Imager ip-1 Page 30

  “Yes, sir.”

  Beyond the guard was a circular foyer with narrow corridors leading out of it both to the left and right. Master Dichartyn took the right corridor. The walls were plain white stone, old but spotless, each block precisely cut, with but the thinnest line of mortar at the joins. The floor tiles were of polished gray slate. Despite the immaculate appearance, there was a sense of age, perhaps because there were no embellishments or decorations.

  The short corridor ended at a wider one, the main corridor running north and south on the east side of the ground level of the Chateau. There, Master Dichartyn turned left, stopping at the first door, which was open.

  “Baratyn . . . I’ve brought you your new messenger.”

  The study was small and without windows, although there was a ventilation grate high on the east wall, and held a modest desk with drawers and a wooden file case on one wall. Two chairs stood before the desk and one, with arms, behind it.

  “Master Dichartyn.” Baratyn stepped forward and beckoned for us to enter. He was a few digits shorter than I was, with short-cut brown hair, a squarish chin, and eyes that seemed to change colors, from brown to hazel to light green, even as I looked at him. Like me, he wore the gray-trimmed black uniform, except on the short stiff jacket collars were two small pewter triangles-one on each collar. “You’d be Rhennthyl.”

  “Yes, sir.” I inclined my head.

  He nodded, then turned toward Master Dichartyn.

  “That’s all. Rhennthyl will be here mornings until the Council reconvenes officially”

  “That should be long enough to get him squared away.”

  Even before Baratyn finished speaking, the senior imager was gone.

  Baratyn looked to me. “Basyl will be here in a moment. He’s one of the senior regular messengers. He’ll show you around. If he asks where you’re from, tell him where your family lives.”

  I was spared having to answer because at that moment we were joined by Basyl, a thin, almost frail man, a good ten years older than me by his looks, with wide gray eyes under brown hair so dark it was not quite black and a narrow chin. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “I did. Rhennthyl here is the new security support messenger.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” I offered.

  He nodded politely. “The same.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d give Rhennthyl a tour of the Chateau, particularly the routes and places he’ll need to know as a messenger once the Council reconvenes.”

  “Yes, sir.” He nodded somberly. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  As soon as we stepped out of Baratyn’s study, Basyl gestured down the long corridor. “On this level are the studies for the advisors to the councilors. They have the bigger studies, the ones with the windows. The smaller studies are for the staff, like Baratyn and Pelagryn.”

  “Pelagryn?”

  “He’s in charge of the maintainers. Of course, Chasylmar has the northeast corner study on this level.”

  “I haven’t met Chasylmar.”

  “He’s the Chateau steward, and his study is the big one in the northeast corner. The corner studies are the best, because they’ve got windows on two walls and you can get a breeze there. Up on the Council level the three Executive Council members have three of the four corner studies, and the most senior guild representative has the other-that’s Councilor Ramon.”

  Basyl led me all the way around the main corridor on the ground level, pointing out everything, from whose study was where, the waiting room for messengers, and where the staff jakes were and the two circular staircases. We took the one in the northeast corner down to the lower level, which held the kitchen-and a dumbwaiter that ran directly up to the upper pantry off the Council dining chamber. Then there were storerooms for everything, various workrooms, and other spaces for the maintainers and their equipment. From there we took the northwest staircase up to the third and topmost level, which held the main Council chamber, the smaller Executive Council chamber, the councilors’ lounge, their dining chamber, and all the studies.

  Basyl stopped at the top of the grand staircase that led down to the foyer holding all the artwork, which he had not shown me, but which I recalled. “How did you end up here?”

  “I was a journeyman portriaturist. It didn’t work out. After my master’s death, none of the masters in the guild wanted to take on another journeyman, especially one so old.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  “I’ll be twenty-five shortly, and that’s old to begin with another master in portraiture.”

  “Your family . . . they must have . . . must know people.”

  “My father is a wool factor. He wishes I had that talent. What about your family?”

  “He’s a tinker of sorts. He has a small shop. People bring things to him to be fixed or sharpened. I’m not that good with my hands, but I’m quick, and I never forget anything anyone tells me. That’s useful for a messenger.” Basyl nodded slowly, then turned and led the way down the grand main staircase-the one I had last beheld more than ten years earlier. We’d barely reached the bottom when Baratyn appeared holding an envelope.

  “Basyl . . . I need this run to Chasylmar. He’s not in his study, and I don’t have time to track him down.”

  The senior messenger nodded and took the envelope. “Yes, sir.”

  “You come with me, Rhennthyl.”

  Baratyn didn’t say anything until we were inside his study. “If you’d close the door . . .”

  I did, then sat down after he’d seated himself behind the desk.

  “You answered Basyl’s questions accurately and yet without revealing anything.”

  How had he known that? “Was that a test? Are there listening tubes everywhere?”

  “Of sorts. Only in the corridors. That’s one of the other things we monitor. You will, too, in time. With what we do and you will be doing, everything is a test. But then, most of life is. Most people just don’t realize it-or don’t want to think about it. At the moment, even with you, we’re shorthanded.” He laughed. “We’re always shorthanded. There are three of you as messengers and silent guards . . . and me. In an emergency we can call on one or two others, but that includes Master Dichartyn, and he’s not always available. The other two security messengers should be here any moment. While we’re waiting, do you have any questions?”

  “How many regular messengers?”

  “Just four. That’s enough to allow one or two to be sent off Council Hill, if necessary.”

  At the knock on the door, Baratyn called out, “Come on in.”

  I stood. I didn’t like being seated when meeting other people, particularly when they were standing. The door opened, and two men stepped inside. The second one closed the door. Both of them were about my size, and at least several years older. They looked almost politely nondescript, yet I could sense that behind that facade, they were formidable. Was that the kind of impression that Master Dichartyn was seeking-someone who could blend into any group, yet who, if you looked closely, you really didn’t want to encounter in dark corners?

  “Rhennthyl, meet Martyl and Dartazn. Martyl is the blond one.”

  Martyl smiled politely. “Be good to have some help here.”

  “Especially the way things look to be going,” added the dark-haired and dark-eyed Dartazn, who was just a shade taller than Martyl.

  “I had Basyl give him the general tour,” said Baratyn. “You two can show him all the places he really needs to know. He’ll only be here mornings for the next few weeks. They’re rushing his training so that he’ll be as ready as possible when the Council goes back in session.”

  Dartazn looked at me, his brows furrowed. “You usually sit with Kahlasa and the other field operatives, don’t you? At the Collegium, I mean?”

  “I do. That was because I got to know Claustyn when I became a third.”

  “You’re the one who took a bullet near the heart and managed to image-shield it until
Master Draffyd could take care of it.”

  I hadn’t realized the bullet was that close. “Two bullets, actually, but I didn’t know it at the time. And I passed out a little bit before I got to Master Draffyd.”

  “Claustyn hoped you’d go field,” added Martyl.

  “That would have been my second choice,” I admitted.

  “You three can talk later,” Baratyn said, “at the Collegium, not here.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Martyl genially. “All the walls but those here have ears. We hear and understand.”

  “Go!” But Baratyn was smiling.

  We left.

  By the time I climbed into the duty coach at ten bells, with Martyl and Dartazn, my head was swimming with the effort of trying to remember all the hidden nooks and passages.

  “We get lunch at the Collegium when the Council’s not in full session,” Martyl explained. “That’s because they close down the kitchens to give the staff their summer break. The Chateau’s practically deserted now.”

  That was fine with me. I’d need all three weeks to really learn where everything was-and that was in spite of my study of the Chateau’s plans.

  48

  Implying guilt in writing is like eating food held too

  long, providing neither satisfaction nor savor.

  On Mardi, two letters were waiting in my box when I checked after lunch, but I was running so late that all I did was to see that one was from Seliora. I didn’t open it, because I wanted to enjoy reading it, and I didn’t have time for that. The other was from Mother. I had immediately recognized her handwriting. I didn’t open it, either, if for very different reasons, before I hurried back to my quarters and changed into exercise clothes and heavy boots.

  Clovyl was waiting outside the exercise hall, with his usual patient smile, a smile that-I was convinced-concealed a hidden glee in at the thought of how hard he’d make me work.

  “Good afternoon, Rhenn. You still have a lot more catching up to do.”

  I followed him to the chamber, where I began on the loosening-up exercises, although my eyes did stray to the corner that held the free weights. It wasn’t that they were so heavy, but my muscles burned after I went through that routine-and I still had to look forward to another two glasses of special treatment.

  Once he had worked me over thoroughly for slightly more than two glasses, Clovyl told me to stop by Master Dichartyn’s study after I cleaned up.

  The one advantage of an afternoon shower was that the water was merely cool, rather than ice-cold, and before long I was sitting on the bench outside Master Dichartyn’s study. If I’d known that I’d be sitting there for close to half a glass I would have brought Mother’s letter, but I’d been hurrying so much that I hadn’t thought about that.

  The study door opened, and a secondus stepped out. I stood, and his eyes flashed to me and then away.

  “Good day, sir.” He fled as much as walked away.

  I knocked.

  “Come in, Rhenn.”

  Once inside, I shut the door and sat down, waiting to see what else Master Dichartyn had scheduled for me.

  “Clovyl says that you’re doing well, and that, if you keep at it, you’ll be close to where you should be by the time the Council reconvenes . . . where you should be in terms of physical training and conditioning. You’re still lacking in finesse in your imagery, but we need to get you some experience. On Jeudi morning, you’re to meet me here in the morning at half before fifth bell. We’ll be going to the prison for an execution.”

  “Practice, sir?”

  “Two kinds of practice. Subtlety and effectiveness. That night, you’ll have to work with Master Draffyd. Mostly, you’ll just be watching him do a dissection. Too much of your knowledge is text knowledge. That’s not your fault, but it’s something we need to remedy.” He stood. “You have to excuse me, but matters are pressing.”

  “Caenen and Jariola, sir?”

  “Partly. That’s mostly Master Schorzat ’s headache. It doesn’t help much that imaging is banned in Tiempre, and that its practice, if discovered, is punished by execution. Ferrum doesn’t ban it, but known imagers face great difficulties. That makes working in either land even more difficult, the Nameless knows, although neither Ferrum nor Jariola is a place we’d normally want to be. You’d think that we were the disciples of Bilbryn.” He shook his head.

  Bilbryn? It took me a moment to recall the name. When Solidar had been warring states using bronze weapons, he’d been the imager champion of Rex Caldor, and his enemies called him the great disciple of the Namer, declaring him evil incarnate.

  “I’ll see you on Jeudi,” Master Dichartyn said.

  Our meeting had been short enough that I had a good glass left before dinner, and I hurried back to my quarters. Once there, I recovered the letters, opening Mother’s first, knowing full well what awaited me. I forced myself to read the words carefully.

  Dear Rhennthyl,

  I had hoped that we would be able to host a birthday dinner for you this Samedi and perhaps invite Zerlenya or another suitable young lady, if you did not find Zerlenya to your liking. I do hope that you are feeling better, but I cannot help but worry, since we have not heard from you since your last letter. I do hope that we have not done anything to offend you. I had only invited Zerlenya because she is a beautiful and intelligent young woman, and you had mentioned that there were few women at all on Imagisle. . .

  I paused in reading, then shook my head.

  . . . and you are now reaching the age where it will become more and more difficult to find someone suitable, as the most attractive ones from a suitable background will already have been spoken for. . . .

  A suitable background was a polite way of saying someone who was at least from the factoring or full merchant class and most preferably not Pharsi.

  . . . That is, of course, a matter with which you must deal, but we were only trying to be helpful.

  That was doubtless true, but I didn’t need to be reminded of it.

  We would still very much like to have a belated celebration of your twenty-fifth birthday. I do hope that this finds you in good health and that you will let us know when we may expect you or when I may visit you.

  The last thing I wanted to do was write a reply, but doing so quickly would reduce the amount of guilt Mother would attempt to lay at my feet. I set aside the still-unopened letter from Seliora and wrote a quick reply to Mother, based on the truth, stating that while I had recovered physically, I was still restricted to Imagisle until certain aspects of my training were completed, but that, if she wished to visit, she was now more than welcome on either Samedi or Solayi afternoons, and should drop me a note to let me know when to expect her, and that I looked forward to seeing her.

  Then I finally sat back in my study chair and opened the letter from Seliora.

  Dear Rhenn,

  At last, we have arrived in Pointe Neimon. The trip was hard for Grandmama, but she is in good spirits. She sends her best to you. So does Shomyr.

  We have already toured four textile manufactories, and we have improved arrangements with two. Their fabric is excellent. One other is satisfactory. The other we will not use, but it is good to see what each can do.

  I trust that you are well and will be fully recovered and able to leave Imagisle by the time we return. We have tickets on the Express for the fourth of Agostos. Grandmama says that we should invite you to dinner on the fourteenth. If you know that you can come then and let me know, I can write Mother and tell her to plan for it. If you do not know, then we can work out a time once we return to L’Excelsis.

  You would find Pointe Neimon refreshing and beautiful. I do wish you could be here, but you must do what you must. I only ask that you take care in your duties, great care.

  At the bottom was an address in Pointe Neimon, and, again, the signature was just her name, but the last two words before her signature, and the kiss when we had last parted, suggested far more than friendship.

 
I smiled. I did have time to write a response.

  49

  Death always leaves some stories incomplete; and

  some are better left so.

  Getting up well before dawn on Jeudi was not exactly to my liking, especially with what lay ahead, as much as I knew the necessity. I struggled to Master Dichartyn’s study, early enough that I sat slumped on the bench for a time before he appeared.

  “Buck up, Rhennthyl. You’re not the one being executed.”

  I jumped to my feet. “It’s early, sir.”

  “Every morning’s early.” His voice was dry.

  I walked quietly beside him as we made our way to the duty coach, which had drawn up outside the administration building. He said nothing to the black-clad obdurate driver.

  Mist rose from the river as we crossed the Bridge of Stones, the hoofs of the two horses clattering on the pavement. The route to the prison was fairly direct-south on the West River Road to the intersection with the Avenue D’Artisans just after it crossed the Sud Bridge, and then more than a mille on the avenue and across the bridge over the ironway tracks, after which the coach turned onto a short street that ended at a gatehouse. Behind the gatehouse rose the gray flint walls of the Poignard Prison.

  The duty coach halted by the gatehouse. No sooner had we stepped out onto the ancient cobblestones, damp from the light rain of the evening before, than two men in blue and black uniforms emerged. The one with the four-pointed star on his collars bowed to Master Dichartyn.

  “Maitre D’Esprit.”

  “Warden . . .”

  The warden’s eyes flicked to me, just for a moment, before he and the guard escorted us through the gate and along a windowless stone-walled corridor until we reached an iron door, where another guard turned a black wheel to unlock it. We stepped into a small courtyard. I glanced up. The sky was beginning to lighten, just slightly, but I could still see clearly the reddish crescent that was Erion. At the far side of the courtyard was a scaffold. There were three nooses rigged from an overhead beam.