Imager

59

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.”

He actually flushed. “Why, thank you.”

After I left Aurelean, I found another hack and had him drop me off at Elphens’s new dwelling and studio. No one was there, although it was clear he had moved in. I wished that I’d had the hack wait, because I had to walk to the end of Bakers’ Lane and wait more than a quarter glass to find another to take me down to the square. By then it was well past noon, and I was more than a little warm.

I slipped into Lapinina, but I didn’t seen anyone I knew, not surprisingly, because most artists would not have been there that early. I took the smaller of the two vacant tables.

Staela approached. “Sir?”

I looked up at her. “Whether I’m an imager or not, Staela, I’m still Rhenn. What do you have that’s cool to drink and light to eat?”

She was silent for just a moment. “There’s a Kienyn white we brought up from the cellar, and the chopped fowl salad is good.”

“I’ll have both.”

“Yes, sir.” She slipped away before I could say anything . . . or even sigh.

Within moments she returned with a tall fluted glass of a slightly bubbly amberish wine. “The Kienyn. That’s three.”

I put a silver on the table. “For the wine and the salad.”

She scooped the coin up and left two coppers before nearly fleeing.

I sipped the Kienyn and listened. No one was talking. The only sound for that moment was the buzz of a fly that circled somewhere above my head. I continued to sip and wait. Still, no one said anything.

Only when Staela reappeared with the greens and chopped fowl and I began to eat did a few words began to flow around the small bistro.

“. . . be hot like this for another two weeks . . .”

“More like three . . .”

“. . . think this is hot . . . ought be in Caena . . .”

“. . . their High Priest . . . changed his mind once the Navy blockaded his ports . . .”

“. . . different High Priest . . .”

‘They’re all the same . . .”

“. . . know the imager?”

“. . . might be the one who was an artist . . .”

“. . . too tall . . . too much muscle for an artist . . .”

As Staela tried to slip by, I motioned. “The Kienyn is good. Have you always had it?”

“No . . . just this summer. Would you like another?”

“In a moment.” I gestured to the chair. “Please sit down. I do have a few questions to ask you, and they’re on behalf of the Collegium. Imager business. Nothing secret.”

She did seat herself, if with an air of resignation.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but someone has been shooting at imagers, often young ones, or those in training. I was one of them. What the Collegium would like to know is whether you ever noticed anyone who seemed to be following me, or who asked about me, or talked about imagers.”

“Sir . . . I try not to pay attention to what people say. I don’t know as I recall anything like that.”

I nodded. “I can see that. Do you remember a man in a square beard-you know, the kind that you see in all the old paintings of artists, but the kind no artist has today?”

There was only a momentary frown before Staela replied. “There was one fellow. Some of the journeymen pointed him out when he left. They laughed and said he was a would-be artist. That’s why I remember. He used to come here on Vendrei nights and Samedi afternoons, maybe for a month this spring. He didn’t say much. He just listened to the others. He was here for a while, then never showed up again.”

“Did anyone ever come with him?”

“There was another fellow once in a while. He wore a yellow vest one time. I only noticed because he paid for the other one’s wine with golds. He didn’t seem to have a silver to his name. Just golds.” She looked at me directly for the first time. “That’s all. Honest. That’s all I remember.”

“Thank you. I would like another Kienyn.”

“Coming up.”

Staela wasn’t quite so stiff after that, but I could tell that she still wanted me to leave. While I didn’t gulp down the second glass, I also didn’t linger over every last drop, but I did leave her a half silver tip.

The only other place I’d ever visited even halfway frequently was Rozini’s, on the far side of the square. I wandered over there, and asked several of the servers, but no one remembered me or anyone asking about me. After that, I still had time to kill, and I didn’t really feel like going back to the Collegium. So when I saw the bookstore sign, I wandered inside.

A soft-looking young man with thick spectacles appeared almost immediately, emerging from behind a carrel of books. “Might I help you?”

“I was just looking.”

“We don’t see many imagers here, sir.”

I smiled. “I’m sure you don’t, but I’d wager you see my sister every so often.”

“Your sister?” While polite, his tone suggested the impossibility of an imager having sisters.

“Khethila D’Chenkyr. Tallish young woman, husky voice, likes books by Madame D’Shendael.”

“She’s very well read.” Again, the tone was condescending, suggesting that, whether we were related or not, no imager could possibly be well read.

“She is indeed, and I’m certain she got the habit from all that I read her when she was younger.” I smiled politely and turned away.

Before long, I did find the shelf that carried Madame D’Shendael. There were copies of both Poetic Discourse and Civic Virtue, but neither A Widow’s Guide, nor the other book were on the shelves. Because I’d heard enough of Khethila’s quotes from the Discourse, I picked up Civic Virtue. Right behind the frontispiece was an etching of a woman, and the scripted typeface below read Madame Juniae D’Shendael. There was something about the etching, and I studied it, wondering whether it had been done by Estafen, but the signature in the corner was that of Teibyn, who was known to be better at etching portraits than at painting them.

I flipped the page and came across the dedication:

To my mother, for reasons more than enough.

I would have been disappointed, somehow, if it had been to her father or any man, perhaps because of all that Khethila had said.

Then I leafed back to the portrait etching. At that moment, I recognized her. The etching showed her as a mature woman, but she was the same woman as the girl in the miniature . . . and that realization left me more confused than ever. How could she be Emanus’s daughter? High Holder status always ran through the male line-unless there were no male heirs-and then the eldest daughter, but only if she married within a High Holder family and her husband took the family name. In addition, High Holders were anything but forgiving. Or was the threatened disclosure of Juniae’s parentage why Emanus had let himself be removed? But why would he have been killed years later over that?

It was still only just past second glass. So I took a hack back to the Bridge of Desires, walked across it in the hot afternoon sun, back to my quarters. In the end, I did take another shower, because I was so hot and sweaty, and changed once more.

My timing was more precise than during my call on Seliora the Solayi before, and I stepped out of the hack just before the single bell proclaiming half past four struck. Unsurprisingly, Bhenyt was there to open the door and escort me up to the main living level.

Seliora was waiting, as lovely as ever in a dress composed of a flowing filmy dark green skirt and a black short-sleeved top, not terribly low-cut, but certainly not excessively modest, either. She smiled, then took my hands.

We did embrace and kiss, if relatively chastely and quickly.

“We decided we’ll need to eat on the terrace. It’s just too hot down here in the main dining room. We can go up now.”

I followed her up the steps and then out onto the terrace. She was right. It was definitely cooler there. I glanced to the northwest. Those same clouds I’d seen that morning still lurked in the sky, but they didn’t seem to have moved at all.

“We have a choice of drinks.” Seliora nodded toward a small cabinet-like table set just forward of the north wall, west of the double doors. A serving man in a white shirt and a dark green waistcoat stood behind it.

“Shall we see?” I smiled at her, enjoying being with her.

We walked to the portable sideboard where we agreed on white Cambrisio.

“The table on the east there is still in the shade,” Seliora pointed out.

Not only was the table shaded, but at that corner I could feel a light but cooling breeze. As we sat, I realized we were the only ones on the terrace, except for the serving man.

“The others will be here shortly. I told them all five.”

“You’re a devious woman.”

She laughed, musically “You’ll find I’m far more practical and less romantic than you think. Once everyone arrives, we won’t have a moment to ourselves.” She lowered her voice. “I like being with you, and I see them all every day.”

“How did your week go?”

“About the same as most others, except that High Holder Unsaelt finally decided that he wanted a new dining set for his hunting lodge out near Tacqueville. He has to keep the same crest, but he wanted to know if we could make it a bit less tired and more vital . . .”

For a time, I just listened.

Abruptly, she looked at me. “You’re very quiet. Is something bothering you? Have I upset you?”

“No.” I didn’t have to force the smile because my thoughts certainly weren’t her fault. “I’ve talked to a number of people today, and what I found out wasn’t exactly encouraging. First, I stopped by the factorage. Father’s gone back to Kherseilles, and Khethila’s the one holding things down. Rousel’s made some very bad decisions . . .” I went on and explained that, and then what I’d found out from Aurelean and Staela. “. . . Someone was after me in Avryl, but even after that, it sounds like they killed an apprentice to keep it quiet.”

“It had to be someone besides the first assassin,” she pointed out. “He was dead when the drowning happened. Could it have been an accident?”

“It could have been, but that makes more coincidental accidents than I’m comfortable with. Did your mother find out anything?”

“She wants to tell you herself.”

I wanted to know, but I could understand that. I heard steps and saw Shomyr walking toward the sideboard. “Have you ever read anything by Madame D’Shendael?”

Seliora shook her head. “I’m not that much of a reader, except books on looms and engines. They’re work to read, though. Madame D’Shendael . . . she’s the one who has the salon, and she had all those hard times.”

“What hard times?”

“She miscarried, lost a child, and her mother was executed for killing her father when she was nineteen.”

I almost froze at that. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, you hear things when you deal with High Holders, especially if you pretend you’re not listening.” She smiled. “It’s amazing what people will say when they think you’re well beneath them and say a lot of simpering ‘sir’s and ‘madame’s.”

More of Seliora’s family began to appear-Odelia, and then Aegina, followed by Betara, and Shelim . . . and then by a much older woman with steel-gray hair, who had to be Grandmama.

Betara and Shelim walked to the table where we were sitting. Each carried a goblet of either red Cambrisio or perhaps Dhuensa.

“You don’t mind if we join you?” asked Betara. “Grandmama Diestra will be here in a moment.”

Seliora and I just smiled, and Betara and Shelim settled into the chairs across the circular polished white oak table from us. “It is much cooler here than in the dining chamber. The dinner might be a bit cooler as well, since it has to travel two flights of steps to get here.”

Shelim stood again and pulled up another chair for Diestra before I could.

No one spoke for several moments.

“You asked Seliora if we could find out anything about people trying to shoot you,” Betara said casually. “We thought it might be better to dispense with that unpleasantness before dinner.” She paused to sip her wine, Dhuensa, I realized. “Grandmama Diestra talked to a few . . . acquaintances.” A wry tone entered her voice as she went on. “You must have offended someone a great deal. Late last spring a contract price was put out on a recently promoted imager tertius. They wouldn’t give a name, but they might as well have. Ten golds-that’s the price for a taudischef. Rumor has it that the morteprix was guaranteed by Artazt-he was a taudischef in the hellhole-because his brother was killed by the imager . . .” She paused and looked at me.

“Diazt was from the hellhole. He was the one who died when they tried to kill me.”

“It gets interesting after that,” Betara said with a smile.

I didn’t like the way she said “interesting.”

“The first assassin shot the imager, but was killed by him. That suggests that we’re talking about you, Rhenn.”

“I couldn’t have guessed.”

“Artazt wasn’t happy, and he went to the assassin’s family to demand back the golds he’d advanced, but when he left with the golds, he disappeared. His body was found garroted in a nearby alley, and a silver cord was knotted around the rope still twisted about his neck. Oh . . . and the golds were still in his wallet.”

I’d heard about the silver knot. It was the traditional indication that a High Holder was displeased, and that, unhappily, strongly suggested that High Holder Ryel had something far worse in mind for me than a simple execution.

“You do seem to make powerful enemies, boy.” That was Grandmama Diestra.

“It’s hard not to when people are trying to kill you,” I replied.

“If you weren’t an imager, you’d long since have crossed the Bridge of Stones,” offered Shelim.

“We all know that, Father,” murmured Seliora.

“What about the Ferran?” I asked.

Betara shrugged. “He’s local, but he’s not. That is, he’s been in L’Excelsis for years and years, but he wasn’t born here, and he has no relatives here. He’s an assassin, but no one has ever seen him when he’s killed someone, and no one knows who hires him. But it’s not someone that anyone in L’Excelsis seems to know.”

All that seemed to say that three different people had wanted me dead-or worse, in the case of High Holder Ryel-for differing reasons. The good news was that one was dead, and the manner of his death meant that his friends were likely to forget coming after me. The bad news was that two others, who were clearly more dangerous, were still after me.

“That would say that the Ferran works for spies . . . or is he one?”

“Even spies need tools,” Betara said. “The Ferran is a tool.”

Whose tool? The other question was equally concerning. Just what was I getting into with Seliora? Anyone who had a family with contacts like theirs . . . I wanted to shake my head, but I just nodded.

“That’s what we’ve been able to find out,” Betara said.

“The best measure of a man is his enemies,” offered Grandmama Diestra. “You’re looking fairly tall for a young man.”

I offered a laugh. “So long as I’m vertical and tall.”

The three older family members laughed. Seliora only smiled, and I was glad for that.

“You’re an imager who works at the Council Chateau,” said Shelim. “Do you know what the Council is going to do about this coming war between Ferrum and Jariola?”

“No, sir.”

“If you have to call me anything, Rhenn, just call me Shelim.”

“I’ll try . . .” I paused. “There’s nothing that we’ve been told, but I thought that the Oligarch was the one who was pressing Ferrum.”

Shelim shook his head. “The Ferrans need Jariolan coal for their ironworks, and they want it more cheaply than the Oligarchs want to sell it. They’ve got a modern standing army, and they’re trying to get Khasis III and his council angry enough to declare war. That way, Ferrum can invade and claim self-defense and take the coal mines. They’re close enough to the border that Ferrum could just annex that part of Jariola. . . .”

From there the discussion progressed on to the sorry state of the world.

“Is everyone ready for dinner?” That was Shomyr, who now stood in the space behind and between his mother and father. He grinned. “Cook is threatening to turn the tenderloins into jerky”

“You’re just hungry” replied Shelim, “but we can continue the discussion at table.” He rose.

We all moved to the long table set in the middle of the terrace. The sun was close to setting, low enough in the west that some of its light was already dimmed, and the breeze was a trace stronger. I was seated across from Seliora, if one place toward the doors. I could still look at her and easily hear what she said.

The first course was a cool duck and leek broth, something I’d never had before, but with the spices, it was refreshing and not too heavy. After that came fresh thin gourd strips, steamed, in pasta with a cream sauce, but, again, a light one. Then there were the venison tenderloins, marinated in some liquor diluted with what I thought might be Sanietra, and braised, served with boiled and fried dark rice with an naranje sauce.

Dessert was a Naclianan flan, with thin slices of fresh peaches on the side.

The whole time, everyone at the table discussed what was happening in the world-not trade, not furniture making.

Sometime after eighth glass had rung and Artiema had dropped behind the buildings flanking the river, while I had enjoyed the conversation and learned more than a few things, it was also more than clear that Seliora and I were not going to get any real time alone, and I was getting tired. It had been a long day. “I should be going before long,” I murmured to Seliora.

“Before you go, Grandmama would like to see us alone-just over there at the small table on the east side, where we sat earlier.”

I hadn’t even noticed that her grandmother had left the main table.

We walked over.

“Just sit there, young man. You, too, Seliora.” Her voice was firm, without the slightest trace of the age in her face and frame. Even if she hadn’t been Seliora’s grandmother, I would have obeyed.

She looked at me, except that it was more as though she looked into me, through me, and beyond me-all and the same time. So, if with less intensity, did Seliora. Abruptly, the older woman shuddered, then took a long deep breath.

I looked to Seliora. She was pale.

Diestra looked to her granddaughter.

Seliora nodded.

“What is it?” I finally asked.

“It is better that we do not say much,” Diestra spoke quietly, but firmly “Has Seliora explained why?”

“Yes. If I understand correctly, I face danger, or dangers, and if you try to explain, the odds are much higher that I will face even greater dangers.”

“That is so. The Collegium is not your enemy, but neither is it your friend.”

“I think I already understand that. The Collegium acts on behalf of Solidar and of all imagers, not necessarily on my behalf.”

The two nodded again.

“Make no enemies that you do not have to make, but make enemies rather than show weakness.” Diestra smiled sadly. “That is the finest of lines to draw and the narrowest of paths to walk.”

I understood that as well.

“Most important, always take care for your safety, no matter who or what presses you toward haste.”

What that meant, I thought, was to hold shields anywhere outside a familiar dwelling or the Collegium.

There wasn’t much to say after that, since neither Seliora nor her grandmama would have said more. So, after I offered my thanks to her parents, Seliora and I walked down the side staircase alone.

At the bottom, before stepping out into the main level foyer, she turned and threw her arms around me, holding me firmly and murmuring, “I do love you. Don’t ever forget it. No matter what the temptations.” Then, before I could question or protest, her lips found mine.

How long we clung to each other I wasn’t certain, but I finally asked, “Next Samedi . . . for dinner? Without family?”

That brought a sad smile. “It might be best if we asked Odelia and Kolasyn to come with us. We could come back here later and talk on the east terrace.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Not ideal, but better than not seeing her.

“Odelia would like it, and Grandmama would approve.”

After another long kiss, we left the landing and crossed the foyer to the front door.

“Good night.” I paused. “Fifth glass on Samedi.”

“Fifth glass.” She walked down to the street level door with me, then unbolted it.

“You stay here.”

She smiled and brushed my lips with hers, then stepped back and opened the door.

Of course, there was no hack nearby, and it took me almost a quarter glass, with Seliora watching, for me to hail one.

Just as he pulled up, almost at the same moment as I heard a single crack, a blow struck my shields, spinning me around and almost knocking me off my feet. As I straightened a second struck my shields, but braced as I was, I barely flinched.

I turned quickly, regaining my balance and glancing around. I thought I heard distant hurried steps fading away. In the darkness beyond the circles of light cast by the oil lamps of NordEste Design, I could see no sign of anyone. Neither moon was out, since Artiema had set earlier, and Erion had not risen. In that dimness, I didn’t expect to discover the shooter, but felt I should look. I glanced back up the steps to where Seliora still held the door ajar.

“I’m all right,” I called.

Then I walked to the hack. “I was a bit clumsy there. The Bridge of Hopes, if you will.”

The driver’s mouth opened, then shut. Finally, he said, “The Bridge of Hopes. Yes, sir.”

At that, I climbed into the hack, still holding my shields and making certain that Seliora had closed the door.

Why had the assassin waited to shoot? And what had he used?

The only explanation I could come up with was that he wanted a witness of some sort. Either that or he’d had trouble with his weapon, and that didn’t seem all that likely.

I didn’t let down my shields until I was back in my quarters with the lock and bolt secured. I hoped I’d be able to sleep.