Once more, I was sweating and exhausted when he finally said, “Enough. You need to work on them more. Now that you’re a secondus and free to travel off Imagisle, you need the ability to protect yourself.”
“Sir, I don’t want to sound presumptuous or like a troublemaker, but what happens if . . . well . . . if I’m in a position where shields aren’t enough?”
“I’d say that you’d probably acted unwisely.” Dichartyn laughed genially, but the laugh died away quickly. “Still . . . there are times when ruffians will attack a single imager, particularly a younger one. We do lose some who are not careful. The rules for defense are simple. You must have exhausted every practical way to avoid attacking, and it’s preferable that you leave no traces of what you have done.”
“How can I avoid . . .” I paused. “Should I practice imaging rain or shadows or fog or mist?”
“I’d try it at night in secluded corners of Imagisle. You’ll get a splitting headache if you try rain, fog, or mist in your room, and you won’t see the shadows right inside. For those efforts, you have my permission, but only when no one is nearby.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ll face other trials, as well, Rhenn. I can’t say what they are or where they’ll come from, and it’s best that I don’t try to guess, because those trials are different for every imager and if I give you details, then . . . it’s like naming-you’ll fixate on those. I can only say that if your life is truly threatened, no matter where you are, you have the right to use any imaging ability to defend yourself. Obviously, it’s better not to kill attackers unless absolutely necessary, and every situation facing you has a weakness that can be exploited-if you think quickly enough.”
The implication was that I well might be injured or dead if I did not think swiftly.
“Now . . . off to the laboratories.” He gestured toward the door.
I picked up my bag and books and slipped out, closing the door behind me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard him mutter under his breath. It might have been “. . . Nameless save me . . .”
In reflection, as I walked down the corridor toward the door onto the quadrangle, I pondered one phrase Master Dichartyn had said. Why had he said “no matter where you are”? Did he mean that absolutely?
How could you disable someone effectively and reliably-using imaging? You would need something so painful and yet so small that it would be easy to image. And it would need to be comprised of substances common everywhere. On the way across the quadrangle toward the building that held the laboratories, it came to me. Common lye-imaged into someone’s eyes. They certainly wouldn’t be able to see or easily move, and it was made of relatively common substances.
With that revelation, I’d hoped to visit the kitchen and scullery before lunch, but Maitre Chassendri was in the laboratory, and, for some reason, she decided to personally instruct me. If I’d thought that Master Dichartyn had been picky, his strictness was lenient compared to hers.
“No! Do not ever place the beaker in any position where the fumes can rise to touch you or your skin . . .”
“The glass must be absolutely dry!”
I wouldn’t have said that I was shaking by the time I escaped from Maitre Chassendri’s tender instruction, but I felt that way when I walked into the dining hall for lunch.
Johanyr waved, and I walked over and took the seat across from him and Diazt.
I usually drank something cool at lunch, but I was more than ready for tea, as much to settle my stomach as to warm me. The beef ragout helped as well.
“What was your morning like?” Diazt asked Johanyr.
“Master Ghaend was pounding away at the structural differences of materials.”
I managed to keep from saying anything, but merely nodded. Master Dichartyn had moved me past that, and Johanyr had been at the Collegium far longer than had I.
“Old Schorzat wasn’t even around,” offered Diazt, “but he left word that I still didn’t understand section five of the science book well enough. I’ll have to go back over that.”
“What sort of questions does Master Dichartyn ask you?” Johanyr’s tone was idle, but he watched closely.
“This morning he was asking about the Council and why it was structured the way it was. He wasn’t happy that I hadn’t memorized the actual structure.”
A faint smile crossed Diazt’s face.
“What about science?”
“He sent me to the laboratories to learn some basics. I got some very direct instruction and too many warnings about handling beakers and how to clean equipment.” I shook my head. “What about you?”
“I didn’t have to go to the laboratories.” Johanyr laughed. “That’s always good. Sometimes the stenches there turn my guts.”
“Has Master Dichartyn said anything more about what happened in Westisle?” asked Diazt.
“He was gone for two days, but he hasn’t said anything.”
“You ask him?”
“I’ve already learned that, when he says he doesn’t want to talk about something, he gets unpleasant if you bring it up again. I don’t think I can afford to make him angry.”
“No . . . I wouldn’t think so,” said Johanyr in a musing tone. “There are more than a few you don’t want to anger, and it’s sometimes hard to tell who’s really important to your getting along and staying at the Collegium.”
“I’m working at understanding that.”
“We’re certain you are.” Johanyr smiled, then stood. “I need to get to the workshops.”
“Me, too,” added Diazt.
I’d definitely gotten their message, and I really would have liked to visit the scullery after lunch, but there wasn’t time. I had to get to the workroom to see if I could work out an even less exhausting way to image those aluminum bars.
The workroom was empty, except for the barrels, but it looked to me that most of them had been replaced with other barrels. So I sat down on the stool and thought about imaging, and began to try yet another way of doing it. A half glass or so later, Grandisyn barely looked in, then just nodded and ducked out.
Right after the Collegium bells struck the fourth glass, I headed for the scullery on the level below the main dining hall. The steps leading down were the same gray granite, and just as clean as any other staircase or corridor I’d seen on Imagisle. I’d taken no more than ten steps down the lower hallway when an older woman, an obdurate from her muted black shirt and trousers, appeared.
“Sir, you can’t be looking for anyone down here. Nobody here but us ob sculls.”
“Then, you’re the ones I’m looking for. My master gave me a project, and I need a little common caustic.”
She just looked at me.
“Lye, the soda you clean with. I only need a little, a half cup?”
After a moment, she nodded. “We could spare that little, but best you be careful. It burns fearful when it’s wet. You just wait here, sir.”
I stood in the underground hallway, half-wondering if she’d return with a master.
When she returned, alone, she handed me a battered and chipped crockery mug a little more than half filled with off-white lumpy caustic. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you.” I inclined my head. “Where would you like me to return the cup?”
“You can keep it. There are enough that get broke or chipped that we got plenty.”
“I appreciate it.” With a nod, I turned and headed back upstairs, and then outside.
While trying not to look over my shoulder, because I worried that someone might follow me, I walked to the west river wall, and then south across the causeway leading to the Bridge of Stones, and to the park-like grove of ancient oaks between the causeway and the grounds of the Anomen D’Imagisle. The oaks were showing traces of green and had not leafed out, but the trunks were massive enough that I felt largely concealed, at least from casual observers.
Then I got to work. Imaging the caustic wasn’t all that difficult. Imaging it in sma
ll quantities was harder, and image-projecting some of what was in the cup was even harder. Image-projecting it head-high on the oak trunks was yet more difficult. But I persevered . . . because I knew I had no real choices.
It was close to six before I was confident that I had mastered what I could with the caustic, but that was only half of what was necessary. I needed to work on shields more. I wouldn’t be in much shape to image lye into someone’s eyes after I’d been hit with a bullet or bashed with a cudgel or run through with a stiletto. According to Master Dichartyn’s rules, effectively I had to be able to withstand an attack in order to prove self-defense. After what I’d seen with Floryn, I definitely wanted to be sure it was self-defense. That meant far better shields.
At the same time, I was exhausted by the time I took the rest of the cup of lye to my room. That left just enough time to wash up and hurry back to the hall for dinner. When I walked in, I could see Diazt and Johanyr. I didn’t really want to sit near them, but I didn’t want to create the impression I was avoiding them. There was a seat empty to the left of Shannyr so that he would be between me and Johanyr. Since Diazt was seated to Johanyr’s right, neither could press me at the table, and I wouldn’t be obviously avoiding them.
There was a momentary look of surprise on Shannyr’s face as I stood behind the chair next to him, waiting for the masters at the head table to seat themselves.
Once we were seated, I asked him, “How was your day?”
“Like any other. I went to work at the armory machine shop, had lunch, and went back to work.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that many of the seconds, perhaps most of them, had finished all their instruction and were working for the Collegium. It should have, but it hadn’t. “I suppose they’ll assign me somewhere once I get caught up on what I have to learn.”
“Could be worse than the armory. They had me in the engine room of one of the riverboats. Wet and cold most of the time.”
I shuddered at the thought of being cramped into a riverboat engine room. “What do you do in the armory? Can I ask? I mean . . .”
Shannyr laughed. “You can ask. I can even tell you. I image the special powder for the percussion caps that the four-digit naval guns use.”
“You image it right into the cap?”
“That’s right. There’s no metal touching metal, no chance of a spark, and no explosions.”
Another one of those special services provided to the Council by the Collegium, I realized. How many were there?
“What about you?” he asked. “When you’re not under instruction?”
“Making metal bars.”
He winced. “That’s work.”
“I can only do so many, and I have to rest a lot.” I paused. “You know I’m new here . . . I was thinking about girlfriends. I used to have one, and some imagers are married . . .”
“They’re the lucky ones.” Shannyr shook his head. “Lots of women will give you a fling, even married ones, but not many want to marry an imager.”
“Why is that?”
“We scare ’em a bit. That interests ’em, but they won’t marry someone who scares them.”
I could see that, but I had to wonder if that happened to be true with all imagers, or if that had just been Shannyr’s own experience.
“You want to have fun with the women, when you’re free, don’t stay around Imagisle. Take a hack out to Martradon or out to some of the bistros on Nordroad or Sudroad . . .”
I listened politely, although I could see that I knew far more about where the women were in L’Excelsis than he did.
That night, after dinner, I had another idea. I went outside and imaged rubber, a thin layer of it, along the inside of a small cloth bag. Then I poured some of the caustic I had left into the bag, which I tied shut. For a while, anyway, until I was more confident in my abilities, I could carry that with me.
Then I tried to practice shields-and shadows-until I was truly exhausted. The shadows weren’t very good, and I was more than ready to climb the stairs and collapse into my bed.
28
Those in a family may well share the same dwelling,
but not the same home.
Both Vendrei and Samedi mornings were hard because Master Dichartyn kept pressing me on my shields. No matter how much I improved, he kept insisting that my efforts were not adequate. Then he offered an onslaught of questions, not only on what I read, but on how it all related to the Collegium and its role in Solidar. I kept those questions to myself and told Johanyr and his group of seconds only a few of the easier and more purely academic or technical ones.
On Samedi afternoon, I was waiting on the east side of the Bridge of Hopes a good half glass before three. The day was sunny, with the faintest haze, but there was a hint of chill, and I wore my cloak. On the roughly triangular space where the boulevard intersected the East River Road stood a flower seller with a weathered face, but a pleasant expression.
“Flowers, sir imager? Flowers for a lady, a friend, or family?”
For a moment, I couldn’t help smiling. “No, thank you.”
The tempting aroma of fowl roasting over charcoal on a cart across the boulevard wafted around me. For all that, it might as well have been gray and gloomy, given the way I felt. I shouldn’t have. I was healthy and had a profession, if not what I’d expected, that earned decent coins. Mother and Rousel certainly wanted to see me, and probably Remaya did. Even Father did, I suspected, even if he’d never admit it.
Two women, one in bright green and the other in scarlet, eyed me speculatively as they neared, but I wasn’t in the mood for either of their favors, even if I could have afforded them. After they passed, a mother in a worn brown coat dragged two children toward the wall separating the sidewalk from the narrow boulevard gardens in order to put as much space between the three of them and me as possible. Was she a malleable, or did she just fear imagers?
As the time neared three, the coach, with its glistening brown body and polished brasswork, appeared on the Boulevard D’Imagers. Before long, Charlsyn pulled up next to the curb, but well short of the flower seller, easily reining in the two matched chestnuts.
“Good afternoon, Charlsyn.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
I climbed in and closed the coach door. Because of all the coaches and riders on the Boulevard D’Imagers, I surmised, Charlsyn took Marchand Avenue back to Sudroad, and then to the Midroad. It was close to half past the glass before the carriage pulled up at the side portico of the house, where Mother, Rousel, and Remaya were waiting as I stepped up under the portico.
“Good wool in that cloak and waistcoat,” observed Rousel, if with a grin.
“Mother already noticed that. Did she tell you?”
“She told me to look,” he admitted.
“You look dashing in that gray,” added Remaya with a smile. She had become rotund, and even chubby in the face, but her eyes sparkled, especially when she looked up at Rousel.
“Much more businesslike than when he was an artist,” added Father from the doorway where he stood. “Come on inside, all of you, especially you, young woman,” he added to Remaya. “The breeze isn’t good for my grandson.”
“She might be a granddaughter,” said Khethila from behind Father.
“Grandson!” yelled Culthyn from inside the family parlor.
Rousel just laughed. “He or she will be what he or she is.”
In moments, everyone was in the parlor, and Nellica was passing a tray with spiced wine, or chilled white or red. After slipping out of my cloak, I took the white.
Father had settled into his favorite chair. He didn’t wait for anyone else to sit down before he asked, “What can you tell us about this imager business?” As always, everything was business. Before I could answer, he added, “You know that last weekend a young graycoat was killed near the Nord Bridge.” He shook his head. “Shouldn’t have been there.”
I hadn’t seen that in either Tableta or Veritum. “I wouldn’t go
anywhere like that.”
“I would hope not.”
“The Collegium at Imagisle is like a guild for imagers.” I settled into the straight-backed chair across from his upholstered needlepoint armchair. “When I started, I was an imager primus. Now I’m a secondus. Most imagers are tertius, I suppose just like most crafters are journeymen. There are four classes of masters.”
“Names . . . names . . . what do you do?”
“Chenkyr . . .” murmured Mother.
“It isn’t what you’re called that matters,” he replied amiably. “It’s what you do and what you earn.”
“I’m still learning,” I replied, “in the mornings, anyway. I have to learn more about science and about government and history. In the afternoons, I work.”
“What do you do?” A hint of exasperation colored his words.
“Imager things. I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Chenkyr . . .” Mother’s voice was firmer and louder.
“I could, but I’m not allowed to. Since I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing imaging drudgery in the workshops, I won’t. I get fed better than at Master Caliostrus’s and have a chance at earning a comfortable living.” I smiled politely. “How is the wool business?”
“Very well,” interjected Rousel cheerfully. “We’ve more than tripled sales and shipments out of Kherseilles this year. That won’t last, but with the shipping embargo levied on Caenen by the Council and by Ferrum and Jariola, we’re doing well.”
“If shipments to Caenen are embargoed . . .?” I asked.
“We just ship to factors in the Abierto Isles. They sell to Caenenan factors. We had to advance them a little credit, but the Caenenans send their own bottoms there.”
“Why won’t it last?”
Rousel shrugged. “I had a feeling things would get tense with the dualgodders. So I opened up trade with some cloth factors in the isles. They usually don’t deal that much in wool, and I had to give them . . . some considerations . . . last year, but no one else shipping out of Kherseilles had any arrangements in place. They’re all hurrying and scrambling, but for now, we’re doing nicely. More than nicely, and I’ve got an arrangement for some high-quality Caenenan cotton coming back the other way. We didn’t have that even before the embargo.”
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