Imager's Challenge (24 page)

After I crossed the paved courtyard and neared the wagon, Shomyr turned from the mules and their traces and surveyed me. “You look more like a factor’s son playing at being a workman.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? So long as I don’t look like an imager?”

He smiled, then walked to the back of the wagon, reached inside, and tossed me a worn, stained, and patched leather jacket. “That should help. Boots are boots, and yours are well worn, and no one looks at trousers.”

I set the drawing board on the wagon seat, on top of the paper, and pulled on the jacket, a trace snug, but I didn’t need to fasten it.

“You’re broader than you look,” Shomyr said.

I had Clovyl and Master Dichartyn to thank for that. I glanced into the interior of the wagon, empty except for a single chair, wrapped heavily in cloth.

“One of the sample chairs,” explained Seliora, coming up behind me. “In case anyone asks. That’s unlikely.”

A temporary bench seat had been wedged in place inside the wagon, but just behind the driver’s seat. That was for me.

“We might as well get rolling.”

Shomyr vaulted up onto the driver’s place, and I clambered up and inside, settling onto the bench, in the middle, where I’d be able to look out between Seliora and Shomyr. I set the drawing materials beside me as Seliora vaulted up into her seat with grace.

Shomyr drove the wagon down Nordroad and then turned northeast on the Boulevard D’Este.

“How long will it take?” I asked.

“With the wagon this light, a little more than a glass,” offered Shomyr.

“Have you ever been at Ryel’s?”

“No. We’ve driven past the grounds. High Holder Tierchyl’s chateau is on the west side of the road a bit farther out.” Seliora paused. “Will his family keep it now that he’s dead?”

“It depends on what’s left after Ryel extracts his pounds of flesh. Tierchyl’s family is probably still there for now.”

“Not for long, from what we’ve heard of Ryel,” suggested Shomyr.

“What do you recall of Ryel’s estate here?” I asked.

“It’s near the top of one of the hills to the north, the ones between the higher ground and the valley, but not at the top. At least, the chateau isn’t . . .”

I listened until Seliora and Shomyr could say no more, and then we talked more about family. I did tell Seliora that her aunt Staelia was very much her partisan.

While we conversed, Shomyr drove on, through the Plaza D’Nord and along the boulevard for another mille before turning due north on an unmarked but well-paved road.

“To find those with golds, just follow the best roads,” Shomyr said cheerfully.

“Or the worst roads with the deepest ruts,” countered Seliora.

Before all that long, as the wagon began to head down a gentle slope, Shomyr nodded. “There it is, on the hill ahead, the right side, in the middle of the walls.”

I immediately put a sheet of paper on the drawing board and began to study the grounds framed by the wall. The chateau was set on the east side of the road, and dominated the gentler slope just below the hilltop, the building itself a good three hundred yards from end to end. It made the Council Chateau look tiny by comparison, and I would have guessed that it well might be smaller than Ryel’s chateau on his main holding north of Rivages. A gray stone wall a little more than two yards high extended around the grounds.

I began to sketch, not wanting to waste a moment, since I was imposing on both Seliora and Shomyr.

From what I could tell as we approached, the structure was laid out in a “Y” shape, with the base of the Y running parallel to the road. The southern extension ended at what looked to be a cliff—one created artificially by digging away the hillside and running a solid stone foundation straight up. A squarish tower was set on the southern-most section of the terrace overlooking the gardens and valley. It appeared no more than five yards on a side, but rose another three levels above the roofed and pillared but otherwise open terrace.

“You could see all the way to Imagisle from the top of the tower,” I observed.

“I’m certain that’s the point,” replied Shomyr. “The terrace offers almost as good a view, and the extensions of the roof allow one to sit there in the late afternoon without getting that warm. They’ll doubtless have shades or screens for the time around sunset.”

I kept sketching as quickly as I could, trying to put in the various buildings in a quick diagram of where everything was located in respect to the walls and the gates, and the curving drive from the gates leading to the covered front portico looked as though it fronted a gallery or a grand salon stretching across the west side of the chateau.

Shomyr let the mules take their time plodding up the relatively gentle, if long, slope. Neither he nor Seliora spoke as I drew.

Once we passed the gates, I scrambled to the back of the wagon and continued my work. The gates were simple but heavy iron grilles, without even a crest or coat of arms on them. Two heavy iron bars on the inside secured the gates. The stone pillars anchoring them rose almost a yard above the top of the adjoining wall. There was no exterior gate house, but I could see the shape of one against the wall and just inside the gates. The paved drive was wide enough for two carriages abreast and curved northward to the portico, then circled back eastward to rejoin itself. In the middle of that circle was a miniature garden, with a fountain statue in the center, although I could not make out the figure in any detail. The ground to the north continued to slope upward. Against the northern wall, some four hundred yards uphill, was a curved stone structure that puzzled me for a moment, until I realized that it had to be some sort of cistern or water reservoir, feeding both the chateau and the fountain, and the water source was probably a spring or a stream even farther uphill.

“There’s a turnout at the top of the hill. I can stop there for a bit. That would seem natural,” Shomyr said.

“I’d like that.”

I couldn’t see all of the chateau from the turnout, but since the wagon was barely visible from below, I took my time—almost a glass—before I told Shomyr that I had what I needed.

He turned the wagon back around and headed slowly downhill—as would any teamster.

I kept drawing and filling in all the details that I could. In fact, I drew all the way back. When we pulled up in the courtyard of NordEste Design, it was just past fourth glass. Dark clouds were massing to the northwest, and the wind had turned chill.

Once the wagon stopped and Shomyr set the brake, Seliora turned in the seat. “Could I see?”

“Of course.” I showed her the first sketch, which was almost a diagram of where all the buildings were, then the others in turn.

Shomyr looked at the sketches as well, then shook his head. “I didn’t see half of that.”

“It takes practice. Master Caliostrus would put an arrangement of fruit or something on a table, and tell me to look at it carefully. Then he’d remove it all, and make me draw it from memory. He got most upset if I left something out. You practice like that for seven years, and you get very good at noticing details.” Unless it was something that I hadn’t looked at that way, or hadn’t known how to study when I’d last seen it—like the back of the factorage.

“Can I help with the wagon?” I asked.

Shomyr shook his head. “You need to change and get back, don’t you?”

“I have some time.”

“That’s all right.” Shomyr nodded to his sister.

Seliora took my arm, not saying anything until we were farther away. “He’s happy to be able to help. He’s also pleased that you offered to do what you could with the wagon, but he likes to handle things in his own way.”

I could understand that.

“You go change,” she added, “and then we can talk, can’t we?”

“For a little,” I admitted.

She used a heavy key to unlock the door at the top of the steps, then locked it behind us. Once we were in the main foyer, she turned to me. “Go change. I’ll wait here.” She took off the scarf and shook out her hair.

For a moment, I just admired her, then headed for the stairs, carrying the drawing board and all the sketches. When I finished changing and made my way back down to her, carrying my bag filled with exercise clothes and the sketches, she had two mugs of hot tea and a plate of biscuits waiting on a side table flanked by two chairs.

“How did you manage that so quickly?” I asked, settling into the chair across from her.

“I didn’t. Mother did. She was watching for our return.”

“You and your family . . . you’re all remarkable.” I paused. “Thank you for today. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” I took a sip of the tea, a small sip. It was hot, very hot. “If I could ride, it would have been easier.”

“You can’t?” She grinned. “We should teach you.”

“You can ride as well?”

“Why wouldn’t I be able to? I used to ride messages for Papa when I was little.”

“I should learn . . .”

“Good. Next week, we’ll put you on the mare.”

“Just like that?”

“You can’t ride without getting on a horse, Rhenn.”

She had a point there.

Her eyes met mine, and she smiled, if briefly, before asking quietly, “After today, what will you do?”

“Keep trying to find out enough to know how to deal with an arrogant High Holder in a way that threatens no one else.” Or overtly involved the Collegium.

“If anything happens to Ryel, won’t his son . . . ?”

“And his nephew. The possibility that they might is part of the problem.”

“That’s like Pharsi revenge. Sometimes it never ends.” She looked at me. “Unless there’s no one left to carry on.”

“I hope it doesn’t have to go that far.” I didn’t want to think about that for the moment, or about Pharsi revenge . . . or even bring up the pistol incident. “The biscuits are good.” I paused. “Do you want to start on the portrait next Samedi? Can you?”

She nodded, her mouth full, then smiled.

I took another sip of hot tea.

Lundi morning was such a rush that even by taking a duty coach, doubtless stretching the rules, I barely reached the District Three station by seventh glass. The station was anything but impressive, a one-story building whose once-yellow bricks had turned a grayish tan under the impact of time and grime, an impression not helped by the narrow barred windows, or by the overcast and low clouds. I walked quickly through open double doors of the single entrance. They were battered and iron bound oak with equally ancient heavy iron inside hinges.

A young patroller with circles under his eyes looked up from the high and narrow desk set against the wall on the right, then stiffened. “Sir . . . you’re Master Rhennthyl? Captain Harraf is expecting you. The first door there.” He gestured.

“Thank you.”

Two other patrollers on the far side of the open space inside the doors that could have been called an anteroom made a show of checking their equipment, but I could feel their eyes on my back as I walked past the duty patroller, then pushed through the already half-open door and stepped into the small study, little more than three yards by four. Captain Harraf was a small man, not much more than to my shoulder, with bright black eyes that protruded slightly, and short jet-black hair. His pale blue uniform was spotless, as was the top of the desk he stood beside—with the exception of an oblong of folded heavy bluish gray cloth. “Master Rhennthyl.”

I inclined my head. “Captain Harraf.”

“I’m glad to see that you’re the kind who takes punctuality seriously.”

“I’m glad to be here.”

“We’ll see how you feel in a few weeks.”

A few weeks—with the implication of a longer time than that? That gave me a definitely uneasy feeling, because Third District was the most dangerous district in L’Excelsis.

“Before I offer you an assignment, I want to be clear on several points. You can’t arrest or detain anyone. Only the patroller with you can. You understand that?”

“Master Dichartyn and the commander and subcommander have made that clear.”

“Good. A few points about station rules. I’m obviously in command. When I’m not here, Lieutenant Warydt is in charge. Should neither of us be here, the senior patroller first takes command. You won’t see too much of the lieutenant in the next few weeks, because he’ll usually be here from the third glass of the afternoon until ninth glass, although it’s sometimes tenth glass. We switch off on the late shift.” He cleared his throat. “For your safety, but also for the safety of the patrollers you accompany, I’m also going to insist that you wear a standard patroller’s cloak over your grays. You’ll also learn more that way.” He picked up the folded gray-blue cloth that turned out to be a cloak, and a new one at that, and handed it to me. “Your cap is close enough that most people won’t notice it anyway.”