“Property and golds?”
“And more. They all have power, position, and/or property at stake. Even in the Abierto Isles, where they have an elected parliament, the electors must have property. Is this important?”
Obviously, Dichartyn thought it was. “It must be.”
He shook his head. “If those who decide the rules and the prices have nothing at stake, they will adopt rules and laws that will take from those who have and give to themselves, and they will pay little or no price at all. Our system of government is not perfect. No government can be, but it recognizes who has property, who has wealth, and who has power. No individual artisan has power, but artisans as a whole do, and our government structure recognizes that. Why do we not let those in the taudis have a Council representative?”
“Because they have little to offer and nothing material at stake?”
“Exactly. Government has a responsibility for their safety, for providing certain services, such as water and sewers, and for affording them access to public grammaires. The cost of those services is roughly in proportion to what those in the taudis offer to Solidar in terms of their labor and what they buy from others who pay taxes on what they sell. But . . . most of them don’t think so. They feel oppressed and exploited.”
“That’s where agents and troublemakers will head, then.”
He nodded. “Just keep watching.”
“Sir . . . Master Poincaryt’s portrait is framed.”
“Have it delivered here. I’ll have it hung in the receiving hall. That would seem most appropriate, don’t you think?” He stood.
So did I. “Yes, sir.” I inclined my head politely, then slipped out of his study and closed the door behind me, leaving him fingering his chin and standing at the window.
I still had a little time before dinner, but not much. So I walked across the quadrangle to the dining hall, picked up copies of both newsheets—Veritum and Tableta—and checked my letter box—the inscription now reading MARHE, short for Maitre D’Aspect Rhennthyl. Not so long ago, the inscription had been TE-RHE.
There was an envelope in my letter box, squarish, and of high-quality paper. The address on the outside was formal and written precisely in black ink.
Rhennthyl D’Imagisle
Maitre D’Aspect
Collegium Imago, Imagisle
The address was written in an unfamiliar hand, neither that of Seliora nor my mother, nor my sister Khethila. I couldn’t imagine who else might be writing. I finally opened the envelope.
Inside was a blank formal card. Glued to the card was a miniature knot tied in silver ribbon. There was no writing whatsoever.
I just looked at it for a long moment. It could only have been sent by or at the behest of High Holder Ryel, and I understood why he had waited long months. He wanted me to become a maitre so that I would lose more when he took his revenge for my partial blinding of his eldest son. To him, it didn’t matter that his son and the brother of a taudischef had attacked me with the intent of maiming me and disabling me for life. To him, all that mattered was that I had dared to strike out against the scion of a High Holder—even if Johanyr had been an evil and lazy excuse for a student imager who had abused the sisters of junior imagers unbeknownst to the maitres. I paused. I hoped that abuse had been unknown.
Then, I shrugged. I couldn’t change the past.
Master Dichartyn was at the dining hall for dinner. Usually, he ate at his dwelling on the north end of Imagisle with his family. I intercepted him before he could seat himself.
“Sir, I just thought you’d like to know I just received a formal card with a silver knot.”
“That was to be expected, don’t you think, once it became known you’d become a master? You’re free to deal with it in any fashion that meets imager standards. If you’ll excuse me, Rhenn . . . I see Maitre Jhulian.”
I stepped back. While I hadn’t exactly expected a reaction much different, his attitude still irritated and angered me. Part of the reason I was in trouble with Ryel was because Master Dichartyn hadn’t understood just how evil Ryel’s son Johanyr had been or how vicious the attack on me had been. And now it was all my problem? My problem alone? Seething within, I took a seat next to Maitre Dyana, the last chair on the left side. I could see Shault at the primes’ table, talking to one of the other primes.
“I assume you told Dichartyn that you’d received notice from Ryel,” she said calmly.
“Yes. You saw the card?”
“I saw a formal envelope, white. You just made master, and while it was not posted, word would have reached Ryel in a few days after you became Civic Patrol liaison . . . and you would not have spoken to Master Dichartyn here were the matter not of import.”
I just wished I could have reached conclusions as quickly and as accurately as she did, but since she was the daughter of a High Holder, she did have some advantages in the matter at hand.
“What do you suggest, maitre . . . in general terms?”
“Protect yourself at all times, and arrange for accidents to occur to his agents.”
“So Ryel can strike at me, and possibly at those around me, and the Collegium will do nothing unless it is so overt that the entire world would know?”
“Do not make it sound so dramatic, Rhennthyl. The Collegium does not ever become involved in individual disputes unless one of those involved has clearly and overtly broken the laws of Solidar, and often then only if such disputes threaten the Collegium. Ryel has merely sent you notice. Has he broken any law? Has he yet harmed you in any way that you can prove?”
The answer to that was unfortunately obvious. Still . . .
“So what can I expect from Ryel? Beside the fact that he will attempt to destroy me?”
“He will, indeed, attempt that.”
“And I’m supposed to do nothing?”
“You are so impatient, Rhennthyl. He must strike first. You should know that. Then you can act as you will. So long as it does not involve the Collegium.”
The unspoken code of the Collegium was never to strike first. But I didn’t have to like it.
“High Holders can be most indirect. Such notice might just be a step to hasten you into rash and unwise action. In any case, I seriously doubt that any imager would wish the Collegium looking into his or her background and personal life. Once you are convinced by evidence, and not a mere card, that there is a danger, we should talk again.”
That was both a warning and a threat. I nodded politely and changed the subject . . . slightly. “What can you tell me about High Holder Ryel?”
“He has extensive lands well north of L’Excelsis. He has the controlling interest in several banques. Like all successful High Holders, he is never to be trusted.”
“Does he have a chateau here in L’Excelsis?”
“Did you not dance with his daughter at the Harvest Ball?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps I should have asked where it might be located, then.”
“The majority of High Holders have what others would call estates near major cities, such as L’Excelsis, Nacliano, or Liantiago. They do occasionally like to see the theatre and opera, or hear a concert. I believe Ryel has a less than modest establishment several milles north of Martradon. There are a number of others in that general area.”
“Does he have an extensive family?”
Maitre Dyana smiled wryly. “No High Holder survives an extensive family, and no extensive family survives a High Holder. Ryel had two sisters, one of whom died in childbirth, and the other of whom is married to a High Holder well to the west. I understand they do not speak. He had only one brother who died several years ago in a boating accident on the upper reaches of the Aluse. I believe there is one surviving nephew at this point.”
“Could Johanyr ever inherit?”
“No. The Council Compact is quite firm on that. No one ever declared an imager may inherit property . . . from anyone. If you are fortunate enough to amass some golds, you can buy property and b
equeath it—except to an offspring who is an imager. If you marry a High Holder’s daughter, and she has property, none of that may pass to you, but it can pass to any offspring.”
I hadn’t realized that I’d never inherit anything from my family. I hadn’t exactly expected to, but it was still strange to realize that I couldn’t. “Do daughters of High Holders inherit?”
“Very seldom. Daughters are at best often regarded as markers in the equivalent of a High Holder’s version of black-hand plaques.”
“Wives are not all that well treated, either, I understand.” I couldn’t help but recall the one I’d had to execute—covertly—in learning certain imager abilities. Her husband had beaten her repeatedly, and she’d finally murdered him. She’d been convicted and sentenced to death.
“You’d best eat and get on with matters, Rhennthyl,” Dyana added more gently. “As I told you when I first worked with you, technique is everything. Not power, but technique. That applies to covert actions and to High Holders.”
I had the feeling that I needed to consider her words carefully and at some length.
Vendrei was no different from the rest of the week, starting with exercises, although I was still not participating in the hand-to-hand sparring, but doing solitary knife and truncheon routines, followed by cleaning up, eating, and a long walk to Civic Patrol headquarters, and another day at the charging desk. I did have to admit that the duty with Gulyart had given me a good indoctrination into the myriad forms of petty and mundane violence seldom seen by most citizens of L’Excelsis. But then, that was doubtless the point.
On Samedi, once more, I dragged myself up and to Clovyl’s training and running session. By the time we finished the last of the exercises, it was pouring. We still had to run through the slop and puddles. For the first time ever, I beat Dartazn. Did that mean anything besides I ran better through water? I doubted it.
After a cold shower and shaving, I dressed and headed to the dining hall for breakfast, glad that I could at least use an umbrella crossing the quadrangle. I still hadn’t figured out a practical way to use imaging shields against rain. Maybe there wasn’t one. Master Dichartyn used an umbrella, I’d noticed.
There were no other masters present for breakfast, except for Ferlyn and Maitre Chassendri, both of whom were Maitres D’Aspect. Ferlyn and I sat on either side of her, since she was far senior to each of us. I still remembered the chemistry laboratory studies under her and how she insisted on perfection every bit as much as did Master Dichartyn.
I passed her the platter of egg toast, then the berry syrup. While she served herself, I poured some tea. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.”
The egg toast was darker than I would have preferred, but not black-brown, and the sausages were perfect.
“You know, except for Maitre Dichartyn,” Maitre Chassendri observed, “you’re the youngest imager to become a maitre in centuries.”
“I had the advantage of having him as a preceptor,” I said, “and some fortune as well.”
“Misfortune,” she corrected. “Rapid advancement always comes from success in dealing with difficulties in hard times. We’re looking at harder times, I fear.”
“Because of the Ferran-Jariolan conflict?” asked Ferlyn.
“More than that,” she replied. “The free-holders in the west are harvesting more produce than are the High Holders, and they’re able to sell it for less. The same is true for timber holdings. Before long, the same may happen in the east, although the water control issues there make it harder.”
“Why should that—” Ferlyn broke off his words as he looked at Chassendri.
“The free-holders are making more golds on their harvests,” I said, “and the High Holders comparatively less. The only way the High Holders can compete is to impose stricter conditions on their lands. That will cause unrest, increase costs, and reduce their profits. If the High Holders sell land, the free-holders will buy it and use it to become wealthier—”
“All right, Rhenn . . . I see that.”
“Fighting wars is expensive, and that means higher taxes,” I pointed out. “The High Holders are pressing to support Jariola, and given the way the Ferrans have dealt with us, the Council doesn’t have much choice.”
“And tax levies are on land,” Ferlyn finished. “So the High Holders are going to be squeezed two ways.”
“Three,” suggested Chassendri. “Conditions will get worse on some of the holdings, not all, because most of the High Holders actually manage their lands well, but workers on the poorly managed lands will leave. They’ll either work for the free-holders or get conscripted. More High Holders will fall to debts, and their lands will be split between successful High Holders and free-holders, but in the end there will be more free-holders and fewer High Holders.”
I could see that, but I didn’t see it happening that quickly. “Won’t that take time?”
“There are at least fifty High Holders who are so land-poor that were they businesses, they’d be close to bankruptcy,” replied Chassendri.
“But they could sell their lands, or part of them, and besides,” Ferlyn pointed out, “there are hundreds of High Holders.”
“More than a thousand,” said Chassendri cheerfully, “one thousand and forty-one High Holdings, to be precise.”
Something . . . there was something. Then I had it, an obscure section of the compact that had created the Council. “The rebalancing provisions. The High Holders would lose a Council seat, probably to the factors, and the head of the Council would no longer be a High Holder.”
“But . . . the High Holders could just split a few holdings up, couldn’t they?” asked Ferlyn. “To keep the numbers above a thousand.”
“They could,” Chassendri pointed out.
Left unspoken was the point that few High Holders ever willingly let go of anything.
Those thoughts put a damper on matters, especially since we were close to being done with breakfast anyway, and I had another concern as well—Shault.
He looked so forlorn that as soon as I swallowed the last drops of my tea, I rose and walked over to the long table that held the primes and the seconds and said to him, “I’ll need a few moments with you after you’re done eating. I’ll meet you by the doors.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then I just stood there for a moment and let my eyes run down the table, face by face, before I turned and walked away, slowly, listening.
“. . . one you don’t want to cross . . .”
I wondered about that, because I’d never done anything harsh to any of the primes or seconds, except for Diazt and Johanyr. I didn’t have to wait long before Shault hurried out of the dining hall, his thin face pinched in worry.
“Sir?”
“I take it that there’s a second who’s giving everyone trouble, maybe from the taudis? More than likely, he’s even suggesting to you that you need to do what he wants, or something will happen to you or someone else.”
Shault’s mouth started to drop open, but he closed it with a snap.
“Have you ever heard of Diazt or Artazt?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Diazt was a second here. His brother Artazt was a taudischef in the hellhole. They’re both dead.” I paused. “Right now, there are two things you need to know. First, no one will rescue you from being pushed around unless you study and work hard and unless you do your best to learn everything you can about imaging. Second, in time, things happen to bullies here at the Collegium.” I paused. “Why do you think I’m telling you this?”
The poor prime shivered. I just waited.
“So I know it will get better? Sir . . . will it get better?”
I offered as gentle a smile as I could. “It will, but it won’t be easy. You have more imaging ability than most primes and even some seconds, but you haven’t had enough book education. Do you have someone helping you to read better?”
“Yes, sir. Mayra and Lieryns are helping me.”
“Good. That’s important.” I paused. “One other thing. No student imager is allowed to harm another. That doesn’t mean there won’t be threats, or other nasty things. No one has actually hurt you physically, have they?”
“No, sir.”
His response was firm enough and without hesitation that I believed him.
“Keep that in mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll talk to you later.” As I left him, I wished I could do more for him, but that would only make matters worse. The way I’d approached him would certainly not have let the others think he was getting any favors. But Master Dichartyn had told me that I needed to talk to him at least twice a week, and he certainly had raw talent, more than I’d had at his age, and I couldn’t help but hope that he’d be able to become at least a third in time. I was also pleased that Lieryns was helping. I’d always liked Lieryns.
At eighth glass I was in my studio, after trudging through a rain that showed little sign of dissipating. While I was waiting, I’d checked the small storeroom that held an assortment of unused items and found a fairly solid and flat crate that I hoped no one would mind my borrowing. At slightly past the hour, in walked Master Rholyn.
“I apologize for being late, Rhennthyl, but Master Poincaryt wasn’t that precise in explaining where your studio was, especially for someone coming from the north quarters.”
I’d assumed that Master Rholyn was married and living in one of the separate gray stone dwellings for senior imagers situated on the north end of Imagisle, but I hadn’t known for certain. I smiled. “I barely knew whose portrait I’d be painting next. Master Poincaryt just indicated that I should be here.”
“He can be terse to the point of being cryptic,” replied Master Rholyn. “One reason Master Poincaryt decided you should paint my portrait is not only your present duty, but your past duty as well. Before we get into that, should I sit there?” He gestured to the chair.
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