Imager's Challenge (57 page)

“. . . imaging takes energy from all around you . . .” Who had said that? Master Dichartyn? I tried to remember what he had said, but I was fairly certain he hadn’t said much more than that. But why not? Because it was dangerous, obviously, but dangerous to whom? All the lead and leaded glass in the Collegium . . . for whom did they provide protection?

I glanced at the scrubby bush by my feet. Could I?

I looked at a smaller stone set in the second course of stone below the
topmost remaining, then at the bush, and concentrated on a tie between the bush and the stone. I took a deep breath and tried to image the stone out of the wall—but away from me and nearer the taller south wall.

Craackkk . . .
Stone chips sprayed everywhere, some striking my shields with such force that I took two steps backward in order to keep my balance.

A thump . . . thump echoed through the ruined walls, followed by a dull thud.

Where the stone had been, an oblong opening remained, with a powdery, dusty mist slowly settling and sifting down toward the uneven ground next to the wall. The stones around the gap in the wall had not moved.

I looked back to the scrubby bush. It wasn’t there. Or rather, where it had been was an ash-outlined and flattened image of a bush that shifted on the hard ground in the light night breeze, then vanished as if it had not been as the air currents swirled it away.

I looked at the south wall of the mill, rising two stories. I found myself trying to moisten my lips, dry as my mouth suddenly was.

“Take it a step at a time,” I murmured, trying to steady myself.

Abruptly I almost laughed, recalling what Alsoran had said about steps. My eyes took in a forlorn-appearing tree that had grown up in the sheltered corner where the west and south walls of the mill joined. Slowly I walked around to the outside of the south wall and studied it, trying to determine where its weakest points might be.

I shook my head. That wasn’t what I needed. Where would removing stones cause the greatest damage? Finally, I stepped back from the wall. I didn’t want to think too hard about what I was about to try, yet what else could I do? I had to know if what I had in mind worked.

This time I tried to create a link between the straggly misshapen tree and the southwest corner of the wall. Then, I focused on imaging out a section of that corner of the wall at ground level.

Craaack. . . .

Stones seemed to fly everywhere, or maybe I was, because I felt myself being flung backward. For a moment—it might have been a great deal longer—there was blackness over and around me. Then I was looking up at the sky. Artiema was still about where she had been . . . or maybe somewhat farther westward and lower in the sky. Slowly . . . very slowly, I sat up. My right buttock was sore, very sore, and my shoulder twinged as I struggled to my feet. My head ached, and my vision was blurry.

I looked toward the old mill, squinting through the blurriness to make things out. The entire south wall had slumped into a pile of rock and stone,
as had the southern half of the west wall. There was no sign of the tree. In fact, I realized, there were no bushes or trees anywhere close to the building. All the undergrowth was gone, and a thick coating of frost was everywhere. The air was icy.

As far as I had moved back from the ruins, I definitely should have retreated farther, much farther. I’d proved that what I’d had in mind worked, but my technique, as Maitre Dyana would have said, definitely needed much more refinement.

As I walked—more accurately, limped—back toward the Bridge of Stones, the wind rose slightly, coming off the water with a bitter chill. I glanced down at the gray water, where I could see the shimmering of shards of rime ice breaking up even as I watched.

I swallowed, but kept walking.

At that moment, something flashed before my eyes—an oblong building that trembled and shook, and then exploded, with flames shooting in all directions, and then dust and smoke rising even as chunks of masonry and timbers began falling on the street and a low wall. I stopped, frozen in place, as the image vanished from my eyes or mind. I knew the building. It was the Temple of Puryon . . . but it couldn’t have just exploded, because it was night, and the explosion had occurred in the light. Was I imagining it? Or had it happened? Would it happen?

How could I tell?

I resumed walking, cold inside and out, and realized that I was going to be very sore.

As I walked off the bridge and toward the quadrangle and my quarters, more like an old man than a young imager, an errant thought struck me—I’d probably convinced five vagrants that demons did exist and that the old mill was indeed haunted.

Demons indeed.

But the flash vision of the explosion seemed all too real.

Not only were my buttocks and shoulder sore and painful when I staggered out of bed on Lundi morning, but my legs were sore, and I still had a trace of the headache I’d gone to bed with. I could see, however, and I could raise shields. I couldn’t help but frown at that. Did that mean that I’d handled the imaging part as I should have, but I was suffering the consequences of not physically protecting myself as well as I should have? Wonderful! My technique was better than I thought, but I still came close to killing myself . . . again. And then there was that vision of the Temple of Puryon exploding. I’d just have to see . . . and be very careful around the Temple.

Clovyl’s stretching exercises did help, but my running left so much to be desired that I was in the group bringing up the rear. Fortunately, no one seemed to care. The cold shower that followed my return to quarters numbed the aches, but also stiffened me up some, and I was slow in shaving and getting dressed. I still made it to the dining hall without being terribly late.

“You’re limping,” Ferlyn observed as I sat down at the masters’ table.

Chassendri slipped into the chair to my left before I replied. “That’s what comes of all those exercises and running on wet stone.”

I managed to look sheepish. “I do have a large bruise from falling.” That was true. I just didn’t say when or where.

“He’s sitting lopsided,” Chassendri affirmed.

“I wouldn’t be in security for anything.” Ferlyn poured some tea and handed me the pot. “Bad things happen to all of you, and there’s never any rest from problems.”

I filled Chassendri’s mug, and then mine. “Is there any rest from problems for any imager? Isn’t it just a choice of which problems we prefer and are suited to handle?”

Chassendri smiled, but only for a moment. “That may be true for us, but what about imagers whose talents don’t match what they prefer?”

“I don’t know that I have that much sympathy.” My words came out more sardonically than I’d intended.

“Oh?” asked Ferlyn.

“I could have been a master portaiturist,” I pointed out. “I didn’t exactly
get that choice. We sometimes don’t. We only get to choose among some alternatives.”

Chassendri tilted her head. “That’s true . . . in a way.”

“In what way?” asked Ferlyn.

“Some choices no one gets. We don’t choose where and to whom we’re born. We don’t choose our physical characteristics. But that’s true of everyone. We do get to choose what we do with what we have. Didn’t you have to choose to work with Master Dichartyn, Rhenn?”

“Yes. I’ve already admitted that, but what does that have to do with sympathy?”

“Would you really prefer to work, say, imaging machine parts?”

“No.” That was an easy and obvious admission.

“You had the choice. What about someone like Shannyr, or Sannifyr? They don’t have your abilities and choices.”

I inclined my head. “Your point is well taken and gently made.” At least, she hadn’t out-and-out called me spoiled because I had the ability to be good in two fields and was complaining I hadn’t had much choice when others had none.

“Gently?” Ferlyn raised his eyebrows. “I’d hate to see what she’d do roughly, if that happened to be gentle.”

I laughed softly. “We’d best keep that in mind, then, hadn’t we?” I grinned at Chassendri.

She did smile back.

As I finished breakfast, I couldn’t help asking myself if I were becoming too much like Master Dichartyn, or at least in those characteristics I disliked. Yet . . . there was so much I could tell no one—except Seliora—and I probably wasn’t supposed to tell her. But she and her family could keep secrets. In my family, Khethila was the only one who could, and I didn’t want to burden her.

I had to hurry to the duty coach, but the streets were relatively clear, and I arrived outside the station as the bells were chiming seventh glass. When I stepped inside, both Lyonyt and a fresh-faced patroller who looked to be a good five years younger than I was walked toward me immediately. I didn’t see either Harraf or Warydt. I wasn’t about to go looking for them.

“Good morning, Master Rhennthyl,” offered Lyonyt. “This is Fuast.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Fuast.” I inclined my head politely.

“I’m happy to meet you, sir.” His voice was young and enthusiastic. I found that bothered me, and at the same time, it disturbed me that it did.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I offered. “We probably need to be headed out.”

“We should.” Lyonyt’s head bobbed up and down, even as his eyes flicked toward the doors and then back to me.

I ended up leading the way, at least until we were headed east on South Middle, when I dropped back and let Lyonyt explain.

“Best thing to do is circle the round before you start going up and down the cross streets . . . gives you a feel for what might be happening. If there’s trouble, you want to know about it before you get too deep in the taudis, goes for any round you do, but it’s worse here if you don’t know . . .”

When we neared the Temple, unchanged from when we had passed it last on Vendrei, I took a long and careful look. One of the priests was standing on the front steps, and he looked toward us and then away. Had I just imagined the explosion? Except . . . the last flash vision had been the fire at the factorage. We were nearly to the Avenue D’Artisans before Lyonyt stopped to take a breather from his nonstop briefing.

“They said that Third District’s one of the toughest.” Fuast looked sideways to Lyonyt.

“Has some of the tougher rounds, those going through the taudis, anyway. Every district’s got tough rounds, even Fifth District. Just doesn’t have so many.”

I didn’t know, but I suspected that Lyonyt had that correct.

“How many imagers accompany patrollers, Master Rhennthyl?” Fuast asked as we turned southwest on the avenue.

“Not many,” I replied. “At the moment, I’m the only one. I’m the imager liaison to the Civic Patrol, and this is part of my getting to know how the Patrol operates. I’ve spent time in headquarters and watching justice hearings.”

“Ah . . . sir . . .”

I had a good idea what he was thinking. “I’ve had duties like a patroller as an imager, and I’ve been trained in handling weapons and in taking them away from other people.”

Fuast looked to Lyonyt.

“He’s already taken down a taudischef and something like five toughs in less than a month, most of ’em with his bare hands.”

“Oh . . . I’m . . .”

“People think imagers just image. We don’t. There are imagers who are bookkeepers and sailors and machinists and advocates and justices . . . all sorts of jobs. We just do them on Imagisle. I also paint. I was a portraiturist before I was an imager.”

“I didn’t know that, sir,” said Lyonyt.

“I don’t believe I mentioned it.”

Before long, Lyonyt was back to explaining about the round, and where to watch carefully, and about sewer grates and refuse and a hundred odd details. I just listened. Some of it was new to me, probably because Alsoran hadn’t wanted to say much.

The rest of the day was uneventful, too quiet, really.

On the last section of the round as we headed back along South Middle, Lyonyt’s eyes kept surveying the wall on the left as we crossed Mando, then the Temple of Puryon up ahead. He frowned. “Something . . .”

I studied the Temple as well. Then it struck me. “All the shutters are closed. Every last one. They weren’t earlier.”

“I’ve never seen that before . . . except once. Wager that means the scripties are coming. Frig!” Lyonyt shook his head.