Imager's challenge

55

After breakfast on Jeudi, since I didn’t have to report to Third District station, I returned to my quarters to go over what I’d written about Rousel . . . and to study my drawings and notes about Ryel’s estate. Then, at ninth glass I walked across the Bridge of Hopes and then slowly up the Boulevard D’Imagers until I found a hack to drive me to my parents’ house.

Khethila, dressed in a gray jacket, a green shirt, and flowing gray trousers, was the one to open the door. “Rhenn, we didn’t expect you so early.”

“I took the day off. You’re doing door duty?”

“Nellica’s helping cook.”

With all the people who might well drop by after the memorial service, that was certainly understandable. I followed her back to the family parlor, where Father sat in his chair, wearing a gray jacket he’d last donned, I thought, at his older brother’s memorial service close to ten years ago. It still fit. So did the green shirt.

Father gestured toward the trays set on the side tables. “No lunch. Eat what you need.”

Culthyn was sitting on the edge of the settee closest to the tray that held an assortment of sweet rolls.

“Culthyn . . .” Khethila’s voice was low, but warning. “Leave the rest of the rolls for Rhenn and the others.”

“All right. . . .”

Mother hurried from the kitchen. Like Father and Khethila, she wore gray and green. “Rhenn, you’re early.”

“Sometimes, I can manage that. Can I do anything?”

She glanced toward Culthyn. “Keep your brother from eating all the rolls.”

“Mother . . .” Culthyn’s voice was almost plaintive.

I looked at him.

“Don’t do that, Rhenn. Please . . . I won’t eat any more.”

“How’s Remaya?” I asked.

“She’s feeding Rheityr. Nellica will take care of him while we’re at the service.”

No one said anything profound or disturbing, and after a while Remaya joined us, holding Rheityr, who was awake and smiling. At his age, I wondered if he even knew what he was smiling about, but his bright face, showing so much of Rousel, cheered the others. Knowing what I knew, every time I looked at him, I wondered what else I could have done . . . and yet, given Johanyr and the institutionalized arrogance of the High Holders, I felt that what had happened would have been fated no matter what I’d done-unless I’d allowed myself to become Johanyr’s sycophant.

That didn’t help the way I felt.

Finally, it was time to leave for the anomen. I took my place next to Charlsyn on the driver’s seat so that the others wouldn’t be that crowded inside the coach. Given the comparative warmth of the day, with the slight overcast, I was doubtless more comfortable beside Charlsyn than I would have been inside the coach.

The ride to the Anomen D’Este wasn’t that long, only about a quint, and we arrived early enough that Charlsyn had no trouble drawing the brass-trimmed brown coach along the east side of the building, on Elsyor. Once I helped Mother and Remaya out of the coach, I took a few moments to see if Seliora happened to be in any of the coaches that had just stopped to leave those coming to the service. She wasn’t. So I hurried up the steps into the anomen.

There were already close to fifty people there, gathered near the front below the chorister’s pulpit. I caught sight of Culthyn, Khethila, and Father in the east side corridor, set off by columns, that flanked the main hall. Khethila’s dark green mourning scarf had slipped off her hair and lay across her shoulders.

“Mother? Remaya?”

“They’ll be back in a moment,” Khethila replied. “They’re fine.”

I nodded. “I’m going back near the doors to wait for Seliora.”

“You didn’t say she was coming,” Culthyn said.

I hadn’t, I realized. I just thought it would have been obvious. “I’m sorry. She wanted to come.”

“I’m glad she is,” Khethila said.

Even Father nodded to that.

I walked back toward the entrance, then waited several yards inside the open brass-bound double doors of the anomen, back far enough that people would not immediately walk up to me.

Donalt, a distant cousin of Father’s I’d met only a few times, hobbled up the stone steps, accompanied by a younger woman who might have been his daughter. Neither even glanced at me as they walked toward the front of the anomen. A handful of others, some of whose faces I recognized vaguely, followed.

Then I could see a coach pull up, and Seliora alighted, by herself, and hurried up the steps. As she neared, I could see she wore gray, with but the faintest touch of green piping on the jacket sleeves and lapels, and a dark green mourning scarf.

I stepped forward and down the steps to meet her. “I was watching for you. I thought Odelia . . .”

“It’s better this way.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “We’d better go inside.”

I didn’t question her, but I did make sure that my shields covered her as we walked back up the steps and toward the front of the anomen. Remaya, Mother, Father, Khethila, and Culthyn were standing at the front of those waiting for the service to begin.

Mother glanced back at us, then nodded to Seliora. So did Khethila. Remaya did not turn, nor did Father.

Shortly, Chorister Aknotyn stepped up to the pulpit. “We are gathered here together this afternoon in the spirit of the Nameless, in affirmation of the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do, and in celebration of the life of Rousel D’Factorius.”

The opening hymn was “The Glory of the Nameless.” I sang, but as quietly as possible. I noticed that Seliora wasn’t singing any louder, although she sounded more in tune than I did.

Then came the confession, for without confession there could be no understanding and no healing. At least, that was what I’d always been taught. In a way, I agreed, although I couldn’t have said why, especially since I wasn’t even certain I believed in the Nameless.

“We do not name You, for naming is a presumption, and we would not presume upon the creator of all that was, is, and will be. We do not pray to You, nor ask favors or recognition from You, for requesting such asks You to favor us over others who are also Your creations. Rather we confess that we always risk the sins of pride and presumption and that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we too often strive to arrogate our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our petty plans and arid achievements have meaning beyond those whom we love or over whom we have influence and power. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your nameless magnificence and that all that we are is a gift to be cherished and treasured, and that we must also respect and cherish the gifts of others, in celebration of You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”

“In peace and harmony,” came the response.

After that came the charge from Aknotyn. “Life is a gift from the Nameless, for from the glory of the Nameless do we come; through the glory of the Nameless do we live, and to that glory do we return. Our lives can only reflect and enhance that glory, as did that of Rousel, whom we honor, whom we remember, and who will live forever in our hearts and in the glory of the Nameless.”

Another hymn followed-“In the Footsteps of the Nameless.”

“When we walk the narrow way of what is always right,

when we follow all the precepts that foil the Namer’s blight . . .”

I’d never been certain that following the footsteps of the Nameless led to anything, let alone to glory, or even if the Nameless had feet, let alone footsteps, but then, I’d never been convinced of the validity of theological metaphors, either. But . . . I sang, if only because the service was for Rousel.

Then Aknotyn said, “Now we will hear from Master Rhennthyl D’Image, speaking for the family.”

Seliora reached out and squeezed my hand. I didn’t realize how cold my own hands were until the warmth of hers touched mine.

I did not take the pulpit, but walked to the topmost step of the sacristy dais, where I turned and faced the less than hundred people who had come to pay their respects to the family and to Rousel. I had to clear my throat several times before I could say anything.

“Rousel was my brother. For twenty-three years he was my brother. Over the past few years he was a wool factor, and he expanded the family business by seeking new opportunities in Kherseilles. So often that is what people remember-what others did for a living. But that was only a small part of what made Rousel special. Rousel loved life. Sometimes, when we were young, he loved it so much that chores didn’t always get done. But Rousel always understood that there would always be chores, while the joy of the moment is always fleeting and soon lost. . . .”

I went on to talk about his joys in Remaya, and in factoring, and in his son Rheityr. Somehow, I got through what I had to say and then stepped down.

Remaya was weeping, and so was Mother. I just hoped that their tears were because I’d created an image of Rousel that touched them.

Chorister Aknotyn stepped forward to the pulpit once again. “At this time, we wear gray and green, gray for the uncertainties of life, and green for its triumph, manifested every year in the coming of spring. So is it that, like nature, we come from the grayness of winter and uncertainty into life which unfolds in uncertainty, alternating between gray and green, and in the end return to the life and glory of the Nameless. In that spirit, let us offer thanks for the spirit and the life of Rousel,” intoned Chorister Aknotyn, “and let us remember him as a child, a youth, a man, a husband, and a father, not merely as a name, but as a living breathing person whose spirit touched many . . .”

At that moment, an image flashed before me-clear, instant, and then gone-of an angular figure with a rifle looking at the main doors of the Anomen D’Este.

“. . . let us set aside the gloom of mourning, and from this day forth, recall the glory of Rousel’s life and the warmth and joy he has left with us . . .”

With those words, all the women let the mourning scarves slip from their hair.

Then came the traditional closing hymn-“For the Glory.”

“For the glory, for the life,

for the beauty and the strife,

for all that is and ever shall be,

all together, through forever,

in eternal Nameless glory . . .”

As the last words of the closing hymn echoed through the anomen, I squeezed Seliora’s hand, then eased away toward the side of the chamber, hurrying toward the open doors. I stopped just inside them and surveyed the buildings across the street, especially along the roof lines, where a sniper might well be concealed. I saw no one that looked out of the ordinary.

Then, people began to depart. Some of those at the back left immediately, hurrying past me as if they had fulfilled some obligation. One of them was Ferdinand, the masonry factor. Another was his brother, Tomaz, the produce factor.

For a bit, then, no one departed. I judged that was because many of them wanted to offer condolences to Remaya and my parents, some of them at the anomen, so that they would not feel obligated to call at the house later.

After a short time, a trickle of mourners began to file out, but I didn’t see Veblynt or others I would have expected.

Before long, I could hear Culthyn’s voice. “There he is, by the doors.”

I glanced back, but didn’t see Seliora, and that bothered me, but I had the feeling that she wouldn’t be a target of an assassin. I hoped not, but I waited as my parents approached.

“Go ahead,” I said, “I’ll be right behind you.”

I looked back again, and Seliora stepped out of one of the alcoves and moved up beside me. We walked down the steps just behind my parents, Khethila, Remaya, and Culthyn. I extended shields, trying to make sure that they protected Father and Culthyn.

Something slammed into me-my shields, rather-and I barely managed not to stumble, even when a second bullet struck.

Almost without thinking, I imaged a line of caustic back along what I felt was the path of the bullets, even as I kept walking and shielding my family. Remaya never looked up, or looked in my direction.

Khethila looked back at me with a puzzled expression. “Rhenn.”

“I stumbled.” That was all I said.

“What did you do?” Seliora leaned toward me and murmured the words.

“Another assassin,” I murmured back.

Seliora looked at me. “There shouldn’t have been . . .”

I understood what she meant. “Maybe there were too many.” This time, I had no doubts who was behind the attempt, because none of the shots had been at me. All had been aimed at members of my family. The attack also confirmed that I had no choice but to carry out what I planned, because Ryel would not stop until he was stopped. Nor would Dulyk.

For that moment, though, either I’d been successful or the shooter had fled, because there were no more shots all the way to the coach. Father helped Remaya inside. She was trying to hold herself together, I could tell, so much so that she had not looked back or in any direction during the service or on the walk back to the coach.

After the others were all in the coach, except Father, I said to him quietly, “We’ll just take a hack.”

He nodded and climbed into the coach.

Seliora and I left the family coach and walked back down Elsyor for less than thirty yards to the two hackers remaining. They knew when there were memorials. We took the first coach.

Once we were inside and on our way, Seliora studied me. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“I had a flash during the service. That’s why I hurried off.”

“Grandmama thought someone might be shooting after the memorial service, but she arranged for people to be watching.”

“I’m sure they were, but there might have been another. She’ll get a report, won’t she?”

Seliora nodded, then reached out and squeezed my hand. “You spoke well and lovingly.”

“I loved Rousel. Sometimes I could have strangled him, but I still loved him, and I didn’t want anything like this to happen to him.”

“You’re worried about what someone might say at the house, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I don’t want anyone to suspect what really happened. Everyone’s suffered enough.”

She nodded.

Charlsyn was just pulling the brown coach past the portico toward the rear stable at the house when Seliora and I alighted from the hack and began to walk through the front gate and up the walk.

Remaya was standing under the portico, holding Rheityr against her shoulder and rocking him gently. She didn’t see us until we neared the front door. Then she stared, and even from yards away, I could see that she paled.

“Salari Seliora ind puitre d’esprit vengael . . .”

I couldn’t believe I heard the words, because Remaya hadn’t spoken that loudly, but more in an involuntary murmured exclamation, but I did. The only word I knew was Seliora, and that meant “daughter of the moon” in old Pharsi, something I hadn’t known until Seliora had told my parents months before.

Remaya’s words halted Seliora as well. We looked at each other, then back toward Remaya, but she had turned away and fled, almost, into the house.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“That’s an old Pharsi expression.” Seliora hesitated, then went on. “It doesn’t translate directly, but it means something like ‘Protect us from the daughter of the moon and the spear of vengeance.’ The other part’s not really in the words, but the spear of vengeance traditionally refers to Erion, the lesser moon, and the coupling of the daughter of the greater moon with the lesser moon creates the terror of combining truth and power.”

“The terror of combining truth and power,” I repeated. “Why would she say that?”

“You said she had farsight.”

“Not so much as you, but she said she’d had flashes. One was that she’d marry Rousel.”

Seliora shivered. It wasn’t that cold out.

“You two,” called Khethila from the door. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming inside?”

“We’re coming,” I replied.

One of the first people I saw when we stepped into the formal parlor was Factor Veblynt. I hadn’t seen him at the anomen, but he might have been there.

He immediately came toward us. “Master Rhennthyl, I am so sorry for you and your family. Such a tragedy for you all, especially when matters like this happen to those who are innocent.” His eyes did not quite meet mine.

“Often the worst happens to the innocent,” Seliora replied. “They don’t realize how unpredictable life can be, and they’re not prepared.”

“That is true, Mistress Seliora.” Veblynt nodded to her, then looked to me. “Did anyone ever discover the cause of the . . . accident?”

“For everyone concerned, it was a terrible accident,” I replied. “Terrible.”

“Did you know that a similar sort of incident occurred last week here in L’Excelsis?”

“I would not be surprised,” I replied. “There are far more wagons and horses here than in Kherseilles.”

“Alynat D’Ryel died racing his trap on the road last week. Rather sudden, it was. Apparently, the wheel bearings froze suddenly.”

“Alynat?” I frowned. “Wasn’t he the nephew or some such of High Holder Ryel?”

“He was. Apparently, Ryel took his death rather hard, although, interestingly enough, he has not canceled his Fall Foliage Festival on Samedi. I thought you might find that interesting.” His eyes glittered.

What I found interesting was that Veblynt had brought it up. I managed to smile. “He has a foliage festival this late in the year?”

“A whim of his,” Veblynt said with a smile that was anything but sincere. “Oh . . . I see your mother. If you would excuse me?”

Seliora looked at me. “He’s very afraid of you. He also hates Ryel. He would not have spoken so otherwise.”

“His wife must be a very close relation to Madame D’Ryel,” I said dryly.

Seliora’s eyes followed Veblynt.

After that people began to arrive, including Donalt and other relations I had not seen in years, if at all. We did not see Remaya anywhere, and I assumed she had retreated to her quarters, overwhelmed by people and grief.

Despite the close to thirty people who descended upon the house, by sixth glass everyone who was not family had left, and Charlsyn was more than ready to take Seliora back to NordEste Design and me to the Collegium. The way things were going, I wanted Seliora home safely.

“Tomorrow?” she asked.

“I could see you for dinner.”

“At home . . . that’s better until . . . for now.”

“When will you be done with work?”

“Whenever you get there.” Her smile lit up the interior of the coach.

“Between fourth and fifth glass?”

We held tightly to each other for the rest of the way to NordEste Design, and I walked her to the door, making certain my shields protected her. No one shot, not that I felt, in any case. Then I hurried back to the coach, and Charlsyn drove me to the Bridge of Hopes.

Comparatively late as it was, when I returned to the Collegium, there was a prime waiting for me at the Collegium end of the bridge.

“Master Rhennthyl?”

“Maitre Dichartyn wishes to see me?”

“Yes, sir. He’s still in his study.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t hurry, but I didn’t dawdle, either, in making my way into and through the administration building to the study with which I was all too familiar.

Dichartyn was actually sitting behind his writing desk, working on something when I stepped inside the study and closed the door. I took the chair across the desk from him.

“How were the services, Rhenn?”

“As I would have expected, sir, mainly family and close friends. Many came to my parents’ house afterward.”

He nodded. “I wanted to talk to you tonight.”

That suggested something was not well.

“I had a report on your testimony yesterday.”

There was nothing to say to that. So I didn’t.

“Actually . . .”-Master Dichartyn drew out the silence-“you handled it very well. By bringing up the Tiempran problem and bringing in the priests, you got everyone off the hook. The conscription team can’t be blamed for not knowing there were explosives there. The taudis-dwellers can’t be blamed for being pawns of the evil Tiemprans. And the marine major can’t be blamed because his superior failed to heed your warnings. Captain Harraf and his observers were quite clear that you were not trying to tell the marines what to do, but only to point out that they had not been resisted. The justice found that your account was true in all particulars. That didn’t hurt the Collegium . . . too much.” He leaned back and sighed. “That brings up what seems to be the eternal question. What exactly are we going to do with you?”

“Let me keep being a liaison,” I suggested.

“After this? You’re powerful and dangerous, and too visible to discipline publicly. Not a single officer in the Patrol would dare to order you around after all this-or even suggest that you do anything. Like it or not, the word is out that sometimes strange things happen to people who cross you. The new-sheets already have a story about how you stood up against a power-hungry scriptie officer for the poor downtrodden taudis-dwellers.” He snorted.

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t about to suggest a solution because it was clear I wasn’t suited to quiet covert work, and that Master Dichartyn knew it. I also wasn’t suited to merely observing, and he knew that as well. And I didn’t want to end up imaging machine parts, either.

“Rhennthyl, you’ve just lost a brother and survived a harrowing week in Third District. Just spend some time with your family and the young lady for the next few days. Try not to get into trouble. I’ve already sent a note to Commander Artois saying that you’ll be tied up with the Collegium for a few days. Maitre Poincaryt and I need to consider your situation.”

“Yes, sir.” I wasn’t about to argue with that.

As I walked across the quadrangle to my quarters, I kept thinking about Veblynt’s comments. Why he hated Ryel, I had no idea, but he as much as suggested that I act during the Foliage Festival. What bothered me was that was when I’d already planned to do just that.

Were Veblynt’s words a lure? Or a suggestion?

In the end, it didn’t matter. I was running out of time, and some opportunities occurred only once . . . and it was more than clear that waiting would only result in more attempts on my family-and eventually, if I did not act, more deaths.