“You should have asked that question first.”
“It’s still a good question, sir. I don’t have near the experience that you do, but I know that you and Maitre Poincaryt keep telling me that part of my duties are to be a lure. That may be, but I’m being accused of causing an accident that happened to a Patrol officer who is taking bribes and tied to a taudischef, and probably to attempts to kill me, and I’ve done nothing but look into a real problem.”
“Rhennthyl . . .” He shook his head. “Are you suggesting that I tell the commander we have a renegade imager who’s being paid off by his officers, possibly even his subcommander, with no proof whatsoever?”
“No, sir. I’m certain that you could tell him something far more palatable. But you might point out that there have been three attempts on my life since I was named as Patrol liaison, and that doesn’t reflect very well on what’s happening in the Patrol.”
He smiled, if coolly. “That’s exactly what I did tell him. He was even less pleased. Next time, if there is a next time, and I do hope that there isn’t, you should start your explanations where you ended.” He looked at me. “It would also help if you could find a way to resolve these . . . difficulties before too long. It would also be good to have more than your word about a renegade imager.”
“I’m doing the best I can, sir.” And that didn’t even take into account my problems with High Holder Ryel.
“You need to do better.” He paused. “That’s all, Rhennthyl.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Close the door on your way out.”
I did.
Once again, I’d gotten another lesson, if not the one that Master Dichartyn had intended. Still, he knew I’d injured Mardoyt. The fact that he’d gone through the motions meant that he didn’t think much of Mardoyt, either. He just hadn’t cared for my way of handling it. What else was I supposed to do? Keep looking for nonexistent proof until I got killed?
I stopped by my quarters, leaving my patroller’s cloak behind, and then headed to the dining hall. Because I was a bit early, I stopped by my letter box, not that I really expected anything. But there was a letter there, and it held the red stripe. Who would be sending me an urgent message by private courier? I looked at the writing . . . and swallowed. It was Khethila’s-and that was anything but good. I didn’t quite rip the envelope open.
Dear Rhenn,
I am writing this because Father and Mother did not have time to. We have just received word that Rousel has been badly injured in a wagon accident in Kherseilles. We don’t know how it happened, but his legs have been crushed, and he has other injuries.
It seems so unfair. He had just written that he had managed to get a stonemason to rebuild the wall on our property. He had worked all night and day with the mason to meet the deadline stipulated by the legal agreement in order to avoid a 500 gold penalty, and there are other problems as well.
You cannot do anything, I know, but you should know. Father and Mother have already left on the ironway for Kherseilles with Culthyn . . .
I lowered the letter. I had no doubts that Rousel’s injury was anything but an accident, and that Ryel had been behind it. Then I slipped the letter inside my waistcoat and left the dining hall, heading across the Bridge of Desires, because that was the closest place to find a hack. The mist had turned into a light rain and I was damp, but not soaked, by the time I was inside a coach and headed to see Khethila.
Why Rousel? Even as I asked myself that question, I knew the answer. Because he was Father’s heir to Alusine Wool and because Ryel was a typical sadistic High Holder who wanted to prove that he could destroy my family, slowly and deliberately, without a shred of proof to link anything illegal to him. Everything he’d caused to happen would show as either perfectly legal or connected in no way to him.
The rain was heavier when I left the hack, and I gave the driver a few extra coppers for his trouble, then hurried up under the portico roof, where I gave the knocker several sharp thraps. After several moments, the door opened slightly, and I could see the chains.
“Khethila . . . it’s me. I just got your message, and I came immediately.”
She opened the door. “Oh . . . Rhenn . . . you didn’t have to.” The tone of her voice contradicted her words.
I stepped inside, closed the door, and put my arms around her.
She sobbed silently for a time, then stepped back and blotted her eyes. They were blotchy. “Thank you.”
“It’s all I can do right now.” That was more than true, unfortunately.
She looked at me. “You didn’t eat, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re pale. We can go into the kitchen. You can eat, and we can talk. There’s some cold fowl and cheese and some fresh bread. I didn’t have cook fix a supper . . .”
“Anything would be fine.” I followed her through the family parlor and into the kitchen.
Before long, I was sitting on one side of the table in the breakfast room, lit by a single wall lamp, and she was on the other. I had slices of bread, cheese, and fowl on a plate, and we each had a glass of Grisio. She needed it more than I.
“What happened?” I asked, after taking a bite of the sharp white cheese. I was hungry.
“I don’t know much more than I wrote. Rousel was hit by a horse that spooked and knocked him under a brewer’s wagon that was moving. Remaya sent a dispatch by ironway. Father talked to someone he knew to get a compartment on the afternoon train.” Khethila took a healthy swallow of the Grisio. “It’s almost like the Nameless or the Namer is after Father.”
“Or some commercial rival,” I suggested.
“Could anyone . . .” She let the words die away for a moment. “Of course they could. Some people will do anything. But who?”
“It could be someone with an old grudge, who just waited until the time was right to hurt the family the hardest.” That was as close as I was going to get because, with what I planned, no one in my family, especially Khethila, could afford to know why it was happening.
“It could be Rousel, too,” she said softly. “He hasn’t always been as careful as he should be.”
“You need to think about it. So will I. You’ll keep me informed?”
“I promise.”
After that we talked, first about Rousel and the factorage in Kherseilles and then about less consequential things, but I did mention I’d been required to attend the Autumn Ball, and that led to a few questions about Madame D’Shendael, none of which I could really answer.
Then, as it got close to eighth glass, I rose to go.
“You can’t stay tonight . . . can you?”
I shook my head. “I can’t stay anywhere at night besides the Collegium.”
“That’s a stupid rule.”
“No. Unhappily, it’s not. Imagers can image in their dreams, and dreams aren’t always under control. Especially at a time like this.” I’d never been told I couldn’t say that, and she needed a real reason, tonight more than any other.
“Oh . . .”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone else that. It’s not something the Collegium likes known, but tonight I didn’t want to just say that it was a rule.”
That brought a shaky smile to her lips. “I won’t . . . but thank you.” After a moment, she said, “Charlsyn can take you back. I’ll let him know.”
I didn’t argue, even if it meant that Khethila would end up paying him more for the week.
38
I didn’t sleep well on Mardi night, not with nightmares about more fires in the factorage, and runaway wagons, and lightning striking the house while Khethila was in it, but at least I didn’t image any more fires in my sleep. It was a relief to get up and deal with the simple physical tasks of exercising, sparring, and running. For that time, at least, the effort kept me from dwelling on my worries about Rousel and Father. I was quiet enough at breakfast, but no one noticed because Ferlyn was talking about how the Northern Fleet had destroyed another Ferran flotilla.