L. Modesitt - Imager

“I’m all right,” I called.

Then I walked to the hack. “I was a bit clumsy there. The Bridge of Hopes, if you will.”

The driver’s mouth opened, then shut. Finally, he said, “The Bridge of Hopes. Yes, sir.”

At that, I climbed into the hack, still holding my shields and making certain that Seliora had closed the door.

Why had the assassin waited to shoot? And what had he used?

The only explanation I could come up with was that he wanted a witness of some sort. Either that or he’d had trouble with his weapon, and that didn’t seem all that likely.

I didn’t let down my shields until I was back in my quarters with the lock and bolt secured. I hoped I’d be able to sleep.

I woke up early on Solayi and immediately wrote a quick note to Seliora, reassuring her that I was unharmed and fine. Then I wrote a letter of thanks to her parents, even though I’d be able to post neither until Lundi. Almost none of the seconds and thirds were at breakfast, and I ate quickly and alone, then made my way to the library-in the building adjacent to the dining hall. I’d been there only a handful of times, basically to find out things for my essays for either Master Jhulian or Master Dichartyn.

The front foyer was dark, unlit, but the door was unlocked. That bothered me for a moment. Then I laughed. There wasn’t any point in locking it, not in the middle of the Collegium. It would be difficult for an outsider to steal the volumes, and any insider who did risked so much that even the densest young imager would think twice.

In the dimness, it took me close to half a glass to find the D’Shendael book- On Art and Society. I could have lit the lamps, but since I didn’t know where to look, and the library wasn’t that dark, I would have spent even more time lighting than looking, and then I’d have had to snuff them all. I glanced at the title page and the dedication. It was merely to “The nameless artist who has made us who we are.”

High Holder or not, I felt sorry for her.

I took the book with me, but I remembered to write it down on the check-out list before I carried it back to my quarters and began to read. I leafed through the pages, skipping over them. Still, I found myself caught by an occasional sentence or phrase.

Not only does the value of art to a society indicate that society’s type and degree of civilization, but so also do the uses of art which are valued and those which are not, and the placement of each in the daily functions of that society . . .

The finest of lines separates the most inspiring and beautiful of art from that which is self-indulgent and decadent. . .

All art is political. Thus, an artist may support a society, oppose it, or stand outside it. Those who support are naive or sycophantic; those who oppose are fools; and those who stand outside are hated by all. . .

After spending more time than I probably should have reading the book, I went to lunch, thinking that at least I could tell Khethila that I’d read a work of Madame D’Shendael.

The dining hall was even more deserted at lunch. I doubted that there were more than a score of imagers, and I thought I was the only third. After eating, I decided to risk matters. I returned to my quarters, slipped the letters into the inside pocket of my summer waistcoat, and set out. Remembering Seliora’s cautions, especially after the night before, I raised full shields as I left the quadrangle. The day was far cooler with scattered clouds, some of them a dark gray that suggested a real possibility of rain later in the afternoon. Within less than a quarter glass I had walked over the Bridge of Desires, hailed a hack, and was on my way to NordEste Design, hopefully to see Seliora.

No one shot at me when I got out of the hack and walked up the steps . . . and lifted and dropped the knocker-twice. I heard muffled footsteps, and, after several moments, Bhenyt and the twins opened the door.

“Master Rhennthyl, please come in,” offered Bhenyt formally.

I didn’t want to correct him. I just said, “Thank you.”

“He’s here, Aunt Seliora!” called Hanahra, or maybe it was Hestya. They were both smiling, as only girls who are almost women can smile a knowing smile that they feel but do not truly yet understand.

Seliora stood on the edge of the maroon Joharan carpet in the second-level entry foyer-alone except for Bhenyt and the twins. She was dressed less formally, in white linen trousers and a blouse, with a navy blue linen vest. She still looked lovely.

I stepped forward, stopping short of sweeping her into my arms.

“I thought you might come . . . after last night. I was certain you were hit by the bullets. I felt you weren’t wounded, but I still worried.”

I extracted the note from the inside pocket of the summer waistcoat. “I wrote a note, but I decided that delivering it personally was better. Even if you weren’t here, someone would be able to let you know I was well.”

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

Someone uttered a sound half between a giggle and a cough.

“Oh . . . since I’m here, would you give this to your parents.” I handed her the other letter.

She took it and turned to the entourage. “You’ve all seen that he’s here. Now you may go.” Even though she smiled, there was cold iron behind the words.

“Yes, Aunt Seliora,” the twins said, inclining their heads and not quite skipping toward the far end of the entry foyer. Bhenyt followed, then ducked into a doorway on the left.

“The twins called you ‘aunt.’ I thought they were Odelia’s sisters.”

“They are, but they always saw me as an aunt, and now it’s a habit, even for Bhenyt. Methyr thinks it’s funny.” Her face twisted into a wry smile. “He’s like all younger brothers . . . difficult.”

“I’ve never seen or heard . . . Aegina’s husband.” I wasn’t quite certain how to phrase that.

“He was murdered five years ago.”

I had to wonder how Grandmama Diestra took to having one of her daughters’ husbands killed.

“Grandmama was not pleased. Neither were a few others, when she was finished.”

“Ah . . . what happened?”

“Their dwellings caught fire. They died, but they were heroes because they died saving most of their families . . . except one older boy who was in the family . . . enterprises. He was also a hero. Grandmama paid for their funerals.” She gestured toward the archway that led to the staircase. “We should go up to the east terrace. It will be empty, and since you’ve come so far, I’m sure you’d like to rest.” She grinned. “I’d wager that it won’t be a quarter glass before either Aunt Aegina, Odelia, or Mother arrives with some refreshments.”

“Your chaperones are always so kind and thoughtful.” I laughed as I accompanied her to the stairs.

We did enjoy a longer embrace on the landing halfway up.

The east terrace door was already propped open, and I had the sense that someone had left not too long before, a reminder that Seliora belonged to a family where there were few secrets among them, but where little went beyond the family. That realization concerned me, because I was being made almost part of the family.

I turned to her. “Is Kolasyn as warmly treated by the family?”

“He’s a very nice person, kind and good,” replied Seliora.

That was an answer. “Why me?”

“Because.” That mischievous smile appeared for a moment.

I waited.

“We’re linked . . . somehow . . . and we have to find out how.”

“Pharsi far-seeing?”

“Grandmama, Mother, and I all sense it.”

That was another answer, and a chilling one, in a way.