“Almost loving . . . of course!” He held out his hand for the portrait. “We need to keep this safe.”
“Might I ask?” I handed back the miniature.
“You may, but I’d rather not say right now. If I’m wrong, it could be rather . . . embarrassing for the Collegium.”
“Oh . . . that has to be his daughter,” I blurted. “That’s why.”
That brought Master Dichartyn up short. “Why do you say that?”
“The portrait is twenty years old. At least, I think it is. Grisarius-Emanus-had to be more than sixty. I got the feeling, from all the serving girls I talked to, and from when I talked to him, that he had never pursued any of them. Yet he was friendly to them, and there were no rumors about male lovers. That means either a wife, a mistress or lover, or a daughter. You said he had no family, and no one has ever mentioned a family. Since he would have been over forty when this was painted, a daughter fits better than a lover, especially when he talked about not wanting to see anyone hurt. Usually people talk about children more that way than about lovers.”
A wry smile crossed Master Dichartyn’s face. “That’s a rather interesting speculation. What else might you think about this daughter?”
“She’s probably married, and probably, from the clothes, either from a very wealthy merchant . . . no . . . the cloth . . . that has to be, I’m just guessing, from a High Holder household.”
“You think that was why he was killed?”
“No, sir. If the painting is of a daughter, and she was close to eighteen when it was painted twenty years ago, it couldn’t be a husband’s vengeance or another lover’s revenge. He was too visible to have avoided a killer for so long. It had to be something more recent.”
“So why do you think he was killed?”
“I have no idea, but it has to tie in to my visit. Otherwise, why would it happen then, and in that way? A renegade imager doesn’t come cheap, and that suggests a High Holder or someone with great wealth and connections.”
“It may,” replied Master Dichartyn, “but there’s not a shred of proof.”
“You know who she is, don’t you, sir?”
Master Dichartyn sighed. “Every once in a while, Rhennthyl, I can see why others might have a reason to murder you.” He paused. “I have not told you who she is. That should tell you that I have a reason for not telling you. Such a reason is either for my safety or yours, or because it might endanger someone else. When such an occasion occurs, keep the speculation to yourself. And spare me the old canard about no question being stupid. Some are.”
“Yes, sir.” That spiel told me he was worried-more than worried-and that I should be even more concerned, because it indicated that more people wanted to get rid of me than I even knew. “Your messenger reached me just before I was going out to talk to acquaintances in the Portraiture Guild. What would you recommend I do, given what you know that I don’t?”
“That’s much better. I would suggest that you talk to more than a few people about Emanus’s death-if only to protect them.”
I did understand that. If I talked to one person, that person was at risk. More than a handful, and it would be difficult . . . I almost smiled, because I had a very nasty idea.
“Can I tell people I’m following up on something for the Collegium?”
“What would you tell them?”
I’d already thought that out. “Wasn’t there some speculation that the first bravo, the one that shot me, had shot some other junior imagers?”
“And you want to tell them that you thought Emanus might have known something?”
I nodded.
“Since he’s dead, he can’t very well contradict you. But you’ll have to use full shields, and you’ll be on your own this time. I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”
“I will be, sir.”
“Oh . . . take the duty coach for your first stop. That way, if anyone’s watching the bridge they won’t see you cross it. I’ll have Beleart let them know.” His eyes flicked toward the door.
I stood immediately. “Thank you, sir.”
“Best of fortune.”
As I walked back to my quarters to change into imager grays, I wondered why Master Dichartyn was suddenly so interested in people who were trying to kill me . . . and who the woman was. She couldn’t just be anyone, or it wouldn’t have mattered if I knew. She also was still alive, for the same reasons.
After changing quickly, I hurried back to the duty-coach stand and found two coaches there.
“Imager Rhennthyl?” asked the wiry obdurate driver of the first coach. “I’m to take you wherever you want to go, all evening if necessary. Master Dichartyn decided it would be quicker and safer that way.”
Not to mention giving me greater authority, but I forbore mentioning that. “I appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem, sir.” The driver smiled. “Where to?”
“Daravin Way, off Duoeste Lane to the east of Plaza D’Nord. It’s about the third dwelling from the corner, heading east.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’d already thought that I’d begin with Sagaryn, since Chasys’s studio was the farthest from the Collegium, and then work back as I could. I climbed into the coach. The driver took the Bridge of Desires, then the West River Road north to the Nord Bridge before crossing the river and heading east. That route made sense, because there were far fewer coaches and wagons on it than on the Boulevard D’Imagers. It also might throw off anyone looking for me.
Even so, it was close to a quint before fifth glass when the driver stopped the coach in front of the small two-story dwelling. This time, when I used the bronze knocker on the outside studio door, Sagaryn was the one who greeted me, if a surprised look and an open mouth amounted to a greeting. Finally, he stammered, “Rhenn . . . I didn’t . . . you’re the last person . . .”
“It isn’t a personal visit, Sagaryn. I’m here on imager business.”
“Chasys isn’t here.”
“That’s fine. You’re the one I came to see, at the behest of the Collegium.” I thought that was a correct, if indirect, way of putting it.
“Ah . . . come in.”
“Thank you.” I still held my shields as I stepped inside and he closed the door.
In the studio beyond, I could see a portrait on the easel, barely outlined. “New portrait, I see?”
“Yes. I’m sure you didn’t come about that. Not on imager business.”
“No. I’ll make it as quick as I can. You might recall Emanus . . . the old artist who sometimes came to the hall. They usually called him Grisarius.”
“I saw him. I never spoke to him.” Sagaryn’s eyebrows knit in confusion or puzzlement.
“He’s dead. It’s very likely because of what he knew. I don’t know if you’d heard, but there have been several shootings of junior imagers over the last few months. I was one of those shot, and where I was shot was known to only a few people, most of them connected to the guild. We don’t think anyone in the guild had anything to do with the shootings, but we do think that whoever did must have talked to several people in the guild.” I smiled. “So I’m here to see who outside the guild asked you about me.”
There was the slightest movement at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment, his eyes flickered away from me. I just waited.
“Ah . . . it’s been a while, maybe as far back as around the beginning of Mayas-it could have been the end of Avryl. Rogaris and Dolemis and I were at Lapinina. I think it was a Jeudi night, and we were talking about how Seliora and her cousin took you to the Samedi gathering, and how the guard’s eyes near popped out when you walked in with them. There was this fellow, and he’d just sat down at the next table, with another fellow. He said something like, ‘Was that the imager who used to be a portraiturist journeyman?’ Rogaris asked him what business it was of his, and the fellow smiled and said that he’d supplied things to Caliostrus, and that he’d remembered that you’d become an imager because there weren’t many who’d been artists.” Sagaryn shrugged. “That was pretty much it, except I did hear the other fellow mention something about NordEste Design-the furniture people-and how it was where Seliora worked. They stayed a bit and then left.”
