Treachery's Tools (25 page)

“Begging your pardon, Maitre … I don't hear so well.”

Alastar repeated the question, raising his voice.

“Been here the whole time, Maitre. Is something the matter?”

“Not with you. Earlier today, an imager was shot as he started to ride across the bridge.” Alastar had decided against mentioning the poisoned bullets or Harl's death. That might provide too much encouragement to the shooter or those behind him. “I was wondering if anyone heard anything or saw anyone with a rifle.”

The cooper frowned, then shook his head. “About that time I was working inside. Wouldn't hear much anyway. My ears aren't the best.”

“Was there anyone else who might have seen or heard anything?”

“You might try Doryan.” The cooper gestured to the shop to the north. “Dry goods don't make as much noise as tools.”

“Thank you.” Alastar turned his mount northward. Since there was no one outside the small dry goods shop, he dismounted and tied the mare to the railing in front of the porch and walked inside. He noticed that the bins beside the door, which likely had held dried beans or possibly even rice, were empty, and that he saw a single large barrel of flour near the back of the shop. On the right wall were rows of largely empty baskets.

A small dark-haired man looked up, then looked again. “Maitre … I don't know as we'd have anything…”

“I take it that business has been better,” Alastar said gently.

“If it weren't for the lace collars Sephia makes”—the shopkeeper shook his head—“right now we'd be better closing the shop and tending the garden.

“It's not that bad, Dael.” A muscular woman looked up from the table in the corner and what appeared to be a repeating scallop lace collar laid set within a type of frame Alastar did not recognize.

“Almost.” The man looked to Alastar. “Maitre?”

“I'm looking for information. Earlier today, around two quints before noon, someone shot at and wounded one of my imagers as he started across the bridge. I wondered if either of you saw or heard anything.”

The shopkeeper shook his head.

Alastar looked to the woman.

“I wondered about that.” She remained seated at the table, but lowered the crochet hook slightly—at least that was what Alastar thought it was—before going on. “It sounded like someone had dropped some planks outside. Not quite, but sharplike. I looked out. There was a blond-headed fellow with a staff hurrying past the window there, and then he was gone. I asked Dael to look out back, but he didn't see anything.”

Alastar looked to the shopkeeper.

“I didn't hear anything. Sephia's got better ears.”

“You didn't see him when you looked?”

“Took me a moment to unbolt the back door. Wasn't anyone in the back alley. I looked both ways.”

Alastar turned back to Sephia. “Can you tell me anything more about the man you saw?”

“He wasn't big, and he wasn't small. He wore a brown shirt. I didn't see his face because he was past the window when I looked out. He was walking fast. He wasn't running, though.”

Although Alastar asked more questions, within a fraction of a quint, it was clear that Sephia had seen what she had said—and no more.

“Thank you,” he finally said, stepping forward to the counter and laying a half silver on it. “I appreciate your taking the time and telling me what you saw.”

“You don't have to pay us,” protested Dael, if weakly.

“I don't have to,” replied Alastar with a smile, “but I choose to. If you see the man again and send word to me … then there will be more.”

“Ah, Maitre … I know you must be one of the imager maitres, but where…”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry. That's my fault. Just have the message delivered to Maitre Alastar. I'll pay the messenger as well.”

“Alastar…” mused the shopkeeper uncertainly.

“Alastar? You're
the
Maitre of the Collegium?” asked Sephia.

Alastar nodded.

She swallowed. Dael paled.

“Thank you both for your help.” With a smile, Alastar turned and left.
Another reminder that you're still not doing enough to make people aware of the Collegium.
But there were only so many glasses in a day, a week, even a month.

Three glasses later, as he stepped back into the anteroom outside his study in the administration building after having talked to more than a score of shopkeepers, or their assistants, or apprentices, or children, Alastar knew little more than what he'd discovered from Sephia the lacemaker—that a blond man carrying a “staff” that was probably a rifle
might
have been the shooter. And only one other person—a skinny boy who could not have been more than eight or nine—even recalled seeing the blond man with the “staff.”

He could have been sent by anyone,
reflected Alastar,
the army, the High Holders, or a disgruntled factor out to stir things up.
He offered Maercyl a pleasant smile and asked, “Have there been any messages or letters?”

“No, sir.”

Still nothing from Cransyr or Lorien.
Not that Alastar had expected anything from Lorien immediately after his visit to Chelia, given how easily Lorien could be miffed if he felt he were being slighted. “Thank you.”

Alastar was still thinking matters over when Alyna appeared in the study at two quints past fourth glass. He took one look at her and said, “You need some dark lager. Now. And some bread and cheese.”

“All three are done.”

Alastar took her by the arm. “We'll talk about it after you get some color in your face.”

Alyna nodded. “I'd forgotten…”

That was obvious, but Alastar refrained from saying so. That was also for the best since they encountered Lystara and Malyna in the main corridor outside the anteroom to his study.

“We're going to the dining hall,” Alastar announced. “Just to feed your mother.”

“Can we have something?” asked Lystara.

“We'll see,” replied Alastar.

“Perhaps a little,” murmured Alyna.

When they entered the dining hall kitchen, one of the assistant cooks hurried forward.

“Yes, Maitres?”

“Dark lager and some bread and cheese for Maitre Alyna, Narlana,” Alastar said. “Quickly, please.”

“Yes, sir. We'll bring it right out.”

Alastar led the way to a table at the side, the one for the thirds, had it been a regular mealtime. They had barely seated themselves when Narlana returned with a pitcher of dark lager and a beaker, as well as a platter with half a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, along with a kitchen knife. She set everything in front of Alyna.

“Thank you,” offered Alastar with a smile as he immediately half-filled the beaker and handed it to Alyna.

Another kitchen worker appeared with a tray holding three additional beakers and set those on the table, then scurried off. The pallid Alyna immediately took a slow but deep swallow of the lager, followed by a mouthful of bread and cheese.

Alastar filled two beakers slightly, perhaps a fifth full, and set one in front of Malyna and the other before Lystara, then said, “Just take sips. That's all the lager you get.”

“Dear,” said Alyna quietly, “have some lager. Your eyes are getting reddish.”

Alastar obeyed, half-filling his beaker and taking a swallow. It did taste good.

As some of the paleness left Alyna's face, she cut a small slice of bread for each girl, along with a chunk of cheese. She cut a healthy slice and a much larger piece of cheese for Alastar.

After a time, Alastar turned to Malyna. “This is what happens when you image too much, but not enough to knock you out or kill you. When you feel faint or weak, it's time to stop … and get some nourishment, and rest if you can.” He ate another mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Father … who was the imager who was killed?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Everyone knows. Someone shot through his shields with a poisoned bullet, and no one can leave Imagisle. Who was it?”

“Harl.”

“I only met him a few times. He was nice.”

“He was a good man.”
Too good to die from a poisoned bullet in the back.
Not that there was any good way to die, so far as Alastar was concerned.

“Who did it?” asked Malyna.

“We don't know. He was shot twice. His shields stopped the first bullet. They partly collapsed with the second shot. He was scarcely wounded, and there was no sign that the bullet had been poisoned. He died less than a quint after reaching the infirmary. Maitre Gaellen couldn't do anything.”
But you might have been able to … if you'd known.

“Did they shoot at you?” asked Lystara.

“They hit my shields,” Alastar admitted.

“Mother and Father carry their shields all the time,” Lystara said to Malyna.

Alastar looked to Alyna, questioningly.

She nodded, then cleared her throat. “Your father and I thought that it's time to see if you and Malyna can learn the beginning steps of creating and holding shields.”

“You're worried,” declared Lystara.

“We are,” affirmed Alastar.

“When will we start?”

“That depends on how we feel,” said Alyna firmly.

“How do you feel about the sentry boxes you imaged?” asked Alastar, not wanting to dwell on the concerns behind the decision to see if the girls could learn shields earlier than either he or Alyna would have preferred.

“The sentry boxes were easy. The glass … I'm not sure what it is, but you can look through it just like glass.” Alyna took another swallow of the dark lager. “I'm feeling much better. I think it's time to head home.” She stood.

So did Alastar and the girls.

 

13

After dinner, Alastar and Alyna took Lystara and Malyna out onto the east side of the front porch, where, in the twilight, a nearly full Artiema was rising over the trees.

“You two may or may not be ready to create or handle shields,” began Alastar. “It's different for every imager. Some imagers learn early and some learn late. Given your abilities already, you will both be able to create shields. It's only a question of when. A shield is a way of using your imaging ability to keep anything from touching you, and there have been some very unusual shields and ways of using them developed by imagers over the years. Some imagers have even developed different types of shields.” He paused and glanced at Alyna.

“Whatever kind of shield you develop won't be very strong at first,” added Alyna. “Strong shields take at least a year to develop, and perfecting them will usually take much longer.”

Alastar let an object drop from his hand—except the polished oblong of goldenwood stopped short of the stone tiles of the porch because it was attached to a length of twine he still held. “We'll start with this. Lystara … I'll hold this high and then swing it toward you. Try to stop it. Do not image it away or damage it. Just stop it.”

“How do I do that?”

“Some imagers say they harden the air. Others create a net only they can see. One or two … do other things.” Alastar wasn't about to offer what those other things were, since most of them had turned out to be counterproductive. He stepped toward his daughter. “Ready?”

Lystara nodded, her expression almost grim.

Alastar swung the polished billet of wood toward her.

The billet slowed, but did not stop. Lystara jumped back.

Alastar reclaimed the wooden oblong. “You did something. Let's try again.” He launched the billet once more.

This time the billet stopped in midair, bouncing back and then to the side, before again swinging down toward Lystara's side. She jumped sideways.

“That's better, but you have to keep the shield in place. Try again.”

The third time, the wooden billet stopped, then edged forward slightly.

“I stopped it, but it didn't stay stopped.”

“Still, that's better,” said Alastar. “You can rest for a moment.” He turned to Malyna. “You try now.”

The older girl squared her shoulders as if Alastar held a weapon.

He swung the small goldenwood billet toward her, and the wood slowed, then stopped.

“Good.” Alastar nodded. “It will be faster this time.” Rather than just let the billet swing down toward Malyna, Alastar pushed it faster.

Again, the billet slowed, and then stopped, as if caught in a net, but it stopped much closer to Malyna.

“You see that it got closer to you when it was going faster?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try to stop it farther away from you this time.”

Malyna nodded.

Alastar again launched the wooden billet.

Once more, Malyna stopped it, but not noticeably farther away than the second time. “That's hard.”

“It is,” agreed Alyna. “A few more tries by each of you, and then we'll stop for the day. You'll need to practice every day, but we don't want you trying to stop objects of any sort unless one of us is with you.”

“Is that clear?” asked Alastar.

Both girls nodded.

After another half quint of practice, both girls were clearly tiring.

“It's time to stop, now, I think,” said Alastar, winding the cord around the goldenwood billet.

Lystara looked at her father. “Could I see the cord for a moment, Father?”

Curious as to what his daughter had in mind, Alastar handed the cord and the billet to her and watched as she unwound the cord and let the billet dangle. Then the billet moved to one side … and swung back. The arcs became larger and larger, then stopped abruptly. Lystara carefully rewound the cord and handed the billet and cord back to her father.

“What were you trying to find out?” he asked.

“I just wondered how much I could make it go if I used imaging to push it, just a little, like swinging on a rope.” Lystara paused. “That ought to be good for something. I'll have to think about it.” Abruptly, she walked to the east end of the porch and pointed to the north. “Look! The glowbugs are out. Can we go look at them?”