Imager (31 page)

“Your family . . . they must have . . . must know people.”

“My father is a wool factor. He wishes I had that talent. What about your family?”

“He’s a tinker of sorts. He has a small shop. People bring things to him to be fixed or sharpened. I’m not that good with my hands, but I’m quick, and I never forget anything anyone tells me. That’s useful for a messenger.” Basyl nodded slowly, then turned and led the way down the grand main staircase—the one I had last beheld more than ten years earlier. We’d barely reached the bottom when Baratyn appeared holding an envelope.

“Basyl . . . I need this run to Chasylmar. He’s not in his study, and I don’t have time to track him down.”

The senior messenger nodded and took the envelope. “Yes, sir.”

“You come with me, Rhennthyl.”

Baratyn didn’t say anything until we were inside his study. “If you’d close the door . . .”

I did, then sat down after he’d seated himself behind the desk.

“You answered Basyl’s questions accurately and yet without revealing anything.”

How had he known that? “Was that a test? Are there listening tubes everywhere?”

“Of sorts. Only in the corridors. That’s one of the other things we monitor. You will, too, in time. With what we do and you will be doing, everything is a test. But then, most of life is. Most people just don’t realize it—or don’t want to think about it. At the moment, even with you, we’re shorthanded.” He laughed. “We’re always shorthanded. There are three of you as messengers and silent guards . . . and me. In an emergency we can call on one or two others, but that includes Master Dichartyn, and he’s not always available. The other two security messengers should be here any moment. While we’re waiting, do you have any questions?”

“How many regular messengers?”

“Just four. That’s enough to allow one or two to be sent off Council Hill, if necessary.”

At the knock on the door, Baratyn called out, “Come on in.”

I stood. I didn’t like being seated when meeting other people, particularly when they were standing. The door opened, and two men stepped inside. The second one closed the door. Both of them were about my size, and at least several years older. They looked almost politely nondescript, yet I could sense that behind that facade, they were formidable. Was that the kind of impression that Master Dichartyn was seeking—someone who could blend into any group, yet who, if you looked closely, you really didn’t want to encounter in dark corners?

“Rhennthyl, meet Martyl and Dartazn. Martyl is the blond one.”

Martyl smiled politely. “Be good to have some help here.”

“Especially the way things look to be going,” added the dark-haired and dark-eyed Dartazn, who was just a shade taller than Martyl.

“I had Basyl give him the general tour,” said Baratyn. “You two can show him all the places he really needs to know. He’ll only be here mornings for the next few weeks. They’re rushing his training so that he’ll be as ready as possible when the Council goes back in session.”

Dartazn looked at me, his brows furrowed. “You usually sit with Kahlasa and the other field operatives, don’t you? At the Collegium, I mean?”

“I do. That was because I got to know Claustyn when I became a third.”

“You’re the one who took a bullet near the heart and managed to image-shield it until Master Draffyd could take care of it.”

I hadn’t realized the bullet was that close. “Two bullets, actually, but I didn’t know it at the time. And I passed out a little bit before I got to Master Draffyd.”

“Claustyn hoped you’d go field,” added Martyl.

“That would have been my second choice,” I admitted.

“You three can talk later,” Baratyn said, “at the Collegium, not here.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Martyl genially. “All the walls but those here have ears. We hear and understand.”

“Go!” But Baratyn was smiling.

We left.

By the time I climbed into the duty coach at ten bells, with Martyl and Dartazn, my head was swimming with the effort of trying to remember all the hidden nooks and passages.

“We get lunch at the Collegium when the Council’s not in full session,” Martyl explained. “That’s because they close down the kitchens to give the staff their summer break. The Chateau’s practically deserted now.”

That was fine with me. I’d need all three weeks to really learn where everything was—and that was in spite of my study of the Chateau’s plans.

Implying guilt in writing is like eating food held too
long, providing neither satisfaction nor savor.

On Mardi, two letters were waiting in my box when I checked after lunch, but I was running so late that all I did was to see that one was from Seliora. I didn’t open it, because I wanted to enjoy reading it, and I didn’t have time for that. The other was from Mother. I had immediately recognized her handwriting. I didn’t open it, either, if for very different reasons, before I hurried back to my quarters and changed into exercise clothes and heavy boots.

Clovyl was waiting outside the exercise hall, with his usual patient smile, a smile that—I was convinced—concealed a hidden glee in at the thought of how hard he’d make me work.

“Good afternoon, Rhenn. You still have a lot more catching up to do.”

I followed him to the chamber, where I began on the loosening-up exercises, although my eyes did stray to the corner that held the free weights. It wasn’t that they were so heavy, but my muscles burned after I went through that routine—and I still had to look forward to another two glasses of special treatment.

Once he had worked me over thoroughly for slightly more than two glasses, Clovyl told me to stop by Master Dichartyn’s study after I cleaned up.

The one advantage of an afternoon shower was that the water was merely cool, rather than ice-cold, and before long I was sitting on the bench outside Master Dichartyn’s study. If I’d known that I’d be sitting there for close to half a glass I would have brought Mother’s letter, but I’d been hurrying so much that I hadn’t thought about that.

The study door opened, and a secondus stepped out. I stood, and his eyes flashed to me and then away.

“Good day, sir.” He fled as much as walked away.

I knocked.

“Come in, Rhenn.”

Once inside, I shut the door and sat down, waiting to see what else Master Dichartyn had scheduled for me.

“Clovyl says that you’re doing well, and that, if you keep at it, you’ll be close to where you should be by the time the Council reconvenes . . . where you should be in terms of physical training and conditioning. You’re still lacking in finesse in your imagery, but we need to get you some experience. On Jeudi morning, you’re to meet me here in the morning at half before fifth bell. We’ll be going to the prison for an execution.”

“Practice, sir?”

“Two kinds of practice. Subtlety and effectiveness. That night, you’ll have to work with Master Draffyd. Mostly, you’ll just be watching him do a dissection. Too much of your knowledge is text knowledge. That’s not your fault, but it’s something we need to remedy.” He stood. “You have to excuse me, but matters are pressing.”

“Caenen and Jariola, sir?”

“Partly. That’s mostly Master Schorzat ’s headache. It doesn’t help much that imaging is banned in Tiempre, and that its practice, if discovered, is punished by execution. Ferrum doesn’t ban it, but known imagers face great difficulties. That makes working in either land even more difficult, the Nameless knows, although neither Ferrum nor Jariola is a place we’d normally want to be. You’d think that we were the disciples of Bilbryn.” He shook his head.

Bilbryn? It took me a moment to recall the name. When Solidar had been warring states using bronze weapons, he’d been the imager champion of Rex Caldor, and his enemies called him the great disciple of the Namer, declaring him evil incarnate.

“I’ll see you on Jeudi,” Master Dichartyn said.

Our meeting had been short enough that I had a good glass left before dinner, and I hurried back to my quarters. Once there, I recovered the letters, opening Mother’s first, knowing full well what awaited me. I forced myself to read the words carefully.

Dear Rhennthyl
,

I had hoped that we would be able to host a birthday dinner for you this Samedi and perhaps invite Zerlenya or another suitable young lady, if you did not find Zerlenya to your liking. I do hope that you are feeling better, but I cannot help but worry, since we have not heard from you since your last letter. I do hope that we have not done anything to offend you. I had only invited Zerlenya because she is a beautiful and intelligent young woman, and you had mentioned that there were few women at all on Imagisle
. . .

I paused in reading, then shook my head.

. . . and you are now reaching the age where it will become more and more difficult to find someone suitable, as the most attractive ones from a suitable background will already have been spoken for. . . .

A suitable background was a polite way of saying someone who was at least from the factoring or full merchant class and most preferably not Pharsi.

. . . That is, of course, a matter with which you must deal, but we were only trying to be helpful.

That was doubtless true, but I didn’t need to be reminded of it.

We would still very much like to have a belated celebration of your twenty-fifth birthday. I do hope that this finds you in good health and that you will let us know when we may expect you or when I may visit you.

The last thing I wanted to do was write a reply, but doing so quickly would reduce the amount of guilt Mother would attempt to lay at my feet. I set aside the still-unopened letter from Seliora and wrote a quick reply to Mother, based on the truth, stating that while I had recovered physically, I was still restricted to Imagisle until certain aspects of my training were completed, but that, if she wished to visit, she was now more than welcome on either Samedi or Solayi afternoons, and should drop me a note to let me know when to expect her, and that I looked forward to seeing her.

Then I finally sat back in my study chair and opened the letter from Seliora.

Dear Rhenn
,

At last, we have arrived in Pointe Neimon. The trip was hard for Grandmama, but she is in good spirits. She sends her best to you. So does Shomyr.

We have already toured four textile manufactories, and we have improved arrangements with two. Their fabric is excellent. One other is satisfactory. The other we will not use, but it is good to see what each can do
.

I trust that you are well and will be fully recovered and able to leave Imagisle by the time we return. We have tickets on the Express for the fourth of Agostos. Grandmama says that we should invite you to dinner on the fourteenth. If you know that you can come then and let me know, I can write Mother and tell her to plan for it. If you do not know, then we can work out a time once we return to L’Excelsis.

You would find Pointe Neimon refreshing and beautiful. I do wish you could be here, but you must do what you must. I only ask that you take care in your duties, great care.

At the bottom was an address in Pointe Neimon, and, again, the signature was just her name, but the last two words before her signature, and the kiss when we had last parted, suggested far more than friendship.

I smiled. I did have time to write a response.

Death always leaves some stories incomplete; and
some are better left so.

Getting up well before dawn on Jeudi was not exactly to my liking, especially with what lay ahead, as much as I knew the necessity. I struggled to Master Dichartyn’s study, early enough that I sat slumped on the bench for a time before he appeared.

“Buck up, Rhennthyl. You’re not the one being executed.”

I jumped to my feet. “It’s early, sir.”

“Every morning’s early.” His voice was dry.

I walked quietly beside him as we made our way to the duty coach, which had drawn up outside the administration building. He said nothing to the black-clad obdurate driver.

Mist rose from the river as we crossed the Bridge of Stones, the hoofs of the two horses clattering on the pavement. The route to the prison was fairly direct—south on the West River Road to the intersection with the Avenue D’Artisans just after it crossed the Sud Bridge, and then more than a mille on the avenue and across the bridge over the ironway tracks, after which the coach turned onto a short street that ended at a gatehouse. Behind the gatehouse rose the gray flint walls of the Poignard Prison.

The duty coach halted by the gatehouse. No sooner had we stepped out onto the ancient cobblestones, damp from the light rain of the evening before, than two men in blue and black uniforms emerged. The one with the four-pointed star on his collars bowed to Master Dichartyn.

“Maitre D’Esprit.”

“Warden . . .”

The warden’s eyes flicked to me, just for a moment, before he and the guard escorted us through the gate and along a windowless stone-walled corridor until we reached an iron door, where another guard turned a black wheel to unlock it. We stepped into a small courtyard. I glanced up. The sky was beginning to lighten, just slightly, but I could still see clearly the reddish crescent that was Erion. At the far side of the courtyard was a scaffold. There were three nooses rigged from an overhead beam.

The warden stepped away, and the guard remained, a pace to one side.

Master Dichartyn leaned toward me and spoke softly. “The man to be executed will be led onto the platform on to one of the traps where there is a noose. He will be hooded and blindfolded. The executioner will put the noose over his head and adjust it properly. Then the executioner will step back. His next move will be to pull the lever to release that trap. As soon as he steps back and puts his hand on the lever, you are to act. If you image properly, the man will die and start to slump, and the executioner will pull the lever. The guilty man will be dead or dying before the noose breaks his neck.

“There will be three executed this morning. If you are successful with the first, try another technique with the second, and another with the third.”

Left unsaid was that I had practiced none of the techniques on living people—for obvious reasons.

The first technique was simply to image a moderate amount of air into the convicted man’s heart, vena cava, and aorta. Master Dichartyn had pointed out that, given the pressure of the heart pumping liquid, I would have to image some of the blood elsewhere for the effect to be near-instant.

The first prisoner was a heavyset man. Not only was he blindfolded, but his hands were tied behind his back, and his feet were manacled so that he could only take short steps. Two guards had to hold him, and a third wrapped a strap around his legs before the executioner could put the noose in place. As soon as the executioner stepped back, I concentrated.

The prisoner gave a sudden jerk, as if burned all over, then started to slump. The executioner pulled the lever. The prisoner was shuddering and twitching for that long moment before he reached the end of the rope and the noose snapped his neck.

“Not enough air in the aorta,” observed Master Dichartyn. “He would have died, but not quickly. Try that again.”

The second prisoner was thinner and shorter, and probably older. He didn’t struggle, just walked listlessly to the noose. This time I tried to follow the procedure more carefully.

The convicted man only jerked once, then slumped.

“Good. He felt one jolting pain, and that was it. Try something else now.”

I wasn’t ready for the next prisoner. She was a woman, tall and with a shapely figure, even hooded and in the prison drab.

Master Dichartyn sensed my reaction. “If she’s up there, whatever she did must have been horrible. Otherwise, she’d be drugged and used as a comfort woman by the Navy.”

That didn’t help, because I’d never heard of drugged comfort women. I swallowed and tried to concentrate. Fortunately, the convicted woman, who had taken her first steps almost demurely, literally jumped with both manacled feet, trying even while hooded and blindfolded a form of snap-kick at the leg of one of the guards. She struck hard enough that he went down, but so did she, and another guard dashed forward and wrapped a leather strap around her ankles. The three were not gentle as they forced the noose over her head and around her neck.

“Concentrate.” Master Dichartyn’s voice was low and hard.

I fixed my eyes and concentration on that part of her skull—or the spot beneath it—where the pitricine had to go. Contrary to that long-ago rumor promulgated by Seleus, it wasn’t swift if imaged to the heart or stomach—and most physicians could detect that kind of poisoning.

Just before the executioner touched the lever, I imaged.

She folded and slumped, but the executioner was ready, so much so that I doubt if anyone who did not know what had happened would have guessed that she was already dead.

“That was well done.” Master Dichartyn’s voice was again low. “Especially under the circumstances.”

The executioner stepped forward. “Evil as they may have been, they had lives and hopes, and we commend them to the Nameless. Let their example remind us all that kindness and honesty to others are the roots of harmony.”

For a moment, all was silent. Then the warden crossed the courtyard to us, and without speaking led us back the way we had come.

When we reached the coach, Master Dichartyn nodded to the guard and the warden. “We thank you.”

Both bowed slightly, and the warden replied, “As always, we appreciate what Imagisle does for us, and we wish you both well.” There was a slight, but distinct emphasis on the word “both.”

“As do we you,” I replied, as I’d been coached.

Once we were in the duty coach and on our way back to Imagisle, Master Dichartyn cleared his throat, then said, “I’d like you to think of another way to accomplish what you did this morning, one that is equally undetectable—if done properly.”

I managed a polite smile, even after the last three words, which were a reminder that I had not handled the first prisoner as well as I should have. “Yes, sir.”

“You are not, obviously, to write this down, but you are to think it out thoroughly.” He paused. “Why am I asking this?”

“I would judge, sir, that if everyone I must stop from doing harm seems to suffer either a heart stoppage or a brain seizure, there might be more questions than I or the Collegium would like to answer.”

He nodded. “On Lundi night, we’ll work on slowing and disrupting stratagems. Most times, those are to be preferred, but they’re easier and quicker to learn, and your injuries have necessitated training you in a different order to ready you in time to assume your duties.”

I was getting an ever-stronger feeling that Master Dichartyn was anticipating great troubles before long. “Who will strike first?”

He laughed, and there was a bitterness I had not heard before. “Who will not?”

I had to think for a moment. “The Abiertans? Or the Ferrans?”

“The Abiertans are afraid that we will annex them to keep the trade routes open. Any councilor who suggests such will be a target, and several already have survived attacks, not that they know it. Especially Councilor Reyner. The Ferrans are so touchy and arrogant that they believe their machines will allow them to fight both the Oligarch and Solidar. We don’t want any of those wars, and if councilors are attacked, wounded, or killed, there will likely be war. An important part of your job—and that of Baratyn and all of you working with him—is not to give anyone on the Council the excuse for fighting a war.”

Before all that long, we were back at the Collegium, but I was still late for breakfast, and Martyl and Dartazn, even Reynol and Menyard, were already finished. All through my hurried meal, I had to wonder what the woman had done that was so horrible that she had been sentenced to die. Then I had to rush to the duty coach that took the three of us to the Council Chateau.

“You were late for breakfast,” Martyl said as I climbed into the coach.

“I was with Master Dichartyn. We finished late—not late last night, but late with what we were doing this morning.”

The coach pulled away from the Collegium. Outside, it was still misty, but getting brighter, and that suggested a hot and sticky day to come.

“Prison stuff?” asked Dartazn.

I just nodded. I still worried about the woman, then I wondered why I was more concerned about her than about the men. There was no reason why a woman couldn’t have killed someone . . . or worse. “I had to drag myself over to meet him before we left. He looked as if he’d been awake for glasses.”

“He doesn’t ever sleep much, they say,” replied Martyl.

“If I had to deal with what’s on his mind,” added Dartazn, “I wouldn’t sleep much, either. He’s got to think of his work and supervise Master Schorzat as well.”

I hadn’t fully realized that Master Dichartyn was over Master Schorzat, although I should have, because Master Dichartyn was in charge of all Collegium security.

After reaching the Chateau, we met with Baratyn just before eighth glass, as had been the practice, although that would change to half past seventh glass once the Council reconvened.

“This session of the Council, we will be making some changes,” Baratyn said. “The first one is that when the Council is in session, one of you will always be near the doorway from the councilors’ lounge to the private passageway that leads to the chamber. As always, you will say nothing unless you are delivering a message or if you are addressed personally.”

“Even if you want to make Councilor Ramsael trip and crack his skull,” added Martyl, almost under his breath.

“Especially if you want that,” Baratyn riposted. “We’re not here to like them. We’re here to preserve them so that we don’t end up with something worse.”

I knew Ramsael was a High Holder from Kephria, but I’d never seen him. I had the feeling that one of the hardest things was going to be matching councilors’ names with their faces.

“In addition . . . at least one of you will be available to escort and act, if necessary, against anyone here to see a councilor.”

I could see that. Although every visitor allowed into the Chateau had to be on a list compiled from names provided by the councilors—or their aides—there was no assurance that the person who showed up at the gate was the person actually expected. Anyone could claim he was Raphael D’Factorius or Jorges D’Artisan. That didn’t mean that they were.

After Baratyn’s briefing, Dartazn took me on a tour of the outer grounds, pointing out all the places where assassins and intruders had tried to climb the walls or hide. Needless to say, as soon as we had gone outside, the sun broke through the mist, and I began to sweat.

Halfway along the west side, he pointed out the heavier foundation wall. “They call this the wall of life and death. The name dates back to Rex Regis.”

“Why?”

Dartazn shrugged. “Because it meant life for some and death for others.”

By the time Dartazn had finished taking me through the upper and lower gardens and the inner walks bordering the walls, we were both perspiring even more heavily. We were quite thorough in studying and inspecting the fountain court, with the cool created there by the various sprays of water. Then we returned to Baratyn’s study.

“Rhennthyl . . . you’re to spend the next glass studying a list of the regular visitors so that at least you know their names. After that, you can join Dartazn and Martyl in finishing the inventory of security equipment.”

Neither trying to learn names of people I had never seen nor comparing equipment in cases, racks, and boxes to a listing was terribly interesting, and all three of us were more than happy when it was time to return to Imagisle for lunch.

After lunch, I found a letter from Mother in my letter box. I read it quickly on my way back to my chamber to change into exercise clothes for my afternoon torture session with Clovyl.

Dear Rhennthyl
,

Your father and I are both glad to hear that you are recovering, but sorry that you are being limited to Imagisle for the near future. We had hoped that you would be able to accompany us to Kherseilles. We are leaving on Jeudi to see Rousel’s and Remaya’s son. They have decided to name him Rheityr, after your great-grandfather.

I couldn’t help but shake my head at her assumption that, if I hadn’t been injured, of course, I’d be able to leave Imagisle for more than a week.

We will not be back for more than a week, since your father needs to go over the factoring in Kherseilles with Rousel, but as warm as it has been here in L’Excelsis, it is bound to be more pleasant there, and it will be good to see our grandson. Khethila will be at the house, and she will be spending each day at the factorage in your father’s absence, but we will take Culthyn with us.