Imager

70

The duty coach brought us back to the Council Chateau just before seventh glass, and I didn’t see any sign of the old wagon or of anything else out of the ordinary.

The Council’s Harvest Ball began officially at half past seventh glass, but as we had been warned by Baratyn, no one even began to arrive until a quarter before eight. Moments after the first carriage arrived, others pulled up in the drive below the main entry steps, a drive that was normally restricted to councilors alone. Then people began to walk up the outside stone steps and in through the grand foyer past the ceremonial guards and finally up the grand staircase. They took their time on the grand staircase.

“Councilor Hemwyt D’Artisan and Madame D’Hemwyt!” The deep voice announcing the first arrival boomed from a small balding man standing at the left side of the center archway into the great receiving hall.

While people entered and were greeted by the three councilors on the Executive Council, Baratyn and I stood against the west wall just inside the Hall, which was on the south end of the Chateau and effectively occupied the space above the grand foyer. Dartazn and Martyl were stationed along the east wall.

“Councilor Etyenn D’Factorius and Madame D’Etyenn!”

“The Honorable Symmal D’Juris and Madame D’Symmal!”

In less than a quint glass I had begun to lose track of all the names, and in another quint, I was sure I had no idea of all those who were at the Ball.

“In a few moments, when most of the councilors and their guests are here,” Baratyn said quietly, after edging toward me, “I want you to move until you’re along the wall about even with the middle of the dance floor.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded, then almost froze at the names I heard being announced.

“Dulyk D’Ryel-Alte and Mistress Iryela D’Ryel-Alte . . .”

The names sounded like they were Johanyr’s brother and sister, something I didn’t care for at all, and I moved slightly to the left to get a better look at the couple as they stepped through the central archway into the hall. She was blond, almost white-blond, and petite, if shapely, and wore a gown of silver and shimmering blue, with a glittering silver scarf, trimmed in black. Her brother was a younger and leaner version of Johanyr. Although he was of slightly larger than average height and moved gracefully, there was also a sense of smallness and pettiness surrounding him, although I could not have explained why I felt that.

They vanished into one of the groups of younger people on the east side of the hall, near the sideboards that held various vintages, with uniformed servers behind each.

“Shendael D’Alte and Madame D’Shendael.”

That name caught my attention as well. Madame Juniae D’Shendael could not have been said to be unduly attractive, but rather handsome, with a strong chin and nose, and mahogany hair cut as short as any woman I’d seen in L’Excelsis. Her husband was wiry, shorter, and blond.

“The Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar, envoy of Ferrum, and Mistress Cyana D’Guerdyn-Alte.”

The Ferran envoy coming right behind Madame D’Shendael? Was that just coincidence? And escorting a High Holder’s daughter, when supposedly the Ferrans weren’t exactly fond of the High Holders as a class?

“The Honorable Dharios Harnen, envoy of the Abierto Isles, and Mistress Dhenica Harnen.”

He’d brought his daughter, who looked younger than Khethila and slightly ill at ease.

“The Honorable Herrys Charkovy, envoy of Jariola, and Madame Charkovy . . .”

Apparently, the envoys had arrived at the same time, just after Madame D’Shendael. Given her criticisms of the Council, I wondered who had invited her, and I looked toward Baratyn. “Madame D’Shendael?”

He grinned. “Councilor Caartyl always invites her. It irritates Councilor Suyrien no end.”

Caartyl . . . there was something there, but I couldn’t grasp it for a moment. Then it hit me. Caartyl was the guild member on the Executive Council, and he was the one that the strange factor Alhazyr had visited-a visit that had disturbed Master Dichartyn.

In the background, the orchestra, set on a temporary dais at the south end of the hall, opposite the entry archways, began to play. Baratyn nodded to me, and I began to edge toward my designated station.

A good half glass passed as I watched the dancers, and those moving to and from the sideboards, or standing and talking, holding wineglasses. Dartazn danced past several times with an older woman I did not recognize, perhaps a relation of some sort.

As the orchestra paused between dances, I couldn’t help but notice a slender woman in blue and silver walking in my direction, casually half-twirling the end of a long black and silver scarf. As she drew closer, I realized that she was Iryela D’Ryel. I also had the feeling that I had seen her sometime before, but I couldn’t place where it might have been. How could I have seen her? I kept a pleasant smile on my face and waited for her to pass.

She didn’t. Instead, she stopped and looked at me, closely. “You’re Rhennthyl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Please . . .” She offered a smile that was half wry and half tired. “I’m Iryela, and you’re an imager tertius, at least.” Her voice was pleasant enough, if slightly higher than I would have preferred. “You’re also the one who put my brother in his place.”

I eased full shields into play, if so close to my skin that no one could have detected them, without punching or slapping me. “I beg your pardon?” I also scanned the area around me, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to us. That didn’t mean someone wasn’t-or wouldn’t.

“Johanyr . . . you must remember him?” A tinge of amusement colored her soprano voice.

“Yes, I encountered him several times.” That admitted nothing.

“Encountered-a fair way of putting it, perhaps better than he deserved.” She smiled. “Would you dance with me?”

I couldn’t say no. “I would be honored.”

A faint, delicate, and pervasive floral fragrance came with her as she slipped into my arms when the orchestra began to play and we eased out among the other dancers. Her eyes were a gray-blue that her gown and scarf intensified.

“You’re in great danger, you know?” Her voice was lower, conversational, and as matter-of-fact as if she’d told me that it would rain on the morrow.

“I have the feeling, Mistress Iryela, that I may always be in great danger. Pleasant as it is, dancing with you could also present a danger.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Certainly no more danger than already exists. I won’t ask you to kiss me, nor to marry me. At least, not for a time, and please call me Iryela.”

“I’m not of High Holder background,” I said with a laugh. “Nor do I have the dancing experience to go with it.” She wouldn’t ask for a kiss, or more, for a time? Did that suggest Maitre Dyana was correct, that her father would take his time in dealing with me? Or was it just a part of a more elaborate plan or charade?

“You’re more than adequate, and better than most of your peers, and far more handsome.”

“And you are far more beautiful than yours, as you must know, and possibly more deadly.” But she wasn’t nearly the dancer that Seliora was.

“That’s a compliment I have not heard before. My father would be pleased, but it would be a pity to tell him. I almost might, except that would please Johanyr and Dulyk, and that would not please me.”

Iryela was playing a deeper game than I could discern, but it was clear that she had a purpose, one that I wasn’t even certain I wanted to consider. “Brothers often view matters in a different light.”

“Do you have a sister?”

“I have one. I’m quite fond of her, as I’m certain you know.”

She smiled. “You do me much credit.”

“I suspect I give you less than your due, since you were so easily able to find me.”

“You assume that I was looking for you. Is that not rather presumptuous?”

“I think not, not if I assume that it was not for my appearance or my station or my nonexistent wealth.”

“More and more interesting.”

More and more dangerous. “No . . . you are the one of interest, for so seldom does one of great beauty, position, and charm ever appear in my world.”

“More flattery yet.” She laughed.

“Flattery, yet truth, as you well know.”

“I see no others coming to take me from you, Rhennthyl.”

“That only says that none dare cross your will.”

“Were that it were so.” There was just the tiniest edge behind the laughing words.

When the orchestra paused, I released her and inclined my head.

She returned the gesture. “If you would not mind escorting me back to my younger brother.”

“My pleasure, mistress.”

“Iryela.”

“My pleasure, Iryela.”

Her brother was in a small group with another younger man and a woman slightly younger than Khethila. “Iryela . . . we are honored at your return.”

“As pleased and honored as I am, dearest Dulyk.” She smiled, sweetly, then inclined her head to me. “Thank you for the dance, Rhennthyl. I did enjoy it.”

“My pleasure, Iryela.” I took a step back, inclined my head to her, and eased away, but slowly enough to try to overhear what might be said.

“. . . most politely done, dear sister, if rather direct . . .”

“. . . do believe in courtesy, Dulyk . . . and always will . . .”

“You are so refreshing, sister dearest . . .”

I concealed a wince as I moved back toward my station. Iryela lived in a family that made even Caliostrus’s menage seem warm and welcoming.

In less than half a glass, the orchestra would stop, and Councilor Suyrien would offer a toast to all the guests of the Council, but before that, I needed to return to my post.

“Do you know who asked you to dance?” asked a figure in formal black-Master Dichartyn. He’d caught me by surprise, because I’d still expected him to be in gray or gray and white.

“Mistress Iryela D’Ryel-Alte, and she used me as some sort of insult to her younger brother, who is her escort tonight-and possibly even to her father.”

Master Dichartyn nodded. “There is always infighting for survival in High Holder families.”

“You’re suggesting I might use that?”

“I would suggest nothing at the moment. Any conflict between you and High Holder Ryel has not yet begun, and the longer before he announces his intent, the better for you.”

“In what fashion will he announce it?”

“Let us just say that you will know without any doubt.”

Another of his infuriatingly vague statements! I hoped he would say more, but when he did not, I knew I would get nothing further, and I asked, “Do you have any instructions?”

“No. You can move around more. Just observe what you can.” He slipped away before I could reply.

Ahead, I saw a girl-tall enough to be a woman, but too young-watching the dancers. She was alone. Well . . . that was one of my duties, and perhaps if we stayed to the outside of the swirl of dancers I might see or learn something.

“Mistress, might I have the honor of a dance?”

Her eyes widened just slightly as she turned to me, but she recovered quickly. “You might.” Her smile was practiced, but with a stiffness that was slightly awkward and charming.

I took her into my arms and out into the dancers. Young she might have been, but she was a far better dancer than I.

“You dance exceedingly well, mistress.”

“Alynkya, Alynkya D’Ramsael.”

I liked the fact that she didn’t add the “Alte” to her name. “Your father is the councilor from Kephria, then.”

“He is. My mother was indisposed, and she asked him to bring me.”

She was even younger than she looked, perhaps because she was so tall, but I should have guessed because the councilor was the tallest member of the Council, by a good half head, if not more.

“How do you like the Ball?”

“I don’t know many people here.”

“Do you live here in L’Excelsis or in Kephria?”

“Kephria, most of the time.”

I danced with Alynkya for two dances, and then her father arrived and danced with her. He only smiled at me, patronizingly. I’d have to remember that, not as a grudge, but as a fact. I’d also have to remember Alynkya and wish she retained some of that youthful charm and directness. Probably not, given her father, but one could hope.

Near one of the sideboards, I caught sight of Madame D’Shendael. She was talking to someone-the Ferran envoy.

I eased closer as the two talked, then took a position where I could ostensibly watch the dance floor, but from where I could overhear most of their conversation, or glance in their direction.

“You have often suggested that Solidar has little music, Klauzvol. What you do think now?”

“This is a nice little orchestra, madame, but it is a pity that there are not others like it. For the capital of a great nation . . .”

“One cannot have everything, as you have said before. Our artists are superb . . .”

“Ah . . . that is indeed true, but so are those of Ferrum, particularly in Ferrial . . .”

I wanted the opportunity to speak to Madame D’Shendael, as well as to get a closer look at the envoy, but I certainly couldn’t speak directly to her, or stare. So I looked at her for a moment, then looked away. Several moments later I did the same, while trying to project a clueless curiosity.

After three of my attempts, she turned and glided toward me, trailed by the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar.

“Young man?”

“Yes, madame?” I did turn to her, smiling pleasantly. “Might I be of some assistance?”

“You seemed, shall we say, less than fully interested in your duties, whatever they might be.”

“Madame, that is doubtless true. I was attempting to see, without being too obvious, if you looked like the etched portrait in the front of On Art and Society. My sister has all of your books. I don’t know whether she’s finished that one, because she just got it. Even though she’s never been married, she found A Widow’s Guide invaluable . . . I beg your pardon.”

She laughed, a sound somehow harshly melodic, but not mocking. “So I still have readers.”

“Yes, madame.” I needed to get Vhillar closer. “You haven’t changed that much since Emanus painted that miniature . . .”

I could sense her stiffen . . . ever so slightly.

“That’s less than common knowledge. How would a young man such as yourself know such a distinguished portraiturist?”

Vhillar kept a pleasant smile on his face, but edged closer.

“I was a journeyman portraiturist before I came here. Emanus liked a chess study I did, and offered several comments about it. We talked several times.” At that point, I extended the faintest image-probe, and immediately sensed a shield reaction-of the same sort of shield that I had sensed outside Terraza. There couldn’t be another foreign shield like that-not unless there were far more imager agents in L’Excelsis than Master Dichartyn knew, and that was doubtful, but still a disturbing possibility.

His eyes widened, if only fractionally, and I could sense a strengthening of his shields, but I concealed my surprise, both at his shields and his reaction, although I had half-expected to find him an imager, for reasons I could not have explained.

“You are rather young for this kind of approach, are you not?” offered Vhillar without any hesitation. “And such familiarity with a lady you do not know might not be considered . . . seemly . . . by your superiors.” His smile was pleasant and polished, as was his voice.

“I confess brashness, madame . . . and sir, but only because of my admiration and that of my sister for Madame D’Shendael for her writings and all she has endured . . . to bring those words to life so that others can read them. Admiration and the wish to hear the words of one so distinguished is certainly not undue familiarity.”

“Such artistry in flattery,” Vhillar offered. “Such charm beyond your years and experience.”

I only smiled, looking at Juniae D’Shendael and inclining my head politely. “My thanks for your words, madame.”

“He means well, I believe, Klauzvol,” replied Madame D’Shendael. “Presumptuously, but with honest brashness. Shall we dance?”

“My honor, madame.” Vhillar glanced at me quickly as he swirled her onto the dance floor, but the look was one that committed my face to memory.

I’d have to be more than careful. I’d revealed to Vhillar that I knew what he was, and I doubted he wanted anyone to know that, but how else could I have discovered it? Then, it could be that Master Dichartyn already knew, and that was a reason why he was here.

I scanned the great receiving hall, slowly, trying to do so casually, but I didn’t see Master Dichartyn or Baratyn. Besides, Baratyn wouldn’t understand, nor was I going to have the time to explain the complexity of the situation. If he’d been the one with the Ferran outside Terraza-and I was almost certain he was-he’d already killed, or arranged the killing of close to ten imagers, not to mention at least four attempts on me. In addition, he was friendly with an influential High Holder with ties to those on the Council-and that High Holder’s father had most likely been killed because of his conversation with me. And from that last look at me, it was clear that Vhillar knew exactly who I happened to be-and that I knew who and what he was.

I still couldn’t see Master Dichartyn, but I didn’t want to chase him down, not at the moment, with the formal toast about to occur. Since Vhillar was an imager, that would be a perfect opportunity to create havoc. He might not, but . . . I was supposed to prevent that sort of thing-if I could.

I moved toward the table where the formal toast would take place, trying to use the deft but purposeful moves of an assistant who needed to be somewhere but did not wish to offend. I also tried to project that feeling, and some must have picked up on it because people moved aside just slightly. Before long I had stationed myself behind and to the left of the small table behind which Councilor Suyrien would make the toast. With my back to the wall, I looked out at the dancers.

Among those closer who were waiting to watch the toast was the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar, with Mistress Cyana D’Guerdyn-Alte now at his side. He did not look in my direction, and they were positioned so that the equivalent of two lines of people were between them and the open space separating those gathering to watch from the small toasting table. I didn’t see Madame D’Shendael.

As the last bells of ninth glass died away, Councilor Suyrien emerged from a group of High Holders and their wives or daughters or mistresses and stepped toward the table. The sounds of the orchestra faded away, followed by a drum roll and then a quick trumpet call I did not recognize.

A uniformed server brought three bottles to the table, still corked and sealed. The councilor said something, and the server quickly removed the foil and cork from one of the bottles, then set a goblet down and poured the sparkling white into it.

I watched the goblet, hoping I’d guessed correctly.

The wine settled-then trembled-and I knew, not that I’d ever be able to prove it.

I concentrated, trying to image what was in the toasting goblet away, and replacing it with wine from the second unopened bottle.

This time the trembling was more pronounced, but no one seemed to notice. Certainly, Suyrien D’Alte did not as he picked up the goblet, raised it, and declaimed, “For Solidar, for the Council, and in thanks for a fruitful harvest!”

Then he lowered the goblet and put it to his lips. At that moment, I extended a shield on one side of the glass-the side between Vhillar and the councilor.

Something, a tiny something, hit the invisible shield and rebounded, unseen by most, except for the older woman in front, over whose shoulder a fine mist sprayed. She merely frowned, then used her scarf to brush away the misty drops.

“For Solidar, for the Council, and in thanks for a fruitful harvest!” came a low echo from the bystanders.

Not terribly enthusiastic, I thought, but I had the feeling that High Holders were not given to much in the way of public enthusiasms.

I could feel eyes on me, but I continued to survey the crowd. As my eyes passed those of Vhillar, I could see his eyes narrow. Abruptly, he looked away, then guided Mistress D’Guerdyn-Alte out onto the dance floor as the orchestra resumed playing.

Councilor Suyrien had left the toasting table, as if glad to be done with that task, and resumed his conversation. To one side, perhaps five yards, I could see Councilor Haestyr murmur something to Councilor Caartyl. They talked for a moment or two, then nodded to each other and returned to those they had escorted.

I began to move away from the toasting table, trying to convey the sense that I’d finished another task and still trying to locate Master Dichartyn, when a voice called to me. “Young man.”

I turned. The summons came from Madame D’Shendael. What exactly did she want? I smiled and moved to her. “Yes, madame. Might I be of assistance?”

“You may. I find I need a partner.”

She was a good dancer, better than Iryela, but still not quite so good as Seliora, and she said nothing until we had gone halfway around the floor.

“Was what you said about your sister total nonsense or truth used to a purpose?”

Obviously, she didn’t believe in High Holder circumlocution. “It was quite truthful, madame. My sister found a number of the financial advisements of great use in the family business. She was also first captivated by your Poetic Discourse and later by Civic Virtue.”

“I don’t believe you answered my question.”

“I believe I answered it as well as I can, madame.”

She smiled. “That is an answer, of another kind. What is your name?”

“Rhennthyl.”

“Rhennthyl D’Imager, I would imagine. No . . . I know you cannot comment. A rather silly fiction, if you ask me. What about Emanus? Was that true as well?”

“Yes, madame.”

“It is rumored that he was killed by an imager, and that you visited him shortly before he died.”

Rumored? Most likely, Vhillar had told her it was a rumor, possibly as a way to discredit the Collegium. “I had heard something to that effect, but he was well when I left him, and, frankly, madame, I was looking forward to talking to him again. I was shocked to learn of his death, and I did not know of it until several days later.”

That surprised her, and her surprise and her choice of words confirmed what I already knew, even if I could not prove it.

“I am truly sorry for you, madame.” That was a risk, but someone should have expressed some sympathy for her father’s death, especially after all he had suffered for her.

Her lips tightened, as if she were about to retort. Then she nodded. “It is sad when a great artist dies and is not able to be recognized.”

“I have studied the works of all the current masters, and none exhibits his excellence. I suppose that was one reason why I was so pleased when he praised my chess study.” That wasn’t quite true, because I hadn’t realized how great an artist he was until later, when I’d seen the miniature, but the spirit of my words was true.

She was silent for a time as we circled the floor. As we made one turn, I caught sight of Martyl dancing with Alynkya, and the young woman looked happy. I couldn’t help but contrast her to both Iryela and Madame D’Shendael, both surrounded by intrigue and plotting.

Then the music ended.

“Thank you, madame.”

She smiled. I think there was pain behind the smile, but I don’t know that anyone else would have seen it, except Seliora, had she been there. “Thank you, Master Rhennthyl. Take care.” There was the slightest emphasis on the last two words. I escorted her back to her husband, who did not even turn as she rejoined whatever conversation was in progress.

After that, I moved around the dance floor, always watching, but no one else seemed to need rescuing, and no one else asked me to dance. Master Dichartyn was still nowhere to be seen, and although I glimpsed Baratyn across the dance floor, he was headed toward the grand staircase. Should I follow him?

It was nearing tenth glass, midnight, when the Ball would end.

Suddenly, a jolt of something shivered my shields, and my entire body began to tremble, until I managed to erect a second set within the first. Still shaking inside, I turned slowly.

From a good ten yards away, the Honorable Klauzvol Vhillar gave the faintest of nods, and a knowing smile, before turning away, High Holder Guerdyn’s daughter on his arm.

I understood what was behind that. Vhillar clearly wanted to lure me into trouble, or something to precipitate a scandal. Or worse, he would just leave so that he could strike later, and he was letting me know that. I couldn’t let him do that. Yet, what could I do? Master Dichartyn was nowhere to be seen, and I was getting tired of being a target and a lure. A lure? What had Master Poincaryt said? A lure didn’t have to be defenseless, and I could act in the best interests of the Collegium. The Collegium certainly didn’t need a hostile and renegade imager loose in L’Excelsis-envoy or not-and if I waited to discuss such matters with Master Dichartyn I wouldn’t have the chance to stop being a lure and a target.

No matter what both Maitre Poincaryt and Maitre Dichartyn said about my value to the Collegium as a lure . . . they weren’t the one being attacked time after time. I slipped away with the purposeful stride of a man headed for the jakes, except once I neared there, I turned to the steps.

“Sir?” asked the obdurate guard.

“I need to get something for Baratyn.” I tried to project urgency.

“Ah . . .”

“I won’t be long.” I was past him and headed down the steps, quickly, but not at a run. Once on the lower level, I took the west-side service door and eased along the narrow maintenance walk next to the foot of the wall, using a cloak of shadows. Someone might well see someone in the shadows, but not more than a dim figure at best. I found the ornamental topiary that I recalled, the one offering the most concealment close to the outside stone steps, and sat down behind it, where I could view all the steps down to the drive where the coaches and carriages were beginning to queue up.

I waited a good half glass out there, watching as guests departed and worrying about whether Baratyn or Master Dichartyn would come looking for me. That was the last thing I wanted. I was Nameless-tired of being the target, and no one seemed that interested in solving the problem, only in using me to flush out the guilty. Well, I’d flushed him out, and I’d figured a way to deal with him as well-if it worked, I reminded myself.

Vhillar was among the later guests to leave, and he moved casually, yet deliberately, his eyes scanning the area on each side of the outside stone steps. Was he expecting me to act? I had the feeling he was concerned. He should be.

He paused after descending several steps, then spoke a few words to Mistress D’Guerdyn-Alte. After a moment, he escorted her down another few steps, before stopping to exchange a few words with another couple. He glanced toward the outer open carriage gate, and then back toward the east side of the Chateau. That worried me. What besides me was he seeking? Or was something else planned?

I shook my head. For the moment, I needed to concentrate on Vhillar-before he was too far away for my imaging to reach him.

First, I imaged colorless oil across the steps, three deep, directly below him, and well beyond his shields, and used a partial shield-something Maitre Dyana had taught me-to block any reflections from the lamps flanking the stone steps.

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. . . .