Madness in Solidar (20 page)

“Do you mind if I join you?” asked Alastar, since otherwise he would have left an empty seat between them.

“Of course not, Maitre.” The Maitre D'Aspect offered a pleasant smile.

“I thought you were duty maitre last end-day, but then I realized it was Vendrei, but the duty rosters don't usually…”

“I agreed to take the duty for Gaellen last Vendrei. He and his wife wanted to go to his brother's birthday dinner. I thought I might be alone this evening.”

“All the others who are unmarried are elsewhere this evening?”

“The men? Certainly, but who knows where? Except for Shaelyt. He and Tiranya went to dinner at her brother's house.”

“I didn't know…”

“They're just friends. It's easier if he comes with her. Expectations, you know.”

“You're friends with him as well. Does he accompany you…” Alastar shook his head. “That's unfair.”

Alyna laughed, but the sound was warm and almost soft, so much at variance with her always-composed appearance that, for a moment, Alastar didn't know what to say, and she replied. “He'd be welcome. So would you … or any other maitre I asked, but unlike many High Holders, that cannot happen because my family has never maintained a house in L'Excelsis.”

“An old family, tied to its lands?”

She shook her head. “A relatively new family for a high holding. Some four or five generations back, my great-great-grandfather, who established the porcelain works and other establishments, received the lands of a High Holder as a settlement on debts. The former High Holder apparently borrowed from my great-grandfather to pay off what he owed to then–High Holder Ryel, then defaulted and slashed his wrists. My great-grandfather could have taken that name, but with the dishonor … he petitioned the rex to use his own. So we're very recent … as high holdings go.”

“I heard that the elder Ryel, the one who died several years ago, had certain ‘friendships' that were useful to his position as head of the High Council.”

“He had more than a few ‘friendships.' He was a handsome man, even when he was older. A very striking figure. Years ago, before I came to the Collegium, Father warned my sister off him, even if he had been recently widowed. Father was incredibly stern about it.”

“He didn't like Ryel?”

“Oh, no. He thought Ryel was excellent at what he did. He said he would not suit her.”

“Did he say why?”

“Only that knowing why would be dangerous for her. He wouldn't say more than that. I've wondered, but my bothers didn't know, either.”

As he puzzled over that, Alastar was about to ask whether Alyna would like light or dark lager, when he realized there was but a single pitcher on the table. He decided against asking what it was, since Samedi night was for leftovers. “Lager?”

“Please.”

He filled her beaker and then his. “I'm glad that it's the dark.”

“There wasn't any doubt of that,” replied Alyna. “Shabrena knows you only drink the dark, and it's my preference as well. She saw no point in wasting amber lager.”

“You have a certain similarity to one of your forebears, it would appear,” Alastar said dryly, “if the histories are correct.” He was guessing slightly, but anyone who had been married to Quaeryt and been the sister of Rex Regis had to have had a fair amount of perception … and Chorister Gauswn had clearly been impressed.

“Oh?” Alyna looked puzzled.

Alastar wasn't quite convinced by her expression. “You do have a distinguished ancestor, or ancestress … and I suspect you know that.”

“So I've been told.” Alyna offered an amused and wry smile. “I was also told never to mention it. Others from holdings would not appreciate it, and imagers would take it as putting on airs. My mother was right about that. How did you find out?”

“Obsolym told me. Apparently, there's some record in the archives. Are you the only imager in recent years?”

“There is only one other I know of. I had a great-aunt. There were murmurings about her and her mother, but no one would tell me anything.”

“What was her name?”

“Aurelya. That's what I was told.”

“And no one told you more?”

“Maitre … as a daughter in a High Holder's family, when you're told not to ask more, you don't.” Alyna's smile suggested more.

“From the little I know about you, I can't believe you let that stop you.”

“It didn't. But it stopped everyone else from answering my questions. I can guess that Aurelya was not born … on the right side of the blanket, so to speak. Her mother died in childbirth. I did find that out.”

“What else did you find out about Aurelya?” Alastar took a swallow of the dark lager, acceptable but not much more.

“There was an imager at the Collegium named Aurelya. She would have been the right age, but Maitre Obsolym said I'd need the permission of the Maitre to know more. Maitre Fhaen would never grant it.”

“Quite a hidden history. I'll see what I can find out.”

“Thank you.” Alyna took a small swallow of the lager.

Alastar was amused at Alyna's approach, and the way in which she had never actually asked him to do anything. “Since you do come from a High Holder background, I'd like to get your views on a few matters. I trust you won't mind.”

“I'd be happy to tell you what I know. You must recall that I was only ten when I came to the Collegium, Maitre, and that I was the daughter of a High Holder, and daughters are not told what sons are,” she added with a smile that Alastar thought concealed a hint of mischief.

“For which reason, I suspect, daughters are often more observant, even at a tender age.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Are not younger sons encouraged toward a career in the army or the naval forces?”

“‘Encouraged' might be too gentle a term.”

“You mentioned brothers. How many do you have besides the one who is the present High Holder?”

“Just one. He is fortunately occupied in running the main porcelain business. He is rather good at it, as even Zaeryl admits.”

“Zaeryl?”

“That was his boyhood name. Now, of course, he's Zaerlyn. I still call him Zaeryl, not that we see each other often.”

“You're no longer close?”

“We were never that close, except for a brief time just before I left. He's ten years older; Maraak is eight. I'm the youngest. Then there's Loryna. She's married to Caemren the younger.”

Alastar hadn't heard of a High Holder Caemren, but he doubted anyone could remember a sizable fraction of the close to fifteen hundred High Holders. “Is that close to Rivages?”

“His lands are north of Yapres, about halfway between L'Excelsis and Rivages.”

At that moment, one of the student servers—a duty reserved as punishment for minor infractions—appeared and set two platters on the table, one before each of them. Alastar surveyed the contents—mutton slices in a tan cream sauce with mushrooms and browned potato cakes and boiled carrots on the side. “Shabrena is good with sauces and gravies.”

“You're a practical optimist, aren't you, Maitre?”

“Why do you say that?” replied Alastar, after cutting the mutton and taking a bite liberally coated with the mushroom gravy. He had been right about the sauce. It almost, but not quite, concealed the dryness of the mutton.

“You're the Collegium Maitre. You have no problem in using imaging to repair sewers. You like dark lager, and you can find the one part of a very ordinary meal that makes it better.”

“By the way, you were very effective in doing your share of those repairs. You're likely the strongest imager of the Maitres D'Aspect.” Alastar suspected she was far stronger than that, but he hadn't had a chance to determine if that might be so.

“Shaelyt may be stronger. I likely have better technique.”

“Results—both in terms of the imaging, and in terms of the imager—are what count.”
And results matter in everything else, also.

“You hurried in here. Is that because you're working on obtaining more results?”

“Partly. It's been a long day, especially for a Samedi.”

“I doubt you have many short days.”

“Not at present. There are too many things that need my attention.”

“Like the sewers?” Her voice was light.

“They didn't absolutely need attention, but their repair has made breathing on Imagisle less of a chore.”

“For which many of us are grateful.”

Alastar found himself not wanting to finish dinner, yet knowing that he had to return to his study and work out a better plan for creating Ryen's Avenue D'Rex, complete with sewers and accessible drains. He took another sip of the dark lager. “Do you enjoy working with the girls and women?”

“At times. At other times…” She shook her head. “What I like the most is teaching mathematics and geometry. Most imagers don't understand how valuable geometry can be.”

Alastar smiled. “I think I may have another project for you. Does your geometry include basic surveying?”

“It does. Very basic surveying. It came first.”

Surveying before geometry?
“How did that happen?”

“Our father insisted that both Zaeryl and Maraak learn the basics of many things. He said that a High Holder who didn't wouldn't remain one, or his grandchildren wouldn't. Zaeryl let me come along, but before long I had to learn some geometry…” She shrugged.

“Before you were ten?”

“I was eight. I liked it. I still do.”

“I don't want to interrupt your Solayi, but…” Alastar went on to describe what Ryen had laid on the Collegium. When he finished, he waited for her response.

“That's … rather impetuous, isn't it?”

“He's known for that. There are other matters that make outright refusal … a less attractive alternative.”

“Because the Collegium needs the rex's golds, and because High Holders don't care for him?”

“Among other things.” Alastar didn't want to lay out all his problems. “I'm hoping that you and I and the duty imagers might take another look at the route the rex has laid out tomorrow, but if that would interfere…”

“No. I'd like to do something like that.”

“Half past eighth glass at the stables?”

“I'll be there.”

“Good.” Alastar rose. “If you would excuse me…”

“You scarcely need excusing, Maitre.” Her voice was pleasant, but held a trace of humor.

He smiled, ruefully. “Before all this is over, we both may.”

 

P
ROLOGUE
(3)

In the dim light under the old pier, the boy looked at the dirty copper in his hand. He studied it intently, one side and then the other, back and forth. He hadn't wanted to take it from the hiding place, but he knew that he had to. Even coppers were so hard to come by, and there were so few … sometimes none at all.

“It has to be perfect. It must be.” He knew too well the dangers of a copper that was less than perfect. That was why he had practiced imaging the drawing on the tattered poster bill he had found in the corner of the alley onto porcelain circles. He'd given two of them to his mother. He'd told her he'd found them in the gutter and that he thought they'd likely been coasters tossed out by some merchant's wife because they were so ugly.

“They are ugly,” she'd said.

He put the copper on the flat side of a rock. Then he concentrated, calling up the images of both sides.

A second copper lay beside the first. He started to pick it up, but he could feel the heat. So he waited, glancing up at the pier overhead. There were footsteps, but no one stopped or peered over the side. Finally, he picked up the “new” copper. It looked as dirty as the old one, and from what he could tell there was no difference between the two. He closed his eyes and shifted the coins from hand to hand, but they felt the same.

With a smile, he put the newer one in his single pocket, lined with rags to make sure that the coin didn't slip out, and the cooler one on the rock. He concentrated once more. He managed to do a third copper before his head began to feel light, and he had to sit and rest. Then he secured all four coppers in his pocket and crept along the base of the pier.

He had to walk more than a third of mille to get back home, and every step was an effort. He was tired … so very tired, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other until he could see the rear door.

The cot was empty. He dared not take even a deep breath, but tiptoed toward the side of the chimney. He glanced around, looking one way and then another before sliding the brick out and then slipping the original copper back into the small space beside the other one. Then he eased the brick back in place and walked toward the front door.

It opened before he reached it.

“Where have you been?” His mother's voice was hard, the way it got when she worried. Not so hard as it had been for weeks after Mahara and Dyel had died from the flux. She wasn't that way with his father, but he could see the brightness in her eyes when he limped in with his crutch, his battered wooden bowl empty.

“Working. I did some chores, carrying empty pallets on the wharf for a man. He was a quartermaster. That's what he said he was. He gave me two coppers.” The boy extended the dirty coins. “I thought…”

His mother looked sternly at him. Then the sternness vanished. “You worked hard, didn't you?”

“Yes, Mother.” That wasn't a lie. He had worked hard, just not in the way he had said. He was so very tired.

“You should stay away from the south wharf in the future. That's where the smugglers and the rough ones port. That's how…”

“I know … but…” The boy tried to convey the impression that was why he had been there. He had been there, not on the top of the pier, just underneath the shore portion and out of sight.