Imager

56

Lundi, like Vendrei, was a slower-paced day, at least after the morning exercise and run, and I did have time to slip my letter to my parents into the outgoing post in between my duties at the Council Chateau. Besides escorting two very condescending factors from Estisle to see Councilor Diogayn and carrying sealed messages from Councilor Reyner to Councilor Glendyl, all I did was watch the corridors and try to sharpen my observation skills on the few who did come my way. Councilor Glendyl had a tic in his right eye when he spoke, but not when he listened. Councilor Alucion still had massive calluses on his palms and walked with the swaying gait of a man who must have carried great weights when he was younger-as he might have, since he was the representative of the Stonecutters’ Guild. Councilor Haestyr was younger than I’d realized and was cheerful to everyone, but I thought his green eyes were cold.

Because Lundi was such a slow day, we were released before fourth glass. I’d already decided that I needed to talk to more people in the Portraiture Guild, if only to see if someone had been talking to them about me . . . and because I had no idea where else to continue in trying to track down who was after me. Seliora’s family would probably find out more than I ever would, but I had to try. Rogaris might tell me something, if for no other reason than to get me to leave, because he had been clearly uncomfortable the last time I’d seen him. Could that have been because he and Sagaryn knew something?

When we reached the Collegium, I didn’t even have a chance to get to my chambers to change, because a fresh-faced prime was waiting for the duty coach. “Imager Rhennthyl, sir? Master Dichartyn would like to see you immediately, sir.”

Both Dartazn and Martyl shook their heads as they slipped away. I’d have wagered they were just glad they hadn’t been summoned. I followed the dutiful youngster to Master Dichartyn’s study, where the door was open.

“Come on in, Rhenn,” he called.

I entered and closed the door, then took the seat across the desk from him.

“Rhennthyl, there are some other items which the Civic Patrol neglected to mention to me.” Although Master Dichartyn’s voice was pleasant, his eyes were cold.

“Yes, sir?”

“Is there anything you can add to what you’ve told me-anything at all.”

“Sir, I thought I told you what I knew, but there may be more that I thought I told you and did not.” That was the safest answer.

He nodded. “Please let me know if you recall more after I tell you what else I have discovered. The rooms in the pension where Emanus lived were modest, but his savings were not enough to pay for them and food. I had some investigations made. He was receiving a monthly stipend from the Banque D’Excelsis, but the funds came blind from the local branch of the Banque D’Abierto, and we have no way of determining the sender.” He looked at me.

“I cannot say I’m surprised, sir. I did ask him if he had allowed himself to be removed as guildmaster-”

“He was a guildmaster?”

“Didn’t I tell you that, sir?”

“It could be. Matters have been less than serene. Go on.”

“He said he had been, and that he had allowed a scandal to be trumped up because it was better that way, and no one else got hurt. I asked if he’d allowed it to protect someone in his family. He didn’t answer except by asking why I’d ask that. I think he was protecting someone.”

“That might well be. The other thing that the patrol found, hidden inside a leather case made to look like a book, was a miniature portrait of a young woman. Since Emanus had no other known family, they let me have it for the moment.” He held up the portrait of a dark-haired young woman, set in a simple oval ebony frame, no more than five digits from the top of the oval to the bottom, then extended it. “Do you know her . . . or recognize the artist?”

I studied the unfamiliar image of a dark-haired girl perhaps the age of Khethila, also looking closely at the surface texture. “I’d guess it’s close to twenty years old, sir, but I don’t recognize her. The technique is outstanding. I’d judge that Emanus painted it himself, because I don’t recognize the technique, because it’s better than anyone painting in L’Excelsis today, and because it’s unsigned. All works that are sold have to be signed. This was never meant for sale, not with that frame.” I paused. “I’d say that he knew the girl very well. This wasn’t done just for golds. The detail is too good, almost loving.”

“Almost loving . . . of course!” He held out his hand for the portrait. “We need to keep this safe.”

“Might I ask?” I handed back the miniature.

“You may, but I’d rather not say right now. If I’m wrong, it could be rather . . . embarrassing for the Collegium.”

“Oh . . . that has to be his daughter,” I blurted. “That’s why.”

That brought Master Dichartyn up short. “Why do you say that?”

“The portrait is twenty years old. At least, I think it is. Grisarius-Emanus-had to be more than sixty. I got the feeling, from all the serving girls I talked to, and from when I talked to him, that he had never pursued any of them. Yet he was friendly to them, and there were no rumors about male lovers. That means either a wife, a mistress or lover, or a daughter. You said he had no family, and no one has ever mentioned a family. Since he would have been over forty when this was painted, a daughter fits better than a lover, especially when he talked about not wanting to see anyone hurt. Usually people talk about children more that way than about lovers.”

A wry smile crossed Master Dichartyn’s face. “That’s a rather interesting speculation. What else might you think about this daughter?”

“She’s probably married, and probably, from the clothes, either from a very wealthy merchant . . . no . . . the cloth . . . that has to be, I’m just guessing, from a High Holder household.”

“You think that was why he was killed?”

“No, sir. If the painting is of a daughter, and she was close to eighteen when it was painted twenty years ago, it couldn’t be a husband’s vengeance or another lover’s revenge. He was too visible to have avoided a killer for so long. It had to be something more recent.”

“So why do you think he was killed?”

“I have no idea, but it has to tie in to my visit. Otherwise, why would it happen then, and in that way? A renegade imager doesn’t come cheap, and that suggests a High Holder or someone with great wealth and connections.”

“It may,” replied Master Dichartyn, “but there’s not a shred of proof.”

“You know who she is, don’t you, sir?”

Master Dichartyn sighed. “Every once in a while, Rhennthyl, I can see why others might have a reason to murder you.” He paused. “I have not told you who she is. That should tell you that I have a reason for not telling you. Such a reason is either for my safety or yours, or because it might endanger someone else. When such an occasion occurs, keep the speculation to yourself. And spare me the old canard about no question being stupid. Some are.”

“Yes, sir.” That spiel told me he was worried-more than worried-and that I should be even more concerned, because it indicated that more people wanted to get rid of me than I even knew. “Your messenger reached me just before I was going out to talk to acquaintances in the Portraiture Guild. What would you recommend I do, given what you know that I don’t?”

“That’s much better. I would suggest that you talk to more than a few people about Emanus’s death-if only to protect them.”

I did understand that. If I talked to one person, that person was at risk. More than a handful, and it would be difficult . . . I almost smiled, because I had a very nasty idea.

“Can I tell people I’m following up on something for the Collegium?”

“What would you tell them?”

I’d already thought that out. “Wasn’t there some speculation that the first bravo, the one that shot me, had shot some other junior imagers?”

“And you want to tell them that you thought Emanus might have known something?”

I nodded.

“Since he’s dead, he can’t very well contradict you. But you’ll have to use full shields, and you’ll be on your own this time. I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”

“I will be, sir.”

“Oh . . . take the duty coach for your first stop. That way, if anyone’s watching the bridge they won’t see you cross it. I’ll have Beleart let them know.” His eyes flicked toward the door.

I stood immediately. “Thank you, sir.”

“Best of fortune.”

As I walked back to my quarters to change into imager grays, I wondered why Master Dichartyn was suddenly so interested in people who were trying to kill me . . . and who the woman was. She couldn’t just be anyone, or it wouldn’t have mattered if I knew. She also was still alive, for the same reasons.

After changing quickly, I hurried back to the duty-coach stand and found two coaches there.

“Imager Rhennthyl?” asked the wiry obdurate driver of the first coach. “I’m to take you wherever you want to go, all evening if necessary. Master Dichartyn decided it would be quicker and safer that way.”

Not to mention giving me greater authority, but I forbore mentioning that. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a problem, sir.” The driver smiled. “Where to?”

“Daravin Way, off Duoeste Lane to the east of Plaza D’Nord. It’s about the third dwelling from the corner, heading east.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’d already thought that I’d begin with Sagaryn, since Chasys’s studio was the farthest from the Collegium, and then work back as I could. I climbed into the coach. The driver took the Bridge of Desires, then the West River Road north to the Nord Bridge before crossing the river and heading east. That route made sense, because there were far fewer coaches and wagons on it than on the Boulevard D’Imagers. It also might throw off anyone looking for me.

Even so, it was close to a quint before fifth glass when the driver stopped the coach in front of the small two-story dwelling. This time, when I used the bronze knocker on the outside studio door, Sagaryn was the one who greeted me, if a surprised look and an open mouth amounted to a greeting. Finally, he stammered, “Rhenn . . . I didn’t . . . you’re the last person . . .”

“It isn’t a personal visit, Sagaryn. I’m here on imager business.”

“Chasys isn’t here.”

“That’s fine. You’re the one I came to see, at the behest of the Collegium.” I thought that was a correct, if indirect, way of putting it.

“Ah . . . come in.”

“Thank you.” I still held my shields as I stepped inside and he closed the door.

In the studio beyond, I could see a portrait on the easel, barely outlined. “New portrait, I see?”

“Yes. I’m sure you didn’t come about that. Not on imager business.”

“No. I’ll make it as quick as I can. You might recall Emanus . . . the old artist who sometimes came to the hall. They usually called him Grisarius.”

“I saw him. I never spoke to him.” Sagaryn’s eyebrows knit in confusion or puzzlement.

“He’s dead. It’s very likely because of what he knew. I don’t know if you’d heard, but there have been several shootings of junior imagers over the last few months. I was one of those shot, and where I was shot was known to only a few people, most of them connected to the guild. We don’t think anyone in the guild had anything to do with the shootings, but we do think that whoever did must have talked to several people in the guild.” I smiled. “So I’m here to see who outside the guild asked you about me.”

There was the slightest movement at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment, his eyes flickered away from me. I just waited.

“Ah . . . it’s been a while, maybe as far back as around the beginning of Mayas-it could have been the end of Avryl. Rogaris and Dolemis and I were at Lapinina. I think it was a Jeudi night, and we were talking about how Seliora and her cousin took you to the Samedi gathering, and how the guard’s eyes near popped out when you walked in with them. There was this fellow, and he’d just sat down at the next table, with another fellow. He said something like, ‘Was that the imager who used to be a portraiturist journeyman?’ Rogaris asked him what business it was of his, and the fellow smiled and said that he’d supplied things to Caliostrus, and that he’d remembered that you’d become an imager because there weren’t many who’d been artists.” Sagaryn shrugged. “That was pretty much it, except I did hear the other fellow mention something about NordEste Design-the furniture people-and how it was where Seliora worked. They stayed a bit and then left.”

“What did they look like?”

“That was two months ago, Rhenn. Both of them, they just looked like anyone else.”

“Did either one of them wear a yellow vest?”

“No. One fellow had a square-cut beard, old-style, you know, the way the some of the old representationalists did.”

A square-cut beard. Not many men had square-cut beards anymore, and the man who had shot me had one. That could be a coincidence. Or it might not be. “Do you remember anything else?”

Sagaryn shook his head. I kept asking, but he couldn’t add any more.

Before that much longer, I left, and the driver made his way through some back lanes even I didn’t know to get us to Sloedyr Way, where Rogaris opened the brown-painted door to Jacquerl’s studio.

“Rhenn . . . what are you doing here?”

I gestured back at the gray coach waiting for me. “Imager business. Might I come in? It shouldn’t take too long.”

“I hope not. Madame Jacquerl is serving quail tonight in celebration of a new apprentice.”

“I see,” I said dryly. “The wealthy son of whom?”

He did flinch, if slightly. “A grain factor. He’s the youngest son. Jacquerl did drive a hard bargain.” Rogaris stepped back and gestured for me to enter.

I did, even as I doubted that Jacquerl, for all his politeness, would take any other kind of bargain.

“What is this about?” asked Rogaris.

“You know Grisarius . . . or Emanus . . . the old artist . . .” I gave him the same explanation I’d given Sagaryn and the same opening question.

“I don’t recall anyone . . .” He shook his head.

“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.