Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  While he was speaking, I served myself and handed the platter of cheesed eggs and sausage chunks to Ferlyn. “Why do you think that’s happening now?”

  Ferlyn looked to Quaelyn.

  The older master smiled. “Master Poincaryt and Dichartyn have their doubts, but I believe that it’s the result of intersecting patterns. Societies and cultures all function because they adopt patterns. Some of those patterns are so ingrained that no one even knows they’re patterns. Others aren’t so natural, and they need reinforcement. Laws are a form of pattern reinforcement . . .”

  I just listened for a time.

  “. . . as societies or whole lands change, the patterns have to change, and people need to be made aware of the need for change. If they don’t see that need and accept it, there’s always trouble. Even when those in power try to create greater awareness, people get upset. Those who were well off under the old ways fight change—”

  “Like the High Holders?” I asked.

  “That is an unfortunate truth,” Quaelyn admitted. “Sometimes, those who hold power merely find a way to keep holding power in a new fashion with new patterns. Usually, some fail to change, and they can be most bitter and dangerous. Those who gain power, such as the factors and the manufacturers, often adapt the mannerisms of the old elite, and the same control of power. That is the pattern in Ferrum. When patterns must change and times are unsettled, many turn to what they think of as unchanging.”

  “Nothing’s unchanging, you said,” Ferlyn interjected.

  Quaelyn smiled patiently. “Follow my words, Ferlyn. I said they turned to what they think is unchanging.”

  “Faith in the Nameless, or Duodeus, or . . . what’s the Tiempran god?” I asked, then dredged up the answer to my own question from somewhere. “Puryon, that’s it.”

  “That is what I surmise,” replied Quaelyn. “All theologies seem to embody the idea that because a deity is powerful, if not omnipotent, that deity is eternal and unchanging. That is a pattern of belief that comforts people. That is why it endures. Yet . . . all religions include the point that the deity created the world and the wider cosmos, and we can see how the world changes. Records show where harbors once were that have now silted up. Rivers change their courses. Parts of coasts fall into the sea. The world changes. We age and change. Yet religions all assume that their creator does not change. Such assumed inflexibility is anything but logical.” He shook his head. “These days, we live in a time of changes. . . .”

  I wished I could have stayed at the table and listened longer, but I had to get to the studio and get set up for Master Rholyn’s sitting. So I finally excused myself and made my way through the still-chill air in the quadrangle north to the workshop building that held the studio.

  As I went through setting up and deciding which paints to mix, my breath did not quite steam in the chill air of the studio. If Master Poincaryt wanted me to keep painting portraits in the winter months I’d need some heat in the space. Even oils congealed if they got too cold.

  Master Rholyn arrived as the bells rang out the glass.

  “Rhenn . . . good morning, chill as it is.” He paused. “Do you want me standing or sitting?”

  “Sitting for the moment.” I walked over and studied his face, trying to fix the coloration and shading before I went back to my palette and finished mixing the shade I wanted.

  “I noticed you dancing with Madame D’Shendael at the Council’s Harvest Ball.” Master Rholyn smiled.

  “She asked me to dance, sir. It caught me quite off guard.” That was true enough.

  “Did she say why?” The tone of his words suggested he already knew the answer.

  “No, sir. She just said that she required a partner. If you would stand, now, sir, and take that position with your foot on the crate?”

  He rose, more awkwardly than I had remembered, but that might have been because the grace and eloquence of his speech colored my memory. “This way?”

  “Please turn your head a bit toward me. Good.” I eased the tip of the brush into the oils I’d mixed.

  “Madame D’Shendael is quite intelligent, Rhennthyl. She never does anything without a reason. Did her words hint at any such purpose?”

  “She talked only briefly, about art, and how little it was respected.”

  Rholyn nodded almost sagely. “She believes in art, but that is not all.”

  I said nothing, but continued to work on getting the set of his nose and eyes precisely.

  “Did she speak of the Council?”

  “No, sir, except that she told me that I was an imager, and that it was a silly fiction of the Council that I couldn’t even admit it.”

  “A silly fiction? She would use such a term. You know that she does not approve of the current fashion of selecting councilors?”

  “Master Dichartyn mentioned such, sir. He said she would prefer that some councilors be chosen by a form of popular voting.”

  “As if the populace as a whole would ever choose wisely.”

  I concentrated on the canvas before me.

  “What do you think, Rhenn?”

  I didn’t want to say what I thought. “It seems to me that the present way of selecting councilors provides a balance among artisans, factors, and High Holders. No one group or individual has control.”

  “Balance of power . . . yes . . . there is a balance of power, and it is necessary, because those in the Council are far less honorable than those who lead the Collegium. Throughout our history, we’ve been fortunate that the imagers appointed to senior positions and to the Council by the senior maitre of the Collegium have proven themselves honorable and worthy types.” He paused. “I’d best stop talking and let you paint.” He smiled warmly.

  Master Rholyn was as good as his word and said little after that. As a result, I got a good start on his face, especially around the eyes. Some portraiturists concentrate on the shape of the head and face first, and sometimes I had, but with Master Rholyn, there was a difference in the set of his nose, eyes, and eyebrows that I needed to address first.

  I had to clean up the studio in a rush and then make my way to the infirmary to see Master Draffyd. I had to wait in the anteroom for almost a quint before he appeared. The smooth gray stone walls made the space seem even colder than it was, but the anteroom was far better than being in the cold gray individual rooms where I’d already spent too much time recuperating.

  Draffyd strolled in with a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Rhenn. This way, please.”

  I followed him into a small chamber off the anteroom where I removed my waistcoat, scarf-cravat, shirt, and undershirt.

  “Does anything hurt?”

  “Not any longer,” I admitted.

  “What was the last thing to stop hurting, and when did it stop?”

  “My ribs . . . on the right side. Here.” I pointed. “Maybe a week ago.”

  He poked, prodded, thumped, and pressed and asked more questions before he finally announced, “You look good, and everything feels to have healed. Clovyl and Master Dichartyn have been asking when you’d be ready to handle more hand-to-hand combat training. You can start on Lundi, but no full-body throws. Make sure that you tell Clovyl that. He can be too enthusiastic. Those will have to wait another few weeks.”

  “I’ll tell him.” I didn’t want to spend any more time healing. Close to a third of the last year I’d been recovering from wounds and injuries of some sort.

  That left me with time for a leisurely stroll back across the quadrangle to the dining hall, where I was the only master there. I ate quickly and went back to my chambers. There I spent some time reading and reviewing court procedures. They were so tedious that I ended up dozing in my chair, and I had to hurry to get ready to leave for Seliora’s. I took a hack on the east side of the Bridge of Hopes . . . and no one shot at me.

  The hack dropped me off outside Seliora’s door at half past four, but that was by design, although I’d originally thought to be there somewhat earlier.

/>   Once more, Odelia opened the door, rather than her younger brother Bhenyt. “You seem to be making a habit of this, Rhenn,” she observed warmly.

  “Coming here, or arriving early?”

  “Both.”

  “Actually, I had hoped to speak with Grandmama Diestra for a few moments.”

  “I can ask her.”

  “With Seliora,” I added.

  “I’ll ask them both.”

  We walked up the steps to the main second-level foyer, where she left me, heading up to the third level, and I walked around looking to see if there were any new chairs or upholstery designs. There weren’t.

  Bhenyt was the one who came bounding down the side stairs and skidding out into the foyer. “Grandmama says you’re to meet her in the small plaques room upstairs, Master Rhenn.”

  “I haven’t been there. If you’d lead the way.”

  He grinned and turned. I had to walk quickly to catch up with him, but we reached the top of the narrower side staircase almost together. The small sitting room was almost directly across the smaller upper hallway from the archway from the staircase foyer. The stained oak door was open, and I stepped inside. The curtains were drawn back from the single long and narrow window, and pale white light formed an oblong on the Coharan patterned carpet.

  Grandmama Diestra sat in an upholstered straight-backed chair at a small table on which was laid out a complicated form of solitaire. The three other chairs around the table were vacant. She wore a black jacket over a black sweater. Her steel-gray hair—looking almost silver above the black garments—was cut neatly at midneck level. She turned over the plaque she had in her hand and smiled, ruefully, before setting it facedown on the dark blue felt. Her black eyes focused on me.

  “Sometimes, you play the plaques, and sometimes they play you.”

  I wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that and had barely inclined my head to Diestra when Seliora stepped through the doorway behind me, closing the door firmly. She smiled, but it wasn’t the happiest of smiles. The crimson and black of her wool jacket was becoming, but it also made her look stern when the smile vanished, and her black eyes met mine.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said, turning to her. “I didn’t mean to hurry you, but I’ve run into one of Grandmama’s warnings, and I’m afraid I’m going to need some help. More than some help, I think. It happened late yesterday, so that I really didn’t have time to send a note, and what happened I wouldn’t have wanted to put on paper.”

  “Why don’t you both sit down?” suggested Diestra, before looking to Seliora. “If you really want him to be part of the family, he has to have the right to ask to talk to me directly.”

  Her words clearly brought Seliora up short. After a moment, she said, “Yes, Grandmama.”

  Diestra looked to me. “Your turn will come, when you least expect it. Try to be equally gracious.”

  I inclined my head. “Thank you for the warning. I will try.” Then I turned to Seliora. “I do apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Her second smile was warmer, and she nodded and let me pull out the chair to the right of Grandmama Diestra for her. I went to the other side of the plaques table and sat down across from Seliora.

  “What is this problem?” asked Diestra.

  I offered a sheepish look. “Actually, I have three. First, I have to start working with Lieutenant Mardoyt on Lundi. He handles all the trial preparation for the patrollers. Now that I’ve seen how offenders are charged, Commander Artois wants me to see how the trials work before I accompany any patrollers.” Since I didn’t see any great reaction, I went on. “Second, on Meredi, when we were leaving Saliana’s at lunch, someone took another shot at me, and the bullet was a heavy sniper type. Third, the riot in the South Middle taudis wasn’t something that just happened, and I’d hope that you’d be able to arrange a meeting with that young taudischef I met at Imagisle when he brought his cousin in. His name was Horazt.”

  “You think all of these are linked together?” asked Seliora.

  “The shots at me and the riot might be linked. I can’t believe Commander Artois or the subcommander would be involved in the riot, but I feel there’s a reason behind my being assigned to observe Mardoyt.”

  “The obvious reason is that Mardoyt is getting to be a problem, and that the commander wants you to discover something so that the blame falls on you,” said Diestra.

  “That was my feeling. I thought that Horazt might know something about Mardoyt, and he certainly should be able to tell me about the riot.”

  “Arranging such a meeting would not be impossible,” mused Diestra, “but would it be wise? Why would he agree?”

  “He needs to show he has control, even contacts. I can tell him about his young cousin. He might even care.”

  “Already, you are cynical.” Diestra’s words were dry.

  “I’d also like advice from both of you on dealing with Mardoyt and all the things I need to watch out for.”

  “The easiest thing,” began the gray-haired Pharsi woman, “is to arrange the meeting with Horazt. Between your position and our interest, he would rather have us owing him than the other way around. How is the boy—his young cousin—doing?”

  “He seems to be all right. I’ve been watching from the background, and talking to him once or twice a week. Some of the other primes are watching out for him as well.”

  “That is good. Betara and I can also make a few inquiries about the riot. That will seem natural, and we can also see if Staelia has overheard anything. The shootings of an imager are not something we should ask about. Such questions from us will do you more harm than good.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Mardoyt is another question. Whatever he asks of you, only do what the procedures demand. Nothing else. Be most polite. If he feels slighted, you will become his enemy. You must learn with whom he works. I would suggest that you play the role you can play so well, young Rhenn. That is of the eager young imager who wants to learn and not to offend. Just keep thanking him for every insight and bit of information. But do not ever trust him, even on the slightest of matters. He is doubtless well aware of the weaknesses of imagers.” A crooked smile crossed her lips. “It is unlikely that he will do anything wrong or improper while you are around, but that does not mean he will not do such.”

  That meant I’d have to find evidence of some sort, and Mardoyt didn’t sound like someone who left many tracks.

  “If that is all, you two can go and leave an old woman in peace.” The words were said with a smile.

  “Thank you.” I stood and bowed to her.

  Seliora did not say anything until we were out in the upper hallway, with no one close by. “You didn’t tell Grandmama Diestra everything, did you?”

  I shook my head. “We—the imagers—have another problem. Someone is shooting junior imagers. Whether it’s a group of assassins, or whether someone has offered a bounty for every dead imager, no one knows, but it’s happening.”

  “Most people feel the same way about imagers and Pharsis.”

  “That may be, but over the past year, they’ve killed over twenty young imagers—that’s about half the number the Collegium finds every year. If someone shot half the Pharsis born in a given year, Solidar would be in shambles.”

  For a moment, Seliora just stood there in the foyer. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “I didn’t either, until Ferlyn pointed it out this morning at breakfast. There’s another problem—”

  “Announcing it will just make matters worse.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re going to ask Horazt, aren’t you?”

  “I’d thought to. I could bring up the fact that I’d like to resolve the problem before Shault is free to leave Imagisle.”

  “That might work.” She paused. “If you don’t find anything, Mama and Grandmama could ask if anyone’s been promising payoffs for shootings, without mentioning imagers. They might find something. If they don’t . .
. doesn’t that suggest it’s someone like the Ferran who was after you?”

  “It wouldn’t be absolute, but it would seem more likely.”

  “Good! I’ll talk to them.” She looked directly at me. “We’ve both had long weeks. Can we not talk about them and enjoy dinner?”

  “Absolutely. That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard.” With that, I offered her my arm, and we walked down the staircases.

  Bhenyt had hailed a hack, and it was waiting. I slipped him a copper. More, and the family wouldn’t have approved. He grinned at me as I offered Seliora a hand getting into the hack.

  “Azeyd’s,” I told the hacker.

  “Azeyd’s it is, sir.”

  Once inside the coach, I turned sideways to face Seliora. “I am sorry . . .”

  “Are you sorry you did it? Or sorry you upset me?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I accept. You did need to talk to her, but there was time to tell me that was what you needed.”

  I understood all too well. Offering an apology for a necessary act was hypocrisy, but not apologizing for a rude approach to the necessary was unforgivable. Since I had apologized . . . all was well. I hoped.

  Azeyd’s was located on a side street without a name off Nordroad, some three blocks to the west of Guild Square. The outside was unprepossessing, just a dark red set of double doors in a yellow brick facade, bound in brass under a short awning and flanked on each side by a set of two narrow windows filled with leaded glass panes that were anything but recent in style or construction.

  After helping Seliora from the hack and opening the door, I followed her into the restaurant. The woman standing at the far side of the small foyer tiled in large red and black squares looked to Seliora. “Ah . . . Mistress D’Shelim.” Then she looked to me, her eyes clearly measuring me and the imager grays that I wore. “Sir.”

  “This is Imager Master Rhennthyl. He’s a friend of the family.” Seliora smiled demurely. “He’s an even better friend of mine.”