Treachery's Tools (52 page)

“They've all had training with the blades. Those are mainly for self-defense, for when they're too exhausted to image. All of the imagers here have used imaging to kill. I doubt that any of them have accounted for less than at least half a score of brown-shirts … or, years ago, troopers who rebelled against Rex Lorien.”

Remaylt looked inquiringly at Alastar. “And you, sir?”

“He destroyed an entire regiment,” said Tiranya from where she rode.

The squad leader looked puzzled.

“Then why do we need troopers?” said Alastar. “Because that kind of imaging destroys pretty much everything, and when you're trying to find out who's an enemy and who is not, that gets difficult if there are no survivors and no records or evidence. Also, the High Holders who aren't rebels might consider flattening an estate somewhat excessive.” Alastar wasn't about to mention that, while Quaeryt might have been able to wield that much power, he himself never had and probably couldn't. “Do you see that discolored stone in the wall ahead?” He pointed to the wall on his right. “We'll halt there. It's about twenty yards from the gates, and I'll keep holding the screening concealment until we get the signal from Cyran.”

Remaylt offered another quizzical look.

“A full concealment hides one from anyone who's looking from any direction. A screening concealment only conceals what's behind the screen from anyone looking toward it, in this case, the gate guards. It doesn't take nearly as much effort.”

“The gate guards can't see us?”

“No, but they can hear us,” replied Alastar in a lower voice, slowing the gelding as they neared where he wanted to stop. “We need to stop talking.”

Remaylt turned in the saddle, saying in a low voice, “Silence in the ranks. Pass it back.”

After he reined up and the imagers and troopers waited, Alastar kept watching the sky above the roof of the main structure … and watching. Finally, when what seemed to have been a glass passed, but was likely only a quint, if not less, a fireball appeared.

Alastar imaged a second fireball into the sky, near but not too close to the first one, already fading.

“I'll take out the gates. Tiranya, Taurek, extend your shields two yards on a side. Once we're inside the gate, move to the outside of the column to give the troopers a clear field of fire.” With those words, Alastar imaged away the gates and the gateposts, dumping them in the lane, since moving was easier than destroying. “Forward!” He moved the gelding at a fast walk.

“Rifles ready!” added Remaylt.

As Alastar neared the gap in the wall where the gate had been, he looked for the gate guard, but did not see him immediately—until he passed the small guardhouse, where the man was crouched as low as he could be. Two brown-shirts, presumably those on duty by the bench, had stood and began to fire at the oncoming troopers, but, so far as Alastar could tell, the imagers' shields—including the one he had extended to cover the middle of the advance—had stopped any bullets from hitting the troopers. The shots were scattered enough in timing and so few that Alastar barely felt the impact.

The two brown-shirt sentries were not so fortunate, going down almost immediately.

“Keep moving!” Alastar ordered. “Along the lane to the main buildings!”

The paved lane from the gate ran due east, and ahead about fifty yards, brown-shirts were forming up. Several began to fire at Alastar and the army troopers. This time, Alastar could feel the impact of the bullets on his shields, and he decided to move faster, easing the gelding into a trot.

“Hold station on the Maitre!” ordered Remaylt.

Even more brown-shirts appeared, several taking cover behind garden bushes and low walls. Another squad or so of the brown-shirts appeared in good order, with one rank kneeling and firing and the rear rank standing and firing. The impacts on Alastar's shields came more rapidly and were starting to become painful. In turn, he imaged iron dart after iron dart. He was glad that the brown-shirts weren't concentrating their fire on him or the other two imagers.

The fire from the squad behind Alastar took its toll as well, fairly quickly and by the time his force was within twenty yards of what remained of the brown-shirt formation more than a score of bodies lay sprawled beside the lane, possibly as many as two-score, and the surviving brown-shirts were withdrawing. Some continued to stop and fire. Some just ran for cover.

As he continued to lead the advance, Alastar kept targeting those brown-shirts who attempted to fire at the army troopers. He also kept trying to discover the building or buildings where they had been quartered, finally seeing what looked like a stable to the south of the lane, almost against the wall separating the High Holder's estate from that part of the East River Road that ran east to west. He wasn't quite certain until he saw two brown-shirts running along the path to the building.
Should you send some troopers there?

He shook his head. He had only twenty-five troopers, and splitting up his force—and imagers—even more wasn't the best of ideas.

“Sir? The brown-shirts are dead or wounded, or they've fled.”

“We'll ride to the main buildings and meet up with Captain Weidyn and the other imagers.”

Alastar found Cyran and his force drawn up behind a stone wall, one that Cyran had clearly imaged somewhat higher.

“Half the squad—with Khaelis and Belsior—is on the northwest side covering the rear,” explained the senior imager. “The few brown-shirts that survived withdrew into the hold house. They've barred the doors. They did stop shooting after we used darts on anyone who tried.”

“That doesn't surprise me. I'd like you and your imagers to accompany and shield squad leader Remaylt and his squad while they search the grounds and either capture or disable any remaining brown-shirts.” Alastar turned to Weidyn. “Assuming that's not a problem for you, Captain.”

“It would be our pleasure. It's not often that we get the chance to put a rebellious High Holder in his place.” Weidyn paused then asked, “What might you have in mind for me and the other squad?”

“We're going to invite ourselves inside, of course, once Cyran and Remaylt assure us that the grounds are clear of brown-shirts. In the meantime, we'll make certain no one inside has any ideas about leaving.”

Once Cyran and the three other maitres had left with Remaylt's squad, and Tiranya had gone to replace Khaelis and Belsior, Weidyn moved his mount closer to Alastar and said, “I have a feeling you don't have the greatest respect for High Holder Laevoryn.”

“Let's just say that I currently know only one other that I believe deserves even less respect.”

“Do you know any, if I might ask, who do deserve respect?”

“Yes. I have met a few who are deserving of respect.”
Far fewer than you'd like.
“The problem with all forms of power is that they tend to make those who have whatever power they have arrogant, and arrogance in its extremes differs little from stupidity.”

“What about imagers?”

“Imagers are no different from others in their feelings. We try to point out to them when they're young that imaging does not bestow power, only ability, and that because young imagers are vulnerable, without the Collegium they would all be servants to arbitrary power. In turn, the Collegium does its best to keep the use of power from being capricious or arbitrary.”

“Is not the Maitre usually the most powerful imager? What keeps you from being arbitrary?”

“Some would claim that I am. I try not to be, and I listen to my senior maitres, to Rex Lorien, to the Factors' Council, and to as many others as possible, whether or not I agree with them. I also keep in mind that no one today, except a few imagers, even knows the name of the most powerful imager who ever lived, and who will likely be the most powerful ever. He had the wisdom not to abuse great power, to remain as much in the shadows as he could, in order that the imagers who followed would have a relatively safe place to live and work.”

“The first Maitre? How do you know that? Don't people always imagine the greatness of the past?”

“You've thought about that, I can tell. But there is some evidence remaining. The maitre's dwelling was imaged in that time. It was shelled during the last days of Rex Ryen. The shells didn't even scratch the walls. The same is true of the Chateau D'Rex. For all the bullets fired at it, ever since the first Rex Regis and just a few days ago, there is not a scratch on those walls. The riverwall around Imagisle is the same. It's true that I am likely the most powerful imager alive today, and possibly in the past generation or two. I can do none of that. Nor has any other imager since that time been able to.”

For several moments, Weidyn was silent. “Yet I saw bullets bounce away from your imagers.”

“We'll all likely have bruises tomorrow, if we don't already. A cannon shell would destroy even the strongest imager. That is why imagers need the Collegium.”

Weidyn nodded. “I've some thinking to do.”

Alastar decided he'd said enough.
If not too much.

While he waited, he studied the hold house, an imposing structure with red stone walls that rose three stories, if the narrow windows and heavy shutters on the lowest level of the center section of the dwelling suggested that the basic structure dated back centuries. The wings had far larger windows, but the entry portico was narrow, only wide enough for one coach, and was unroofed.

Almost a glass passed, with no shots at the troopers—before imagers and the second squad returned, and the white sun was not that far above the trees to the west. Alastar had long since dismounted and tied the gelding to a tree. He stepped forward, as did Weidyn, to hear Cyran's report.

“There are nine wounded in their quarters,” Cyran reported. “Half will likely make it. We counted fifty-two bodies. One of the wounded said that there had been a company here. They lost almost an entire squad Vendrei night in the attack on Imagisle. The company captain is in the hold house with the High Holder.”

“Now that you're back, Weidyn and I and Tiranya will go in. Four troopers with rifles should be sufficient accompaniment. Your job, and that of the remaining troopers, is to make sure no one escapes.”

“We can do that.”

Once everyone was in position, Alastar walked across the narrow drive to the portico and up to the polished bronze doors of the entry. Behind him came Weidyn and Tiranya, then the four troopers, rifles in hand and ready. He tried one door, then the other. Out of politeness, he tugged on the bellpull. There was no response. Rather than destroy the doors—the bronze surface had been cast into what he imagined was the familial crest—he imaged away the brass where he thought the lock-plates or bars might be. Then he tugged at the doors. They opened a hand's-width, enough for him to see the three bars. He imaged out the midsection of each and opened the doors. Behind them was a polished oak door. It was also locked or barred.

Alastar sighed, them imaged away an entire section of the door—the side away from the hinges, then pushed. The door swung inward. He stepped into the octagonal foyer, which had square archways on each side. He heard the shots as he felt the impact on his shields and saw three brown-shirts standing at the base of the lavender marble staircase at the far side of the foyer. He imaged three iron darts, each through an eye of a shooter.

He did not see any other shooters as he took several steps toward the staircase with its polished bronze balustrades before stopping well short of the bodies. He could sense Weidyn, Tiranya, and the troopers behind him as they entered and then stopped.

A single figure descended from higher on the wide staircase and stopped on the third step. The man had sandy blond hair, shot with silvery-gray, and a face that was totally nondescript, if clean-shaven, except for pale watery gray eyes holding an intensity Alastar had seldom seen. He wore a lavender coat over a darker lavender-purple shirt. Both his trousers and his cravat matched the coat. One hand was behind his back, the other extended in a mocking gesture of greeting.

Alastar waited.

“Welcome to Voryn, unwelcome as you are. You must be the redoubtable Maitre Alastar, able to walk through hails of bullets unscathed.”

“Then you must be High Holder Laevoryn, famed for shooting down unarmed men and siring sons who kill anyone who happens to best them at their own gaming.”

“One is demeaned, not famed, for disposing of the unworthy.”

Alastar was struck by the combination of Laevoryn's visual intensity and the deep smoothness of the man's voice, but not struck enough not to reply. “That right was removed from High Holders four hundred years ago, Laevoryn.”

“Who are you to declare that? No rex can take away inalienable rights. No piece of paper, no proclamation by a weakling rex can do that. Not to me, not to any High Holder. Those were and are our rights by birth.”

“The first Rex Regis was anything but a weakling, but this isn't a debate.” Out of the corner of his left eye, Alastar saw Weidyn and Tiranya move to that side of the octagonal entry hall as if they were trying to study both the chamber that lay beyond the archway and watch Laevoryn as well. “Where is the brown-shirt captain?” asked Alastar conversationally.

“I shot him for incompetence. He failed,” replied Laevoryn. “His job was to help bring down that insufferable weakling Lorien and to protect Voryn.”

“Then we will be taking you into custody. You will appear before a justicer on charges of treason and murder.”

“I may not stop you, Alastar the long-winded, but no mere captain will ever take me into custody.” The hand came from behind Laevoryn's back, revealing a large pistol, which he immediately fired at Weidyn.

Tiranya staggered with the impact on her shields, but then straightened.

Three of the four troopers fired, all but the one directly behind Alastar, and Laevoryn staggered, then pitched forward onto the green-and-white marble floor. His head hit the stone with a sickening crunch.