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  Martyl grinned at me, and Dartazn raised his eyebrows before they both left.

  I walked to the messengers’ study. Boulyan and Celista-she was the only female regular messenger-were already there, sitting on one of the benches.

  “. . . can’t believe the crowd out there, and only six of the councilors are even here yet. Councilor Etyenn probably won’t show until Meredi . . .”

  “Or Jeudi. That’s when the first full Council meeting is.”

  Both looked up at me. Then Boulyan spoke. “Palyar says the petitioners out there are already complaining. We’ve carried requests to everyone who’s here.”

  “They’re mostly traders, I’d wager, worried about what all the tariffs and embargoes and blockades are doing to their business.” From what I’d seen at home and from what I’d heard and learned at the Collegium and the Chateau, that was as good a guess as any. “And they’re from nearby.” That wasn’t a guess. Most traders wouldn’t take a long ironway journey on the chance of seeing a councilor, and those that could would already have arranged appointments.

  Celista grinned. “You have that right. The next two days are when they listen to all the complaints so that they can tell their guilds or the factors’ associations that they’ve heard from scores of good honest citizens. Councilor Haestyr is the worst. He’s a High Holder, but he likes to think he’s a friend to merchants and crafters, and he sees scores of them.”

  “All of whom want to fill their strongboxes without a care about their competitors, or how many sailors will die in keeping trade open.”

  “Very true.” Baratyn’s voice came from the open door. “But we all play our part in the process.” He looked to me, extending a pasteboard square. “You get the second lot. They want to see Reyner. Martyl is already escorting some factors to see Councilor Glendyl.”

  Glendyl was the factorius on the Executive Council, and his business produced most of the steam engines for the ironway and the Navy.

  I took the pasteboard and looked at the neat script-Tuolon D’Spice and Karmeryn D’Essence. Under them was the name and seal of Councilor Reyner.

  “When you’ve finished, return here immediately,” Baratyn said. “You’ll likely be running all day. There’s a long line out there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I headed out along the east corridor and through the grand foyer, out the main entrance past the guards stationed there, down the two sets of steps, and then along the main side stone walkway. The mixed mutterings of the petitioners carried over the wall, suggesting a long queue. When I reached the visitors’ gatehouse, through the grillwork of the heavy iron gate I could see a line stretching a good hundred yards. I concealed the frown I felt beneath a pleasant smile. With only three of us acting as escorts, even if each meeting took less than a quarter glass, we’d only be able to escort half-or less-of those waiting. Given the deliberation I’d seen from Master Dichartyn and his experience, he had to have known that.

  While I could see two guards stationed outside the gates, there were three just inside, and another four in the shaded alcove behind the gatehouse. Basyl was leaving with a white pasteboard in hand, presumably another request to meet with a councilor. He nodded.

  Once he passed me, I stepped forward and handed the pasteboard with the two names and Councilor Reyner’s name and seal on it to the receiving guard.

  He took it, studied it, and turned toward the gate, calling out, “Tuolon D’Spice and Karmeryn D’Essence, to see Councilor Reyner.”

  Two men stepped up to the gate. The taller and black-bearded one brandished a letter or sheet of something. “Here we are. It’s about time.”

  The guards opened the gate and let them step through, as each wrote his name on the entry ledger. I studied the pair, watching the ledger as well. The taller one signed as Tuolon D’Spice, the shorter and younger as Karmeryn D’Essence.

  “The messenger will escort you there and back.” The guard’s voice was even and firm, but carried a note of boredom, as if he’d made the same statement time after time.

  “This way, honored traders,” I offered, gesturing to the side walkway.

  “About time,” muttered Tuolon.

  Because I had to lead them, I carried back trigger shields, ones that would spring full if either moved too close to me. Baratyn had assured me that there was minimal danger to me on the walk to the councilor’s study, because all unescorted strangers were suspect and detained. Once we were inside the Chateau and out of the already uncomfortably warm sunlight, I led them through the foyer and up the grand staircase past the two winged angelias of Pierryl the Younger. I still thought their proportions were ridiculous, especially after several months of anatomy studies. When we reached the top of the staircase, I paused to check over the two traders.

  The younger one had come up the steps quietly, and that bothered me. So did the fact that neither was breathing any faster. I edged to one side, and gestured. “To the right, traders.”

  “Go on!” snapped Toulon. “We’re not here to admire empty stone walls.”

  I raised full shields before I led them down the east corridor to the fourth doorway, where I stopped and stepped aside. I rapped on Councilor Reyner’s study door. “Messenger Rhennthyl announcing Tuolon D’Spice and Trader Karmeryn D’Essence to see Councilor Reyner.”

  “You may escort them in, messenger.”

  “You can go now, fellow,” said the heavyset and dark-bearded factor.

  “I’m to stay with you until you leave.” I smiled politely.

  “My golds pay for whatever you make, fellow, and I say that-”

  At that moment, I turned slightly and did my best to image-project absolute strength.

  The other trader’s elbow went into the bigger man’s ribs, and he said quietly. “They’re guards, Tuolon. To protect the councilors.”

  “My business is with the councilor, not for everyone to hear.”

  “That is for the councilor to decide, honored trader,” I replied.

  Because I didn’t like Tuolon, I was prepared with two possible imagings as I opened the study door. As taught, I stepped half inside, but to one side, my eyes on the two traders.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would remain, messenger.” Reyner’s light brown hair was shot with gray, and he wore the pale blue stole-vest of a councilor over a thin but fine cotton short jacket. His eyes never looked in my direction, but at the tall spice trader.

  Tuolon bowed, and his hands went to his waist.

  I imaged an invisible shield between the two and the councilor. Even angled as it was, a lesson from Maitre Dyana, I was jerked off balance by the impact of the bullet on the shield.

  The smaller man had not even looked at Reyner but was lunging at me with a knife. I wasn’t quite fast enough, and the blade hit my shields. That stopped him short, and the hesitation was enough for me to image caustic into his eyes and the lower part of his heart. He doubled over in agony.

  Tuolon had turned the pistol in my direction, but I imaged iron into the barrel, and my shields channeled the metal of the explosion across his chest. He toppled forward.

  “Guards to Councilor Reyner’s chamber! Guards!”

  I didn’t move toward the taller figure or the shorter one, who was still writhing on the floor, but just held my shields to separate them from me and the councilor.

  Reyner took out a cloth and blotted his forehead. He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  The shorter figure stopped twitching, but he was still breathing.

  “The taller one looks like Tuolon. He even acted as obnoxious as Tuolon did.”

  Two huge black-clad obdurate guards burst through the door, followed by Baratyn. He glanced at the councilor, then at me, then at the pair on the floor. “Take them below.”

  In instants, both figures were trussed and carted away.

  The councilor blotted his forehead again. “I’d heard . . . but never . . .” He shook his head.

  “By your leave, Councilor.”
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  “You have my leave.”

  Baratyn said nothing until we were out in the hall. “You sensed something, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir . . . but they didn’t do anything until the door was open.”

  He nodded. “Professionals. We’ll be seeing more of them.” He studied me. “What you did takes strength, and I’d wager you didn’t eat enough breakfast. Go down to the kitchen and get something to eat. Otherwise you’ll be shaking all over in a glass.”

  I didn’t argue. I already felt unsteady.

  “When you feel stronger, come find me.”

  “Yes, sir.” I headed down to the kitchen, by the northeast circular staircase.

  As I entered, one of the servers looked at me. “Sir . . . you can sit over there. I’ll get something for you right away.”

  I could hear her as she said to another server. “Must be trouble upstairs . . . come down here that pale . . . has to be the new security . . .”

  “. . . times when the Council comes back, something happens . . . don’t say anything . . .”

  In moments, there was a platter before me, with a slice of beef, an end cut already cooked enough to eat, with bread and cheese, and a mug of ale. “Sorry there’s not more hot, sir.”

  “I understand, and I thank you.”

  After she left, I began to eat, and within a few mouthfuls the shakiness vanished. Even so, I ate everything on the platter and finished the ale. By then, I felt normal, and I made my way back up the stairs to the main level. I knocked on Baratyn’s door, but he didn’t reply. So I went to the messengers’ study. It was empty, and I was glad for that, since I didn’t want to explain what had happened.

  Basyl was the first to return, and he sat down on the other bench and nodded. “Busy out there . . . and hot.”

  I nodded back. “Warmer than I’d like, especially outside.”

  I couldn’t have been sitting there more than a tenth of a glass when Baratyn peered in. “Rhenn . . . good.” He gestured.

  I followed him to his study, where he closed the door and turned to me. “Don’t worry about it. There’s an attempt like that about every other time the Council returns from recess.”

  “I don’t know that I handled it that well. I thought I was ready.”

  “You were ready enough. You kept the councilor from being hurt, and no one knows what really happened. If anyone asks, the story is simple. You knocked one assassin into the other and when he fired, his pistol exploded.”

  That was true enough, so far as it went. “What about the one who was alive?”

  “He’s still alive, but he was just a hired blade. He’s already admitted that he’d been paid to kill the assassin if it looked like they’d be captured. His fee went to his wife. He claims she’s crippled, and he won’t say where he’s from. So far.” Baratyn studied me. “You ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He handed me a pasteboard. I took it. The name on it was Khatyn, Master D’Artisan, and the name and seal beneath were those of Councilor Sebatyon, a lumber factor from Mantes.

  I walked back out to the gatehouse, at a deliberate pace, but not rushing.

  Master Khatyn was a gray-haired man who only came to my shoulder, but he was wiry and moved with a spring in his step. Before all that long I was standing at the second door on the upper level in the west corridor announcing Master Khatyn. Despite my feelings that Khatyn was not a danger, I was more than ready as I opened the door and escorted him in.

  “Honored councilor.” Khatyn inclined his head, although his eyes flicked toward me.

  “The messenger stays. I prefer not to hear anything that cannot be said before him,” added Sebatyon. “What is your concern?”

  “My family has made fine furniture for generations, but those who wish the finest also wish the finest in woods, and many of those woods do not grow in Solidar.”

  “That’s true,” replied the councilor.

  “Honored councilor, there is an embargo against any woods from Caenen.” Khatyn shrugged helplessly, as if his point were more than clear.

  “This is also true. We prefer not to reward Caenen when the Caenenans fire upon our ships. They’ve sunk two merchanters.”

  “Honored councilor, the wood itself costs but a fraction of what we make, and even of the taxes we pay. I would not wish our merchanters to be endangered, but what harm is there if I buy wood from an Abiertan trader, or from a Solidaran who bought it elsewhere? The timber is there. It is already cut. It will be sold somewhere. No additional golds go to Caena.”

  “Can you not make fine furniture with other woods?”

  “I can make fine furniture out of many woods, honored councilor, but without the finest of woods, I cannot expect it to sell, no matter how good the crafting.”

  “You are asking me to seek an exception to the embargo?”

  “Only for the rare fine woods, sir. Without those, much of our work will not sell, and we will not be able to purchase the fine woods from here in Solidar that go with imported woods.”

  “You are telling me that there is no way . . .”

  Khatyn shook his head. “There are smugglers, but the tariff agents of Solidar know that any rosewood or ebony comes from Caenen, and those fines and the years in prison would destroy me.”

  “I understand your concerns, Master Khatyn, but if I support an exemption for you, how could I not support one for the spice merchants, or the essence traders, or satinrope makers? Before long, there would be no embargo, and Caenen would suffer nothing.”

  “Honored councilor,” replied Khatyn, “they suffer little or nothing now. Those goods are still sold, and we must make do with less. We are the ones who suffer.”

  “I can only promise that I will make sure your points about the suffering of the crafters of Solidar do come before the Council. That is all that I can offer now.”

  “That is all that I will ask, then.” Khatyn’s smile was ironic. “I thank you for hearing me out, honored councilor.”

  After I escorted Khatyn back to the main gate, I took an essence importer to Reyner. The councilor did not even acknowledge me, except by title. The second visit was far more like that of Khatyn to Sebatyon, with a written petition, this time against the embargo of tropical oils.

  That was how the remainder of the day proceeded, escorting master crafters, traders, and factors to various councilors. Along the way, I got a quick lunch, and during a brief respite in midafternoon, Celista told me that a petitioner headed to see Councilor Glendyl had slipped outside the councilor’s study and cracked his skull on the stones. I wished I’d been that quick-thinking, and wondered whether Dartazn or Martyl had managed that.

  When fourth glass rang, the Chateau was closed to petitioners and all outsiders, but it was a good half glass later before they had all been escorted from the Chateau, and close to fifth glass before Martyl, Dartazn, and I took the unmarked duty coach back to Imagisle.

  “A little more action today,” said Martyl, “at least for you two.”

  “Complaining or relieved?” asked Dartazn.

  “Relieved. There’s always the chance that matters won’t go as they should.”

  They certainly hadn’t with me, but I just nodded. “This will go on until Jeudi?”

  “Tomorrow will be about the same,” replied Dartazn, “but Meredi will be slower.”

  “That’s if it’s like the last few years,” added Martyl.

  As soon as I got back to the Collegium, late that afternoon, I hurried to Master Dichartyn’s study and rapped on the door. There was no response. While that didn’t surprise me, I did want to talk to him. So I headed back to the reception foyer.

  A young imager was at the desk, and he looked up as I neared. “Sir?”

  “Are you Beleart?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m Rhennthyl, and I was looking for Master Dichartyn. I needed to convey some information to him.”

  “Yes, sir. He didn’t say when he’d be back.”

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p; “If you’d tell him. I’ll keep trying.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’d barely walked into my chambers and seated myself at the writing desk when there was a rap on the door. I decided on full shields before I opened it. A very frightened, very young fellow in imager gray looked up at me. “Sir . . . if you’d not . . . mind . . . Master Dichartyn is in his study and will be for a short time . . .”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  The young prime trailed me all the way back, then slipped away when Master Dichartyn opened his study door.

  “Come in, Rhenn.”

  Stacks of papers filled Master Dichartyn’s desktop. I couldn’t help looking. I’d never seen more than a paper or two.

  “Yes?” His voice was curt, as he settled back behind the desk. He nodded toward the door. “You had something urgent?”

  I leaned back and closed the door.

  “Puzzling, sir, and you’ve always stressed caution. I was working on my other assignment over the weekend, sir . . .” I explained what I’d done and what I’d discovered, and described the man who trailed me. “. . . and you’d said that I should eliminate suspects as I could. I’d thought if I could meet this Thelal . . .”

  “I’m glad you talked to me. We do have an arrangement with the patrollers for certain kinds of information. They may be able to locate Thelal more quickly than you can, especially if he indeed does have a weakness for the plonk. I’ll have them see what they can tell us.” He paused, and jotted down a few words on a sheet of paper. “Tell me what you’ve learned by trying to track down who shot you.”

  What had I learned? “It’s not easy, and it takes time. And one thing leads to another.”

  “Why do you think you’ve been assigned to look into your own shooting?”

  “Because I’ll have a greater interest in it?”

  “Partly. Also because if you don’t, that indicates a certain weakness in dealing with the unpleasant. When it’s your life that’s involved, you’re more likely to learn as much as you can. If you don’t, then you’re not meant to be a master. Even if you are, you don’t know enough yet. That’s not your fault. No one of your age does.”