L. E.Modesitt - Imager’s Intrigue

“He’s a Patrol Captain. He’s here about Kearyk. I told you it wasn’t an accident. I told you he didn’t kill himself. So did Kleinryk.”

Why would Kearyk want to kill himself? “Why didn’t you think his death was an accident?”

“He didn’t like the water. He was always afraid of it. He was a good boy…a good man. Handsome as he was, he was kind and gentle,” said Giseylle.

“He was the oldest, wasn’t he? But you sent him all the way through grammaire. He didn’t join you here in the bakery.”

“He didn’t want to be a baker,” Rykker said.

“He did well at grammaire, and he was a very good clerk. He never got married, though, and he lived with you.” I had an idea, but I wanted to see if their reaction would support it.

The two exchanged glances.

“He had a very fine hand,” I added. “I’ve seen some of what he wrote. Did he leave any indication that he was discouraged or upset before he drowned?”

“No.”

“When did you see him last? The night before he died?”

They looked at each other again. I waited.

“No,” she finally replied. “He did not stay here all the time.”

“He never stayed here,” added Rykker. “He had a friend.”

“Do you know her name? I’d like to talk to her. It’s important.” I doubted strongly that the friend was female, but I could have been wrong.

“His name is Lacques. He’s a…street artist,” replied Giseylle.

“A chalker?” I asked. “Do you know where I could find him?”

“Him?” Rykker snorted. “He practices his…art…all around the Plaza D’Este.”

“Kearyk never told us where he lived,” added Giseylle.

“Did Kearyk ever say anything that suggested he might be in any sort of trouble?” I pressed.

“He never talked about his work,” replied the mother.

“Numbers and figures…I wish he had stayed here,” said Rykker. “He was good with the pastries, but he said he didn’t like it.”

I talked with them for three-quarters of a glass, but I didn’t learn any more about why Kearyk drowned…or had been drowned. They did show me a miniature portrait of him, and it showed an extremely handsome young man with short curly blond hair and fine features.

After that I walked up North Middle toward the Plaza D’Nord, thinking over what I’d found out so far, and studying the neighborhood. I was a block from the Plaza when a patroller stepped from a side street-Silvers Lane-and hailed me.

“Captain Rhennthyl!”

I turned, but didn’t recognize the man. “Yes?”

“Sir…I just wondered…”

“I’m over here to talk to someone who might be a witness in a case that happened the other day in Third District.” I didn’t want to explain even that much, but refusing to say anything would have suggested I was up to no good, rather than just trying to avoid burdensome procedures.

“Oh…yes, sir.”

I smiled politely. “If anyone has any questions, they know where to find me.”

“Yes, sir.” He stepped away.

I kept walking.

It wasn’t hard to find Lacques, a thin blond man with short curly beard and a receding hairline. Not only was he one of the few chalkers around in late morning, but he had just finished signing a long mural on the stone in front of a boarded-up building a half block off the Plaza. He saw the uniform and stiffened.

“I wouldn’t run, Lacques. I’m also an imager. Besides, I only want to ask you a few questions.

His eyes took in the imager emblem on my cap and the pin on my grays. He didn’t relax, much as he slouched as I walked toward him. I looked over the chalk drawing of an abandoned building, with a figure peering over broken and uneven stones. The figure had a face that was split into two sides. One side showed a cherubic blond young man with an innocent blue eye and a happy half-smile framed with pinkish lips. The other side of the face depicted an angular and hard-eyed young woman with high cheekbones and a deep-set eye with a black iris. Her hair was swept back and curled over a bare shoulder, her mouth outlined in slashing red. It wasn’t bad.

“Did you ever study with a Guild artist?”

“Those pretenders?”

“Hand me the red and the pink chalks,” I said.

He frowned.

“I’ll give them back.”

After a moment, he handed them over.

It took me longer than I’d thought it would, but when I finished, the female half-face of the figure held a rose, with its green stem caught by white teeth, a single drop of blood seeming to hang in mid-air above the uncovered shoulder. I handed back the green chalk. “I think that fits in with what you had in mind.”

He looked at the rose and then at me.

“Some of the Guild artists aren’t pretenders.” I couldn’t deny that there were some, like Aurelean, who had aspects of pretenders, because Aurelean was a competent artist who pretended he was great.

“You…oh…you’re the one.”

I didn’t bother to ask for a clarification. We both knew what he meant.

“I understand you were a very good friend of Kearyk. Why did he drown?”

“He didn’t drown. I walked all the way down to Patrol headquarters. I told them he was drowned.” Lacques’s voice turned bitter. “They didn’t listen.”

“Do you remember who didn’t listen?”

“It was a patroller. He said his name was Merolyn.”

Merolyn was Cydarth’s assistant. “What else did he say?”

“He said he appreciated my concern, but the body showed no signs of anything but drowning. There were no wounds, no bruises.” Lacques shook his head. “There wouldn’t be. Kearyk was terrified of water. He wouldn’t even walk on the river side of the promenade. All anyone had to do was carry him to a bridge or somewhere on the river where the water was deep, and he would have drowned.”

“What else did the patroller say?”

“He started asking about why I was interested. I knew what he had in mind. If I pressed, he’d drag me in, say we had a lover’s quarrel.”

“Did you?”

Lacques shook his head. His eyes were bright. “Kearyk was supposed to meet me for dinner at Felter’s. He never showed. I never saw him again.”

“Did he ever mention that he had any troubles at the banque?”

The chalker tilted his head, and his brow furrowed. “No…well…not exactly. He did say something about the director badgering him about a ledger page missing from his desk, but it was a blank page. It bothered him. Little details, those bothered him. Fire could be raining down from Erion, and he’d be worried about whether he’d capped his inkwell tightly enough.”

At that moment, I wished I’d actually insisted on looking at the altered page that Tolsynn had mentioned. I’d have wagered that the entire page had been forged, probably carefully and over time. “Did he mention anything else?”

“No. I don’t remember anything. I just remembered that because it was so odd. A blank ledger page. Who would even care?” He shook his head again.

As with the Rykkers, I went back over everything and added questions. After half a glass, I hadn’t learned anything else.

As I walked away from Lacques, I was debating whether to get something to eat at a bistro near the Plaza because I’d sampled all of those in easy walking distance in my own district. At that moment, a hack pulled up, across the square, and a figure in the bluish grays of a patroller stepped out. He hadn’t taken three steps before I recognized Bolyet. So I just waited for him.

The Fifth District captain grinned as he walked up. “Morrsyn sent word that you were headed toward the Plaza D’Nord. I thought it might be a good idea to see what you were following. Do you care to tell me?” His tone was easy.