Imager's challenge ip-2

by L. E. Modesitt

  “See? I wasn’t the only one.” Culthyn’s tone carried the same self-justification that I’d heard too much from Rousel.

  Seliora smiled at me.

  Dinner would be fine. That I knew.

  35

  Because we were both tired, Seliora and I hadn’t stayed all that late after dinner, and we’d been fortunate, although I’d hoped for it, that Mother had paid Charlsyn to work late and take Seliora back to NordEste Design and me to the Collegium. I had held Seliora quite closely on the first part of that trip.

  I’d also slept past breakfast on Solayi, and I took my time getting cleaned up and dressed, thinking over what I wanted to do and what I needed to do. Seliora had a number of “family things,” as well as some work she’d put aside to spend the day with me on Samedi. So I had Solayi to myself, except that I needed to meet Chelya when she came to visit Shault, something that I’d almost forgotten, perhaps because my plans had changed somewhat, and the cloth scrap wasn’t as vital as I’d originally thought it would be, although I still might be able to use it.

  Once I’d planned out my schedule, I left my quarters, enjoying another sunny, if crisp, day. The benches on the quadrangle were empty, except for a few primes and young seconds. Then, I saw Ferlyn walking toward the dining hall for lunch and hurried to catch up with him.

  “Duty, once more?” I asked, rhetorically and dryly.

  “What else?” He shook his head. “I don’t mind it that much. I’m not married, and I’m not struggling through all the extra duties that Master Dichartyn lays on you security types, so it’s not as though it’s a great imposition.”

  “Aren’t you learning things from Quaelyn?”

  “True enough, but there’s time for most of that during the week, when I’m not supervising and checking the armory imagers and their work.”

  “You have the skill to use imaging to compare things to exact tolerances, or something like that?” That was a guess, but I couldn’t figure out what other skill would have made him a master so young, since he was probably only five or six years older than I was.

  He shook his head, if ruefully. “Master Schorzat warned me about you, Rhenn. He said that you had this talent of discovering things with no facts at all to support you.”

  I didn’t point out that I’d had two facts. “What can I say?”

  “You can’t.” He laughed. “But let’s say you’re close enough.”

  “Can you tell me what you know about the war-based on what the armory is doing?”

  “Not really. The Navy doesn’t say much, but I don’t think matters are going as well as they’d hoped.” He frowned. “That’s not quite right. They’re pleased with the . . . with what we’re doing, but I get the impression that while the Ferrans are losing ships and taking heavy losses, there’s no slacking in the fighting.”

  I held the outer door to the dining hall and followed him into the corridor inside. “From what I’ve heard, there won’t be until winter, and then everything will come unraveled for them.”

  “That will mean more casualties for both the Ferrans and Jariolans.”

  “And less golds for our factors-because the shipping’s been largely cut off.”

  “That hasn’t seemed to bother the Council,” Ferlyn said.

  It probably hadn’t, because the longer the war dragged on, the less likely either land would be able to create future problems for Solidar. If the Oligarchy merely survived, the High Holders on the Council would be relieved that another land had not become governed by mercantilists, and the factors and guilds would be happy to see Ferran competitiveness reduced.

  Just after we’d seated ourselves, alone at the masters’ table, Shault entered the hall with two other primes. The three talked animatedly, and I caught a few fragments of what they said.

  “. . . wouldn’t do any good. No master’s that strong . . .”

  “Then why are the Caenenans and Tiemprans so afraid of imagers?”

  “. . . against what they believe . . .”

  “. . . belief doesn’t make it so,” Shault replied.

  I had to smile at that.

  “That Shault’s a handful,” observed Ferlyn.

  “He was petrified when he came here.”

  “That was just you, Rhenn. All the juniors think you’re a later version of Cyran.”

  Cyran-one of the handful of Maitres D’Image-the one who had removed Rex Defou? “Me? I’m always polite and thoughtful.”

  “The word’s gotten around that you defied Master Dichartyn and took out those Ferran agents outside the Council Chateau by yourself. No one has ever defied him. Then you survived an explosion that killed everyone in an entire block and went to a wedding the next day.”

  “But I didn’t defy him,” I protested. It was true that I’d taken out the Ferran envoy without Dichartyn’s permission because Vhillar was an imager who’d arranged for the killing of more than ten junior imagers. But I hadn’t actually defied Master Dichartyn.

  Ferlyn laughed. “Sometimes, the facts aren’t the truth.”

  I almost winced at his perception, but I managed to laugh.

  Lunch, as often happened on Solayi, was a form of tarted-up leftovers, in this case, a pastry-covered pot pie. But it was hot, filling, and tasty, and I could still recall the dry and unsatisfying meals prepared by poor Madame Caliostrus.

  When Shault left the dining hall, I excused myself and slipped out. While he might not be heading to the waiting area west of the Bridge of Hopes, I didn’t want him to encounter his mother before I was there.

  Although Shault headed back in the direction of the primes’ quarters, I immediately walked past the administration building and then toward the Bridge of Hopes . . . and then out to the middle of the bridge, where I looked down at the gray water, its surface not quite sparkling in the midday sunlight. The breeze was cool, but light, and out of the north. Occasionally I glanced back toward the Collegium, but I didn’t actually walk back to the waiting area until Shault appeared.

  As I neared him, I could see that he had grown some and filled out. His demeanor was reserved, but not fearful . . . a good change, and one I was happy to see.

  “Good afternoon, Shault.”

  “Good afternoon, Master Rhennthyl.”

  “How are your studies going with Master Ghaend?”

  “They’re better. I’m reading better, and that helps. Thank you for the dictionary.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Yes, sir . . . but not the way . . . Well . . . it was just easier to start reading it.”

  I almost shook my head. “How did Master Ghaend take that?”

  “I didn’t tell him. But he lets me image little things.” Shault grinned. “I could do a good copper now, but I promised Master Ghaend I wouldn’t.”

  “Please keep that promise.”

  Shault looked toward the empty Bridge of Hopes, then back toward me with a quizzical glance, as if to ask why I was there.

  “I told your mother I’d be here the first time she came. She seemed to want some assurance that it would be all right for her to visit.” That wasn’t literally true, but I had seen her concerns on her face.

  “Oh . . . she worries some. She doesn’t think I see that, but I do.”

  “Are you happier here now?”

  “Yes, sir.” He paused. “I still miss Ma.” He glanced toward the bridge.

  “You should miss her. She’s your mother, and she loves you.” I just hoped that Chelya would come, whether or not she had anything for me from Horazt. Shault deserved that.

  “Things have been hard for her.”

  “Things are usually hard in the taudis,” I said. “What part of your studies do you like the best?”

  “The science stuff. The words are hard, but I like learning how things work.”

  “And the hardest subject?”

  “Politics . . .” He looked at me.

  “Why is that hard?”

  “It’s false, sir. It’s all pretend. It’
s like they’re all taudischefs with fancy names and lots of lands or people working for them . . .”

  I could see how a taudis-kid would be skeptical of the necessary hypocrisy and falseness of government, but I just nodded and listened, prompting him with a question or two, the way Master Dichartyn had prodded me.

  At a good quint past first glass, a woman in a brown cloak crossed East River Road and started across the bridge. Her steps were both deliberate and reluctant.

  “You can meet her halfway,” I told Shault.

  I waited until the two of them walked back, then addressed Chelya. “I’m glad you came. You should be proud of your son.”

  “He is growing.” She did not look at me as she went on. “Horazt asked me to give this to you.” She thrust a grayish object at me.

  “Thank you.” I took the worn woolen bag, crudely cut and sewn from what had probably been a discarded garment. “I appreciate your bringing it.”

  Shault’s eyes widened.

  I nodded to him. “Imager business.”

  He nodded back solemnly.

  I turned to Chelya. “I hope you will come again to see Shault, until he’s free to leave Imagisle.” I hoped that wouldn’t be too soon, because I really didn’t want the boy walking through the taudis as a junior imager.

  “We’ll have to meet in the public gardens,” Shault said. “But I can go to the ones near the Guild Square, and we’ll have a real dinner at a bistro.”

  Chelya’s eyes were bright.

  It was time for me to leave. “Have a good afternoon.”

  I started out, taking my time. With my shields in place, I strolled across the bridge, down East River Road two blocks where I paused to open the woolen bag. Inside was a rough-cut small square of purple wool. From what I recalled, it matched the jackets of the two toughs that had attacked me near Mardoyt’s house. I replaced the fabric in the bag and slipped both into the inside pocket of my waistcoat.

  I followed the walk on the river side of the road until I reached Fedre, then walked up it past Patrol headquarters. I saw no patrollers. Then I took Aslym across to Saelio. There I turned northeast, in the direction of Mardoyt’s house. A block or so short of his dwelling, I raised partial concealment shields. Even if Mardoyt weren’t there, I didn’t want the neighbors seeing me clearly.

  It didn’t surprise me that no one appeared to be home. On Solayi, more than a few people visited friends or relatives, at least until time for services in the evening.

  After watching the house for a time, I walked out to the Avenue D’Artisans, where I hailed a hack and rode to the Plaza Sudeste, where South Middle intersected the avenue.

  I walked the length of South Middle from the plaza all the way to the Midroad. I didn’t see a single taudis-tough, although in places, especially near Dugalle, the odor of elveweed was close to overpowering. I also didn’t stop by the station.

  Then I took a hack back to the Collegium, arriving a good glass before dinner. That gave me time to rest tired feet and to think some more. Dinner was quiet, and I walked alone to the anomen for services, standing forward and to the side where I could easily hear Isola.

  Her homily addressed something I’d never heard a chorister mention before.

  “. . . the other day I was asked by a young imager why we cremate those who have died, and why what we do makes any difference in the eyes of the Nameless . . . Were you to go to an anomen in Caenen, except they call them churches, you would find a large grassy expanse behind the building. Covering that space would be stone monuments, each topped with the forked columns of duality. On the face of each monument, carved into the stone, would be a name and an inscription. And what would you find in the ground beneath each monument? A body . . . or the remnants of one.” Isola paused.

  I could hear indrawn breaths of repugnance from some of the younger imagers. I didn’t like the image her words evoked, either. Buried and rotting in the cold, damp ground? I supposed it wouldn’t matter, though, not if I were dead. Still . . .

  “I can sense the distaste that image creates,” she went on, “but what is the reason behind this practice? We all know bodies, once dead, do not come to life again, and that, for all the old folktales, there are no necrimagers. Certainly, the Caenenans do not even believe in imaging. So why are there monuments and bodies beneath them?” After another pause, she continued. “This practice is yet another variation on the sin of naming. We all seek meaning in our lives. We want our thoughts and deeds to live on after us, and if we have expressed worthy thoughts and done worthy deeds, we believe they should live on after us. But carving a name in cold stone, over a lifeless and decaying body, is mere vanity. A name is not the deeds of whoever bore the name. A name is not the worthy thoughts of whoever bore the name. A name, once whoever bore it has passed on, is nothing more than an assemblage of letters, an empty vanity. . . .”

  Was that really so? Wouldn’t I want others to remember me? To remember Rhenn? And didn’t the Collegium list the names of imagers who died in service on plaques? Like Claustyn, who’d been so supportive of me when I’d first made third. Or were those names carved in stone more to illustrate that they had died doing deeds?

  “The Nameless cares for us, for what we have done, for how we have loved . . . for those are what comprise us, not a name, nor a label. We are the sum of our acts and thoughts and feelings, not mere names to be set on dead stone. . . .”

  I had to wonder if, in a way, that was why I preferred portraiture to sculpting, because the goal of the portraiturist was to create an image, an impression, of the sum of the personage as he or she was in life, an image that also touched and changed the lives and views of the beholder in the way I had never found that cold stone could do.

  I would remember Claustyn for his warmth and friendliness, not for his name.

  Wouldn’t I?

  36

  On Lundi morning, I’d barely taken three steps into District Three station, carrying the bag that held the brown cloak, the plaid cap, and the smaller bag with the purple scrap of wool, when Captain Harraf appeared at his study door and summoned me with a peremptory gesture. He said nothing until he had closed the door behind me.

  “You haven’t heard anything about the Navy conscription teams, have you?”

  “I asked about them, but all I was told was that they’re likely to begin conscripting in L’Excelsis shortly. The Collegium hasn’t been informed when they might start in specific areas of the city.”

  “Shortly? Is that weeks or days?”

  “I got the impression that they would begin in L’Excelsis sooner rather than later, but no one could tell me an exact date.”

  “Rather convenient. I suppose that even the liaison to the Civic Patrol isn’t exalted enough to be privy to such.”

  “So far as I can tell, Captain, even the Collegium councilor doesn’t know.”

  He looked hard at me.

  I had no doubts that Rholyn didn’t know. Master Dichartyn might, but not Rholyn.

  Finally, he said, “You expect me to believe that, Master Rhennthyl?”

  “Captain, you can believe whatever you like, but the councilor told me that he didn’t know, and if he doesn’t, I don’t know when the conscription teams will be doing anything, or where-except that I do know they will be operating in L’Excelsis before long.”

  “It appears that the Navy trusts the Collegium as little as I do.” He smiled coolly. “That was all I had for you, Master Rhennthyl. I imagine Lyonyt is waiting outside for you.”

  “Do you know when you’ll have a replacement for Alsoran?”

  “He’s not the kind of patroller to replace. A new man is scheduled to be here a week from today. It may be that you will be rotated to another station before long, as well, but no one has informed me.”

  That was also understandable, from what I’d seen. Neither the subcommander nor the commander really knew what to do with me, and I’d gotten the impression that Artois didn’t want to talk to me and Cydarth didn’t
want me in headquarters. “I’ll help as I can here, sir, until the commander decides.”

  Harraf nodded. “You’d best find Lyonyt.”

  I didn’t bother replying, but smiled, turned, opened the door, and departed, leaving the door open behind me. I stowed the bag in the cubby and went to look for Lyonyt.

  “Master Rhennthyl?”

  I turned.

  “Lyonyt, sir.” He stood almost a head shorter than did I, with a wiry build, and brown eyes that never seemed to remain fixed on anything, even while he was looking at me.

  “We’re to be patrolling together this week, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late, but the captain had a question.” I looked toward the station door. “I suppose we’d better get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lyonyt seemed to bounce as he moved.

  I didn’t say more until we were striding up Fuosta toward South Middle. “You’ve been on leave.”

  “Yes, sir. I have to thank you. The captain said I only got it because you were available to help Alsoran.”

  “I’m not sure he needed much help.”

  “Could be, sir, but it meant a lot to me. Anacherie was so ill after little Marie was born, and then with my father dying right after that . . .”

  And Harraf wouldn’t allow Lyonyt leave without a replacement? Was Third District that short of patrollers? “I’m glad it worked out.” I paused. “How long have you been with the Civic Patrol?”

  “Be nine years next Ianus. Best thing I ever did, quit being a butcher’s apprentice and apply to the Patrol. Wasn’t the cutting. That was fine. Always have liked knives.” He drew a long shimmering blade from the sheath on his heavy belt, a sheath partly concealed by his short patroller’s cloak. “Times a knife’ll do you better than a truncheon.” The knife vanished. “Always got fidgety halfway through the day. Caymeyrl was always telling me to settle down. Said a good butcher had to be solid. . . .”

  We kept walking, turning east on South Middle. I listened, but kept my eyes moving. For all his chatter, Lyonyt didn’t stop looking, either.