L. Modesitt - Imager

I listened and offered questions, just enjoying being with her and looking at her.

Then there were footsteps on the hardwood floor of the hallway from the main corridor.

“Seliora . . .?”

Betara’s words were as much a warning as an announcement.

“We’re here,” Seliora said. “We’ve just been talking.”

Betara stepped onto the terrace carrying a small tray. On it were two glasses of sparkling crystal-clear Sanietra, one of my summer wines of choice, although I hadn’t had any for a while, and a small platter holding thin slices of apple and peach, along with two napkins.

“I thought you might like a little light refreshment.”

“Thank you,” I offered.

“Oh . . . Grandmama sends her apologies. She says that, in this heat, she’s not feeling her best, but she promises she’ll meet Rhenn next week.” Betara looked to me. “You are coming?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

She laughed. “With all that has happened to you, let us hope that it doesn’t come to that.” In moments, she was gone.

I took a sip of the Sanietra. It was as cool and dry as it looked and slipped down my throat easily, leaving a faint hint of sweet lime and lilac behind. “This is good.”

“It is.” After a moment, she said, “You haven’t said what you’ve been doing.”

“Until a little more than a week ago, all I did was work on learning everything the Collegium thought I needed to know for my duties at the Chateau.” I smiled. “Then I went to work and discovered that most of it was very routine, escorting petitioners to see councilors, standing corridor watches, taking a message or two . . .”

She raised her eyebrows. “What else?”

I didn’t want to answer that directly. “You said that your family had ways of finding out things. Can you or your mother or grandmama find out about a bravo called the Ferran?”

“Was he the one who shot you?”

“No . . . and yes.”

She frowned, then asked, “They hired someone else to go after you? You didn’t tell me?”

“I couldn’t have written you, and . . . well . . . I didn’t want to come here and announce that people were still shooting at me. At least, it seems that way. Last week he-that’s the Ferran-followed me when I was trying to find out who hired the first killer. I avoided him, but I’d found out that Master Caliostrus’s brother might have been involved. So, I suspect, did he, because Thelal-that was the brother-ended up knifed dead in a tavern brawl two days later.”

“Master Caliostrus? What did he have to do with this? He’s been dead for months.”

“Some people think that the explosion that killed Master Caliostrus wasn’t an accident. I’ve heard guesses that it was intended for Ostrius, or at Master Caliostrus because Madame Caliostrus was trying to stop Caliostrus from giving coins to Thelal. She sold the ruined house and the land to Elphens. Did you know that he made master?”

“I didn’t. I’m not surprised. He always had more coins than a journeyman should.”

“His father is a High Holder, I was told.”

“Since he is not one, Elphens must be the son of a mistress . . . or less.”

“A mistress, I would guess, because High Holder Tillak wouldn’t shell out so many golds for a bastard son unless he felt something special about him or his mother.”

Seliora nodded. “What else? You still haven’t told me why people are shooting at you. When did all this happen?”

“I don’t know why. No one else seems to know, either. Yesterday, when I was on my way to my parents for that belated birthday dinner-”

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”

“It happened while you were gone. It would have sounded wrong . . . to write and mention my birthday, especially after you’ve been so good to me.” I smiled apologetically.

“Oh . . . Rhenn. You don’t . . .” Her headshake conveyed a mixture of affection and exasperation. “Go on.”

“I’d just crossed the bridge and was getting some flowers to take to my sister. I had just asked the flower seller about the Ferran, because he’d said a few words to her the week before. That was when he was talking to her so that he could follow me-but I didn’t know that until later. Yesterday, she told me that he was the Ferran, and right after that he shot at us both. He killed her. There was a civic patroller not ten yards away, and he couldn’t even see the shooter. Neither did I, but it had to be him.”

“Are you sure?”

I shrugged. “It’s either him, or I’m in even bigger trouble than I thought.”

“Do I understand that a week ago this person-the Ferran-was following you and yesterday you think he shot at you and killed the flower woman?”

“He was trying to kill us both. Me because I’m the target and her because she told me about him.”

“Why would anyone want to kill you?”

I had to shrug. “I don’t know. No one at the Collegium does, either, but it must be tied to Emanus-”

“Rhennthyl D’Imager.” Her voice was stern. “You’re only telling me bits and pieces. Tell the whole story from the beginning.”

So I did, leaving out what might reveal too much about the Collegium and my real duties.

Afterward, she looked at me and shook her head. “It has to have something to do with High Holder Ryel. A connection with Emanus doesn’t make sense. You only talked to him twice, and the first assassin tried to kill you before anyone could have known you were going to talk to him the second time.”

“I just don’t know. Master Dichartyn is convinced that’s not the way High Holders do things. That’s why I wanted to know if you could find out about the Ferran.”

“I can ask Mama. I don’t have those contacts, but Grandmama is . . . involved in many things.”

I’d already gathered that.

Then, I heard the four bells ringing. “I need to go.” I stood.

So did Seliora, gliding around the small table and putting her arms around me. I didn’t need any more encouragement.

It was a bit before we stepped apart.

“You’re coming next Samedi at half past four.” Her words weren’t a question.

“I said I wouldn’t miss it.”

“If it’s too hot, we’ll eat up on the north terrace. We often eat there in the summer and early harvest.”

“And I might meet your grandmama?”

“She said she would meet you when the time was right. I thought she meant today.”

We walked slowly down to the second level and then down to the main entry foyer. Seliora stood at the top of the steps as I made my way down the last set of steps. Someone had sent Bhenyt down and out into the street, because, by the time I stepped out of the door and walked down the steps, a hack was waiting, and Bhenyt was standing beside the stoop.

“Thank you, Bhenyt.”

“My pleasure, Master Rhennthyl.”

The ride back to the Bridge of Hopes was uneventful, but I did hold full shields when I left the coach and walked across the bridge.

Dinner was also without incident, and Dartazn and I sat with Menyard and Reynol, and we all speculated about what might happen with Caenen and Jariola, not that there was anything new in the scandal sheets. And, of course, we went to services, where, as was often so, Chorister Isola had some interesting things to say in her homily.

“. . . one of the deadly sins is that of Naming. We all talk about the snare of the Namer and praise the life and works of Rholan the Unnamer, but how often do we consider why Naming is indeed a deadly vice? There are two kinds of hunger in life. One is physical. That is based on the need for bodily nourishment, and eating too much becomes the sin of gluttony. The other hunger in life is for self-worth. All men and all women need to feel that they and what they do are of value. But just as eating to stop hunger can become gluttony when carried to excess, so the seeking of ways to show self-worth can quickly turn into Naming. A proud factor builds more and more factor-ages to prove his worth, and then he engages in practices to undermine other factors and drive them out of business. Will being the wealthiest factor in Solis, or Westisle, or even L’Excelsis prove to be enough? A High Holder, already wealthy and respected, still schemes to bring down and even ruin other High Holders to prove he is among the more powerful High Holders. A nation, such as Caenen, or Jariola, or in the past, even Solidar, wants to prove its power-and that is an extension of self-worth-and uses that power to humiliate or defeat other lands. All these are examples of Naming, seeking to exalt one’s name and reputation above others, not through honest effort, but by trying to undermine, ruin, or defeat and destroy others . . . and this is why Naming is the greatest sin of all, because the unbridled hunger for greater esteem can never be satisfied . . .”