Imager (32 page)

I smiled at that. Neither of them wanted to admit how competent Khethila was getting to be. So far as the handling of coins went, I’d prefer to have her in charge, rather than Rousel. Rousel could sell anything, but coins had always had a way of dropping out of his wallet.

I will write once we have returned, and we will see about that dinner. By the time we are back and you are free, it may be well into harvest, but then, it will be cooler, and you might even have the name of a marriageable young woman that we could invite, inasmuch as you did not seem to find Zerlenya to your taste.

I winced at that, but just laid the letter on my desk as I entered my quarters. I had to change quickly and then hurry back to the exercise chambers.

After the warm-ups and the weights and the conditioning run, Clovyl resumed the training with knives, then followed that with a session with truncheons—or any relatively short length of wood or pipe or the like.

After a quick dinner, at seventh bell, I met Master Draffyd in the anteroom of the infirmary.

His face was grave. “This is not likely to be terribly pleasant for you, Rhennthyl. It will, we trust, make you a better imager. I’m going to dissect one of the bodies from this morning’s execution, in order to show you the exact placement of certain organs. I will also ask you to attempt certain precise imaging from time to time during the process. Some of it will improve your abilities to protect the Council. Some of it will help you protect yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” His words suggested some would improve my ability to kill, and some to heal, or at least limit bleeding or trauma, although he had not said those words.

He turned, and I followed him into the infirmary and down the corridor to a small room with a table. On one wall was a rack of shimmering instruments. On the table was a figure half covered with a thin gray blanket.

The body that lay faceup on the table was that of a woman with long flaming red hair, naked and uncovered from the waist up. She had been beautiful. Even in death, there was some attractiveness, but her face still bore a trace of pain or agony. Then, that might have been my imagination.

“This is the woman executed this morning. From her expression, your effort was relatively good.”

Relatively good?

He pointed to the top back of the woman’s shoulders. “You can see here the edge of faint white scars, and some newer welts. She’s been beaten. I reported that to the chief of patrollers and the justice, but the last beating took place before she was apprehended. The welts almost had healed during the time she was held for her hearing.” He shook his head. “I don’t always trust all the patrollers, but the degree of healing supports the chief’s story. I suppose we’ll never know what happened.” He pointed to her neck. “We’re using her body because it requires more precision. I’d like you to image a small plug of wax into her carotid artery.” He gestured to a white oblong of wax on the narrow shelf beneath the instrument rack.

The initial imaging wasn’t too bad, nor were the ones that followed, except I had to push away the questions about the welts on her back.

The dissection was another matter. It took every bit of willpower to keep my guts from turning inside out once Master Draffyd lifted back the scalpel and began to peel away various areas of skin, muscle, and bone to show me most clearly what he had in mind, illustrating where I could use imaging for what, and how it could be effectively used and where . . . and where it was useless, and why.

He also checked the accuracy of my imaging at almost every step of the dissection. I’d been accurate with the wax in the neck artery, and far less accurate with some of the other placements, particularly those deeper in the body or in the spinal column.

It was close to midnight when I made my way from the infirmary. Even a thorough washing didn’t help too much with my thoughts.

After I reached my own study, I first lit the lamp—with a striker and not by imaging—and then just stood there. Finally, I sat down at the writing desk and took out the letters from Seliora. I needed something to take my mind off what had happened during the course of a very long day, especially the beginning and the end.

All ask where the river goes, but few study how it
flows.

The rest of the week went somewhat better, although I had to decline going out with Martyl and Dartazn on Samedi because I was still restricted to Imagisle. That night and again on Solayi, I spent the time with my thoughts and the anatomy section of the science text, trying to come up with another silent and deadly technique for stopping an attacker. That was difficult because, at times, I could still see in my thoughts the woman I’d executed.

In midafternoon on Solayi, I walked to the north end of Imagisle, past the workshops and the park, and then past the cottages and dwellings. There were more than a few dwellings that looked to be spacious and gracious. I supposed those were for the masters with families. I sat on a shaded bench overlooking the river for a time. Even in late summer under a clear sky, the water was gray.

That night, of course, I went to services, and one section of Chorister Isola’s homily on Solayi did remain with me, when she was speaking of luck and fortune.

“. . . Good fortune can fall upon the evil, and evil upon the good. Chance and time befall us all. Do not rail against such, for such vain protests can only make matters worse and you less able. Do not grant the Namer more power over you by giving names to your misfortunes or declaring your fortune as if it were a named quality that is an integral part of you . . .”

Her words made me think about Rousel. Had I named luck and charm as part of who he was? But were those really part of him, or my appellations, offered out of envy?

Then, when I left the service, as I saw the wives and children of the older married imagers also departing with their husbands, I was reminded that the Collegium was indeed a city within a city, and I actually saw Master Dichartyn with an angular brunette and two daughters. I couldn’t help wondering about what he saw in her until I saw her smile at him, and his smile in return. I was glad he didn’t see me studying them.

Lundi was like all the weekdays, beginning with a hurried breakfast and a rush to the duty carriage. The morning was long, because I had been tasked with writing a fair copy of the inventory we had done the week before. The good part was that lunch was a good ragout with dark bread, and the three of us had a chance to talk before they returned to the Council Chateau.

Once more I had to hurry to get ready for Clovyl, although I had come to enjoy those afternoon sessions and learning skills that were largely physical in nature and technique. I couldn’t help but think that, had I known what he had taught me when I’d been at grammaire, my years there would have been far less painful.

Lundi evening I met with Master Dichartyn, and he actually agreed with my “new” technique—imaging aleyan into the back of the eye—but he pointed out that it was not new, and that pitricine would work as well, although aleyan was harder to detect. After that, it was actually enjoyable to learn about various delaying or disabling tricks, many of which were so obvious after being told, but not something that I would necessarily have thought of without prompting, things like imaging oil and wax onto a step or pavement under a boot or shoe, or tar, for a slowing effect on someone running. I particularly liked the powdered chilis in the nose.

When we had finished with that, he fingered his chin, and I knew something was coming.

“Now that you are about to become a true working imager, I need to repeat some things. There are other unwritten but very real rules for imager counterspies. I am certain that Master Jhulian has intimated what they are, but I will lay them out directly. First, except in cases of publicly witnessed self-defense, anyone you kill or otherwise dispose of must appear to have died through an accident or in some fashion that cannot be said to be murder. Second, such removals must always take place when you are unobserved and someone else is present to honestly testify that no one else was present. Third, you will report every such incident, and failure to do so could result in severe consequences. Fourth, you tell no one but me or the head maitre of the Collegium what you have done in accomplishing those duties, and such reports are to be only verbal. You are never to write down anywhere the actions you have taken or the charges that you have been given. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have some reading material for you.” He smiled wryly. “It’s not text. It has to do with one of your assignments.”

“Don’t I already have my assignment, sir?”

“You do, but we all have multiple assignments. The Council generally only meets some ten glasses a week, usually from ninth glass until second or third glass of the afternoon. In the later afternoon, not all of you are required. Everyone has some additional assignments, and at times when the Council goes out of session early, Baratyn will decide who will remain at the Chateau and who will be released to work on the assignments I’ve given.” He handed me several sheets of paper.

I glanced at them, then looked again. The first was the civic patroller report on the death of Master Caliostrus, and it contained the names and addresses of all of Caliostrus’s relatives in L’Excelsis. The second was a sheet listing information on Johanyr, and the third dealt with Diazt.

“Someone was hired to kill you. Your assignment is to see if you can discover who hired that assassin. Once you have evidence of that, you will report to me before acting against that person. If you encounter other assassins, you can dispose of them, provided you do so either quietly or in a well-witnessed instance of self-defense. The most likely suspects are relatives of the late Master Caliostrus, but Diazt also had friends from the hellhole who engage in such matters as removing enemies. I would suggest not visiting there, because there would either be a great number of dead taudismen or we’d have to find and train another imager to replace you.”

I hadn’t thought of visiting the hellhole, or any of the taudis. “Does this mean I’m no longer restricted to Imagisle?”

“As of tomorrow, you’re not. You certainly have the skills to defend yourself, but what you still lack is an awareness of everything around you. That is something you will need to practice all the time until it becomes as natural to you as breathing, until you know all that may impact you without ever having to think about it. Only time and practice will grant you that.” He smiled sadly. “Please be cautious. As I told you months ago, there are no bold old imagers.”

Now that I was finally free to leave . . . none of the people I really wanted to see, except Khethila, were presently in L’Excelsis, and it didn’t make sense to see her until the weekend, because there really wasn’t enough time to take a hack out and back during the week.

“And one other thing—on Samedi morning, at the eighth glass, Maitre Poincaryt will be at your new studio so that you can start his portrait.” Master Dichartyn smiled. “This is an example of being careful in what you ask for, Rhennthyl. If you get it, you have to deal with the consequences.”

That meant more work to squeeze in somewhere, because the studio wasn’t set up for me to actually start painting. Still . . . I did look forward to it. “It will be a good portrait, sir, but it may take a little longer with the press of carrying out other assignments.”

“Master Poincaryt understands that all too well.” Master Dichartyn stood. “Go get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded. Would I find sleep that easily after all that had happened, and the additional assignment that I’d just been given?

When you seek, do not seek only that which you can
accept or believe.

By the time I walked across the quadrangle to dinner on Vendrei evening, I was tired, but not overly so. I was just glad the majority of my intensive training had come to an end. I’d received a brief letter from Mother on Mardi, and another one from Seliora just that afternoon. Mother informed me that the three of them would be arriving back in L’Excelsis on Lundi, the second of Agostos, and hoped that I could come on the following Samedi for dinner—a small family birthday dinner, since I had made it more than apparent that her choices of female companions did not appeal to me.

Seliora’s letter was cheerful. She hoped I was well and apologized that dinner would have to be on the fourteenth because her mother had already planned a birthday celebration for Aunt Aegina on the seventh. She also wrote that they all felt that I’d probably be tied up with my family on the seventh. Was that a good judgment . . . or Pharsi foresight? Either way, it worked out better for everyone, and I wrote her back immediately, saying that I understood, but hoping that I could at least call on her on Solayi afternoon—the eighth.

Although Master Dichartyn hadn’t said anything since he’d given me the information sheets dealing with the background on my shooting, I knew I had to start working on that assignment as well, but I had to start on Master Poincaryt’s portrait first. That was why, on Samedi morning, I was up before breakfast and over at my “studio,” making arrangements and checking the light. After hurrying over to the dining hall and eating, I returned to the studio and set up the easel and the chair.

As the first of the eight bells struck, Master Poincaryt stepped through the open door of the small converted workshop. He wore exactly the same gray garb as I did, with the addition of a small silver four-pointed star circled in silver and worn high on the left breast of his waistcoat. The silver circle only touched the star at the points, and the spaces between it and the star were open, showing the gray wool of the waistcoat. His eyes took in everything in single sweep and came to rest on me. Despite the lines carved into his face, his hair was jet black, as were the heavy eyebrows. The squarish shape of his face was offset by a chin that was almost elfin and a glint in his eyes as he moved toward me. “Rhennthyl.”

“Master Poincaryt.”

“You know that you’re the first imager that’s been a painter? That seems strange to me, because imaging is a visual skill, as is painting.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, sir, if there were painters with small imaging abilities who have kept those abilities to themselves.”

He offered a lopsided smile. “Between us, neither would I. Didn’t you, for a time?”

“Yes, sir.” I decided against explaining that it was because I’d thought my abilities so modest. I gestured toward the chair. “If you wouldn’t mind sitting there, sir?” I smiled. “You won’t be portrayed as sitting in anything quite that severe.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t show me in one of those upholstered thrones.” He settled into the chair, then looked at me. “It feels strange to be sitting here.”

“Sir . . . I would think that you deserve a portrait.”

“I don’t, but the head of the Collegium does.” He smiled. “That’s what Dichartyn claims. He says that having portraits of the heads of the Collegium will reinforce tradition.”

That gave me an idea. “Sir, is there anything that might suggest the Collegium?”

“Only the star, and that doesn’t really suggest the Collegium by itself.”

The four-pointed star of Solidar was symbolic, with the points representing the High Holders, the factors, the artisans, and the Collegium. I’d work out something. I always did.

The first thing I did was sketch Master Poincaryt’s face. Rather, I did a series of quick rough sketches in pencil until I had the sense of what would be both accurate and flattering.

Those took almost the entire glass, and there wasn’t much point in asking him to stay longer, because I’d need to think about the entire portrait and set up the design before his presence would be necessary again. “That’s all I’ll need from you now, sir.”

“Could I look at the sketches, Rhennthyl, so I won’t be too shocked?” His voice was gently humorous.

“Certainly, sir. I would ask that you remember that these are very preliminary. They’re as much to enable me to set up a design that’s appropriate.” I brought over the sketches and began to go through them. “Your profile from the left . . . the right . . . full face here . . .”

After he’d looked at the them all, he stood. “The Collegium is fortunate to have you.” He smiled. “If we are to have portraits, they should be accurate. My family may not agree, however.” He paused. “Next Samedi at this time?”

“Yes, sir, if that is convenient.”

After he left, I put away the sketches and the pencils, closed the workroom, and walked back to my quarters. Then I headed out on what would probably be a long Samedi, walking across the quadrangle and then toward the Bridge of Hopes.

I’d thought at first that the easiest part of looking into who had targeted me would be talking to those I knew in the guild, but after the reception I’d gotten from Rogaris and Sagaryn, I didn’t want to start with them. But where could I start? I racked my brain before I remembered the old man who had liked my study—the former portraiture master. I finally recalled his name—or names—and what Master Estafen had said. Everyone called him Grisarius, but he was really Emanus and he had some rooms off the Boulevard D’Imagers.

Surely, it wouldn’t be that hard to find him. People did notice odd characters, and Grisarius was anything but usual in appearance. I also could talk to Madame D’Caliostrus or Shienna.

As I crossed East River Road, at just after half past nine, I was glad there was a faint haze and a slight breeze. Even so, the day would be hot, and then some, by midafternoon. I wasn’t quite certain whether to walk up the Boulevard D’Imagers or take a hack to see Madame Caliostrus. I noticed a man talking to the flower seller, the same weathered woman who seemed to be there most every Samedi I’d crossed the bridge. I didn’t look in their direction, except for that first glance, but I did listen.

“. . . don’t some of the imagers buy your blooms?”

“Not many. Most of those who cross here are young, and they don’t have that many coins. They don’t understand the power of flowers.”

“Here comes one,” said the man in a low voice.

“Young sir . . . what about a bouquet or a flower? Just a few coppers . . . just a few . . .”

I couldn’t help thinking that I’d be perverse and buy some. I certainly had enough coppers for a few flowers, and it might be fun to take some to Khethila. Even if she wasn’t home, Nellica would be, and could arrange them—and they’d be a pleasant surprise. I stopped and stepped into the shade of the green and yellow, but slightly faded, umbrella that covered the flower seller’s small cart. “I just might. How much for the tulips—the red and yellow ones?”

“Three coppers a bunch, sir. Just three.”

“I’ll take them.”

As I handed her the coins, she didn’t conceal the surprise on her face—not so much that I had bought them, I thought, but that I hadn’t haggled over the price.

The man who had been talking to her eased away, but not before I caught a better glimpse. He wore a wash-blue workingman’s shirt and yellow-tan leather vest. His features were regular, and his brown hair was well trimmed. His beard was also neatly trimmed, but his eyebrows were bushy. The only distinguishing feature was the fact that the bottom of one ear was slightly shorter than the other, as if the lobe of his left had been removed.

“Thank you.” I inclined my head slightly to her.

Buying the flowers made a decision for me. I’d need to take them to Khethila first. So I hailed a hack. “West lane off of the circle at Plaza D’Este.”

The hacker, one of the few women drivers I’d seen, looked at the tulips, but said nothing beyond, “Plaza D’Este, west lane it is.”

When I finally reached my parents and knocked on the door, Nellica opened it. “Oh . . . Master Rhenn . . . there’s no one here but Mistress Khethila, and she wasn’t expecting anyone.”

I eased my way in, closing the door behind me so that the heat of the day didn’t flood into the foyer. “Just tell her that I’m here. I can’t stay long, but I wanted to see her.”

Before Nellica could even turn, I heard Khethila.

“Nellica? Is someone here?” She caught sight of me and rushed past Nellica. “Rhenn! How are you? How badly were you hurt? Did someone stab you or something?”

I extended the small bouquet. “I brought these for you.”

“For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re the one who’s working while everyone else is holidaying in Kherseilles.”

Khethila took the tulips, then immediately handed them to Nellica “If you’d arrange them . . . in the middle pale green vase?”

“Yes, mistress.” Nellica smiled and headed for the kitchen.

“Tell me what happened.” Khethila motioned toward the parlor. “It’s cooler inside, right now.” She was wearing a severe straight dark blue dress with long sleeves.

“I see you’re dressed for bookkeeping.”

“I just got home.” She dropped into Father’s armchair. “Tell me what happened.”

“Actually, I got shot. I’m fine now. The masters didn’t want me leaving Imagisle until I was completely well. This is the first weekend I’ve been off the isle in almost two months.”

“Mother thinks you’re mad at us, at her, really, because you didn’t like that Zerlenya bitch.”

I couldn’t help laughing. She laughed, too.

“I didn’t know she was a bitch,” I finally said. “I just wasn’t interested. After I got shot, well, I wasn’t in shape to go anywhere for quite a while.”

“She is. At the grammaire, she was the High Holder of all holders, but she’d play sweet for any boy she was interested in, and when any parents or adults were around. None of us could understand why the boys didn’t see through her.”

“She’s attractive enough,” I said.

“The sweetest-scented roses have the sharpest thorns.”

Since Khethila and I agreed about Zerlenya, and there was little more to be said there, I asked, “How are you liking keeping the ledgers?”

“It’s much better than dealing with the people who want to buy the wool. They all want it for less than it cost and can’t understand why it costs what it does. The figures in the ledger, if they’re entered properly, remain the figures in the ledger. I like making sure everything balances.” For an instant, her expression changed.

“You’re far better at that than I’d be, or than Rousel will ever be.”

This time she frowned, if briefly.

“Is Rousel having trouble with his bookkeeping?” That was a guess, but not a wild one.

“I think so.” She shook her head. “I hated telling Father, but some of the accounts didn’t work out. They couldn’t. That’s one reason why he went with Mother. He hadn’t planned to.”

“It’s also why he could leave. He knows you’ll keep the accounts here straight.”

“Old Chelink did fine, but when he died . . .”

“He died? When did that happen?”

“In late Maris . . .”

We talked for a glass or so before I stood and excused myself, telling her that I had some imager tasks to do. I managed to catch a hack two blocks short of the Plaza D’Este and had him drop me off at the corner of North Middle and Bakers’ Lane, about two blocks from Master Caliostrus’s place. There were some people along the lane, about what I’d have expected on a summer afternoon. Several looked at me, then looked away. Most didn’t pay much attention.

Even before I reached the gate to the place where I’d spent nearly ten years, I could hear the clink of stonework and chisels, and the murmurs of workmen.

“Mortar! Up on the top course . . .”

The gate had been removed. Inside the walls, a larger version of Master Caliostrus’s dwelling had mostly risen on the foundations of the old, and this one was entirely of stone. The shed against the rear wall had been demolished, and there was no sign of the garden.

I eased toward the gray-bearded man in charge of the masons. “Pardon me.”

He turned, his mouth open, as if to upbraid me—until he took in the gray. “Imager . . . what can I do for you?”

“I was looking for Madame D’Caliostrus . . .” I offered. “I knew her husband had died.”

“You won’t find her here. She sold the place to Master Elphens . . .”

Elphens had made master? Even as a representational artist? I wanted to shudder and scream at the same time. My study had been far superior to his mist-covered gardens with all the wrong lighting, and he was now a master—and I hadn’t been able to get a journeyman’s position. And where had he gotten the coin to purchase the place, let alone rebuild such a dwelling?

“. . . Even with all the damage, I hear, she didn’t do badly. Plot this large is hard to come by here in the Martradon district.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“Word is that she went back to where her parents came from.” He frowned. “Little place near Rivages, don’t recall the name. She got some money from an annuity or something from a patron of Caliostrus. She said there was no reason to stay here and plenty to leave.”