Treachery's Tools by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Read Free Book Online

bakery, both of which Alastar remembered all too well. The day was warm, as was usual during mid-harvest, and he was more than glad he had worn his lightest set of imager grays, especially since, on hot days especially, the effort of maintaining his shields tended to make him feel hotter. Perhaps because of the rains of the past week, the shops on the west side of the road, particularly the bakery and bistro, seemed more crowded than was often the case.
    Two quints later, the three imagers crossed the Boulevard D’Ouest. Alastar glanced at the Nord Bridge, repaired several years earlier by imagers, and nodded. Then his eyes focused on the Chateau D’Council, set on a low rise more than a half mille ahead on the left. Since the events immediately after the death of Rex Ryen, Alastar had been to the chateau only a handful of times in the succeeding thirteen years.
    As always had been the case, however, two guards in maroon livery opened the large, wrought-iron double gates hung on gray stone pillars more than three yards high. Both nodded politely to the Maitre, then closed them once the imagers had ridden past on the stone-paved lane that separated two separate formal gardens. Alastar reined up under the covered portico that could easily hold two carriages side by side. Above the portico the dwelling itself rose another two stories. Imposing as it was, with a frontage twice that of the Maitre’s dwelling at the Collegium, it was still too small to be considered a true chateau.
    A footman walked in deliberate fashion from before the bronzed double doors at the entry to the chateau and down three of the four wide stone steps before inclining his head. “Maitre Alastar, welcome.”
    â€œThank you.” After handing the gray gelding’s reins to Harl, Alastar followed the footman up the steps and into the circular entry hall beyond the double doors. Out of habit, he tucked his visor cap under his arm as he crossed the spacious hall, with its domed ceiling as high as the hall was across. The footman stopped outside the open third door on the right and gestured.
    Alastar stepped into the receiving study. Almost nothing had changed there over the years. Two sets of armchairs were spaced in a circle around a low table on which refreshments might be placed. There were also higher tables set between the two chairs on each side. Those were newer, as evidenced by the lighter shade of the goldenwood.
    High Holder Cransyr smiled politely, but not warmly from where he stood beside one of the side tables. His hair was as much silver as blond, and a straight nose accentuated the narrow set of his overlarge blue eyes. “Welcome, Maitre Alastar.” He gestured toward the low table. “I understand you have a fondness for dark lager.”
    â€œThank you for the invitation. And, yes, I do prefer dark lager.”
    â€œExcellent.” Cransyr motioned toward the door of the study. Unlike some High Holders, who continued to wear doublets and hose, Cransyr wore an ivory shirt, with a bright green cravat, and a dark green jacket and trousers. His boots were black. He waited for Alastar to begin to seat himself, then did so at the same time.
    In moments, an older woman appeared with a tray on which were two beakers of dark lager. She presented the tray to Alastar, who took the beaker fractionally nearer.
    â€œWe share the same preference in lager,” said Cransyr mildly.
    â€œSo it appears,” replied Alastar, suspecting that, while the High Holder might prefer dark lager to light, Cransyr most likely preferred wine to lager. Once Cransyr had a beaker in hand, Alastar raised his own beaker. “With my appreciation.”
    The two sipped.
    Alastar found the lager excellent. He wouldn’t have expected it to be otherwise. “Outstanding.”
    â€œI’d hope so.”
    â€œYou suggested there are matters we might discuss.”
    â€œAh, yes.” Cransyr took another sip of lager