Imager's challenge ip-2

by L. E. Modesitt

  “That sounds like accidental on purpose,” I observed.

  “Some said it was.” Gulyart shrugged. “But Mardoyt looked into it and said it was an accident. Everyone agreed.”

  “Then it was an accident.” I paused. “Have a good weekend.”

  “I will . . . and thank you for the help.”

  When I left the Patrol headquarters, I did hail a hack to take me back to the Collegium, and not because of the rain, which wasn’t that heavy, but because I wanted to get there in time to talk to Master Dichartyn. I was fortunate enough to find him in and momentarily unoccupied.

  “I thought I might be seeing you. Have you been reassigned yet?”

  “Third District, starting on Lundi.” I eased off my damp gray woolen cloak and sat down in the armless wooden chair across the writing desk from him.

  “What of great import do you have to impart?”

  I ignored the sarcasm. “Mardoyt’s taking payoffs to lose charge sheets or get charges reduced before they’re presented to the justices. There’s no real proof except for missing charge sheets.”

  “That’s always been a problem, with whoever’s held that position. What else?”

  “A taudischef named Youdh is fairly close to the Tiempran priests who incited the riots, and they paid for the advocate to represent some of those sentenced, as well as the bribes to get some of the charges unofficially dropped. It’s well known that Baluzt is the pocket man for Mardoyt.”

  “I see that you haven’t confined your observations to what has been presented to you, but you’ll have to do better if you want to change matters.”

  “Should I want to change them?”

  That brought a frown to Dichartyn’s face.

  “You pointed out that I was only to be an observer, sir. If the Civic Patrol structure is such that it encourages bribery, that’s not exactly something for a liaison to address, is it?”

  “No. But proof would help.”

  I was the one to laugh. “Mardoyt has years of experience in avoiding providing proof. What I know absolutely and what I can prove are two separate matters, and you know that far better than I, sir.”

  “I’m glad to see you recognize that. Just don’t mention what you’ve told me to anyone except Master Poincaryt until you do have proof.” He cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing. The Council is having its annual Autumn Ball on Vendrei the thirty-fourth of next month.”

  “Do they have one every season?”

  “Every season except summer. Although Master Schorzat and I both have some reservations about your methods, your ability to discern trouble is extremely good. We have agreed that your presence will be salutary. Since you are no longer officially part of Council security, you will need to wear the black formal jacket of a Solidaran functionary-and the imager’s pin, of course. This is not a deception because as both a master imager and a liaison to the Civic Patrol, you are exactly that. The tailor is expecting you for a fitting tomorrow at ninth glass, after you finish your session with Master Rholyn.”

  “Speaking of that, sir, it’s getting rather chill in the studio. If it gets much colder, I won’t be able to paint because the oils will harden too much. I’m going to need some way to heat the studio on the coldest days.”

  “I can see that, but just talk to Grandisyn. I’m sure you two can figure something out.”

  “I didn’t wish to go around you, sir.”

  “For matters like that,” Master Dichartyn said dryly, “please do.”

  “I have another question.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d like to paint the portrait of the young woman who saved my life. But since the Collegium paid for everything, from canvases to paints, I don’t know how exactly to repay the Collegium. Also, is it possible to have her do the sittings here at the studio . . . if I make sure she only takes the public ways?”

  Master Dichartyn laughed. “We’re not that secretive, Rhenn, and the Collegium certainly won’t have a problem with your painting her portrait or, as you indicated earlier, portraits of other imagers who are friends or acquaintances.”

  “I didn’t want to take any advantage . . .”

  “That’s very clear . . . and appreciated. Is there anything else? If not . . .” He stood.

  “There was one other thing . . . some of the taudischefs are worried about conscriptors scouring the taudis for youngsters.”

  Master Dichartyn shook his head. “They don’t tell me, but it will happen, and sooner than later. The Army and Navy are always short of men, and it’s been a good year since the last sweep. I don’t feel that sorry for the taudischefs. Most of the boys will fare better outside the taudis, even in war.”

  He was probably right about that-and I was definitely missing something, something that he wasn’t about to tell me . . . as always.

  I hurried to the dining hall, only to find that the only convenient space at the masters’ table was one to the left of the pattern-finder Quaelyn. On his right was Maitre Dyana.

  “Good evening, Rhennthyl,” she offered.

  “Good evening, maitre, Master Quaelyn,” I replied as I seated myself.

  “How are you finding the Civic Patrol?” she returned.

  “Enlightening in ways that I never considered, but possibly should have.” I tried to keep my tone light and wry, accepting the platter of river trout, each wrapped in what passed for parchment.

  “A certain practicality, leavened, as it were, by personal necessity?” inquired Quaelyn.

  “That’s one way of putting it.” I poured some of the red table wine. I didn’t know what it was, but felt I could use some.

  “Practicality and personal necessity. Imagine that,” murmured someone.

  “What do your patterns say about how the coming war will affect the High Holders?” I looked to the older master.

  “Your question, Rhennthyl, contains a number of assumptions, such as there being a war, that such a war will impact Solidar in more than a minimal sense, and that such impacts will indeed affect High Holders as such.”

  “If you would address Rhenn’s assumptions first, then,” suggested Maitre Dyana.

  “The first assumption is the most reasonable, because whether an actual war is declared or not, there is a definite struggle for economic and military control, but the impacts of such a war are likely to be indirect at best. That is because the Ferrans-or the Tiemprans or anyone else-do not have adequate troop transport capabilities to bring an army onto Solidaran soil. In the worst case, there will be shortages of certain goods, such as spices, rarer metals, specialty woods, and minerals. Shortages drive up prices of those goods and others as well. Such price increases will impact the poorest in Solidar the most, the crafters almost as much, the factors less, and the vast majority of High Holders minimally.” Quaelyn smiled apologetically and somewhat condescendingly.

  “I see your reasoning.” I smiled. “Thank you.” I might be missing something in regards to Master Dichartyn, but I had the feeling that Quaelyn was missing a vital aspect. The taudis already had periodic riots from various causes, and with another conscription effort, followed by higher prices of even a few goods, parts of Solidar-and L’Excelsis-were likely to face more in the way of riots and unrest. He might be right in that such unrest would not extend to the lands and properties of the High Holders . . . but I wouldn’t have wagered much on that, although I couldn’t have said why.

  “With what patterns will the Council respond?” I pressed.

  “They will lay the blame primarily upon the Ferrans, and secondarily upon the factoring class, which will respond by pointing out that they did not cause the shortages and that the Council did nothing to anticipate the problems at hand. . . .”

  I nodded and kept listening.

  16

  Samedi morning afforded no rest, not that Samedis ever did. I hurried through everything so that I could get to the studio early enough to set up and-hopefully-to talk to Grandisyn, but he wasn’t anywhere around. I�
�d have to see him on Lundi, then.

  Maitre Rholyn appeared in the studio a few moments before eighth glass.

  “The standing position?”

  “If you would, sir.” I paused. “Before we begin, might I ask where it appears the Council stands on the question of war with Ferrum?”

  “You can certainly ask, but the Council has declared it opposes war and is unlikely to discuss the matter unless the situation changes.”

  In short, they’d wait until Ferrum acted.

  “Have you thought about my comments of last week?” he asked as he put one foot on the crate.

  For a moment I had to search mentally for what he’d said-he’d implied that the Collegium was more authoritarian than even the Council, although his words had been more carefully chosen than that. “Yes, sir. There were several implications behind your words. At least, I thought there were.”

  “Such as?” He smiled faintly.

  “The implication that while some fictions, such as not overtly conceding the obvious in identifying Council security force members as imagers, may be obvious, they are also necessary.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Manners are often a fiction, yet without them, all too many gatherings and conversations might well end in violence.” I picked up the palette and the fine-tipped brush.

  That brought a nod. “Did you . . . ponder any others?”

  “I could be mistaken, but I gathered the impression that you implied there was a trade-off between accountability and authority.”

  Rholyn frowned, as I’d hoped he might. “How did you reach that conclusion?”

  “You discussed how the Council must reach a consensus for a decision, but how the Collegium almost always accepts the decision of the chief maitre. The difference is that all know that the Maitre D’Collegium is fully accountable to the Collegium and can be replaced by a vote of all masters at any time, whereas councilors serve fixed terms, regardless of their actions. Also, seldom, if ever, is a single councilor made accountable for a Council action. Thus, it is clear that while the Maitre D’Collegium is accountable, such sole accountability is far from clear with the Council of Solidar, even when the Executive Council acts independently.”

  Maitre Rholyn laughed. I thought the sound was a trace forced.

  “In time, you might well represent the Collegium before the Council, Rhenn.”

  “I think not, sir. I am not always the best at reserving my views for the time most appropriate for disclosure.”

  “That may come with experience.” He turned his head. “This way?”

  “A bit more toward me.”

  After that, Rholyn did not mention anything of great import. Once he departed, a few moments before ninth glass, I cleaned up the studio, then looked once more for Grandisyn, who remained nowhere to be found, and hastened back to the quadrangle for my fitting.

  Based on the way I felt matters would be going over the weekend, after my fitting with the tailor, I immediately took a hack from the west side of the Bridge of Desires to see Khethila and Father at the factorage. As soon as the hack stopped and I stepped out, I could see that something was wrong. There was a definite odor of smoke and burned wool, and Eilthyr was standing outside by the front doors, propped wide open, just below the tasteful sign proclaiming Alusine Wool, set on the yellow bricks of the wall comprising the long front of the one-story building. The loading docks were in back, more toward the south end, but still out of sight.

  “Master Rhennthyl, we’re closed ’cause of the fire, but Mistress Khethila and Factor Chenkyr are inside.”

  “A fire? Where?” A coldness flashed down my spine.

  “In the back on the north end.”

  I hurried up the steps to the open double oak doors and inside, where the heavy acrid odor of smoke assaulted me. I glanced beyond the open area before the racks that held the swathes of various wools. To the right was another set of racks with the lighter fabrics-muslin, cotton, linen. Behind that was the raised platform with desks and files from where Father-and now Khethila-could watch the entry.

  Khethila hurried toward me. I didn’t see Father.

  “Rhenn . . . how did you know?”

  “I had a feeling I should come.” That was accurate enough. “What happened? How bad is it?”

  “Someone pried open the boarded-up window in the small storeroom-the one Father converted-and threw something in-something like a glass jug of lamp oil. Everything there is ruined, but Sherol-the night watch-he stopped the flames. He was burned badly.”

  “He’s dead?”

  She shook her head. “Father doesn’t think he’ll live, but he’s still alive. He’s at the South Hospital of the Nameless.”

  “Where’s Father?”

  “He’s in back. The Civic Patrol and the fire brigade left a while ago. The Patrol wasn’t that helpful. Oh, they were nice enough, but how can you find someone that no one even saw? It’s not like they stole goods that might be traced, or even golds. Even before this, it wasn’t that good a week.”

  “Something happened in Kherseilles?”

  She nodded wearily. “One of the properties adjoining the factorage building was sold. The new owner required a survey. He claims the building wall and the courtyard wall were built on his land. He’s asking that they be removed-or for five hundred golds to convey the property that the walls were built on. The discrepancy is all of half a yard. Five hundred golds for a strip twenty yards long and half a yard wide.”

  “Who’s the new owner?”

  “Rousel doesn’t know. The Banque D’Rivages is handling it through the Banque D’Kherseilles.”

  “How long since Father built the place?” I thought it had been ten years.

  “Nine years.” She shook her head. “Ten, and it wouldn’t matter.”

  “Can’t Father require compensation from the original surveyor?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh.” I had a very good idea who was behind what had happened, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the surveys and documents presented had even been forged or altered, but, again, with the surveyor dead, and the details almost ten years old, I doubted that there was any way to prove what I instinctively knew.

  “Rhenn . . . do you know something?”

  “No.” I didn’t know. “Seliora’s family might be able to find out who’s behind it. Or I might. Even if I can, though, it will be hard to find any proof.”

  “That’s what Father said.”

  “He might ask his friend Veblynt, though. He knows people.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’m going back to see Father.”

  “He’ll be glad to see you.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but I made my way through the racks of woolens, most of which would require a good airing out, if not more. Some of them might not be salvageable.

  Father was standing in the doorway of the small storeroom. Two men I didn’t know were using large sponges to collect water and squeeze it into buckets that they emptied out through the window that had been boarded shut and pried open by the arsonists.

  Father turned. “Khethila thought you might be here.” He gestured around the small room. Most of the racks were charred. “A good three to four hundred golds’ worth of ruined wool, and a good man who saved us from total ruin who will like as not die.”

  He turned from the room and shut the door before looking at me. “Do you know who might have done this?”

  “It’s not someone who knows the business,” I said. “They would have forced one of the doors next to the loading docks, and they would have used more oil.”

  “That means it’s someone who just wants to hurt factors-like those Tiempran religious fools or Jariolan sympathizers. Or it’s personal.”

  I nodded. “Has anyone gotten mad at you lately? Or have you had to collect?”

  Father shook his head. “Oaletyr’s been a season late in paying all year, and there are a couple of tailors I’ll never get pai
d by, but they wouldn’t do this. Have you upset anyone?”

  “A dead Ferran envoy, and a few dead assassins, but people don’t usually attack imagers’ families because we can’t inherit anything.”

  “You can’t?” His tone of voice told me that he hadn’t known that.

  “No. And it can’t go from you to any children. Now . . . if I married Seliora, her property and golds could go to them, but nothing from my family.”

  “Then . . . why . . . who?”

  “You might ask your friend Veblynt, and I’ll see what I can find out.” I wasn’t about to tell Father what I suspected, because, first, there was no proof, and second, if I happened to be right, no one in my family should know anything at all. I didn’t even like telling Seliora, but her family at least had experience in dealing with what I suspected I and mine were facing.

  We walked slowly back to rejoin Khethila.

  “I’ve been checking the bolts out here,” she said. “Most of them will be all right.”

  While there wasn’t that much that I could do, it was two glasses later before I felt that I could leave, and it took nearly half a glass to get a hack headed back north.

  Seliora and I had not made any specific plans for the evening, just that I would arrive around half past four, but the hack dropped me off outside the private entrance closer to a quint past third glass. I held shields and glanced around carefully as I made my way to the steps, despite Seliora’s statement a week earlier about Grandmama Diestra calling in some favors. Still . . . no one shot at me.

  Bhenyt was the one to open the door and greet me. “You’re early.”

  “Something happened. If you’d tell Seliora, I’ll wait in the main foyer, if that’s all right.”

  With a nod, Bhenyt was gone, and another quint passed while I sat on the chair that had been designed for the ruined High Holder Tierchyl, thinking about exactly what I could do and how. I certainly couldn’t go running off to wherever Ryel’s main holding house was. First, I didn’t know where it was. Second, I didn’t know where he was. Third, I had no idea exactly how to best do what needed to be done-or what exactly that might be, given the way High Holders clearly held grudges. Fourth, I needed to make sure that whatever I did would not run afoul of the rules of the Collegium, although Maitre Dyana’s words suggested I could do almost anything so long as it never became public or linked to me. And, fifth, while I suspected, even knew, that Ryel was behind the arson, if I acted before his acts became known, I’d end up destroying myself, if not my entire family.