt as though I should. I slipped through the north gardens and then struggled over the wall, once more using a slight shadow shield in addition to full shields, but I still lost sight of whoever it was who had been in the shadows.

At that moment, across the ring road from the Chateau, I saw the same ancient wagon I’d seen twice before, with the same old gelding, and the same porthole windows. The wagon was tied up almost directly across from where the duty coach had stopped and stood waiting, but at a slight angle to the duty coach. It was also located in the direction in which Vhillar had been looking. My stomach tightened.

I kept moving along the wall, toward where the duty coach waited, wishing that I’d made a greater effort to find Master Dichartyn, but there was no help for that now. Finally, I stopped, a good twenty yards away, and began to study the wagon. There was something about it and the way the sagging wagon body was angled slightly toward the duty coach. Sagging wagon body? What was in that wagon?

At that moment, a shadowy figure appeared, if indistinctly, in the shadows at the near end of the wagon. Was it the same man whom I had followed around the Chateau? What was it about him? Could it be the Ferran?

He had what looked to be a large tripod, on which was mounted something long and thick, far larger than a rifle, and he moved closer to the end of the weapon, so that its shape and his merged.

Behind me and to my right, there was a click and a glow of light as the east main level door from the Chateau opened.

As three figures emerged into the night air, I heard voices.

“Where in the Nameless is he?”

“. . . guards said he went down the inside stairs . . . in a hurry . . .”

“Hurry or not . . . Dichartyn’s going to hang him out . . .”

The last and loudest voice was Baratyn’s.

My eyes flicked back to the old wagon, and the entire wagon rocked ever so slightly. One of the porthole windows opened inward, and the shadow figure leaned slightly forward.

I knew I had to act. I imaged fire and flame into the wagon, and whatever the weapon beside it might be, praying to the Nameless that I didn’t believe in that I would be in time before something worse happened.

I tried to strengthen my shields, but . . . everything exploded.

Shields and all, I felt myself being lifted and flung. . . .

If deductions require absolute proof, then they are rendered worthless.

When I woke, I was looking up at a gray ceiling. I was back in the infirmary, and Master Dichartyn and Master Draffyd were both standing over me. My head ached, and various pains were shooting through my chest and back.

“How bad is it?” I managed to ask.

“For what you’ve been through,” replied Master Draffyd, “not all that bad. You’ll live, although it may not feel like it when you try to move or breathe deeply. You might have a cracked rib, and you’re bruised all over. In fact, you’ll be on your feet—very carefully—once we put you in a rib corset.”

He was right. As he and Master Dichartyn gently maneuvered me into the grayish corset, I felt like my entire chest and rib cage were pressing in on my lungs. It was far more painful than the gunshot wounds I’d taken from the assassin, but the very worst of it subsided once Master Draffyd had laced the corset up tightly. It was more like a cross between a flexible brace and a corset.

“How’s that?” asked Master Draffyd.

“It’s better . . . painful, but not nearly so bad.”

“You’ll stay here tonight, just to make sure, but I’ll let you go in the morning.”

“I’m supposed to attend a wedding tomorrow,” I offered.

“Not your own, I hope.”

“No, sir.”

“If you take a coach and don’t walk too much—and stay out of any explosions—you should be all right. But don’t take off the wound corset without help. You’ll have to come here to wash up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not a word about this, Draffyd.” Master Dichartyn said. “I’d appreciate a word or two with him alone.”

The younger master nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. I knew that Master Dichartyn had more than a word or two in mind.

Master Dichartyn looked at me and shook his head. “You did wrap up everything in a neat way that didn’t implicate the Collegium, albeit with rather messy consequences. From the evidence remaining, it’s fairly certain that the explosion you triggered took out three assassins, and the one body whole enough to be recovered from that explosion was that of the Ferran. But why did you kill Vhillar?”

“Besides the fact that he was the one hiring the assassins, you mean?” I wanted to shake my head. “You didn’t know, sir?”

“He was an agent of Ferrum and a spy. All their envoys are, but that’s to be expected. Even hiring assassins is to be expected. That’s not a reason for killing him. For expelling him, yes, but killing envoys leads to repercussions. The Council may have to recall our envoy to Ferrial before something similar happens to him. Maitre Poincaryt will want an explanation, and so do I. A good explanation.”

I just looked at him for a long moment before asking, “Who was the body?” Then I realized he’d already told me, but I’d almost forgotten that in the surprise of learning he didn’t know that Vhillar was an imager.

“The body was that of the Ferran. The others were shredded.”

I winced. “What about the duty coach driver?”

Dichartyn shook his head. “That happens. But why Vhillar?”

“He was the imager.”

For the first time, his mouth opened. “Vhillar, an imager?”

“Most certainly,” I replied.

“Oh . . . and how did you know that?”

“I tested his shields, and he tried an image attack on me during the Ball. He was the one who hired the Ferran, and he tried to poison Suyrien during the toast. I imaged the poisoned wine out of his glass and replaced it with some from a closed bottle. There’s probably a vacuum there, and they won’t be able to uncork it.”

“So . . . that was why Constanza D’Amerlen had that burn on her shoulder.”

“Ah . . . not exactly. That was Vhillar’s second attempt, and it hit an invisible shield in the air. The spray flew back.”

His face hardened. “Rhennthyl . . . why didn’t you explain this or find me?”

“I never could find you, and there wasn’t time to explain that the wine was poisoned. You see, the wine was in the glass and unmoving except for the tiny bubbles. The goblet was on the table, and then the wine trembled, but not the goblet or the table. And after I blocked both attempts, Vhillar looked at me, but he didn’t do anything until just before he left when he tried to kill me. I tried to find you, but I didn’t want to leave the hall because I wouldn’t have been able to watch Vhillar . . .” I tried to explain, but so much of it rested on what I’d felt about how things went together. “. . . and there was also some link between Juniae D’Shendael and Vhillar. Not an affair, but something else. I’d wager it’s linked somehow to Emanus, and that’s why he was killed, but that’s only a guess.”

“Your ‘guesses’ have been rather accurate in the past. I have the feeling this one may be as well.” His tone was dryly ironic. He fingered his chin before speaking again. “If Vhillar had succeeded in poisoning Suyrien, the blame would fall on the Collegium, either for doing it or failing to prevent it, and Ferrum’s greatest opponent on the Council would be dead, probably to be replaced by Councilor Haestyr, who is far more favorably inclined toward them.”

“Councilor Haestyr said something to Councilor Caartyl after the toast. Caartyl looked most unhappy for a moment.”

Master Dichartyn was the one to look displeased at that. “You realize that there is absolutely no proof linking the assassins to Vhillar, nothing except what you saw and felt.”

I hurt, and I was getting tired of the cross-examination. “Then talk to Madame D’Shendael, and ask her who told her that an imager killed her father . . . pardon me, who told her about the rumor that an imager killed her father.”

“How did you know that?”

“She asked me to dance . . .” I backtracked and told him about both encounters with Juniae D’Shendael. “. . . and how else would she have known?”

“You are not making matters much easier, Rhennthyl.”

“Maitre Poincaryt told me that lures don’t have to be defenseless, and too many junior imagers have already died.”

“He said that to you?”

“Yes, sir—about the lures, that is.”

“Even so, you’re asking me to take a great deal on faith.”

I just looked at him, again, for a long moment, before replying, “If I might say so, sir, far, far less than you have asked me to take on faith and without full knowledge. If I had known more, I might have been able to act in a . . . less messy fashion. Besides, Envoy Vhillar tripped on the steps and split his skull. Most regrettable, but accidents do happen, and there was no poison involved . . .” I was so tired I wanted to yawn, but I was afraid of just how much that might hurt.

“Then what would you suggest the Council do with regard to Ferrum to explain the death of their envoy?”

“Send a very polite sealed communiqué to the head of their government”—I was so dizzy I couldn’t remember the official title—“telling them that the Council deeply regrets the accident, and that for the sake of everyone involved, it should remain that way, unless, of course, Ferrum would like it known that their envoy was an imager, which would raise the question of how many others might be.”

“You have a very nasty mind. They could still deny it.”

“Send a letter from Master Poincaryt saying that one of the functions of the Collegium is to keep renegade imagers out of Solidar, and that who else would better know who was an imager. Besides, even the charge would create problems for them. People half-expect it from Solidar, I’m sure. So any countercharge shouldn’t affect us much.” I looked at him. “You should have thought of all that. Or did you?”

“I did, mostly, but I wanted to see if you were really as devious as Master Poincaryt thinks.”

“Am I?” That bothered me.

“No. You’re worse, because you have the ability to incorporate more of the truth in what you do.”

I closed my eyes, then opened them.

“Rhennthyl . . . after this, you can’t stay at the Chateau.”

“Why not?” I was tired, bone-tired, but I was irritated. I’d done my job, better than Master Dichartyn had done his, and he was telling me that I couldn’t keep doing something I’d done well? Maybe I’d been messy, but I’d gotten it done.

“The first reason is because you aren’t ready to supervise people, but you have more imaging skills than Baratyn, possibly more than he will ever have. You also jump to conclusions. Most of the time, so far, you’ve been right, but the higher you get in the Collegium the more convoluted and complex matters you will have to deal with can get, and that will increase the possibility that you’ll be wrong. Masters can’t afford to be wrong often, especially in dealing with the Council and High Holders. The second reason is that you still have trouble distinguishing when to be patient and when not to be.”

“So you’re going to send me off to the armory or something?” I almost didn’t care—except I did.

“No. I have an idea, but I’ll have to talk to Maitre Poincaryt about it. I’ll have to brief him tonight anyway after the mess you made. He shouldn’t find it out from anyone else.”

I almost snapped back that, if he’d told me more, we wouldn’t have had such a mess. If I’d known about Vhillar . . .

Then again, that was hindsight. Besides, expressing my anger at him wouldn’t help me any, and he already warned me about impatience once.

“Now . . . get some rest. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

After he left, I did close my eyes, then.

Trust does not demand details.

When I woke the next morning, every muscle in my body, or so it seemed, felt stiff and sore. Getting out of bed was torture, but I staggered to the jakes and back to the room, where I sat on the single straight-backed chair. I didn’t even want to think about climbing up into the bed. One of the obdurates brought me tea, and then Master Dichartyn arrived, still in his exercise clothes.

“You’d do anything to avoid exercises, wouldn’t you?” But he did grin. “How do feel?”

“Achy-sore, dull pain everywhere, except when I move, and then it’s not so dull.”

“You’re young. You’ll recover.”

Since he still hadn’t told me what lay ahead of me, and he wasn’t volunteering, I had to speak, before he left. “Last night you said I couldn’t return to the Chateau and that you’d have to consider something else.”

“Oh, that.”

He was baiting me, but I managed to say, “Yes, that. At my age, knowing one’s future does matter somewhat.”

“Not so much as you think,” he answered wryly. “Matters seldom turn out as planned, as you should know. Still . . . I did talk to Master Poincaryt, and he agreed. It’s an assignment that has been necessary now and again. You’ll be assigned to the civic patrollers as Collegium liaison. That will allow you to become a Maitre D’Aspect, but you already have those skills. So that won’t be a problem. You’ll also be in a visible position, which may work to your advantage in other matters. Then again, it may not. That will depend on you in large part.”

I didn’t care for the implications of his words about visibility. They referred to whatever attack High Holder Ryel was certain to initiate against me, and I could only hope that I would be prepared, because I had a strong feeling that whatever Ryel did would bypass the Collegium. I’d already seen enough of High Holders to understand that. But there was no point in saying so. I only asked, “Is this a hidden rank, or can I tell people?”

“You can tell anyone you want to—even the young lady—because we and the Civic Patrol want it known that their liaison is a master imager.”

“Why a liaison to the Civic Patrol? Or is that a way of shuttling me aside? Why couldn’t I just be a field operative?”

He shook his head. “That would be a waste of your talents. Besides, the liaison position is a far better choice for you.”

I hated having to drag things out of him, but he was also demonstrating that I needed to be patient, I supposed. “Begging your pardon, sir, but could you explain that?”

“That’s why I’m here. First, you have the basic and even more than basic imaging skills to handle it, and it will give you a chance to observe a side of life that will give you the necessary experience.”

This time, when he paused, I just waited.

“You’ll be appointed, effective Lundi morning, but you won’t report for at least another two weeks. That will give you time to heal some. Also, the patrol commander can make sure that everyone knows what you did outside the Chateau. Patrollers are impressed by imagers who risk their lives to save their comrades. They’ll be glad to have someone like you. The other aspect of the position is that, while they can only request of you, the same is true of you. You cannot give patrollers orders. Do you see why this is ideal for you?”

I wasn’t sure that I did. Going from working in the Council Chateau to effectively being an assistant to the patrollers—that was ideal? I tried to gather my thoughts together, and Master Dichartyn smiled faintly, but let me.

Finally, I replied. “I’ll be able to use imaging to help them, and perhaps protect a patroller now and then. I’ll have to figure out things before I can say anything because I can’t order anyone to do anything. That means I’ll have to be logical and precise enough that they’ll do what I suggest.”

He nodded. “It’s not a demotion of any sort. It’s a different path, and it is frankly a harder one, but there are some consolations. As I mentioned before, the first is rank. To be a liaison, you have to be at least a Maitre D’Aspect. That’s because, without master status, no one above the street patrollers will pay much attention. The second is that you’ll learn a great deal more about L’Excelsis and the way things truly operate.”

“I’m ready to be a Maitre D’Aspect?” Attractive as the idea was, I didn’t want a rank that I couldn’t carry out.

“You have all the imaging talents already, and the basic knowledge of the Council and the Collegium, as well as great knowledge of the factoring and trade and artisan classes. What you lack is the knowledge of a wider range of human experience. Without that, the combination of your instinctive abilities and your imaging capabilities will get you into greater and greater difficulties. I won’t gloss this over. If you are not careful, you could still get into great danger in this position, but Master Poincaryt and I both feel that this is by far the most practical way to get you the experience you need.”

I still wasn’t totally convinced of that, but I was fully convinced that it was the only true opportunity open to me after the night before—and experience or not, I still didn’t see what else I could have done.

“What do you think you should tell the others about last night?” he asked.

Again, I had to think a moment. “I should tell them that you discovered something, and I was working with you. I’d just finished when I saw the wagon, and I realized that they were going to open fire on the others, and I just did what I could.”

“You don’t think you should say anything about Vhillar?”

“No. It should remain an unfortunate accident, and people will lay it at your feet or Baratyn’s, but they won’t know for certain, and that’s how it should be.”

“What will you tell them we were working on?”

“The assassins, if they ask.”

Master Dichartyn nodded. “You realize that it must always be that way? In other events as well?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the less anyone knows, the more protection offered to imagers and the Collegium. There’s no reason to hide the explosion. That was too open, and that’s why it should be my fault.”

“Your fault?” The question was bland, and that concealed and revealed at the same time.

“Yes, sir. If I’d been more observant and more careful, I wouldn’t have had to use fire to blow up the wagon, and that wouldn’t have injured me and killed the driver.”

“That’s not true, you know?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s better said that way, because it implies that senior imagers could have handled it better. It also sends a message that junior imagers, when attacked, can overreact.”

Master Dichartyn laughed. “I hadn’t thought of the last point. Except for you, and perhaps Martyl, it’s probably not very accurate, but it will help in these times.” He paused. “I heard something about a wedding?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time will you be leaving?”

“Half before noon, I’d thought.”

“I’ll have one of the spare coaches stand by to take you.”

“Won’t the drivers be upset . . . because of what I did?”

“I’ve already spread the word that you put yourself in front of everything when you didn’t have to. I also told them that you’d survived five assassination attempts, and that you were the one who killed four of the five assassins here in L’Excelsis. The drivers understand that an imager can only do so much.”

I hoped so.

“That’s all for now. I’ll see you in my study at seventh glass on Lundi.”

“What about the Chateau? They’ll be shorthanded . . .”

“They’ll manage. They did for a year before you arrived.” He offered a parting smile.

After Master Dichartyn left, Master Draffyd came in and examined me, then said I could go. I carried the soiled white and gray formal coat back to my quarters, then dressed for breakfast. I’d wash up, as I could, later.

The summer gray waistcoat was a tight fit over my shirt and the rib corset, but I managed it, even if it took me a while to button it.

Then I went—or walked very slowly and stiffly—to breakfast.

I barely got into the dining hall when Martyl hurried over to me. “We were all worried. Are you all right?”

“Mostly. I just got out of the infirmary, and I’ll have to wear a brace for a while to protect my ribs.”

“Come over and sit with us. The word is that you won’t be at the seconds and thirds table for long. Is it true?”

“I’d really like to sit down with you all.” And I did. I was hungry, and the flatcakes and syrup and sausage looked and smelled wonderful.

As I ate, there were more than a few questions.

“Did Johanyr’s sister really ask you to dance?”

“Was that Madame D’Shendael you danced with?”

“Who was the other High Holder’s daughter?”

“What happened out there with the wagon?”

I answered as many as I could truthfully, and the others along the lines Master Dichartyn and I had discussed.

“You won’t be coming back to the Chateau?” asked Dartazn.

I shook my head gingerly. “Master Dichartyn thinks I need to do something different. I’m going to be the Collegium liaison to the civic patrollers.”

“You’re going up to Master D’Aspect, aren’t you? I knew it!” said Martyl. “You’re going to be one of the youngest masters ever.”

“That’s because they don’t know what else to do with me.” My voice came out wry.

“It’s also because they can’t make anyone a liaison,” Dartazn said, “who doesn’t have shields that will take bullets. Otherwise, they’d be dead in a month.”

Master Dichartyn hadn’t mentioned that, but it didn’t surprise me, although it did send a chill down my back.

After breakfast, I made my way back to my quarters. It took me a good glass to wash up and shave, because lifting my arms even to shoulder level was painful, and then I had to dress again. What with one thing and another, I did make it to the duty-coach stop before half past nine. There were two coaches waiting.

The driver of the first raised an arm and beckoned. “Master Rhennthyl?”

“For better or worse, that’s me.”

“Thank you for trying the other night, sir.” He smiled. “Where to?”

“NordEste Design.” Getting into the coach was more than a little painful. My face probably showed it, because when we got to NordEste, the driver vaulted down to tie the horses to the bronze hitching post, then came back to give me a hand.

“Thank you.”

“Should you be here, sir?”

“I promised I would be.”

He nodded knowingly.

I managed to get up the steps without wincing too much. Shomyr was the one who opened the door. “Rhenn . . . we’re glad you could be here.” He paused. “Are you all right?”

“I’d have to say that I’m walking wounded, but I’ll recover.” The inside steps were worse than those outside, or it could have been that climbing another set was harder.

When I stepped into the second-level entry foyer, I could see Seliora arranging what looked to be gifts on a side table. Should I have brought one? I hadn’t even thought about it, and I didn’t know the bride or the groom.

Suddenly, as if she had sensed me, Seliora turned, then hurried toward me. “Rhenn! I’m so glad to see you.” As she neared, her face filled with concern. “What happened to you?”

“Do you want to hear what’s good or not so good?”

“Since you’re here, I’d rather you started with the bad. But first . . .” She leaned forward and kissed me gently.

I did enjoy that for an all-too-brief moment before she stepped back.

“I’m bruised all over, and I might have a cracked rib.”

“You’d better sit down. Then you can tell me what happened.”

I took one of the straight-backed chairs next to a settee farther back along the west side of that overlarge entry hall. “What about the wedding?”

“It’s here, up on the north terrace. We have time. Now tell me what happened.” Seliora sat at the edge of the settee, looking at me, waiting.

“I told you about the Council’s Harvest Ball last night, remember?”

“You didn’t get bruises and a cracked rib from a lady holder.”

“No. I got them from an explosion that I set off to keep all of us more junior imagers from getting killed. The Ferran had set up a wagon . . .” I went through the “official” explanation quickly, mentioning only my concerns about Vhillar and that he’d had a fatal accident just before I dealt with the explosion. “. . . and I woke up in the infirmary. Three assassins are dead, and one was the Ferran.”

She looked into my eyes. “There’s more.”

“There is,” I said, “but I have to leave it at that. It’s better that way, especially for you and me. And you can tell everyone that I did get the Ferran.”

She reached out and squeezed my right hand, gently but firmly “I’m glad you trust me enough not to lie.” She held up a hand. “I know you can’t tell me everything, and, most times, you shouldn’t, but please don’t lie to me. Just tell me that there’s more, the way you just did, but we’ll have to let it go.”

“I can do that.” As I said it, I realized something else. Unlike my parents, or Master Dichartyn, or anyone else, except maybe Khethila, Seliora trusted me, trusted me implicitly. For a moment, my eyes burned. I had to swallow before I could say more. “Thank you.”

Her smile warmed me all the way down.