“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing this weekend?”
“Taking the young lady who saved my life to meet my parents.”
He fingered his chin, then nodded. “For all of our sakes, use your shields and be careful . . . and observant.”
After I left, I had, more than ever, the feeling that I was the lure for a much larger predator than I’d first imagined.
67
Professional interrogators should study mothers.
Fortunately, Samedi morning was clear, cool, and with a light breeze that made the long run that followed Clovyl’s exercises and the session in physical self-defense seem almost pleasant. I finished somewhat closer to Dartazn, but not much. I hurried through cleaning up and eating, so that I could get to the studio and get some work done on some of the details of the portrait that didn’t require Master Poincaryt before he arrived.
He was as punctual as always, settling into the chair. “Good day, Rhennthyl.” He settled into the chair. “I apologize for my absence last week. There were some matters to deal with.”
“Beyond the infiltrators in the taudis, sir?”
A smile crossed his face. “You know, Rhennthyl, I find these sessions most useful. They provide a time when I am awake, relatively rested, and without people and details clamoring for actions and solutions.” He turned his head. “This way?”
“A touch away from me, just a little.” I paused. “Good.”
I had to admire the way he’d handled my question. Just a smile, and warm words on another subject, hinting that he wasn’t about to deal with my query. Before I lifted my brush, I just studied him again, looking from the canvas and back to him. Then I caught it. The way I’d painted his left temple was as though in a different light setting than the cheekbone below. I concentrated, trying to visualize it just so . . . and then it was just that way on the canvas. I had to smile. In a way, it was ironic.
I worked steadily for a good quarter glass before he spoke again.
“Master Dichartyn has briefed me on the situation in which you find yourself. How would you describe it? Honestly, but as dispassionately as possible.”
“The Collegium has been good to me, sir. That I cannot deny, and I’ve learned a great deal. At the moment, though, I do feel more like the lure for a large and unknown predator lurking somewhere out beyond the Collegium.”
“That’s a fair description of the situation. I would point out, however, as I am certain Master Dichartyn has already told you, that all imagers are in a sense lures. Our duty and responsibility is to draw such predators in order that they do not prey on Solidar itself.”
“He has said that, sir.”
“Good. I felt sure he had. You’ll be at the Council’s Harvest Ball next Vendrei, I trust?”
“Yes, sir. Won’t you?”
“No. On such social occasions, my presence would have, shall we say, a dampening effect on the atmosphere. The chief maitre of the Collegium must take care never to put himself in a position where he might be seen to challenge or dim the authority of the Council.”
I realized I’d already understood that without actually having thought it through. I just hadn’t applied it to the Ball.
“The Ball is one of those occasions when you have a chance to observe and learn without being observed that much yourself. If someone is observing you, of course, it is significant, and something to consider.” He paused. “How long before I might see the portrait?”
“You can look at it anytime, sir. I have your face mostly done, and the garments.”
“After we’re done today. I dislike surprises, especially those I can prevent.”
He said nothing more for the rest of the session, clearly lost in his own thoughts and concerns. When the first bell of ninth glass struck, he looked to me.
“Yes, sir. I have more than enough to work on before the next session.”
Master Poincaryt stood, stretched, and then walked toward the easel, circling it and then studying the unfinished work. After a moment, he nodded. “They were right. You’re as good as many of the master portraiturists.” A wry smile followed. “It’s accurate, and lifelike, but you’re an imager, and it’s not as flattering as those of Master Estafen. More accurate, but not so flattering.”
“Master Dichartyn has always stressed accuracy, sir.”
The chief maitre laughed. “Master Dichartyn also informed me that you have a certain . . . shall we say . . . way of reducing egos. I would suggest you not employ it at the Ball.” He stepped back from the unfinished portrait, looked at it once more, then turned. “Next week?”
“Yes, sir.”
He was almost at the door before he stopped and half-turned. “Rhennthyl?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Being a lure does not mean one is defenseless. Nor does it preclude action. Just make certain that such action is in your best interests and those of the Collegium.” With that, he smiled and left the studio.
I ended up painting for almost another glass, leaving just enough time to clean up and walk to the dining hall. With good fortune, I’d be able to finish the portrait in one or, at the most, two more sessions. It was a good work-perhaps not my very best, but better than that of many masters.
After lunch with Menyard, I stepped out into the foyer and walked to the main entrance. I glanced up at the plaques . . . and froze. Another name had been added: Claustyn, Maitre D’Aspect, 727-755 A.L.
Had he been the one to remove the old High Priest of Caenen . . . or had he just been killed as part of the operation?
Menyard stopped. “You didn’t know?”
“No. I don’t usually come this way, and I’m never here for lunch, except on Samedi and Solayi.”
We just stood there for a moment. I couldn’t say that Claustyn had been a close friend, but he’d been warm and welcoming when I’d first become a third and changed quarters, after the confrontation with Johanyr. He’d introduced me to other thirds with grace at a time when I’d needed and appreciated that kindness. It made me think. Had I been that way? No . . . but there hadn’t been any new thirds in the last few months, not near my quarters.
Still . . . that was something I needed to remember.
Menyard and I left the dining hall silently, and I walked along the west side of the quadrangle back to my quarters.
For a time, I just thought. Then I decided to go to the library to see what there might be on High Holder Ryel. Lures could learn, I supposed.
Once I reached the library and began to search the stacks, I began to realize how little written information there was. Oh, there was a listing of all the High Holder houses, but it was a century out of date. There was also a book on the limits of High Holder low justice, but after skimming that, I realized that it was just a simplification of what Master Jhulian had pounded into me-or forced me into pounding into myself. In the end, I spent almost two glasses learning that I wasn’t going to find that information in a book.
After that, I returned to my quarters, read a bit more of On Art and Society, then washed up once more, and headed out to pick up Seliora for our silent inquisition.
I took the Bridge of Desires and hailed a hack there-it couldn’t hurt to vary which bridges I used. Then, after we reached NordEste Design, I paid him to wait while I went inside to get Seliora. I supposed that he could have left, but I had the feeling that no hacker really wanted to stiff an imager.