Imager (19 page)

Arrogance makes a man stupid,

and stupidity can make him even more arrogant.

On Solayi evening and at breakfast on Lundi, Johanyr and Diazt stood outside the entrance to the dining hall and looked hard at me. I just smiled back. They didn’t return the smile, nor did they choose to sit anywhere near me. I sat with Shannyr. He was good company.

After breakfast, when I was finally admitted to Master Dichartyn’s study, he didn’t test my shields at all. Instead, he concentrated on asking me questions about the Council and governing. Once he’d determined that I’d read the pages he’d assigned, he smiled.

“In Jariola, the Oligarch rules absolutely, but the oligarchy votes every five years whether to replace him or not, and he can be replaced at any time if forty-six of the fifty members of the council vote to remove him. Forty-five members of the council are the wealthiest High Holders in the land and the other five are the high prophet of Khanahl and four others appointed by the ruling oligarch. The Abierto Isles are governed by an assembly, and the members are elected by a vote of all property holders, whether those holders are men or women, regardless of where they live or were born, and the assembly elects a speaker who makes day-to-day decisions. In Caenen, the high priest of their Duality is the ruler of the country. You know how we are governed. Which means do you think is more effective, and why?”

My immediate reaction was to prefer our system, but to say so would just invite more questions. “I’d say that the Caenenan system is the worst, because they are governed by one man, and there is no effective way to remove him—”

“Killing him would remove him effectively, but I don’t think that’s what you meant. Be more careful in your choice of words.”

“There are no accepted rules for removing him in the event that he proves a bad ruler.”

“That is true, but what is a bad ruler?” asked Master Dichartyn. “If taxes are high upon the crafters and low upon the landholders, is it not likely that the landholders will praise him and the crafters will declare him a bad ruler?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

“I’d say that the Jariolan system is the next least desirable, because power is held in the hands of so few men, and that is not good—”

“For all the rhetoric and common talk, government is not about good and bad, Rhennthyl. Nor was that what I asked. What is it about?”

“Creating the laws and rules under which people live.”

“Why is government necessary?”

“Things don’t work well among people without some form of government.”

“That’s true. Why not?”

“People would try to do whatever they could get away with. Unless you had golds and power, you couldn’t trust anyone. Even then . . .”

Master Dichartyn nodded slowly. “Effective governments set rules and limits on how power is used in a country. Now . . . that means some who have greater power must accept limits on their power. Why would they do so?”

“Because, otherwise, those with less power will band together and restrain or eliminate them?”

“That’s one possibility. Can you think of another?”

At that moment, I couldn’t.

“If you were High Holder Almeida, would you want to spend tens of thousands of golds on maintaining a private army to defend your lands or would you rather pay a few thousand golds in taxes to a government that generally protected them?”

“If the government rules weren’t too burdensome, I’d prefer the taxes.”

“So do most High Holders of Solidar. What does that tell you about government?”

“It provides a balance of power at a lower cost for the wealthy and greater order and freedom for those with little power.”

“An effective government does. If most people want effective government, why do governments vary so much from land to land?”

“They have different ideas about what is effective and how to make things work?”

“Do you think that a chorister of the Nameless and a priest of the Duality would think of power in the same way . . .”

Master Dichartyn’s questions seemed endless. I was all too happy to leave when he finally dismissed me, despite his assignment of the additional reading.

Again, at lunch, Johanyr had positioned himself where he could watch me, although I didn’t see Diazt. I walked over to him and asked, “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you around, except outside the dining hall.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, clearly taken aback by my addressing him. Then he replied, “I’m fine. There are some things that have to be settled.”

I didn’t feel like saying anything to respond to the implied threat. “I’m sure things will settle out if you give them time.”

“I’m not very patient, Rhenn.”

“Most of us aren’t. I’m not, either, but I’ve learned that sometimes rushing things creates more problems than it solves.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“I’m not threatening anyone,” I said, managing to smile. “It’s not wise, and it’s not polite. I hope you feel better later.” I nodded courteously and turned toward the dining hall.

I could still feel his eyes on my back, and I still didn’t understand why he was so angry. Was it just that he was angry and needed a target? I certainly hadn’t told anyone about what he thought or his nastiness to me, except telling Shannyr once that Johanyr didn’t seem happy.

I took a chair between Gherard and Whaltar and across from Shannyr.

Whaltar was speaking to Gherard. “. . . got Naquin Samedi night . . . warned him about the Nord quarter, but he said that was where the girls were . . .”

“Did someone get hurt?” I asked.

“Naquin. He was a third. They found his body on the street yesterday morning.” Whaltar shook his head. “Have to be twice as careful if you’re a graycoat.”

I didn’t quite know what to add. I hadn’t known Naquin.

“How is Master Dichartyn treating you?” asked Gherard, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Some of those assignments looked difficult.”

“The reading isn’t too bad,” I admitted, “but the questions he asks about what I’ve read make the reading seem easy.”

“Most of the thirds haven’t made it as far as you have,” Gherard said.

“I’m sure that they’re doing better elsewhere.” I decided on tea, filled my mug, and took a long sip. “That’s why they’re thirds.” The longer I’d been at the Collegium, the more I wondered why Gherard was still a secondus. “If you don’t mind . . .”

Gherard laughed. “I don’t. You’ve waited longer than most to ask. I have trouble reading. The letters don’t make sense to me, and I’ll never be a great imager. I can remember anything anyone tells me word for word, and Master Dichartyn tells me that I have a good feel for incoming imagers.”

Put that way, his position made sense. “Is Petryn still helping there?”

“No. He’s a second now, and another junior prime took his place—Beleart. You know . . . you scared the Namer out of Petryn.”

“I did? I was the one who felt scared.”

All three of them laughed, and Shannyr just shook his head.

They all thought it was funny that I’d felt scared? Did I really project that much confidence? I didn’t think so. I certainly hadn’t known that much about imaging when I’d arrived at the Collegium.

After lunch, when I went to the workshops, Grandisyn escorted me to another workroom, one also with barrels, and showed me a small bar of metal no bigger around than the body of a pen and no more than a digit in length.

“If you’re really good, you ought to be able to do four of these, but if you get really tired after two, stop. We are not certain of the concentration in the ore.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

I understood. I remembered what had happened to Mhykal.

After he left, I fingered the silvery metal, which seemed as heavy as gold. Platinum?

In the end, I managed three small bars, and decided against trying for a fourth. That took less than a glass, and Grandisyn said I was free to go. When I returned to my room, I took a short nap—and I’d never taken naps since I’d been small, not until I came to the Collegium.

At dinner, Johanyr and Diazt sat at the end of the table, with two other seconds I’d barely met. Johanyr never looked in my direction, but Diazt did, and did so more than a few times.

“What did you do to Diazt?” asked Clenard, one of the older seconds who was a friend of Shannyr.

“I asked Johanyr how he was doing. He wasn’t happy that I spoke to him.” My words came out a shade ironic.

“That’s because he likes to ask the questions,” Shannyr added dryly.

“What do you work at?” I asked Clenard.

“I help the machinists. It’s easier to image blanks than to cast them, and then they machine them down. Don’t have to have a furnace, either, but it works best for small parts. . . .”

Every time I thought I’d learned most of what happened at the Collegium, I found out something more. But at least I had a good conversation at dinner.

Afterward, I talked a bit with Shannyr, then walked through the deepening twilight across the quadrangle back to the quarters building—one of two, I’d also learned. Again, I had the feeling of being watched, but I didn’t see anyone. I wasn’t imagining things, and that suggested that whoever was watching and following was a very good imager.

When I got inside, I hurried up the stairs. No more had I stepped off the landing on the second level and into the corridor leading to my room than I heard heavy steps coming up the stairs behind me. I moved away from the staircase, but looked back.

“If it isn’t the painter boy.” Diazt stepped out of the staircase landing and stopped. He carried a metal bar.

Walking down the hallway in the other direction was Johanyr. He held some sort of blade, a sabre perhaps. He didn’t say anything. I moved toward him, because I didn’t want to be that close to Diazt. My fingers brushed my trousers. I still had the bag of caustic, but I couldn’t very well attack first. Master Dichartyn had made that very clear. Were the two of them trying to provoke me into attacking? That way, I’d be totally at fault—if I even survived whatever defenses and retaliation they had in mind.

I could hear several low sounds—door bolts snicking closed. Did Johanyr and Diazt have all the seconds cowed? At that point, I realized that most of the wall lamps in the corridor had been wicked off—or imaged out.

“How are you doing this fine evening?” Johanyr’s voice was sarcastic. “It’s dark out now, and that’s the best time for rodents.”

“I’m no rodent. You’re just looking for excuses.”

“All rodies say that they’re innocent.”

“So do all innocents.” I moved slowly toward Johanyr in order to avoid the metal bar Diazt carried, although I couldn’t move too far before I’d be in range of the sabre.

“You’re no innocent. We didn’t have any trouble before you showed up.”

“You mean that no one complained,” I suggested.

He stiffened.

Then I staggered back as
something
slammed into my shields. Before I could recover my balance another blast struck me from behind, and I staggered in the other direction.

I couldn’t see what they’d imaged at me—but it was something that was designed not to leave any traces, because nothing had dropped to the stone floor. I would have heard it, even if I couldn’t see it in the low light.

“Rodie’s got shields . . . how sweet.” That was Diazt. “That will just make it so much easier.”

I didn’t know what he meant until the iron bar slammed against my shields, and I ricocheted off the wall. By beating on my shields, they could wear me down and still punish me, and leave few if any bruises.

Johanyr struck with the flat edge of the sabre. That rocked me, but not enough to unbalance me.

“You’d better stop,” I said.

“We’d better stop? You have a strange view of things, rodie.”

The iron bar hit my shields again, and I had to take several steps toward Johanyr to keep my balance. He struck with the sabre, and I was forced back toward Diazt. They weren’t going to stop. That was all too clear.

I managed to square my feet and look straight at Johanyr. I concentrated on imaging caustic, just like that in the bag, behind his shields, right in his eyes.

There was a moment of resistance—that was what it felt like—and then he blinked. “Kill him! Diazt! Ohh . . .” He collapsed on the corridor floor.

The iron bar struck the back of my shields with such force that I stumbled and had to take three or four steps and could barely stand before I whirled to face Diazt—imaging even more caustic into his eyes.

The bar flew toward me, and I ducked, and then Diazt was screaming, but only for a moment before he went limp.

Master Dichartyn and Master Ghaend both appeared from somewhere.

Ghaend looked to Dichartyn and nodded. Two obdurates in black hurried down the hallway toward us.

“What happened? What did you do?” demanded Master Dichartyn. “Spare me any niceties about accidents and the like.”

“They cornered me, and everyone on the floor locked their doors. I could hear the bolts snick shut. Then they claimed that I was some sort of spy and that the Collegium had no use for rodents like me. They began to image things at me—”

“What did you do?” Master Dichartyn’s question was hard and urgent.