Imager (20 page)

“I imaged lye—caustic—into their eyes.”

“Through their shields?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ghaend! Get them to the infirmary and start washing their eyes out with clear water. Have the staff keep doing it for at least half a glass. Get some water and a little of the basic elixir in them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Each of the hulking obdurates hoisted one of the two fallen imagers, and before I could say anything, Master Dichartyn and I stood alone in the corridor.

“You come with me, Rhennthyl.”

“Yes, sir.”

I followed him back to his study, hoping that his coolness didn’t presage even more trouble, but fearing that it did. I didn’t understand why Johanyr and Diazt had collapsed. I could understand burning or pain in their eyes, but they’d barely uttered anything before they fell.

Master Dichartyn said nothing until he had closed the door to his study behind us and offhandedly imaged the wall lamp into burning brightly. “Go ahead and sit down. You probably need to get off your feet.”

I sat. My legs were shaking. I didn’t want him to start in with more questions. So I spoke on what had been bothering me on the walk from the quarters. “I don’t understand why they collapsed. I was only trying to blind them so that they couldn’t attack.”

“Think about it, Rhenn. Where were you?”

“In the corridor.”

“You said all the doors were shut. What’s behind—”

“Oh, shit . . .”

“Exactly. Where do you think that caustic came from? You pulled some of it out of their own bodies. If they’re lucky, they’ll live, but they’ll never see well enough to image again.”

“What will happen to them?”

“They be sent to Mont D’Image. It’s a pleasant place, if isolated, and if they recover, they can take duties there. If not, they can live on a stipend in the village adjoining the Collegium. Master Ghaend and I both thought that this would happen. Neither of those two has been exactly a model imager, and you threatened them both.”

“I threatened them, sir?”

“Whether you know it or not, and you’d better learn to accept and train it, not only do you image, but you have a talent for projecting whatever you feel—or want to feel. That talent means that, given time, you can be very effective in managing people. Let me ask you this. When you want to be alone, does anyone ever bother you? When you feel friendly, does anyone not respond?”

I hadn’t thought about that, but I was still thinking about Johanyr and Diazt. Why had Master Dichartyn let them go so far? I almost blurted that question. Almost. Instead, I asked, “Was it a test of sorts? Or will I face a hearing?”

“Self-defense is always allowed, and you did attempt not to kill them. There will be no hearing. You will be restricted to Imagisle for the next few weeks, not as punishment, but as protection, of a sort, and you will spend one glass every evening practicing with shields and imaging against one master or another. That’s another form of protection, both for you and for others.” He smiled sadly. “You need to learn a few less lethal ways to use your abilities.”

Why hadn’t he taught me those before?

“Because, unless you could protect yourself in some way or another, or talk your way out of it, doing so would have been a waste of everyone’s time, because you’d have been crippled or died in the first confrontation. Tonight, we would have stepped in, if you’d managed to hold them off, or even if you’d reacted well, but not had the skill. You moved so quickly that all we could do was help them.”

“You
knew
they were planning something?”

“It was obvious. You knew, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t know when, but I had the feeling that it wouldn’t be long.”

“We have a shade more experience, Rhenn. Now, gather all your gear. You’re moving over to the wing with the other thirds.”

“The other thirds?”

“What do you think distinguishes a second from a third? Or one factor, anyway.”

“The ability to use shields?”

“Let’s make it more general. Seconds don’t become thirds at your age unless they have very useful skills. Some seconds will never develop their skills beyond a certain point, but they will often become thirds later on when they have more life experience.”

“Seconds like Shannyr or thirds like Grandisyn?”

Master Dichartyn nodded. “And others. Experience in the Collegium is also valued, and sometimes it is more valuable than imaging skills alone.” He smiled, briefly. “Another matter which I’m sure you’ll appreciate is an increase in your weekly stipend to a half gold.”

Five silvers a week? That was more than all but the best master portaiturists made, and certainly more than journeymen made.

“You will more than earn it.” He rose, and his words were a promise close to a threat.

I got up more slowly than he had.

Tertius

The more exalted the position, the heavier and yet less
obvious the burden of responsibility and the greater
the expectations of others.

One thing I noticed immediately about my new quarters. They were larger and actually consisted of two rooms—one that was both parlor and study and a second smaller sleeping chamber that held a much larger armoire as well as a separate chest of drawers. The other thing was that I was totally exhausted. I could barely put away clothing and books before I collapsed onto the unmade bed beside the clean linens I was too tired to use.

The next morning I was up early, arranging my new quarters. They were not only much more spacious, but the bed also had a larger headboard of golden oak with simple carving. In the sitting room were an armchair for reading and a desk chair in front of a writing desk.

Once I washed, shaved, and dressed, I stepped out into the corridor and started toward the stairs down to the main level.

An older third came out of the next doorway and smiled. “You’re Rhenn, aren’t you?”

“Ah, yes.” I was surprised by the friendliness in his voice, because everyone in the other quarters section had been far cooler.

“Claustyn. I heard that you took care of Johanyr and Diazt.”

“I was just trying to disable them. I didn’t do a very good job of it.”

Claustyn laughed heartily. “The way I heard, you did a very good job of it, and the masters were most relieved.”

“Because Johanyr was disabled when he was attempting to injure someone badly?”

“And because you’re the son of a noted factorius.”

Unhappily, that made sense. In the past, I suspected, most of Johanyr’s victims had parents of little status, and Johanyr had assumed that my inability to remain as a portraiturist had meant that my family had effectively abandoned me. That assumption had doubtless been strengthened by the fact that I had nothing of value with me, no golds, no pillows or bedding or anything that I could have brought. I had no doubt that as the son of High Holder Ryel, he had brought everything permitted. Because his assumption was incorrect, the masters could simply report to his father that his son had broken the rules of the Collegium and attacked another imager, one who was the son of a noted factor, and had been injured by my attempts to defend myself against an unprovoked attack.

I also realized something else. Master Dichartyn had known exactly what was likely to happen, and he and Master Ghaend had waited just long enough to make sure that neither Johanyr nor Diazt would be able to image again. “Has he been a problem for a while?”

Claustyn shrugged. “For long enough. High Holder Ryel is not on the Council, but a number of those on the Council are beholden to him. The factors on the Council are not.”

That would make my personal situation more difficult in the future, although I could not have explained why. So I just replied, “They attacked me, and I really didn’t have much choice.”

“That’s all the better.”

Claustyn and I walked to the dining hall together and sat with several other thirds—Reynol, Menyard, and Kahlasa.

Kahlasa was plump with bright light brown eyes and curly sandy-blond hair, and she was the first to speak after we sat down near the foot of the table and Claustyn introduced me. “You really were a portraiturist?”

“A journeyman, not a master.”

“Could you paint my portrait?” Her lips and face conveyed an expression that was half grin, half smile.

“I could . . . if I had paints, brushes, supplies, canvas, and the like, but I couldn’t take coins for it. If I did, the guilds would bring it before the Council, and I doubt that’s something the Collegium would look favorably upon.”

Reynol laughed. “The Council doesn’t look favorably upon much.”

“They favor more golds in the treasury,” suggested Meynard.

“But not those taken in taxes from their guilds or peers . . .”

All in all, it was one of the more enjoyable meals I’d had at the Collegium. After eating, I made my way to Master Dichartyn’s study, where the door was open.

“Come on in, Rhenn. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, mostly. I was so tired I collapsed last night.” I closed the door and slipped into the chair across the desk from him.

“That’s not surprising. Holding shields and imaging behind lead can be very tiring. As your technique improves it will get easier, but working in a restricted area is always more difficult.”

“Are Johanyr and Diazt all right?” I didn’t want to ask, but felt that I should.

Master Dichartyn shook his head slowly. “Johanyr will live. He’s likely to remain with such poor sight that he can barely make out shapes and light and dark, and he won’t regain all his strength, but he can have a productive life in Mont D’Image, if he chooses. Diazt died shortly after he was taken to the infirmary.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t intend—”

“That was most obvious, Rhenn. You allowed them to pummel your shields viciously, and you tried to tell them that they had no grounds for their attack. When you did attack, it was only after great provocation, and your intent was only to disable. Had they attacked you outside, they both would have lived. In that sense, they chose their own fate.”

I had a strong sense that Johanyr had lived and Diazt had died because of who their parents were and were not. I also had another suspicion that I wanted to voice. “Shannyr kept you informed, didn’t he?”

“Did he?” Master Dichartyn raised his eyebrows. “Does it matter now?”

That was as much of an acknowledgment as I was likely to get. “No, sir.”

“You realize that your duties will change? You won’t be going to the workshops anymore. Instead, you’ll be working with Clovyl for the next few weeks. He’s a senior imager tertius, and he will teach you the use of various weapons, but most important, how to defend yourself without imaging and without weapons. You’ll meet him in the exercise room at the first bell of the afternoon, every day except Solayi and Samedi, and you will spend two solid glasses with him, if not more. Before you do, you will obtain some exercise clothing from the tailoring shop. You will need it. Then at the seventh glass you will return here. Either I or another master will be here every night from Lundi to Vendrei, and we’ll be working harder on developing different kinds of shields and other imaging techniques. You’ll also need those.”

Before I could think much about the implications of his words, he went on, as if nothing significant had occurred. “Now . . . what is the primary purpose of taxation and tariffs?”

“To raise funds to support government services.”

“Is all taxation used for such purposes?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

Again, the text hadn’t mentioned much about other uses of taxation, but Master Dichartyn expected an answer beyond that. “Because governments are comprised of men, and men do not always do what they say they will or what may be best for those they govern.”

“That will do, but only for now. For what other purposes might taxation be used?”

“Some rulers and others in governments have used taxes to increase their own personal wealth. Others have used tariffs to protect the commerce and trade of their people.”

“How does increasing the cost of a good through tariffs protect commerce?”

“It often doesn’t. It benefits some people and hurts others.”

“Can you provide an example?”

At that moment, I was glad I had listened to Father and Rousel. “Caenen imposes a tariff on our textiles, and that increases the cost to their people. . . .”

Master Dichartyn kept the questions coming for close to a glass before he stopped and looked at me. “That’s enough for now. Read the appendix to the history, the one that outlines the development of Council precedent and procedures. You’ll need to go to the tailoring shop before lunch. Wear one of the exercise suits you get there when you meet with Clovyl. Also, in addition to the exercise suits, you’ll need special black and gray garb identifying you as a messenger.” He smiled. “One of the duties of imager thirds is to serve as silent guards in the Council chambers.” He smiled. “You might carry one or two messages in the course of a day, but the uniform allows you to walk anywhere in the Chateau. You won’t be assigned there for another month, depending on your training, but your uniforms will be ready when you are.”

“What exactly are the duties of silent guards?”

“You use all your skills in ways to protect the councilors and their assistants, in a fashion that no one will even know exactly how they are being protected.”

“People faint, or trip, or slip . . . things like that?”

“As well as a few others that are even less obvious.” Master Dichartyn frowned momentarily. “You’ll also have to learn the procedures by which the Council operates, because anyone intent on disrupting Council business will also know those and time their acts based on what is happening in the chambers. That is why you need to study the appendix, but that only provides the barest outline.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Disruptions seldom occur. Attempts are quite frequent because our defenses are so invisible that all too many who oppose Solidar think that there are none.”

That seemed strange to me. It was almost like encouraging attempts.

“I can see that puzzles you. I would like you to think about that and provide me an essay tomorrow explaining why the Collegium’s secrecy in this is either wise or unwise.” He stood. “Now . . . off to the tailor’s shop. I’ve left word that you’re to be fitted.”

I rose quickly. “Yes, sir.”

As I walked away from Master Dichartyn’s study, I saw Gherard coming the other way. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.” His voice was pleasant, and he inclined his head slightly as he passed me and headed toward the study I’d just left.

Sir? I’d been Rhenn the last time we’d spoken. Why was he being so deferential? Did everyone know what had happened? Or was it my advancement to tertius?

I was still pondering those questions when I reached the tailoring shop, but I wasn’t given much time for musing.

“Ah, yes, you must be Rhennthyl, the new third,” began the graying, thin, and stooped imager who greeted me. “Must say you look innocent enough. Always an advantage in what you’ll be doing. Off with that waistcoat. We need to measure you, yes we do. . . .”

Before I could say more than a few words—at least that was the way I felt—I was headed back to my new quarters with an armful of exercise clothes and the promise that my other garments would be ready for a fitting on the following Meredi.

Back in my rooms, I inspected more closely the exercise clothes. They were gray and consisted of loose-fitting trousers and a thick collarless tunic made out of soft but heavy cotton. I also ended up with lace-up high ankle boots.

At lunch, I didn’t see Claustyn, but I sat with Reynol and Kahlasa. I mostly listened while Reynol talked about his position as one of the assistant bookkeepers for the Collegium.

“. . . and before I leave on detached assignments, I make sure every entry in the ledgers is up to date and documented. Jezryk’s a fine fellow, and the heartwood of any tree, but you should see the entries he’s left for me to make when I return. Now, sharing a position is fine, and rotating collateral duties is an evil we all live with, but fair is fair . . .”

I had the feeling that one didn’t inquire about detached duties, but since he was talking about bookkeeping, after taking a mouthful of a fowl ragout, I asked, “Is it because he’s uncertain about how to make those entries?”

Reynol laughed again. “No . . . it’s because those are the ones that require supplementary documentation in the masters’ review ledgers, and that takes care in writing.”

“He’s good at what else he does,” Kahlasa said.

“When are you leaving again?” Reynol asked her.

“Not until the twenty-seventh of Mayas. There were some difficulties.”

“When you’re dealing with the Caenenans, there always are.” Reynol turned to me. “Do you know what your new assignment will be yet?”

I shook my head. “Master Dichartyn just said I had some training ahead of me.”

“There’s always training.” Reynol nodded. “Have you heard about the new bistro on Beakers’ Lane off the East River Road? It’s called Felters. You both might like it.”

“Beakers’ Lane?” asked Kahlasa.

I knew that, even if I didn’t know the bistro. “That’s the second lane south from Boulevard D’Este.”

“Thank you. I still don’t know all I should about L’Excelsis.”

“Where are you from?”

“Shastoilya. No one has ever heard of it . . . .”

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Not quite four years. It took me a while to get adjusted to the Collegium.”

“She was a Nameless chorister in training,” Reynol interjected.

“Do you have to tell everyone?” Kahlasa’s voice carried a tone of mock irritation.

“Do all the women imagers have their own quarters?”

“We have the north end of the lower level of the tertius quarters building, and that’s all the women who aren’t maitres. When we’re here, of course.”

From what the two of them said in passing during lunch, I had the definite feeling that imagers did far more than I’d realized—and in many more different locales.