Imager (24 page)

A true imager sees beyond the eyes and hears beyond the words.

On Mardi night at dinner, I was sitting with Kahlasa and Menyard, exhausted in both body and mind, because Clovyl had continued to increase the severity and intensity of my physical training, both in terms of exercise and running and in learning greater physical self-defense skills. In order to gain weaponless combat skills, I was now sparring with several other thirds, all of them older and more experienced. Not only was I exhausted and bruised, but that had come on top of another long morning with Master Jhulian.

“You look a little dazed, Rhenn,” Kahlasa said. “You haven’t said much this evening.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. I had my first session with Master Jhulian yesterday, and he gave me two essays and more than fifty pages of reading in the
Jurisprudence
book. Today, he criticized those essays and told me to rewrite them, and added another longer one, and forty pages more.” I wanted to take a long swallow of wine, but I only sipped. I had to work with Maitre Dyana later, and I didn’t want my senses or abilities wine-dimmed.

Menyard looked as blank as my mind felt, but Kahlasa nodded knowingly.

“And Clovyl has me doing a half glass of exercises and running six milles before we even get into everything he’s trying to teach me.”

That surprised Kahlasa. “They’re pushing you hard. That’s not good.”

“You’re telling me it doesn’t feel good? I hurt most of the time.” I finished my last bite of the crumb pudding.

She shook her head. “You’re not the only one. They’re stepping up training on several levels, and they’re cutting short return leaves for field imagers. That suggests troubles ahead.”

“The newsheets reported that emissaries from the High Priest of Caenen and from the Oligarch of Jariola were meeting in Caena last week,” Menyard interjected. “The Abiertans have been refitting some of their merchanters with heavy weapons, and bought several old cruisers from Ferrum that they’re also refitting.”

“Tiempre and Stakanar have signed a pact for mutual defense,” added Kahlasa.

“Do any of them really think they’ll end up gaining anything?” I’d read about all the pacts and the arming and rearming. Tiempre and Stakanar bordered Caenen, and both worried about the High Priest and his efforts to spread the gospel of Duality. My thought was that the gospel was merely a front to get his people to support a war of expansion, but maybe I’d been too steeped in the more practical religious approach of the Nameless. Then the Otelyrnan League, composed of the smaller nations on the continent of Otelyrn, had agreed to allow the Tiempran forces rights of passage on major highways and waterways. That had incensed the High Priest of Caenen, and one thing was leading to another. But I still didn’t understand why; wars almost always cost the winner more than the winner gained, and the loser—and its leaders—could lose everything, including their lives. But most leaders clearly didn’t believe they’d be the losers.

“The High Priest wants to save the world from the damnation of the Nameless and any other faith in conflict with Duodeus, and make a profit while doing so,” suggested Kahlasa.

“And Ferrum wants to make a higher profit by selling arms to both sides, and the edgy neutrals,” said Menyard.

“And our factors want to sell to everyone, I suppose?” I added.

“Of course, but these things can get out of hand,” replied Kahlasa. “That’s why the Collegium is preparing.”

“For what?”

She just smiled. “For whatever may be necessary. Right now, I don’t know, but Master Dichartyn will tell you, and Master Schorzat will tell me.”

“And neither of you will be pleased,” added Menyard. “I’m just glad I don’t have to do what you two do.”

“What do you do,” I said, “if I might ask?”

“I’m an equipment designer and imager. Very special equipment. At some point, Master Dichartyn may send you to me. I’ve worked with most of his imagers.”

“Do you two know what I’m being trained for?”

“No,” replied Kahlasa. “Except in general. You’re being trained by Master Dichartyn. He’s in charge of Collegium and Council security, but he never tells imagers in training what their final assignments will be until they’re through training, or until he’s sure that they will get through training. He’s in charge of the Council guard force, the Collegium security section, the covert/overt section, and imager reception.”

I couldn’t help but frown at the last. “Reception?”

“What better way to find out what we do than send an imager spy into the Collegium?”

Put that way, it made sense. I decided against asking about the covert/overt section, not because I didn’t wish to know, but because I knew I wouldn’t learn any more.

As I left dinner, I thought about a term Kahlasa had used—“field imagers.” The fact that she came and went from the Collegium suggested that she was one of them. The handbook on the Collegium didn’t mention specifics. It just said that imagers had a wide range of duties, both at the four Collegia and elsewhere. But Kahlasa didn’t report to Master Dichartyn, and that meant field imagers weren’t directly connected to Master Dichartyn.

I almost started out the dining hall doors to my quarters, out of force of habit, then stopped. It was still before seven, and I was supposed to wait for Maitre Dyana.

Everyone had left the corridor, and the first bell was striking when I saw her step through the rear door and walk toward me. I just watched, politely, as she approached, taking in her iron-gray hair and bright blue eyes. She wore imager grays, but in addition, she had draped herself with a brilliant blue scarf that matched her eyes. The skin on her face was pale and smooth, younger than her hair would have suggested, and she offered a pleasant smile.

“Rhennthyl . . . you’re Dichartyn’s protégé.” She nodded. “I can see why. You look like a well-mannered young fellow, could be a junior son of a High Holder or a merchant heir or, with a beard, a struggling artist. That’s not so surprising, since you’ve already been two of those.”

Except I’d never had a beard. I’d tried, once, but it came in curly and itchy, even though my hair only had a slight wave in it.

“There’s a small conference room off the entrance. That will do.”

She turned, and I followed her. She walked briskly, for all the gray hair and her almost fragile frame. When I entered the room with the oval table and six chairs, she was standing by the window, looking out into the twilight. She said nothing.

I closed the door and moved closer to the conference table. Finally, she looked at me. Those blue eyes were as cold as lapis, yet seemingly without judgment.

I waited.

“Good. I detest unnecessary chatter. Conversation is useful only in certain settings, and for certain purposes. Master Dichartyn has requested that I attempt to teach you how to improve your shields. I do not know how you developed your shields. So . . . I will make several brief attacks, and we will proceed from there.”

“Yes, maitre.” I inclined my head slightly.

The first attack was more like a jab, so light that my heavier secondary shields did not spring into play. The second was harder, but easy enough to repulse. The third was strong enough that I was forced backward a step. The fourth and last was aimed more at my shields, but was powerful enough—even though off-center—that I had to move back once more.

Maitre Dyana looked at me sadly, as though I were a truant grammaire student. “Finesse, dear boy . . . finesse. You’ll exhaust yourself in a fraction of a glass defending yourself like that. The last attack was at an angle. You used your entire shield to stop it. Almost all attacks come from an angle, if a small one. When you can, let your shields collapse a little. Let the attacks slide off. The object is to protect yourself with the least effort possible. Imagers are too few in number as it is. We don’t need to lose more because you spent too much energy defending yourself unnecessarily vigorously.” She waited for a response.

“Yes, maitre.”

“We’ll start over again. This time I’ll stand over here and image force at you. It will be direct. Please make an effort to slide it past you . . .”

I wouldn’t have said my efforts were a total failure, but my successes were few and far from complete.

As the outside bells struck eight, Maitre Dyana raised her hand. “That will be all for this evening. Now that I’ve gotten your attention and you understand your deficiencies, dear boy, tomorrow evening I will expect a better performance from you.”

She offered a brief and perfunctory smile, then nodded and walked past me, leaving me standing in the conference room, sweating and exhausted once more. So far as I could tell, the seemingly frail maitre had not even raised a drop of perspiration while wearing me out.

The best traders weigh their words as carefully as their
goods.

The week ended as it began. No matter how hard I worked for Master Jhulian, Clovyl, and Maitre Dyana, and no matter how much I improved or learned, there was always more to learn and do. By Samedi, I was more than ready to leave Imagisle, even for a dinner at my parents with a factor I hadn’t seen in years and his daughter, a young woman I’d never met.

I didn’t leave at ninth glass or even noon. Instead, as the ten bells of midday struck, I was seated in my study poring over
Jurisprudence
, the section dealing with tort claims. According to the text, the Council itself was immune to juristic claims of damages, as were the Juristic Courts, and all branches of government. Individual councilors, or anyone in any branch of government, could be subject to a suit under tort law. At that point, I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.

After several moments, I opened my eyes and looked down at the listing of acts for which an official was not liable, followed on the next page by a listing of those where he might be. I slipped a leather bookmark in place and closed the book.

I still had another essay to write for Master Jhulian, this one on the theoretical and practical limits of sovereign immunity as exercised by the Council and the government over which it presided, and I had to explain why the first Council had created the malfeasance and misfeasance sections of the Juristic Code.

I’d asked Master Jhulian why imagers needed to read about law, and his answer had been direct and troubling. “All imagers need to know some of this. Anyone who works with Master Dichartyn needs to know more than I can teach. I have to prepare you to keep learning.” Then he’d smiled. “
After
I’m satisfied, Master Dichartyn will explain why what you are learning is applicable. That’s because, unless you do learn it, you won’t keep working with him, and you won’t need to know why.”

From the time I’d first come to Imagisle, I’d known that there was a darker side to the Collegium, but with every day that passed, I was getting the feeling that I was getting closer to it. Finally, I began to reread the pages in
Jurisprudence
. I stayed at my desk, more or less, until just before the fourth glass, when I hurried out of my quarters.

Even so, I was at my parents’ door at half past four, where Nellica ushered me in.

“Sir . . . everyone will be meeting in the formal parlor at five.”

“Is anyone there?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’ll slip into the family parlor and wait there.”

She wasn’t totally pleased, but she didn’t have to be. I settled into one of the armchairs—not my father’s—but I didn’t have to wait long before Culthyn appeared, a slightly sullen expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Father says I’m not invited to dinner. Khethila isn’t either.”

“Where is she?”

“She went to Brennai’s for the evening. Brennai’s her best friend. This week, anyway.”

“You’re cynical.”

“That’s what Mother says.” He looked at me. “What do you really do as an imager?”

“At the moment, I’m studying the laws of Solidar and L’Excelis.”

“You’re going to be an imager advocate? That’s freezing!”

“We all have to study law . . . and science, and history, and philosophy.”

“Oh . . . Can you do imaging? Can you show me?”

“Not yet. I can do it, but the masters don’t let us do it off Imagisle until we’re more experienced.”

“Come on, Rhenn. No one would know.”

I offered a smile. “I would, and sooner or later, so would Master Dichartyn. He’s my preceptor. He’s very perceptive.”

“What good is being an imager if they don’t let you image?”

“Culthyn,” I said slowly, “imaging is more dangerous than I ever knew or dreamed. That’s why almost a third of all imagers die in training.”

That stopped him, but only for a moment. “You haven’t died.”

“That’s because I’ve paid attention to those who know better than I do.”

“That’s a lesson you still need to learn, Culthyn,” announced Mother as she entered the family parlor. “Off to the kitchen. Your dinner is on the table in the breakfast room. Don’t bother Nellica or Kiesela. When you’re done, up to your rooms.”

“Yes, Mother.” He looked to me. “Someday, will you show me?”

“I will. It might be a while.”

After he left through the archway into the rear hall, Mother asked, “Show him what?”

“Imaging. Right now, I’m not supposed to image off Imagisle.”

“I can see that.” She nodded. “Zerlenya and her parents are most anxious to meet you.”

“Rhenn!” My father’s voice boomed across the parlor. “You’re even early!” He looked at me. “You look more like a guard officer every time I see you.”

“He looks just fine, Chenkyr.”

“That’s what I meant. He stands taller.”

Shortly, there was another knock on the front door, and the three of us moved to the formal parlor while Nellica ushered the guests into the house.

In moments, Tomaz was stepping toward me. He was a short and stocky man with an engaging smile. “You’re Rhenn, I take it, and an imager to boot. Wager your father never planned on that.”

“No, sir, he didn’t, but he’s fortunate to have Rousel and Culthyn to carry on.” After I’d said that, I realized I should have mentioned Khethila.

“Oh!” Tomaz turned and gestured. “This is my daughter Zerlenya.” He beckoned again. “Zerlenya, come and meet Rhennthyl. It’s not every day you get to meet an imager that you know personally—or his father, anyway.”

Zerlenya stepped forward, offering a tentative smile. She was thin, almost painfully so, but she had wide cheekbones, and a clear pale complexion, with tight-curled jet-black hair that would have dropped to midshoulder had it not been swept up and curled into a swirl at the back of her long neck. Her eyes were pale gray, and in the off-white gown and shoulder scarf, she gave the impression of a beautiful swan, if one ready to take wing at the slightest danger.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” I offered a smile with my words.

“Father has spoken of you. I’ve never met an imager.”

“You have now. I’m a very recent imager, though.”

“What can you image?”

“So far I’ve managed a copy of my brother’s wife’s comb, a box, and all sorts of small objects in training, including a metal bar or two.”

“That doesn’t sound terribly dangerous.” Her voice was thin and bright, the kind that could be heard across a room.

“I hope not. Time will tell.”

“It always does.”

I just nodded to that.

“Do you like being an imager?”

I hadn’t really thought about that, unlike being a portraiturist. I’d wanted to paint, but since I’d never considered being an imager until I discovered I had the talent, it hadn’t been a question of liking, but of doing the best I could. “I hadn’t thought about it. It’s not an occupation you dream about as a child.”

“But do you like it? Father’s always saying that you cannot be good at something unless you like doing it.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I do. That’s why Uncle Weidyn is so good a cabinetmaker.”

“I haven’t met him. I’ve only met Aeylana.”

“Oh . . . yes. You did the portrait, didn’t you? It’s very pleasant.”

I couldn’t help but bristle inside. When someone refers to a work of art, even one that is not superb, as “nice” or “pleasant,” it means that they don’t know art or that they think it’s terrible. “She seemed to like it.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“She was very good at the sittings.”

“She’s very good, and very well mannered.”

Before long, Nellica rang the dinner chimes, and we repaired to the dining chamber, where we stood behind our chairs. The dinner settings were not strictly formal, because Father was flanked by Madame Tomaz and Zerlenya, while Mother was flanked by Tomaz and me, but with just six it really didn’t matter. Anyone could converse with anyone else.

Father rested his hands on the back of his chair and offered the blessing.

“In peace and harmony,” we all murmured when he finished, then seated ourselves.

Father carved the side of beef with his usual dispatch and efficiency, and before long, plates and goblets were full.

“How is the produce business these days?”

“Slow . . . so slow, Chenkyr. We’re almost through our stored stocks of root vegetables and the like. The spring vegetables and fruits from the South won’t be in for another month, three weeks if we’re fortunate. You can sell cloth at any time.”

“Ah . . . my friend . . . I can sell at any time, but I have to buy the wool and arrange the weaving almost a year in advance, and pay much in advance, and if I judge wrong . . .” Father shrugged expressively. He always showed more emotion when he talked about business.

“You can always sell wool; it does not spoil.”

“The price. It is always the price at which one buys, not the price at which one sells.”

I looked at Zerlenya and offered a helpless shrug.

A ghost of a smile was her reply.

“Father is most at home talking business,” I added, “wherever he is.”

“Business is what supports the home,” said Tomaz enthusiastically. “Why shouldn’t we talk about it? We’re not High Holders who talk about music no one can understand or books no one has read.”

Khethila would have disputed that, but I doubted that Tomaz had ever seen a copy of Madame D’Schendael’s book. I looked to Zerlenya. “Do you follow the produce business?”

“It would be difficult not to. Father insists we know everything.”

“And why not?” replied Tomaz. “If anything happened to me, the Nameless forbid, if you didn’t know the business, how would you all get by? Even you, Zerlenya, know more than I did at your age, and a good thing it is, too.”

“Are all of your children following in the business?” asked Mother.

“All but Thurlyn,” answered Madame Tomaz. “He’s an ensign in the Navy. He’s stationed on the
Rex Charyn
. He’s always loved the water . . .”

From there the conversation remained firmly fixed in the areas of the mundane, and no one said anything about imagers and Imagisle.

Once the guests had left, nearly two glasses later, Mother closed the front door and turned to me. “What did you think of Zerlenya?”

“She’s very nice.”

“You didn’t like her, then.”

“She is pretty, in an ethereal way. I don’t think she’d be happy with me.”

“That’s not the question,” interjected Father. “Could you be happy with her?”

“It is the question, Father. Imagers cannot marry those who are not happy with them.”

“Marriage isn’t just about lust.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that it’s very important that an imager and his or her spouse get along well. More important than with other couples.”

There must have been something in my voice. They exchanged glances.

After a moment, Mother said, “You know best.”

Her tone suggested that I knew anything but. “It’s something that all the senior imagers have stressed, Mother. I might not know, but I have to trust that they do.”

“I see.” This time, there was resignation in her voice. “I hope you find someone.”

So did I, I reflected as I left.

At least they provided Charlsyn and the coach for the ride back to the Bridge of Hopes. For better or worse, Artiema had set and Erion—the grayish red lesser hunter—stood almost at its zenith, ruling the night sky.