Treachery's Tools

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Your husband is the reason for that. If he hadn’t supported the rebels, murdered Factor Hulet, and attempted to kill Captain Weidyn, he’d still be alive.”

  “What choice did he have? What choice did any of us have?”

  “Would you care to explain why a High Holder and his family had no choice?”

  Lady Laevoryn was silent.

  “Was it because, with the drought and the ruinous rains, the lands no longer provided the golds necessary to live as in the past? Others faced drought and less income without resorting to rebellion and murder.”

  “You’ll never understand.”

  “Understand what? That there haven’t been enough golds for years? That more golds come from factoring and manufacturing than from lands? That because the wealthy factors bought cheaper grain in the east and carted it here, prices stayed lower than they would have, and what crops there were didn’t fetch the prices they once would have?”

  “They’re greedy gold-grubbers, all of them.”

  “Most people need golds to live.”

  “They think of nothing else. They understand nothing of art or poetry or music.”

  “What composer’s work do you find most enjoyable to play? I assume you do play because the clavecin in the salon looks to be a beautiful instrument.”

  “I prefer not to discuss music, or any other pleasantry at the moment.”

  “Then tell me why your husband agreed to take part in this ill-considered rebellion.”

  “He didn’t believe it ill-considered, but necessary.”

  “Could you tell me why he thought it so necessary?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Perhaps to you and to him, but not to most of the rest of Solidar.”

  “All that matters to Lorien and to the factors is golds. Golds and more golds. Tradition is nothing. Culture is nothing. Being responsible for the lives and futures of tenants and crafters who have served a family for generations is nothing. All the factors want is more golds, faster and faster. They use golds to destroy others so that they can amass more.”

  “Many of them do seem to live for little more than the pleasure of amassing golds.” Alastar couldn’t disagree, in general, with her observation.

  “If you think that, Maitre, why do you side with them?”

  “I don’t side with either the High Holders or the factors. I side with the Codex Legis and the structure it represents. There are a number of factors who are as displeased with me and the Collegium as you are.”

  “What a pity.”

  “You’re angry because your husband was killed. I’m angry because the brown-shirts here killed four innocent students at Imagisle, as well as a young gardener and several others. None of them had done anything against you, your husband, or any High Holder. Then those brown-shirts attacked the Collegium—twice. We attacked no one. And you sit here, steeped in self-pity, but you have lived in a gorgeous estate, amid fine furniture, with fine fare upon your table … and you complain because your husband had to pay for the killings he supported and made possible. You know nothing and wish to know nothing beyond a narrow world of privilege.”

  “You’re no better, Maitre. You live in a fine house yourself.”

  “I didn’t always, Lady, and I remember those years well.” Alastar looked to the daughter, most likely two to three years older than Lystara. “I imagine you ride well.”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  Alastar refrained from pointing out that she just had and walked toward the young man, who had his father’s sandy hair, if somewhat lighter in color, but the dark blue eyes of his mother.

  Before Alastar could say anything, young Laevoryn turned and asked, “How long will you be defiling my hold?”

  “With that attitude, young Laevoryn, it might not be your hold for long.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t try my patience. You’re in enough trouble in your own right, and as the heir to a rebelling High Holder, young man, you have no rights at all. Unless Rex Lorien is merciful, he could give the entire High Holding to anyone he pleases and leave you and your family with nothing.”

  “That is unacceptable.”

  “So was your killing of Enrique D’Hulet.”

  “I didn’t lay a blade or bullet on him.”

  “I’m certain you didn’t, but whatever you did, it certainly shouldn’t have been over a mere two hundred golds. Did you ever tell your father?”

  “That is a shameful accusation.” Those icy words came from Lady Laevoryn.

  “Nothing accurate is shameful, except to the one who has committed the act, but then, what your sire did to Factor Hulet was shameful as well. Killing the unarmed seems to run in the family.” Alastar turned back toward Lady Laevoryn.

  She did not meet his eyes, nor did her daughter.

  Alastar doubted that either felt shame, only that they preferred to dismiss him as someone who could not possibly understand the trials of a High Holder. In that regard, there’s little difference between them and Lorien.

  Distasteful as it was, he addressed Lady Laevoryn. “You can have your servants fix you dinner. Eat it in the breakfast room. Then retire to your chambers.”

  Again, none of them spoke in return. Alastar was just as glad that they didn’t. He returned to the study and resumed his search of Laevoryn’s papers, initially without much success. Then, in a side drawer inside a small leather folder, he found several cards and sheets of paper. He read through them one after the other, his eyed picking out the key phrases.

  … appreciate your support in the matter discussed last night, and we will consider what might be done …

  That one was signed by Cransyr, but not dated. There were no specifics on “the matter.”

  … in addition to the sum agreed upon … must convey an appreciation for a quiet and permanent resolution …

  Whatever the resolution was remained unmentioned, and the note was unsigned.

  … with thanks for the swiftness of disposal …

  That card was signed with a symbol Alastar did not recognize. Several other notes and cards and even a long letter followed a similar pattern. In some cases, he noted, the signature had been inked out. Clearly, Laevoryn had “repaired” matters for either golds or to call in favors. One of the last cards was more intriguing.

  In return for the tonic, it will be taken care of as you wish.

  The undated card was signed only by an “M.” Alastar frowned. Murranyt? What had been taken care of, and in return for what?

  The thought of Murranyt called up when Strosyl had died. It had seemed so ironic that a man who had come up from a street patroller, dealing with the worst types, had died from a case of the red flux, especially in the prime of life. He looked at the card again, then replaced it in the small folder, which he tucked inside his summer gray jacket.

  At three quints past sixth glass, Khaelis informed Alastar that Thelia had arrived, accompanied by Tiranya and Belsior.

  Alastar hurried to meet Thelia outside, where he dismissed Tiranya and Belsior to return to the Collegium and then escorted the accounts maitre into the dwelling through the octagonal foyer to the study that held the ledgers. Gesturing to the ledgers on the desk and those remaining on the shelves, he said, “They’re all yours, metaphorically speaking.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Evidence that Laevoryn was participating in the High Holders’ revolt. He had a company of brown-shirts quartered here, most likely those who destroyed Naathyn’s family and factorage and fired the old port tower … and attacked Imagisle last Vendrei. My guess is that someone else paid him to do it. One whole wing of this place is closed off, as is half the south wing. The rooms in the north wing are without furnishings, and I’m fairly certain that young Laevoryn either arranged for the death of Hulet’s nephew or killed him himself over a two-hundred-gold gambling loss.”

  Thelia nodded. “He might have handled all that in coin. There’d be no tra
ce of it in the ledgers.”

  “That’s all right as well, because it shows, in a different way, that he was at least cooperating with the rebels, and it would also show that the rebellion went beyond the four High Holders who died in the explosion at the Chateau D’Council. While you’re doing that, I’ll be going through his desk and files to see if there are any messages or letters that reveal anything. I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

  “I can use the side table.”

  “Thank you.” Alastar paused. “This might have nothing to do with it, but you grew up around oils and essences. Are you aware of any poison that has an effect similar to the red flux?”

  Thelia shook her head. “I don’t know of one.” She frowned. “There is a tonic that they caution against using when you have the flux. It makes things worse. It’s really good for consumption and the wheezes, though.”

  Alastar nodded. Suggestive, but far from proof. He returned to his own search.

  Slightly before seventh glass, still not having found anything amid Laevoryn’s papers that might have confirmed his treachery in ink, Alastar left the study and walked around the ancient dwelling and down the lane to a wider stone-paved space where the troopers had erected a truly massive pyre. The bodies were evenly spaced out.

  Weidyn was waiting.

  “Where did you find all the timber?”

  The captain smiled. “Here and there. We didn’t destroy anything, except for two old run-down sheds that were empty. We did take as much oil as we could find and soaked some of the greener timber.”

  “Did you find anything that would indicate who paid them or where they came from?”

  The captain shook his head. “I recognized one. Served one term and left service a year ago. Good with a rifle and sharp. Didn’t much care for the army. I never knew where he came from. The others? Personal things. A handful had letters, but there was nothing to indicate where they came from. A lot were older, probably former rankers. They didn’t have much coin.”

  “That suggests they were either from around L’Excelsis or that they were paid in advance where they were enlisted and left the coins with their families … or perhaps both.”

  “That’d be my thought, too, Maitre.” Weidyn cleared his throat.

  “I’m ready.” Alastar stepped forward. As Collegium maitre, he’d presided over a few pyres, if for individuals.

  Four troopers stood around the pyre, to the north, south, east, and west. Each held a burning torch.

  Alastar began. “Life is a gift from the Nameless, for from the glory of the Nameless do we come; through the glory of the Nameless do we live, and to that glory do we return. Each of these men lived his life as best he could, and all judgments now belong to the Nameless. May they be remembered for who they were and what they did, and may each remain in memory for his deeds and kindnesses, not merely as an empty name.”

  He gestured to the troopers, and as they lowered the torches, he offered the final words. “As each of these men was born in warmth, so is it fitting that they leave their mortal form in fire and return to the life and glory of the Nameless.” With his last words, he imaged a fireball into the center of pyre.

  He stood there for a time as the flames mounted. He knew he couldn’t have afforded to handle the situation otherwise, especially since the brown-shirts he’d allowed to flee and survive the first large attack on Imagisle—the one using the angled iron shields doubtless manufactured by Vaschet—had merely gone on killing others and doubtless would have continued to do so. Yet he had a hard time understanding why such men would serve the ends of those who wanted to keep everyone subservient to their every whim. Are times that bad for the able-bodied poor?

  Alastar feared that they were, that the majority of either factors or High Holders could have cared less about the lives lost to support abusive personal power on the one hand and the often abusive pursuit of golds on the other.

  When he was certain that the flames were sufficient for the task at hand, he turned and walked back to the hold house, the pyre providing enough light that his shadow stretched out before him.

  As he entered the study once more, he noticed that the pale lavender hangings somehow not only failed to lighten the study, but almost seemed to absorb the light from the pair of wall lamps and the one on the side of the desk, giving the chamber a feel of insubstantiality that conveyed, in Alastar’s opinion, a sense of evil. But your feelings about the Laevoryn clan just might be affecting your feelings.

  After perhaps another half quint of searching, Alastar found—wedged in the back of the bottom drawer of a side table—a single half-sheet of paper with but two lines upon it … and no signature or initial. There was also no date.

  Here is the latest payroll. The captain will render an accounting as well.

  Keep them busy. The Collegium needs to be kept occupied.

  Alastar read the words again, then smiled, if ironically. The writer definitely had doubts about Laevoryn’s probity with funds. Unfortunately, the precise scrip could have come from any wealthy individual’s hand … or from a clerk.

  At almost three quints past eighth glass, Thelia looked up from the side table. “I’ve done what I could, Maitre Alastar.”

  “Did you discover anything?” Alastar noted a smudge of ink on her forehead and could see the tiredness in her eyes.

  “I went through the ledgers as quickly as I could with some care. That’s what you requested. There’s no indication of any payments other than land rents and various banalities, and all those payments are meticulously noted. What is interesting is that the expenditures listed in the provisions and supplies ledger are far greater than those entered in the master ledger, as if some were not part of estate expenses.”

  “That discrepancy is a good indication that he was being paid to quarter the brown-shirts.” Alastar frowned. “Is there something like a pay ledger?”

  “There is, but it only deals with estate servants. Payments to factors and tradesmen are listed in the general expense ledger.”

  “What about personal disbursements for Laevoryn or his family?”

  “There are payments to tailors and seamstresses, carters, a coppersmith, a silversmith, and others. There’s nothing stating that Laevoryn gave golds or silvers to himself or others, and there’s nothing that shows a statement of assets or golds.”

  “That may be another reason why he’s been in financial difficulty … or that account ledger is somewhere else.” Alastar took a slow deep breath. “Calculate the difference between the actual outlays on provisions in that ledger and the amounts entered in the master ledger.”

  “I’ve already done that, for the last three months. It’s been running about a hundred golds a month.”

  “That’s about right for food for eighty to a hundred men. Gather up your papers with the calculations. We’re going to head back to Imagisle. I need to brief Weidyn first, but that won’t take long.”

  “We’re just going to leave?”

  “What else should we do? There aren’t any rebel fighters left. Laevoryn is dead. We’ve discovered what little we can. And some of us need to get ready for a trip south along the river.” Among other things. Alastar stood, all too conscious that he was sore in more than a few places … and would likely be even sorer by morning.

  32

  On Meredi morning, Alastar had to force himself through his morning run, and, as he’d known would eventually happen, both Alyna and Malyna finished ahead of him, despite the fact that a brisk cool wind out of the northwest kept him from feeling too overheated.

  As they walked back toward the Maitre’s house, Alyna said, “You didn’t want to talk about yesterday much last night.”

  “I was tired.” After a moment, he added, “I still can’t get over the sense of entitlement that Laevoryn had, and that his family still has. They’re worse than Ryen was, and people called him Rex Dafou.”

  “I couldn’t believe all the notes in that folder. But why did he keep it?”
<
br />   “So he could remember who owed him what. All the notes or cards that were signed or initialed were suggestive but hold no real details. Like the card I suspect was from Murranyt. For anyone to use them as proof they’d have to have discovered things far more incriminating. There’s just enough there so that Laevoryn could remember. The ones with details had the signature or name thoroughly blotted out. I’ll need to brief Lorien on all that after the senior imagers’ meeting.”

  “He won’t be happy.”

  “He’ll be less happy if I don’t.”

  Alyna nodded.

  “Later, I’ll meet with Elthyrd … when I can. I think I’ll take that card with me.”

  “You might image a copy.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Do you have any other suggestions?”

  “You might let Factoria Kathila know. If you merely tell her, and don’t ask or suggest anything, she’ll be in your debt … and not the other way around.”

  “That’s a very good idea.”

  “I do have some.”

  “More than that. How are the special bullets coming?”

  “Slowly. Remember, imaging and checking against a template is anything but swift.”

  That didn’t surprise Alastar. He looked ahead to where Malyna and Lystara were hurrying up the steps to the Maitre’s house. “They look happy.”

  “I’m glad they enjoy one another so much.”

  Alastar nodded, his thoughts on the day ahead, which he knew would be even longer than he planned—something was bound to come up.

  Even so, by the time he’d washed up and shaved, eaten a hearty breakfast, and he and Alyna had left the house for the administration building, he was feeling more cheerful, at least until he looked to the southeast, where it seemed to him that more clouds were gathering.

  “I hope we don’t get more rain. Those clouds…” He shook his head.

  “They do look like they might bring showers.”

  “You’re being optimistic.”

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  Alastar agreed—mostly.

  Before long they were entering the administration building.