Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  As on Mardi, I left Lyonyt and Fuast near eighth glass and caught a hack to take me from the Plaza Sudeste to NordEste Design. When I rapped the knocker on the private entrance door, once more Methyr was the one to open the door and to lead the way to the courtyard. Unlike on Mardi, Seliora was there, helping load some heavily wrapped chairs into the two wagons—one the panel wagon and the other the canvas-topped wagon from which I’d made my first sketches of Ryel’s estate.

  She handed a chair wrapped in cloth—old blankets—to Shomyr and hurried over to me. “I did saddle the mare for you. Please be careful.”

  “Thank you . . . and I will.” I knew I had to be. Then I wrapped my arms around her, and we held each other for several long moments.

  Only then did we walk toward the stable and the mare—tied outside and waiting for me. I mounted quickly. Seliora looked up at me. She smiled faintly, but she might as well have asked me to be careful yet one more time.

  I guided the mare out of the courtyard, waited for two coaches to pass on Nordroad, and then followed them out and down to the Boulevard D’Este, where I turned left. Before that long I was leaving the Plaza D’Nord and riding along the road flanked by the small estates of those High Holders who wished to have a presence in L’Excelsis.

  The road wasn’t that traveled in midmorning, doubtless because any farm wagons had gone into L’Excelsis early, as had those with business in the city. A few wagons and three or four coaches passed me heading into the city, but with my light concealment shields, no one paid me much attention.

  From the top of the rise south of the Ryel estate, I could see gardeners in the garden, someone sweeping or washing the south terrace between the end of the chateau and the tower that would feature prominently in Ryel’s so-called Foliage Festival, and several workers picking late apples from the small orchard to the east of the formal gardens. When I reached the depression between the two rises and was shielded by the wall from the sight of anyone in the chateau or grounds, I created full concealment shields. Absently, as I rode past the culvert, I noted that the water level in the stream was lower.

  Then, some hundred yards uphill, I dismounted and again tied the mare to the trunk of one of the tree bushes and settled in to wait.

  I’d only been in position along the side of the wall for less than half a glass, and three wagons and a post rider had passed, when, from the north, I heard a rumbling and rattling suggestive of a lighter vehicle being driven at high speeds. I turned and watched the road. For a time, only the sound increased, but I saw nothing. Then a black horse appeared, cresting the hill and pulling a trap bearing the black and silver of Ryel House.

  I anchored my shields to the wall behind me, and prepared to do what was necessary, waiting as the black trap hurtled downhill, southward toward L’Excelsis. The single black horse was larger than a riding horse, but smaller than a dray, and was already heavily lathered.

  I waited until I could see Alynat’s face, hard and intent, and focused on the road and the horse. His eyes didn’t even flicker in my direction, as if it wouldn’t have mattered even if I had not been hidden behind concealment shields.

  Then I imaged steel fragments into the wheel bearings, and what amounted to a shield directly in front of the wheels, if but for an instant or so, anchored to the wall. Everything seemed to freeze. For that moment, I was shaken and jolted, thrown back against the rough-smooth stone of the wall, not that hard, but as though I’d been shoved, indifferently.

  The trap’s wheels froze, but the body of the trap lurched forward with a terrible creaking and splintering sound, pivoting forward over the wheels. The traces and harness snapped, or partly so. Alynat flew from the driver’s seat over the now-screaming and lathered horse and slammed headfirst into the stone pavement, then skidded along the stones. One arm was twisted back into an unnatural angle, the reins still wrapped around that wrist.

  Still behind concealment shields, I eased forward, looking at the limp and now-frail body. His left temple was horribly smashed in, and his form was silent.

  The trap horse struggled and kept screaming. I wanted to put it out of its misery, but I didn’t dare, because that would leave too much evidence that someone had been there. I hurried back to the mare. She snorted and stepped sideways, but I managed to gentle her. Then I untied her and walked her back downhill on the edge of the road. Near the culvert I mounted and rode slowly southward, up the next rise and then back toward L’Excelsis.

  Behind me, I could hear the screams of the trap horse. Those screams echoed in my head all the way back to NordEste Design. For a moment, I wondered why I felt more about the horse than Alynat. When I thought about that, though, I understood. Ryel’s family had hardly shown that much concern about Johanyr, except as a symbol of the High Holder. That had certainly been true of Iryela. And Alynat, as shown by his attitude and words at the Autumn Ball, was merely an extension of all that placed me in an impossible situation. Effectively, Ryel, Dulyk, and Alynat were the same. Because they were all Ryel House, in effect, they had all set the fire that had killed the watchman at Alusine Wool. They had all arranged for the difficulties that faced my father, and they all had been part of causing Rousel’s terrible “accident.” The trap horse, on the other hand, had been truly innocent and without choice in the matter.

  Methyr came running to meet me as I rode into the courtyard. “Master Rhennthyl.”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh . . . they’ve all gone, but you’re not to groom the mare. Seliora said to stall her, and they’ll be back soon. She said it was important for you to get back to the Patrol.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Given Methyr’s seriousness, I dismounted and led the mare into the stable. After I settled her in the stall and closed the stall door, I turned to him. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give her my thanks.” I hurried back out of the stable and across the courtyard, taking the south entrance onto Nordroad.

  I did have to wait for a bit, but less than a quint before getting a hack, one of the older and more dilapidated coaches, but I wasn’t feeling that choosy at the moment. After I got out of the hack at the Plaza Sudeste, I wasn’t as fortunate at finding Lyonyt and Fuast as I had been on Mardi, and it was two quints before second glass when I finally caught up with them as they were coming up Saelio.

  “Little earlier today, sir,” offered Lyonyt.

  “It is, and I won’t have to be ducking out for the rest of the week. I finally finished what was required.” Before he could comment, although I doubted he would, I asked, “Is it still quiet on the rounds?”

  “Except for a grab-and-run on the avenue, sir, it’s been real quiet.”

  “That’s good for us.”

  “You still think the scripties are coming?”

  “Yes. I just don’t know when.”

  “Won’t be long,” murmured Fuast.

  He was doubtless right about that.

  We finished two more rounds through quiet streets of the taudis, streets that were never that quiet. Even the odor of elveweed was less pervasive, and that suggested that those who sold it didn’t want to lose any of it to the conscription teams.

  When we walked back into the station just after fourth glass, Lieutenant Warydt beckoned to me from outside his study. I walked back to join him.

  “We haven’t seen any conscription teams yet, Master Rhennthyl,” said the lieutenant. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Nothing more than before, that they’ve been operating in the west of L’Excelsis.”

  Warydt smiled warmly and nodded. “If you do hear . . .”

  “I’ll certainly let you know, sir.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  As I left the Third District station, I had the feeling that the entire conversation was really to point out how little I knew that was really helpful to the Civic Patrol.

  It might have been my imagination, but it seemed as tho
ugh there were fewer hacks on South Middle near the taudis. I walked all the way to the Midroad before I could hail one, and the ride down the Midroad, around the Guild Square, and along the Boulevard D’Imagers seemed interminable.

  When I finally left the hack and crossed the Bridge of Hopes to Imagisle, carrying the blue-gray patroller’s cloak because the afternoon had gotten uncomfortably warm, even though the gray clouds loomed closer in the west, I kept looking to see if some junior prime might be looking for me, but no one was. I reached my quarters and hung up the cloak, then went down to the main level and washed up. While it was still a good half glass before the time for dinner, I decided to walk over to the dining hall and see if I had any letters or messages. I didn’t want to, because, sooner or later, I feared, there would be one.

  As I walked into the dining hall, I made the point of looking up at the plaques that held the names of past imagers who had died serving the Collegium. There was a new plaque, one for Thenard, right below the one for Claustyn. Getting shot by Ferran assassins was serving the Collegium, even if the Collegium did frown upon my doing in one of the envoys who’d authorized those assassinations.

  In that respect, I didn’t agree with Collegium policies. I still thought that those who created evil should pay, even if it happened to be politically “inconvenient.” I did agree that any action taken should not be traceable to the Collegium, at least not through proof. People would still speculate. Then . . . there might be times when others would know, but could prove and do nothing. That was dangerous, but I could see that there would be times when that was unavoidable.

  I walked toward the letter boxes, opened mine . . . and froze. A red-striped letter sat there, as deadly as if I were looking at the barrel of a pistol. As I drew it out, I recognized Khethila’s writing. I knew what was in the letter, but I still had to open and read it.

  Dear Rhenn,

  I have the feeling that this will come as no surprise to you. Rousel died late on Samedi. He never really woke up, Mother wrote.

  Father is closing the factorage there, for now, and they will be returning with Remaya and Rheityr. They plan to arrive back here on Solayi afternoon. I will be arranging a memorial service for Rousel with Chorister Aknotyn for some time next week . . .

  For all that I had feared Rousel’s death, even worried about it and half anticipated it, I felt encased in chill and as though I were being squeezed on all sides by massive unseen weights.

  Numbly, I slipped the envelope and note into my waistcoat and hurried out of the dining hall and across the quadrangle toward the Bridge of Hopes. Hopes?

  I had to wait almost a quint in the fading twilight before I could catch a hack to take me out to Khethila. Then as I sat on the hard seat of the coach, I couldn’t help but think, yet again, about how everything had come about, how the seemingly smallest of actions created ever greater losses. Because I’d half blinded the arrogant son of an even more arrogant High Holder in self-defense, my brother was dead, his wife a widow, and his son fatherless. Alynat was dead because he would have carried on with what Ryel had begun, as would Dulyk, given half a chance. And Ryel thought he was in the right.

  I couldn’t help but reflect on Grandmama Diestra’s words about how those who were good but naïve always believed that there was a way out where no one was hurt, and where all ended well. All too often, I was learning, such didn’t exist.

  Yet . . . what I had done—and would do—was not right. It was necessary to prevent a chain of further wrongs . . . and I intended that the example I set would do just that, hopefully so that other imagers would not be faced with what I had encountered.

  Was that a vain hope? I could only trust in my feeling that it was not, but that required my success, and that was not at all certain. I only knew that I had to try.

  The ride out the Midroad seemed to take glasses, but it was less than half a glass when the hacker pulled up in front of the gate before my parents’ house. I gave him an extra few coppers over the fare and hurried up the walk to the door. I rapped loudly.

  Khethila opened the door. Her face and cheeks were dry, but her eyes were red. “I thought you’d come.”

  “I’m here.” I stepped inside and hugged her, then closed the door, one-handed, before putting both arms around her.

  We just held to each other for a time.

  Finally, I stepped back. “I’ve spent all week fearing it would come to this. Most people don’t live through those kinds of injuries . . . but I still hoped.”

  “So did I.”

  “The service . . . can I . . . ?”

  “I closed the factorage early and had Charlsyn take me to see Chorister Aknotyn. He won’t set the day firmly until Mother and Father are back, but we’re planning on Jeudi. I thought you’d speak for the family. Can you be there?”

  “I’ll arrange it.” We didn’t speak of it, but we both knew Rousel had been cremated in Kherseilles and his ashes scattered there, probably to the sea, because he had loved to sail.

  We walked slowly back to the family parlor. Khethila dropped heavily onto the settee. I took the armchair across from Father’s and waited for Khethila to say what she would.

  “I never felt good about Rousel going to Kherseilles,” she finally said.

  “I worried about it.” I had, but not for the same reasons, I suspected.

  “Rousel . . . he trusted people too much. He couldn’t believe that . . . that people could be so selfish . . . so uncaring.”

  That was true enough. Even though he’d annoyed me at times with his carelessness and gibes, what she said was true. Part of Rousel’s carelessness came from his belief that things and people couldn’t go that wrong. But his carelessness and overly optimistic attitude, the arrogance of the Ryels, and my imaging abilities . . . and even my own willfulness in not wanting to bow down to Johanyr . . . all those had combined to kill my brother.

  And I could not say anything to my own family. What good would it do, except create greater bitterness and anger, both against me and against the High Holders and the Collegium?

  That was another price of being an imager, I was learning. I wondered how many more I would discover in the days, months, and years ahead.

  Needless to say, I stayed late with Khethila, but did get a ride back to the Collegium with Charlsyn, only to sleep fitfully and wake up early on Jeudi. Because of the nightmares, most of which I didn’t remember, about all sorts of mayhem and violence being perpetrated on Khethila, one of the first things I did, after lighting the desk lamp, was to write a brief note to Seliora. I did take care to make it seem as harmless as possible.

  Dearest,

  Since I won’t see you until Samedi at the sitting for the portrait, I thought you should know that Rousel died over the weekend. Given the circumstances and the severity of his injuries, I had feared this might happen. There will be a memorial service here in L’Excelsis next week, but I do not know when yet.

  I know that this might be an imposition for Grandmama Diestra, but Khethila will be all alone at the house until my parents return on Solayi, and you understand that, as an imager, I cannot stay there at night. If there is anything that can be done to see that she is not disturbed, I cannot tell you how greatly I would appreciate it.

  I did sign it “With Love, Rhennthyl.”

  After I sealed the letter, I sat at the desk for a time, recalling what Martyl or Dartazn had said about Master Dichartyn—that he never seemed to sleep and that it was no wonder, with what he had done. I also recalled what Maitre Poincaryt had said about Master Dichartyn not having had as few problems or enemies as I did in more than ten years.

  But why? Why did it have to be that way?

  Couldn’t the Collegium work matters out better with the Council and the factors and the guilds? Or had they, and what we lived under was the best they could do? That didn’t seem like the most satisfactory of answers, not to me, but it had been brought home forcefully that at times the best of compromises exacted a great burden on t
hose caught between the millwheels of the compromisers.

  Finally, I got into exercise clothes and headed out.

  Both Master Dichartyn and Master Schorzat were there for the morning exercises and run, and I thought about telling them about Rousel. First, I dismissed it because saying anything would just leave more traces back to me. Then I realized that I could certainly say that he’d died of injuries in a wagon accident and that I would need part of a day to be at the memorial service. Not mentioning it would suggest more than being straightforward.

  After the exercise routines, where I got thrown more than I should have in sparring, and the run, I cleaned up and hurried through breakfast. I did force myself to eat because I knew I needed to, and then headed to the administration building to find Master Dichartyn. It was early enough that he was there, and no one else was, when I rapped on his study door.

  “Come in.” His voice was tired. “What is it, Rhennthyl?”

  “Just one thing, sir. Last night I received word that my brother died of injuries he received in a wagon accident. I just wanted you to know that I’ll need part of a day next week to go to the memorial service. I trust that won’t be a problem.”

  Dichartyn looked at me intently. “I wondered. You seemed distracted this morning.” He frowned. “You found out just last night? Last night?”

  “Yes, sir. I got an urgent message from my sister. He died in Kherseilles over the weekend.”

  Master Dichartyn looked at me. “I imagine you’re upset. Don’t do anything foolish. Foolishness won’t bring him back or help you.”

  “No, sir. I understand that. I won’t do anything foolish.” In time, I’d do what was necessary, but not until that time.

  He kept looking at me. I met his gaze.

  Then he nodded. “Please let me know when the service is. There won’t be any problem.”