“Oh, of course. Imager business, how droll.” He stepped back and let me enter and close the door. “What can I do for you? Master Kocteault is not here.”
Was he ever there? “You’re the one I came to see, and it’s rather simple. Has anyone asked you about me, or where I might be found? Or for that matter, have any strangers showed up at the hall who have asked questions . . . any time that you can recall since last spring?”
“That sounds more personal than imager.”
“It’s not. Several imagers have been shot at. I’m only one of them, and other imagers are tracking down the others, but the Collegium thought I might know best whom to talk to among the artists.”
“Shooting at imagers,” mused Aurelean, the superciliousness gone for a moment, “that’s not good.” He frowned. “I don’t remember when it was, except it was a cold Samedi in spring, I think. I did see two people talking to one of the apprentices-it might have been the one who drowned last month, now that I think of it. I remembered it because one of them had the square-cut beard that all the poseurs who think they might be artists used to affect.”
“That was the only time you saw anything like that?”
“Nameless, no. I’m sure there were other strange things. There are always strange occurrences if one only looks, but that is the sole occasion that I can recall.”
I nodded. “Thank you. If you do see anything, or recall anything, you could drop me a note at the Collegium.”
“I could, I suppose.”
I smiled. “By the way, even if you did it to flatter Master Kocteault, it was a very good portrait of his daughter.”
He actually flushed. “Why, thank you.”
After I left Aurelean, I found another hack and had him drop me off at Elphens’s new dwelling and studio. No one was there, although it was clear he had moved in. I wished that I’d had the hack wait, because I had to walk to the end of Bakers’ Lane and wait more than a quarter glass to find another to take me down to the square. By then it was well past noon, and I was more than a little warm.
I slipped into Lapinina, but I didn’t seen anyone I knew, not surprisingly, because most artists would not have been there that early. I took the smaller of the two vacant tables.
Staela approached. “Sir?”
I looked up at her. “Whether I’m an imager or not, Staela, I’m still Rhenn. What do you have that’s cool to drink and light to eat?”
She was silent for just a moment. “There’s a Kienyn white we brought up from the cellar, and the chopped fowl salad is good.”
“I’ll have both.”
“Yes, sir.” She slipped away before I could say anything . . . or even sigh.
Within moments she returned with a tall fluted glass of a slightly bubbly amberish wine. “The Kienyn. That’s three.”
I put a silver on the table. “For the wine and the salad.”
She scooped the coin up and left two coppers before nearly fleeing.
I sipped the Kienyn and listened. No one was talking. The only sound for that moment was the buzz of a fly that circled somewhere above my head. I continued to sip and wait. Still, no one said anything.
Only when Staela reappeared with the greens and chopped fowl and I began to eat did a few words began to flow around the small bistro.
“. . . be hot like this for another two weeks . . .”
“More like three . . .”
“. . . think this is hot . . . ought be in Caena . . .”
“. . . their High Priest . . . changed his mind once the Navy blockaded his ports . . .”
“. . . different High Priest . . .”
‘They’re all the same . . .”
“. . . know the imager?”
“. . . might be the one who was an artist . . .”
“. . . too tall . . . too much muscle for an artist . . .”
As Staela tried to slip by, I motioned. “The Kienyn is good. Have you always had it?”
“No . . . just this summer. Would you like another?”
“In a moment.” I gestured to the chair. “Please sit down. I do have a few questions to ask you, and they’re on behalf of the Collegium. Imager business. Nothing secret.”
She did seat herself, if with an air of resignation.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but someone has been shooting at imagers, often young ones, or those in training. I was one of them. What the Collegium would like to know is whether you ever noticed anyone who seemed to be following me, or who asked about me, or talked about imagers.”
“Sir . . . I try not to pay attention to what people say. I don’t know as I recall anything like that.”
I nodded. “I can see that. Do you remember a man in a square beard-you know, the kind that you see in all the old paintings of artists, but the kind no artist has today?”
There was only a momentary frown before Staela replied. “There was one fellow. Some of the journeymen pointed him out when he left. They laughed and said he was a would-be artist. That’s why I remember. He used to come here on Vendrei nights and Samedi afternoons, maybe for a month this spring. He didn’t say much. He just listened to the others. He was here for a while, then never showed up again.”
“Did anyone ever come with him?”
“There was another fellow once in a while. He wore a yellow vest one time. I only noticed because he paid for the other one’s wine with golds. He didn’t seem to have a silver to his name. Just golds.” She looked at me directly for the first time. “That’s all. Honest. That’s all I remember.”
“Thank you. I would like another Kienyn.”
“Coming up.”
Staela wasn’t quite so stiff after that, but I could tell that she still wanted me to leave. While I didn’t gulp down the second glass, I also didn’t linger over every last drop, but I did leave her a half silver tip.
The only other place I’d ever visited even halfway frequently was Rozini’s, on the far side of the square. I wandered over there, and asked several of the servers, but no one remembered me or anyone asking about me. After that, I still had time to kill, and I didn’t really feel like going back to the Collegium. So when I saw the bookstore sign, I wandered inside.
A soft-looking young man with thick spectacles appeared almost immediately, emerging from behind a carrel of books. “Might I help you?”
“I was just looking.”
“We don’t see many imagers here, sir.”
I smiled. “I’m sure you don’t, but I’d wager you see my sister every so often.”
“Your sister?” While polite, his tone suggested the impossibility of an imager having sisters.
“Khethila D’Chenkyr. Tallish young woman, husky voice, likes books by Madame D’Shendael.”
“She’s very well read.” Again, the tone was condescending, suggesting that, whether we were related or not, no imager could possibly be well read.
“She is indeed, and I’m certain she got the habit from all that I read her when she was younger.” I smiled politely and turned away.
Before long, I did find the shelf that carried Madame D’Shendael. There were copies of both Poetic Discourse and Civic Virtue, but neither A Widow’s Guide, nor the other book were on the shelves. Because I’d heard enough of Khethila’s quotes from the Discourse, I picked up Civic Virtue. Right behind the frontispiece was an etching of a woman, and the scripted typeface below read Madame Juniae D’Shendael. There was something about the etching, and I studied it, wondering whether it had been done by Estafen, but the signature in the corner was that of Teibyn, who was known to be better at etching portraits than at painting them.
I flipped the page and came across the dedication:
To my mother, for reasons more than enough.
I would have been disappointed, somehow, if it had been to her father or any man, perhaps because of all that Khethila had said.
Then I leafed back to the portrait etching. At that moment, I recognized her. The etching showed her as a mature woman, but she was the same woman as the girl in the miniature . . . and that realization left me more confused than ever. How could she be Emanus’s daughter? High Holder status always ran through the male line-unless there were no male heirs-and then the eldest daughter, but only if she married within a High Holder family and her husband took the family name. In addition, High Holders were anything but forgiving. Or was the threatened disclosure of Juniae’s parentage why Emanus had let himself be removed? But why would he have been killed years later over that?