L. Modesitt - Imager's challenge

“You think all of these are linked together?” asked Seliora.

“The shots at me and the riot might be linked. I can’t believe Commander Artois or the subcommander would be involved in the riot, but I feel there’s a reason behind my being assigned to observe Mardoyt.”

“The obvious reason is that Mardoyt is getting to be a problem, and that the commander wants you to discover something so that the blame falls on you,” said Diestra.

“That was my feeling. I thought that Horazt might know something about Mardoyt, and he certainly should be able to tell me about the riot.”

“Arranging such a meeting would not be impossible,” mused Diestra, “but would it be wise? Why would he agree?”

“He needs to show he has control, even contacts. I can tell him about his young cousin. He might even care.”

“Already, you are cynical.” Diestra’s words were dry.

“I’d also like advice from both of you on dealing with Mardoyt and all the things I need to watch out for.”

“The easiest thing,” began the gray-haired Pharsi woman, “is to arrange the meeting with Horazt. Between your position and our interest, he would rather have us owing him than the other way around. How is the boy-his young cousin-doing?”

“He seems to be all right. I’ve been watching from the background, and talking to him once or twice a week. Some of the other primes are watching out for him as well.”

“That is good. Betara and I can also make a few inquiries about the riot. That will seem natural, and we can also see if Staelia has overheard anything. The shootings of an imager are not something we should ask about. Such questions from us will do you more harm than good.”

“I can see that.”

“Mardoyt is another question. Whatever he asks of you, only do what the procedures demand. Nothing else. Be most polite. If he feels slighted, you will become his enemy. You must learn with whom he works. I would suggest that you play the role you can play so well, young Rhenn. That is of the eager young imager who wants to learn and not to offend. Just keep thanking him for every insight and bit of information. But do not ever trust him, even on the slightest of matters. He is doubtless well aware of the weaknesses of imagers.” A crooked smile crossed her lips. “It is unlikely that he will do anything wrong or improper while you are around, but that does not mean he will not do such.”

That meant I’d have to find evidence of some sort, and Mardoyt didn’t sound like someone who left many tracks.

“If that is all, you two can go and leave an old woman in peace.” The words were said with a smile.

“Thank you.” I stood and bowed to her.

Seliora did not say anything until we were out in the upper hallway, with no one close by. “You didn’t tell Grandmama Diestra everything, did you?”

I shook my head. “We-the imagers-have another problem. Someone is shooting junior imagers. Whether it’s a group of assassins, or whether someone has offered a bounty for every dead imager, no one knows, but it’s happening.”

“Most people feel the same way about imagers and Pharsis.”

“That may be, but over the past year, they’ve killed over twenty young imagers-that’s about half the number the Collegium finds every year. If someone shot half the Pharsis born in a given year, Solidar would be in shambles.”

For a moment, Seliora just stood there in the foyer. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

“I didn’t either, until Ferlyn pointed it out this morning at breakfast. There’s another problem-”

“Announcing it will just make matters worse.”

I nodded.

“You’re going to ask Horazt, aren’t you?”

“I’d thought to. I could bring up the fact that I’d like to resolve the problem before Shault is free to leave Imagisle.”

“That might work.” She paused. “If you don’t find anything, Mama and Grandmama could ask if anyone’s been promising payoffs for shootings, without mentioning imagers. They might find something. If they don’t . . . doesn’t that suggest it’s someone like the Ferran who was after you?”

“It wouldn’t be absolute, but it would seem more likely.”

“Good! I’ll talk to them.” She looked directly at me. “We’ve both had long weeks. Can we not talk about them and enjoy dinner?”

“Absolutely. That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard.” With that, I offered her my arm, and we walked down the staircases.

Bhenyt had hailed a hack, and it was waiting. I slipped him a copper. More, and the family wouldn’t have approved. He grinned at me as I offered Seliora a hand getting into the hack.

“Azeyd’s,” I told the hacker.

“Azeyd’s it is, sir.”

Once inside the coach, I turned sideways to face Seliora. “I am sorry . . .”

“Are you sorry you did it? Or sorry you upset me?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I accept. You did need to talk to her, but there was time to tell me that was what you needed.”

I understood all too well. Offering an apology for a necessary act was hypocrisy, but not apologizing for a rude approach to the necessary was unforgivable. Since I had apologized . . . all was well. I hoped.

Azeyd’s was located on a side street without a name off Nordroad, some three blocks to the west of Guild Square. The outside was unprepossessing, just a dark red set of double doors in a yellow brick facade, bound in brass under a short awning and flanked on each side by a set of two narrow windows filled with leaded glass panes that were anything but recent in style or construction.

After helping Seliora from the hack and opening the door, I followed her into the restaurant. The woman standing at the far side of the small foyer tiled in large red and black squares looked to Seliora. “Ah . . . Mistress D’Shelim.” Then she looked to me, her eyes clearly measuring me and the imager grays that I wore. “Sir.”

“This is Imager Master Rhennthyl. He’s a friend of the family.” Seliora smiled demurely. “He’s an even better friend of mine.”

“Then he is certainly welcome here.” Her smile to me was warm, yet wary, before she turned and led us to the right into a narrow and long room that held two rows of tables-four on one side and five on the other, each row set against a pale tan plastered wall.

The wall was decorated with a form of art I’d never seen before-thin strips of colored leather braided and worked into designs, ranging in size from a diamond shape less than ten digits on an edge to a leather mosaic mural almost two yards wide and two-thirds of a yard high. The mural showed Pharsi riders charging a line of musket-bearing foot soldiers.

“The battle of Khelgror,” Seliora murmured. “The last stand of the Khelan Pharsi against the Bovarians.”

“Here you are,” offered the hostess, gesturing to an oval table against the inside wall.

“Thank you.” Seliora and I spoke almost simultaneously.

A single bronze lamp hung from a bronze chain, positioned about a yard above the center of the table. The linens were red, and a single slate sat on a polished black wooden stand set near the plaster wall and facing outward.

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

“Have you ever had Enazai? It’s a traditional ice wine, powerful, but served before a meal.” She paused. “Father claims that’s because, after drinking it, no one cared what the food tasted like.”

“I should try it.”

“Two.” Seliora nodded to the hostess, who slipped away.

I looked over the menu chalked on the slate. “How is the Bertetia? What is it?”

“Cow stomach marinated for months, sliced and fermented, and then broiled and served with blue potatoes. Grandmama likes it. None of the rest of us have tried it more than once.”