number of people today, and what I found out wasn’t exactly encouraging. First, I stopped by the factorage. Father’s gone back to Kherseilles, and Khethila’s the one holding things down. Rousel’s made some very bad decisions . . .” I went on and explained that, and then what I’d found out from Aurelean and Staela. “. . . Someone was after me in Avryl, but even after that, it sounds like they killed an apprentice to keep it quiet.”
“It had to be someone besides the first assassin,” she pointed out. “He was dead when the drowning happened. Could it have been an accident?”
“It could have been, but that makes more coincidental accidents than I’m comfortable with. Did your mother find out anything?”
“She wants to tell you herself.”
I wanted to know, but I could understand that. I heard steps and saw Shomyr walking toward the sideboard. “Have you ever read anything by Madame D’Shendael?”
Seliora shook her head. “I’m not that much of a reader, except books on looms and engines. They’re work to read, though. Madame D’Shendael . . . she’s the one who has the salon, and she had all those hard times.”
“What hard times?”
“She miscarried, lost a child, and her mother was executed for killing her father when she was nineteen.”
I almost froze at that. “Where did you hear that?”
“Oh, you hear things when you deal with High Holders, especially if you pretend you’re not listening.” She smiled. “It’s amazing what people will say when they think you’re well beneath them and say a lot of simpering ‘sir’s and ‘madame’s.”
More of Seliora’s family began to appear-Odelia, and then Aegina, followed by Betara, and Shelim . . . and then by a much older woman with steel-gray hair, who had to be Grandmama.
Betara and Shelim walked to the table where we were sitting. Each carried a goblet of either red Cambrisio or perhaps Dhuensa.
“You don’t mind if we join you?” asked Betara. “Grandmama Diestra will be here in a moment.”
Seliora and I just smiled, and Betara and Shelim settled into the chairs across the circular polished white oak table from us. “It is much cooler here than in the dining chamber. The dinner might be a bit cooler as well, since it has to travel two flights of steps to get here.”
Shelim stood again and pulled up another chair for Diestra before I could.
No one spoke for several moments.
“You asked Seliora if we could find out anything about people trying to shoot you,” Betara said casually. “We thought it might be better to dispense with that unpleasantness before dinner.” She paused to sip her wine, Dhuensa, I realized. “Grandmama Diestra talked to a few . . . acquaintances.” A wry tone entered her voice as she went on. “You must have offended someone a great deal. Late last spring a contract price was put out on a recently promoted imager tertius. They wouldn’t give a name, but they might as well have. Ten golds-that’s the price for a taudischef. Rumor has it that the morteprix was guaranteed by Artazt-he was a taudischef in the hellhole-because his brother was killed by the imager . . .” She paused and looked at me.
“Diazt was from the hellhole. He was the one who died when they tried to kill me.”
“It gets interesting after that,” Betara said with a smile.
I didn’t like the way she said “interesting.”
“The first assassin shot the imager, but was killed by him. That suggests that we’re talking about you, Rhenn.”
“I couldn’t have guessed.”
“Artazt wasn’t happy, and he went to the assassin’s family to demand back the golds he’d advanced, but when he left with the golds, he disappeared. His body was found garroted in a nearby alley, and a silver cord was knotted around the rope still twisted about his neck. Oh . . . and the golds were still in his wallet.”
I’d heard about the silver knot. It was the traditional indication that a High Holder was displeased, and that, unhappily, strongly suggested that High Holder Ryel had something far worse in mind for me than a simple execution.
“You do seem to make powerful enemies, boy.” That was Grandmama Diestra.
“It’s hard not to when people are trying to kill you,” I replied.
“If you weren’t an imager, you’d long since have crossed the Bridge of Stones,” offered Shelim.
“We all know that, Father,” murmured Seliora.
“What about the Ferran?” I asked.
Betara shrugged. “He’s local, but he’s not. That is, he’s been in L’Excelsis for years and years, but he wasn’t born here, and he has no relatives here. He’s an assassin, but no one has ever seen him when he’s killed someone, and no one knows who hires him. But it’s not someone that anyone in L’Excelsis seems to know.”
All that seemed to say that three different people had wanted me dead-or worse, in the case of High Holder Ryel-for differing reasons. The good news was that one was dead, and the manner of his death meant that his friends were likely to forget coming after me. The bad news was that two others, who were clearly more dangerous, were still after me.
“That would say that the Ferran works for spies . . . or is he one?”
“Even spies need tools,” Betara said. “The Ferran is a tool.”
Whose tool? The other question was equally concerning. Just what was I getting into with Seliora? Anyone who had a family with contacts like theirs . . . I wanted to shake my head, but I just nodded.
“That’s what we’ve been able to find out,” Betara said.
“The best measure of a man is his enemies,” offered Grandmama Diestra. “You’re looking fairly tall for a young man.”
I offered a laugh. “So long as I’m vertical and tall.”
The three older family members laughed. Seliora only smiled, and I was glad for that.
“You’re an imager who works at the Council Chateau,” said Shelim. “Do you know what the Council is going to do about this coming war between Ferrum and Jariola?”
“No, sir.”
“If you have to call me anything, Rhenn, just call me Shelim.”
“I’ll try . . .” I paused. “There’s nothing that we’ve been told, but I thought that the Oligarch was the one who was pressing Ferrum.”
Shelim shook his head. “The Ferrans need Jariolan coal for their ironworks, and they want it more cheaply than the Oligarchs want to sell it. They’ve got a modern standing army, and they’re trying to get Khasis III and his council angry enough to declare war. That way, Ferrum can invade and claim self-defense and take the coal mines. They’re close enough to the border that Ferrum could just annex that part of Jariola. . . .”
From there the discussion progressed on to the sorry state of the world.
“Is everyone ready for dinner?” That was Shomyr, who now stood in the space behind and between his mother and father. He grinned. “Cook is threatening to turn the tenderloins into jerky”
“You’re just hungry” replied Shelim, “but we can continue the discussion at table.” He rose.
We all moved to the long table set in the middle of the terrace. The sun was close to setting, low enough in the west that some of its light was already dimmed, and the breeze was a trace stronger. I was seated across from Seliora, if one place toward the doors. I could still look at her and easily hear what she said.
The first course was a cool duck and leek broth, something I’d never had before, but with the spices, it was refreshing and not too heavy. After that came fresh thin gourd strips, steamed, in pasta with a cream sauce, but, again, a light one. Then there were the venison tenderloins, marinated in some liquor diluted with what I thought might be Sanietra, and braised, served with boiled and fried dark rice with an naranje sauce.
Dessert was a Naclianan flan, with thin slices of fresh peaches on the side.
The whole time, everyone at the table discussed what was happening in the world-not trade, not furniture making.
Sometime after eighth glass had rung and Artiema had dropped behind the buildings flanking the river, while I had enjoyed the conversation and learned more than a few things, it was also more than clear that Seliora and I were not going to get any real time alone, and I was getting tired. It had been a long day. “I should be going before long,” I murmured to Seliora.
