Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  I merely smiled. I had liked that portrait.

  “Does your background as a portraiturist help you as an imager?” asked Eliesa.

  I would have appreciated the question more had I not seen the momentary look that had passed from Veblynt to his wife. “I suppose everything helps, but since I’m the first artist who’s become an imager in some time, it’s probably more a matter of personal inclination than a result of artistic training.”

  “Can you still paint?” asked Veblynt.

  “I can paint. Anyone can paint. I just can’t sell anything that I paint.”

  He merely nodded to my reply, and that suggested he knew more than he was saying.

  “Are you painting anything right now?” pressed Eliesa.

  “At the moment, madame, I’m engaged in imager business.” I smiled. “Except, of course, at times like this, which are seldom enough.” Before they could ask another question, I turned to Ferdinand. “With all the concerns about war, how is your business coming?”

  The bluff and square-faced Ferdinand shrugged. “It doesn’t change much here. If I were in Estisle or Westisle, there would be some more Navy contracts, but they wouldn’t be for much. If war breaks out, things will get worse. Afterward, if we win, I might have more business.”

  “Do you think war will break out?” asked Seliora.

  “You might ask Rhenn,” Ferdinand said with a laugh.

  “He always tells me that he’s often the last to know,” she replied.

  “There will be war,” said Father. “The only question is who’ll be fighting. There’s always someone fighting, and it’s all Namer foolishness.”

  “Don’t you get more business when we’re involved?” asked Veblynt.

  “We get a bit more in terms of yards of wool sold, but the higher quality wool doesn’t sell as well. . . .”

  Before long, Mother rose and ushered us all into the dining chamber, where Father stood at the head of the table, his hands on the back of the armed chair, and offered the blessing.

  “For the grace and warmth from above, for the bounty of the earth below, for all the grace of the world and beyond, for your justice, and for your manifold and great mercies, we offer our thanks and gratitude, both now and evermore, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged.”

  “In peace and harmony,” everyone murmured.

  Ferdinand sat to Father’s left, and Madame Ferdinand to his right; the Veblynts in the middle of the table, with Eliesa to my right, Seliora across from me, and Mother at the foot of the table to my left.

  As soon as everyone had wine, Father offered a simple toast. “To friends and family.”

  Then he carved the marinated and crisped lamb, and various dishes appeared, beginning with individual salads of wild greens. Then came rice fries, sliced and boiled new potatoes in butter and mint, asparagus under lemon cream, and, of course, dark spicy gravy. Nellica carried them all in with her usual dispatch.

  I’d just finished handing the gravy boat to Mother when Eliesa turned to me. “Are there any High Holders at Imagisle?”

  “Even the children of High Holders must go to Imagisle, dear,” Veblynt said. “Is not that so, Rhenn?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Are they . . . treated the same as others?” Eliesa asked.

  “So far as I’ve seen, everyone is treated in the same fashion.” That was true in terms of the way the Collegium operated, but not necessarily in terms of the way people reacted, as I’d discovered with Johanyr, the eldest and most spoiled son of High Holder Ryel, who had tried to maim me for life and whom I’d partly blinded—enough to ruin his imaging and set his father after me.

  “Have you known any? Personally, that is?”

  “Imagers generally don’t talk about their backgrounds, but I’ve known two, and there certainly might be others.”

  “I would imagine that with their training they might do well.”

  “One is a Maitre D’Structure, and she is quite accomplished. The other had far too great an opinion of himself and did not like to work, and ended up partly blinded because of his arrogance.”

  “I had heard rumors about something like that,” mused Veblynt. “That might make matters rather difficult for the Collegium were his father a powerful High Holder.”

  I smiled. “One runs that risk in doing anything of value, as I imagine you have discovered in building such a profitable enterprise.”

  “Building something is often the easy part, young Rhenn,” replied Veblynt. “Holding it is what takes talent. That’s one reason why High Holders are called that.”

  “Some of them have reputations for, shall we say, ruthlessness,” I offered. “Do you think that such reputations are overstated or understated?”

  “Both. It depends on the High Holder.” Veblynt smiled. “What would you think about Councilor Suyrien?”

  “I’ve only seen him at official occasions,” I temporized, “but I’d be most hesitant to cross him without a very good reason.”

  “That is true . . . from what I know. Yet he is considered a man of honor and moderation compared to, say, those such as High Holder Lhoryn and High Holder Ryel . . . as you may know.”

  The last words suggested that Veblynt knew that I’d had some dealings with Ryel—and that bothered me, because I’d never told anyone in my family about my blinding his eldest son. Johanyr had been a total bastard, who’d used his position to abuse young women and torment younger imagers. He and his toady Diazt had tried to cripple me, and in self-defense, I’d partly blinded Johanyr so that he couldn’t image any longer. The only ones I’d ever told about the depth of my problems with Ryel were Seliora’s family—and that was because Grandmama Diestra had discovered them in investigating my suitability as a suitor for Seliora. One never knew, but I doubted that anyone in the Collegium had told Veblynt—and that suggested High Holder Ryel—or Dulyk or Iryela, his other children—had been the ones to spread the word.

  “I can’t say that I’ve had any personal dealings with either, with the possible exception of dancing one dance with High Holder Ryel’s daughter.”

  “Rhenn . . . you didn’t ever mention that,” Mother said, her voice containing hints of wonder and worry.

  “That was at the Council’s Harvest Ball. She asked me, and my duty required me to dance with her.”

  “What was she like?”

  “She is quite good-looking, much in the same way as Madame D’Veblynt is.” I nodded to Eliesa. “In appearance, they might well be related.”

  Eliesa flushed. “You flatter me.”

  “I think not.” I paused. “I did not mean to imply more than I said, yet you could have changed places with her, and few would have noticed the difference.”

  “I must confess to being slightly older than Iryela.”

  I managed a polite and warm smile. “Will you also confess to being distant cousins . . . or some such?”

  “Alas, you have discovered one of my secrets, sir.”

  “You really are related?” asked Mother.

  “In a very roundabout way, but I would appreciate it if you did not mention this. Explaining can be so troublesome.”

  If explaining was so troublesome, why had I been set up to reveal the relationship? To give Veblynt some advantage in dealing with Father? Or was it the first step in High Holder Ryel’s campaign against me? Or something else entirely?

  “Family ties—and unties—can be most tedious, and better not plumbed in depth,” said Veblynt smoothly before turning to Ferdinand. “We will be building an addition to the mill shortly.”

  “You’re looking for stone and brick, like before?” asked Ferdinand, his voice hearty.

  “As always.”

  I glanced at Seliora, but she had already begun to speak. “Eliesa . . . are all the High Holder balls as stiff and formal as Rhenn has said?”

  “They are most formal, and the slightest misstatement can lead to difficulties.” Eliesa laughed, if with a slight brittleness
behind the sound. “That is why so often so little is said, for all the words that are exchanged. You are very fortunate to have wealth without holdings.”

  “I am fortunate to be able to contribute through honest work to what we have,” Seliora replied warmly. “I’ve found it most rewarding to help create things of beauty. I must say that I pity anyone who must scheme and plot just to hold on to what they have, especially when they create nothing of lasting beauty or substance. Even worse are those who seek to destroy others because they spoke the wrong words.”

  I managed to suppress a smile at Seliora’s ability to say everything so warmly and apparently guilelessly.

  “And you, Rhenn, what do you think?” asked Veblynt.

  I shrugged. “I was an artist. Now I’m an imager. We all do what we can, but it seems to me that scheming and plotting leaves one with very little in the end.”

  Veblynt actually frowned thoughtfully. “There are certainly High Holders and even some factors who would disagree with that.”

  “I’m sure they would, but that’s why they’re what they are and why I’m what I am.”

  Ferdinand laughed, perhaps more loudly than necessary. “Well said, Rhenn.” He turned to Veblynt. “You know, that’s one of the things I like about bricks and stone. I’d almost forgotten.”

  Almost everyone at the table looked confused.

  Following a moment of silence, Ferdinand went on. “Worked stone and well-fired bricks are what they are, and they stay what they are. They don’t rot like wood, and they don’t say things that they don’t mean, like all too many folks do.” Then he looked at Father. “Excellent lamb, Chenkyr. Crisped just right, and I can’t say that I’ve had better new potatoes in a long time.”

  After that, conversation stayed limited to food, the weather, the harvest, and general observations about just how irrational the Caenenans were with their dualogic god. Dessert was a solid apple and raisin cobbler, followed by brandy.

  When both the other couples had left, while we were waiting for Charlsyn to bring the coach, I turned to Father. “I know you’ve always been close to Ferdinand, but why did you decide to invite Veblynt? He’s nice enough, but I didn’t realize that you were that close.”

  Father stiffened, as he always did when I asked a question he didn’t like. “I just did. Besides, he hasn’t been buying the offcasts as much as he once was.”

  “Dear . . .” Mother interjected, “wasn’t it Ferdinand’s idea? Didn’t he say that it had been too long . . . or something like that?”

  “Oh . . . that. He also said something about the fact that Veblynt had contacts, and that they might be useful if the Council had to order more uniforms and cloth goods.”

  “That poor Eliesa,” Mother said. “I feel for her.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I did or not, not after my brief dance with Iryela at the Council’s Harvest Ball. I also had the feeling she was far more closely related to Iryela than she was saying.

  At that moment, Charlsyn pulled the coach under the portico, and I eased the front door fully open, taking Seliora’s arm.

  “Will we see you two next week?” asked Mother.

  “No. We’re having dinner with her family and friends next Samedi. I don’t know about Solayi yet.”

  “Thank you so much,” Seliora said. “The dinner was lovely, and you both have been so warm and kind.”

  “You’re very good for Rhenn, dear,” Mother said. “I’ve never seen him so happy.”

  “He’s very good to me. Thank you for a charming evening.”

  The warmth of her words sent a chill up my spine that lasted until we were in the coach and headed back to NordEste Design. The glass windows chattered in their frames with a gust of wind that foreshadowed the coming cooler winds of fall.

  “What did you think of Veblynt?” I asked Seliora.

  “He’s definitely the son of a ruined High Holder, and he won’t forget it. He doesn’t like Ryel. He’d be more than pleased if you did in Ryel, but then he’d try to have your throat cut.”

  “No . . . he’d use me, and find some way to have me vanish without a trace. He still thinks of himself as a High Holder.”

  “You’re right.” Seliora nodded. “She’s not much better, either.” She smiled once more in the dimness of the coach. “That was a nice touch with the comparison to Iryela. You scared her.”

  I hadn’t seen that, but I trusted Seliora’s feelings about such things. I didn’t understand what role Ferdinand was playing, especially if he’d been the one to suggest that Father invite Veblynt, unless he had a grudge against the man . . . or unless the suggestion was a warning to Father, who tended not to accept words of warning from others. I’d have to see what Master Dichartyn had to say about Veblynt, if he had anything at all to offer. For the moment, there was little enough I could do, except enjoy the little time left with Seliora.

  “Next Samedi?”

  “Fourth glass.” Seliora grinned. “You’ll have to put up with my family and their form of maneuvering.”

  I had the feeling that would be far less stressful, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, I put my arms around Seliora for the rest of the coach ride to NordEste Design.

  She didn’t object. In fact, she had the same thought.

  One of the drawbacks to becoming a master, which Master Dichartyn had not been slow to point out, was that I had to take my turn as the duty master for the Collegium every so often on a Solayi—and this Solayi morning was my first duty. Because it was, Master Draffyd, who had helped heal my injuries, would remain at his home in the family dwellings on the north end of Imagisle so that I could send a messenger if something for which I was not prepared did in fact occur. During the previous weeks I’d been briefed on the duties, and from what I could tell, the duty master’s task was basically to be present in case of problems, and to handle those that he could and to refer those that he could not to those who could—basically to Maitres Poincaryt, Dichartyn, Jhulian, or Dyana. I could go anywhere in the Collegium, just so long as the prime at the granite duty desk knew exactly where I was. If necessary, in the case of an emergency involving an imager, I could even leave Imagisle, but I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t have to do that. There was also a secondus on standby duty in a small room off the receiving hall.

  I’d never had duty as either a prime or a second, because such duties generally didn’t fall on those still in training, and because I’d come to the Collegium at a far older age than most imagers. My first duties had not occurred until I was a tertius at the Council Chateau.

  Before breakfast, I walked the grounds—those around the quadrangle, and that was a pleasure compared to the exercise routine and running I had to do every other day of the week. Since I was supposed to spend a good portion of my duty time in or near the administration building, immediately after breakfast I’d taken my copy of the patroller procedures to the conference room where I’d first been questioned. I’d told Haensyl, the duty prime, when I returned, although he was less than twenty yards away, and there I sat, reviewing the procedures.

  I’d just finished the section on apprehension and charges when Haensyl appeared, his youthful face showing a certain worry. “There’s a young little sansespoir here, with his taudischef.”

  A slum child with what amounted to an area gang leader? I stood quickly. “I’ll be right there.” After the problems with Diazt and his brother, who’d also been a taudischef, I wasn’t all that eager to deal with one, but I didn’t suppose anyone was.

  Haensyl hurried out, and I followed.

  Two figures stood waiting before the polished granite desk in the receiving hall, a chamber where walls, floors, and columns were all polished gray granite. I’d discovered all that gray did have an effect in sobering people. One of those waiting was a squarish, almost squat, man with limp black hair cut in the jagged fashion affected by some of the younger adult male taudis-dwellers. He stood no more than to my nose, but there was a toughness about him. The other was a chi
ld, probably no more than ten, if that.

  “This is Master Rhennthyl,” Haensyl said.

  The squat man studied me. “You don’t look old enough to be a master.”

  “I am. Rhennthyl D’Imagisle, Maitre D’Aspect. You are?”

  The man’s posture changed, if slightly. “I beg your pardon, Master Rhennthyl. I’m Horazt.”

  “You’re the taudischef where?” I asked politely.

  “Estaudis off South Middle, west quarter. This is Shault here. He . . . he did . . . he created a copper . . . a very bad copper. . . .” He extended an oval piece of copper.

  “Ma . . . she said that we didn’t have no coins.” Shault’s look was both defiant and fearful.

  I took the copper and studied it. It was either a badly imaged copper or a bad forgery, but I couldn’t see why anyone would go to the trouble of forging something as small as a copper. “Shault . . . I’d like you to walk over to the front steps with me. The rest of you stay here.”

  Horazt frowned, but nodded to the boy.

  The boy followed me tentatively. Once we were just outside the administration building, I took a good copper from my wallet and showed it to Shault. “This is a good coin. I’d like you to look at it closely and then see if you can image a better-looking copper.”

  “You won’t hurt me ifn I do?”

  “If you can, you can keep the good copper, but I want you to sit on the steps and see if you can image it onto the stone beside you.”

  Shault sat down. “You really mean it?”

  I handed him the copper. “You can keep it if you can make another.”

  He looked at the copper for a long time, then set it on the stone step.

  The second copper wasn’t much better than the first, but he was definitely an imager.

  “Good. I need the copy, but you can keep the one I gave you. You can stand up.”

  He wobbled as he stood, and I grasped his shoulder to steady him. “Is Horazt your father or brother?”