Imager ip-1

by L. E. Modesitt

  “They supported the guilds and factors, didn’t they?” I paused. “Was that their price?”

  “Whether it was their price, or whether the guilds and factors felt that that they could only push so far, it had to be something along those lines. Also, the guilds and the factors have always been more concerned about what happens in the cities and larger towns.”

  That also made sense.

  “Back to the essential questions of fairness, since we do operate largely in the cities. There is another reason why we as imagers have a great interest in assuring that the laws are fair and impartial. In point of fact, the penalties for imagers who break either the laws of Solidar or the rules of the Collegium are far stricter than any received by others. Why is this unfairness to our advantage? Or less to our disadvantage?”

  I had no idea.

  “When times are bad and things are going badly, people do not seek the causes. They seek someone to blame. Who do they blame? The first target is almost always the group that appears to be favored, that has more than they do, and whose numbers are small. Only if those in that group are powerful do they seek another group to blame, but even so their resentment and anger remain.” He looked to me.

  “By subjecting ourselves to stricter rules and by not displaying overtly our prosperity and power, we attempt to avoid being a target?”

  “As you will discover, anyone who attacks an imager is an enemy of the Collegium, and yet, as you will discover, while measures are taken to assure that such attackers or those who hired them do not survive, the Collegium seldom acts in a way so as to create an impression of might as an institution. Even so, while we occasionally are not successful in finding the attackers, we seldom fail in discovering those who hired them, although it may occasionally take years. Consequently, most attacks are not planned by those in L’Excelsis. But there are some.” He paused. “What does this mean in the context of the question I asked you?”

  By the time I left Master Jhulian, there were so many thoughts flying through my head that nothing seemed quite as it had been. Equally disturbing were the two short papers he’d assigned, along with the reading. How was I going to prove or disprove that natural law was a contradiction in terms? Or that the second formal requirement of law-that laws must be knowable and understandable to all who are capable of understanding them-was in conflict with the first requirement?

  And why did I need to know all that? Just to be a silent guard for the Council? That didn’t seem likely, but it also didn’t seem likely that I was being groomed to be a jurist or advocate for the Collegium either.

  36

  A true imager sees beyond the eyes and hears beyond the words.

  On Mardi night at dinner, I was sitting with Kahlasa and Menyard, exhausted in both body and mind, because Clovyl had continued to increase the severity and intensity of my physical training, both in terms of exercise and running and in learning greater physical self-defense skills. In order to gain weaponless combat skills, I was now sparring with several other thirds, all of them older and more experienced. Not only was I exhausted and bruised, but that had come on top of another long morning with Master Jhulian.

  “You look a little dazed, Rhenn,” Kahlasa said. “You haven’t said much this evening.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. I had my first session with Master Jhulian yesterday, and he gave me two essays and more than fifty pages of reading in the Jurisprudence book. Today, he criticized those essays and told me to rewrite them, and added another longer one, and forty pages more.” I wanted to take a long swallow of wine, but I only sipped. I had to work with Maitre Dyana later, and I didn’t want my senses or abilities wine-dimmed.

  Menyard looked as blank as my mind felt, but Kahlasa nodded knowingly.

  “And Clovyl has me doing a half glass of exercises and running six milles before we even get into everything he’s trying to teach me.”

  That surprised Kahlasa. “They’re pushing you hard. That’s not good.”

  “You’re telling me it doesn’t feel good? I hurt most of the time.” I finished my last bite of the crumb pudding.

  She shook her head. “You’re not the only one. They’re stepping up training on several levels, and they’re cutting short return leaves for field imagers. That suggests troubles ahead.”

  “The newsheets reported that emissaries from the High Priest of Caenen and from the Oligarch of Jariola were meeting in Caena last week,” Menyard interjected. “The Abiertans have been refitting some of their merchanters with heavy weapons, and bought several old cruisers from Ferrum that they’re also refitting.”

  “Tiempre and Stakanar have signed a pact for mutual defense,” added Kahlasa.

  “Do any of them really think they’ll end up gaining anything?” I’d read about all the pacts and the arming and rearming. Tiempre and Stakanar bordered Caenen, and both worried about the High Priest and his efforts to spread the gospel of Duality. My thought was that the gospel was merely a front to get his people to support a war of expansion, but maybe I’d been too steeped in the more practical religious approach of the Nameless. Then the Otelyrnan League, composed of the smaller nations on the continent of Otelyrn, had agreed to allow the Tiempran forces rights of passage on major highways and waterways. That had incensed the High Priest of Caenen, and one thing was leading to another. But I still didn’t understand why; wars almost always cost the winner more than the winner gained, and the loser-and its leaders-could lose everything, including their lives. But most leaders clearly didn’t believe they’d be the losers.

  “The High Priest wants to save the world from the damnation of the Nameless and any other faith in conflict with Duodeus, and make a profit while doing so,” suggested Kahlasa.

  “And Ferrum wants to make a higher profit by selling arms to both sides, and the edgy neutrals,” said Menyard.

  “And our factors want to sell to everyone, I suppose?” I added.

  “Of course, but these things can get out of hand,” replied Kahlasa. “That’s why the Collegium is preparing.”

  “For what?”

  She just smiled. “For whatever may be necessary. Right now, I don’t know, but Master Dichartyn will tell you, and Master Schorzat will tell me.”

  “And neither of you will be pleased,” added Menyard. “I’m just glad I don’t have to do what you two do.”

  “What do you do,” I said, “if I might ask?”

  “I’m an equipment designer and imager. Very special equipment. At some point, Master Dichartyn may send you to me. I’ve worked with most of his imagers.”

  “Do you two know what I’m being trained for?”

  “No,” replied Kahlasa. “Except in general. You’re being trained by Master Dichartyn. He’s in charge of Collegium and Council security, but he never tells imagers in training what their final assignments will be until they’re through training, or until he’s sure that they will get through training. He’s in charge of the Council guard force, the Collegium security section, the covert/overt section, and imager reception.”

  I couldn’t help but frown at the last. “Reception?”

  “What better way to find out what we do than send an imager spy into the Collegium?”

  Put that way, it made sense. I decided against asking about the covert/overt section, not because I didn’t wish to know, but because I knew I wouldn’t learn any more.

  As I left dinner, I thought about a term Kahlasa had used-“field imagers.” The fact that she came and went from the Collegium suggested that she was one of them. The handbook on the Collegium didn’t mention specifics. It just said that imagers had a wide range of duties, both at the four Collegia and elsewhere. But Kahlasa didn’t report to Master Dichartyn, and that meant field imagers weren’t directly connected to Master Dichartyn.

  I almost started out the dining hall doors to my quarters, out of force of habit, then stopped. It was still before seven, and I was supposed to wait for Maitre Dyana.

  Everyone ha
d left the corridor, and the first bell was striking when I saw her step through the rear door and walk toward me. I just watched, politely, as she approached, taking in her iron-gray hair and bright blue eyes. She wore imager grays, but in addition, she had draped herself with a brilliant blue scarf that matched her eyes. The skin on her face was pale and smooth, younger than her hair would have suggested, and she offered a pleasant smile.

  “Rhennthyl . . . you’re Dichartyn’s protege.” She nodded. “I can see why. You look like a well-mannered young fellow, could be a junior son of a High Holder or a merchant heir or, with a beard, a struggling artist. That’s not so surprising, since you’ve already been two of those.”

  Except I’d never had a beard. I’d tried, once, but it came in curly and itchy, even though my hair only had a slight wave in it.

  “There’s a small conference room off the entrance. That will do.”

  She turned, and I followed her. She walked briskly, for all the gray hair and her almost fragile frame. When I entered the room with the oval table and six chairs, she was standing by the window, looking out into the twilight. She said nothing.

  I closed the door and moved closer to the conference table. Finally, she looked at me. Those blue eyes were as cold as lapis, yet seemingly without judgment.

  I waited.

  “Good. I detest unnecessary chatter. Conversation is useful only in certain settings, and for certain purposes. Master Dichartyn has requested that I attempt to teach you how to improve your shields. I do not know how you developed your shields. So . . . I will make several brief attacks, and we will proceed from there.”

  “Yes, maitre.” I inclined my head slightly.

  The first attack was more like a jab, so light that my heavier secondary shields did not spring into play. The second was harder, but easy enough to repulse. The third was strong enough that I was forced backward a step. The fourth and last was aimed more at my shields, but was powerful enough-even though off-center-that I had to move back once more.

  Maitre Dyana looked at me sadly, as though I were a truant grammaire student. “Finesse, dear boy . . . finesse. You’ll exhaust yourself in a fraction of a glass defending yourself like that. The last attack was at an angle. You used your entire shield to stop it. Almost all attacks come from an angle, if a small one. When you can, let your shields collapse a little. Let the attacks slide off. The object is to protect yourself with the least effort possible. Imagers are too few in number as it is. We don’t need to lose more because you spent too much energy defending yourself unnecessarily vigorously.” She waited for a response.

  “Yes, maitre.”

  “We’ll start over again. This time I’ll stand over here and image force at you. It will be direct. Please make an effort to slide it past you . . .”

  I wouldn’t have said my efforts were a total failure, but my successes were few and far from complete.

  As the outside bells struck eight, Maitre Dyana raised her hand. “That will be all for this evening. Now that I’ve gotten your attention and you understand your deficiencies, dear boy, tomorrow evening I will expect a better performance from you.”

  She offered a brief and perfunctory smile, then nodded and walked past me, leaving me standing in the conference room, sweating and exhausted once more. So far as I could tell, the seemingly frail maitre had not even raised a drop of perspiration while wearing me out.

  37

  The best traders weigh their words as carefully as their

  goods.

  The week ended as it began. No matter how hard I worked for Master Jhulian, Clovyl, and Maitre Dyana, and no matter how much I improved or learned, there was always more to learn and do. By Samedi, I was more than ready to leave Imagisle, even for a dinner at my parents with a factor I hadn’t seen in years and his daughter, a young woman I’d never met.

  I didn’t leave at ninth glass or even noon. Instead, as the ten bells of midday struck, I was seated in my study poring over Jurisprudence, the section dealing with tort claims. According to the text, the Council itself was immune to juristic claims of damages, as were the Juristic Courts, and all branches of government. Individual councilors, or anyone in any branch of government, could be subject to a suit under tort law. At that point, I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.

  After several moments, I opened my eyes and looked down at the listing of acts for which an official was not liable, followed on the next page by a listing of those where he might be. I slipped a leather bookmark in place and closed the book.

  I still had another essay to write for Master Jhulian, this one on the theoretical and practical limits of sovereign immunity as exercised by the Council and the government over which it presided, and I had to explain why the first Council had created the malfeasance and misfeasance sections of the Juristic Code.

  I’d asked Master Jhulian why imagers needed to read about law, and his answer had been direct and troubling. “All imagers need to know some of this. Anyone who works with Master Dichartyn needs to know more than I can teach. I have to prepare you to keep learning.” Then he’d smiled. “After I’m satisfied, Master Dichartyn will explain why what you are learning is applicable. That’s because, unless you do learn it, you won’t keep working with him, and you won’t need to know why.”

  From the time I’d first come to Imagisle, I’d known that there was a darker side to the Collegium, but with every day that passed, I was getting the feeling that I was getting closer to it. Finally, I began to reread the pages in Jurisprudence. I stayed at my desk, more or less, until just before the fourth glass, when I hurried out of my quarters.

  Even so, I was at my parents’ door at half past four, where Nellica ushered me in.

  “Sir . . . everyone will be meeting in the formal parlor at five.”

  “Is anyone there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I’ll slip into the family parlor and wait there.”

  She wasn’t totally pleased, but she didn’t have to be. I settled into one of the armchairs-not my father’s-but I didn’t have to wait long before Culthyn appeared, a slightly sullen expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Father says I’m not invited to dinner. Khethila isn’t either.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She went to Brennai’s for the evening. Brennai’s her best friend. This week, anyway.”

  “You’re cynical.”

  “That’s what Mother says.” He looked at me. “What do you really do as an imager?”

  “At the moment, I’m studying the laws of Solidar and L’Excelis.”

  “You’re going to be an imager advocate? That’s freezing!”

  “We all have to study law . . . and science, and history, and philosophy.”

  “Oh . . . Can you do imaging? Can you show me?”

  “Not yet. I can do it, but the masters don’t let us do it off Imagisle until we’re more experienced.”

  “Come on, Rhenn. No one would know.”

  I offered a smile. “I would, and sooner or later, so would Master Dichartyn. He’s my preceptor. He’s very perceptive.”

  “What good is being an imager if they don’t let you image?”

  “Culthyn,” I said slowly, “imaging is more dangerous than I ever knew or dreamed. That’s why almost a third of all imagers die in training.”

  That stopped him, but only for a moment. “You haven’t died.”

  “That’s because I’ve paid attention to those who know better than I do.”

  “That’s a lesson you still need to learn, Culthyn,” announced Mother as she entered the family parlor. “Off to the kitchen. Your dinner is on the table in the breakfast room. Don’t bother Nellica or Kiesela. When you’re done, up to your rooms.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He looked to me. “Someday, will you show me?”

  “I will. It might be a while.”

  After he left through the archway into the rear hall, Mother asked, “Show him wh
at?”

  “Imaging. Right now, I’m not supposed to image off Imagisle.”

  “I can see that.” She nodded. “Zerlenya and her parents are most anxious to meet you.”

  “Rhenn!” My father’s voice boomed across the parlor. “You’re even early!” He looked at me. “You look more like a guard officer every time I see you.”

  “He looks just fine, Chenkyr.”

  “That’s what I meant. He stands taller.”

  Shortly, there was another knock on the front door, and the three of us moved to the formal parlor while Nellica ushered the guests into the house.

  In moments, Tomaz was stepping toward me. He was a short and stocky man with an engaging smile. “You’re Rhenn, I take it, and an imager to boot. Wager your father never planned on that.”

  “No, sir, he didn’t, but he’s fortunate to have Rousel and Culthyn to carry on.” After I’d said that, I realized I should have mentioned Khethila.

  “Oh!” Tomaz turned and gestured. “This is my daughter Zerlenya.” He beckoned again. “Zerlenya, come and meet Rhennthyl. It’s not every day you get to meet an imager that you know personally-or his father, anyway.”

  Zerlenya stepped forward, offering a tentative smile. She was thin, almost painfully so, but she had wide cheekbones, and a clear pale complexion, with tight-curled jet-black hair that would have dropped to midshoulder had it not been swept up and curled into a swirl at the back of her long neck. Her eyes were pale gray, and in the off-white gown and shoulder scarf, she gave the impression of a beautiful swan, if one ready to take wing at the slightest danger.

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” I offered a smile with my words.

  “Father has spoken of you. I’ve never met an imager.”

  “You have now. I’m a very recent imager, though.”

  “What can you image?”

  “So far I’ve managed a copy of my brother’s wife’s comb, a box, and all sorts of small objects in training, including a metal bar or two.”