Imager ip-1

by L. E. Modesitt

  “When are you leaving?”

  She smiled faintly. “We depart next Jeudi. Father was able to arrange a compartment on the Express.”

  Somehow I had the feeling that there was more to it than that. “I’m not Pharsi, but I have a feeling about this trip.”

  “So does Grandmama. She says that it will be better this way.”

  Better for whom?

  “She also says that you’re more Pharsi than you think.”

  “So are you,” I replied dryly.

  For the briefest of instants, Seliora looked stunned. Not hurt, but truly surprised. “Why did you say that?”

  “Because you are. You see things. How many Pharsis would have sensed enough to look out the window at Felters? You didn’t see the assassin. You felt him first. Isn’t that right?”

  For a moment Seliora didn’t say anything. “When did you notice?”

  I smiled, although I didn’t feel much like it. “In a way, I saw it then, but I didn’t realize or understand what I’d seen.”

  “They’re not trying to separate us, Rhenn. Mama had planned to have you for dinner this week. She did most of this.” Seliora gestured at all the dishes and bowls on the oilcloth. “That’s because she likes you. As soon as we return, and you can leave Imagisle, Mama wants you to come for dinner. She said a real dinner.”

  I could tell that Seliora meant every word, but still . . . “What do they-or you-see?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  She shook her head. “I’m trying to keep it from being bad. You have to understand, Rhenn. There’s a . . . it’s a curse of sorts that comes with the sight. Too often, we’ve found, if things are bad, but not too bad, and we warn someone, especially someone we care about, in their efforts to avoid what we saw might happen, they make it worse.”

  I didn’t like what she said, especially about things being bad, but I could see how that could happen. If I’d been warned about Johanyr, I might well have tried to be less harsh, and I might have been the one headed to Mont D’Glace. “You didn’t know about the assassin?”

  “It’s harder with you. I told you why. Mama just told me to be very careful.” She paused. “You have to understand. I wouldn’t be telling you this now if you weren’t an imager.”

  “Because people think of Pharsis and imagers in the same way?”

  She nodded. “People don’t like those who do things they can’t understand.”

  I’d already seen that. “Does having the sight help in your business?”

  “Sometimes. At times, I can see someone who’s pleased and even get a glimpse of the design. Mother and Grandmama are better at sensing what people like.”

  “Between all three of you, that gives you a great advantage.”

  “Only because Papa and Shomyr are fine crafters. The craft of the furniture and the design together . . .”

  “Are all the most sighted Pharsis women?”

  Seliora smiled and tilted her head. “Mostly, but that’s because you have to trust your feelings. Most men think too much.”

  I took her hand in mine.

  “That’s the one area where they don’t think enough.” But she was smiling, and her words were soft and warm.

  “And women do?” I grinned at her.

  “When we find what we know and feel is right, we don’t keep looking. Any woman who does hasn’t found what’s right.” Her lips quirked. “There’s always the problem that the right man won’t recognize that she’s the right woman.”

  Her words shivered through me, because they made me think of Remaya, who had seen Rousel and never let go. What if Rousel hadn’t seen? Was Seliora the right woman for me? Or was I merely the right man for her? The two weren’t necessarily the same thing. I’d certainly wanted to be with her, but . . . how would I know? Really know? And was I thinking too much?

  “Yes. You are thinking too much.” She laughed.

  “Do you read thoughts as well?”

  “Only when they’re written on your face.”

  I laughed. We might be close to the same age, but in one area, at least, she was far older and wiser. So I said just that.

  “It’s a good thing you know your weaknesses, Rhenn,” she replied. “You don’t have many, and that can make you most vulnerable. Too many men with few weaknesses delude themselves into believing they have none.”

  “Oh . . . I have weaknesses, and you’re definitely one of them.”

  We talked for a long time, not saying all that much, but enjoying the banter and the early evening, and it was well past the seventh bell when I finished helping Seliora and Odelia pack everything back into their wicker baskets and then walked to the bridge with them.

  There, on the edge of the bridge, Seliora turned to me and slipped her arms around me, then lifted her head and lips. We did kiss, and it was anything but brief.

  When we finally released each other, she looked up. “You will come to dinner when we come back.” Her words were anything but a question.

  “I promise.”

  I stood on the bridge and watched until the three of them caught a hack, and I was glad that Odelia and Kolasyn were with Seliora, competent as she was.

  46

  A wink is not as good as a well-chosen phrase; in

  intrigue, it’s better.

  The next week and a half gradually got harder and harder, both in terms of my lessons with Master Dichartyn and the interrogations that resulted from those studies; the exercises required by Clovyl, which were designed to increase my strength and stamina without straining unduly my recovering injuries; and the sessions with Maitre Dyana.

  I thought about Seliora, more than a little, but generally during the day, because I was so tired at night that I fell asleep quickly.

  Maitre Dyana had me read and memorize a set of handwritten notes and observations on High Holders, and then she would quiz me. On the first Jeudi in Juyn, she took the notes back. “By now, you should understand that conversation is more than mere words. It is a combination of inflections, innuendos, gestures, and dry wit. Few not born into that culture ever master the intricacy of conversing well in that style, but someone such as you could certainly learn enough to interpret what lies beyond the words.”

  “Especially as a merchant-born young man never expected to be more than an aide?”

  She ignored my question, clearly deeming it rhetorical and unworthy of a reply. “The difficulty faced by the High Holders is that many of them equate intricacy and complexity with intelligence. The difficulty faced by those who do not understand intricacy and nonverbal complexity is that they often cannot distinguish between mere complexity for the sake of complexity and complexity that masks motives and intelligence often far greater than is usually encountered.”

  I thought for a moment. “The more powerful High Holders would not remain so without both wealth and intelligence, but the web of complexity that veils all High Holders can shield the actions of the more intelligent and deadly, often until it is too late to discern the pattern and results.”

  “Dichartyn believes you can see beyond the complexity.” Maitre Dyana raised her right eyebrow, a gesture far more effective than words could have been.

  “You have great doubts, but you’re willing to make the attempt.” I smiled politely. “I can’t do a gesture like that, but even if I could, wouldn’t it be out of character for a man?”

  “For any man thought to be interested in women.”

  I had doubts that I’d be terribly convincing as any other type of man.

  “Maintain that pleasant, close-to-but-not-quite-supercilious smile through everything, young Rhennthyl, and it will save you many words and much difficulty. Do not ever forget that on their actual holding, High Holders retain the rights of low justice, and that can be quite painful.” Her face changed slightly, in a manner I could not have described, but could certainly have painted, and there was pleasant interest, behind which was a hint of cold predation.r />
  “Is that the expression one receives just after swallowing poison or getting a knife in the back?”

  “No.” Her voice was sweetly pleasant. “That is the expression used when someone has just received word that they have ruined you. It’s an expression of triumph over someone who used to be an equal. The High Holders seldom kill each other . . . or those who have done them great wrong. That is far too kind.”

  What was left unsaid was that a High Holder who did not dispose of an underling who needed it was considered weak, as was one who actually had to attempt to kill an equal, rather than ruining him and his family. But it also suggested that High Holder Ryel might well have worse in mind for me than assassination . . . and over a long time.

  Her face changed again. Now, behind the smile lay contemptuous pity.

  “That’s disposal of inferiors?”

  “Good.”

  That was my introduction to the conversational patterns of the High Holders, but Maitre Dyana was just beginning. At the end of our session, she handed me a book. “This is a novel. Read it. Part of it is accurate. Part is not. We will discuss it on Mardi.”

  That was on top of Master Dichartyn’s latest assignment-to describe with a supporting proof the easiest ways to enter the Council Chateau and reach the private studies of the councilors without being detected. I had the feeling that the weekend would be long, both because of the work I had to do . . . and because I would not be seeing Seliora.

  Messenger/Guard

  47

  Silence is not golden; it is only a tool like any other.

  At the end of the following week, Master Draffyd examined me and said that I could go back to a stronger conditioning regime, and whatever imaging Master Dichartyn had in mind. I had not received a letter from Seliora, but I couldn’t say I was totally surprised, not when she and Shomyr were still traveling. I did receive a letter from my mother, expressing concern and wanting to know if and when she could visit. I wrote back that because of the nature of my training it would be several weeks yet. I just didn’t want to have to explain. Some of what had happened I knew shouldn’t leave the Collegium, and Mother didn’t respond well to my refusing to say much. I also didn’t want to mention Seliora, not yet. Not until after she returned from her trip. It had taken Mother years to accept Remaya, and I wasn’t about to raise that issue until I was absolutely certain that Seliora and I belonged together.

  The next Lundi-Juyn sixteenth-I had barely settled into the chair in Master Dichartyn’s study when he said, “Your messenger uniforms arrived, did they not?”

  “Yes, sir. They fit comfortably.”

  “They should. It’s time for you to go to work. You’ll be going to the Chateau every morning for the next three weeks. In the afternoons, Clovyl will still work with you, and I’ll occasionally give you instruction and exercises. When the Council resumes meeting officially on the second of Agostos, you’ll be there all day, every day, and some evenings.” He paused. “But you will be expected to continue the physical conditioning. After you begin full-time at the Chateau, you’ll be joining the group that exercises at fifth bell every morning but Solayi.”

  What could I say to that but “Yes, sir.” Then I asked, “With everything going on between Caenen and Ferrum and Tiempre, the Council’s not meeting?”

  “The Executive Council is still there. Effectively, they control the government. The full sessions deal more with laws and problems.” He cleared his throat. “At the Chateau, Baratyn will brief you on your duties. He’s in charge of the messengers, both the imagers and the non-imagers who handle most of the messages. All of the imagers are listed as part-time messengers and security aides. The regular messengers aren’t supposed to know that you’re imagers, but they all know you’ve been trained to deal with weapons and attackers. Now for Baratyn-he’s a Maitre D’Aspect, but he’s listed on the official public Collegium records as a tertius.”

  “Yes, sir. Am I supposed to know who the other imagers are?”

  “You are, and they’re supposed to know you. Baratyn will introduce you. You wear the messenger uniform here at the Collegium only when you’re on your way to and from the Chateau. All of you travel using a duty coach that’s generally indistinguishable from a hack. If necessary, you can take a hack back, but only so far as West River Road. The Council members know that some of the messengers are imagers, and, soon enough, most of the sharper ones will be able to pick you out, but they don’t say anything because their safety rests on you.”

  “What about the High Holders?” I knew that there were five High Holders on the Council, and I was glad that Ryel was not one of them. He had been, years earlier, but councilors were limited to two consecutive five-year terms. If they wished and their appointing body agreed, they could return after standing down for a full term.

  “Even if Ryel were a councilor, you’d be quite safe for now, and always in the Chateau. Your situation isn’t the first time that sort of thing has occurred. High Holders never act precipitously. Often they wait months or even years.”

  That didn’t reassure me.

  “There’s one other matter. Usually some new messenger, or occasionally a relative of one of the councilors, generally a young woman, will ask if you’re an imager or insist that you must be. You are to say you are assigned to serve the Council. If they get very insistent, you may say that they can believe what they wish, but the truth is that you are assigned to the Council. That is what you are to say, and all you are to say. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Master Dichartyn stood. “Go put on your messenger uniform. I’ll meet you at the west duty-coach station behind the dining hall in half a glass.”

  I walked quickly back to my quarters and changed. The messenger uniform was made of a fine lightweight black wool, trimmed with a gray piping so faint in color that it was almost white. Fine as the wool was, and thin as the pale gray shirt that went under the short-waisted jacket was, I did hope that I didn’t have to spend much time in the sun, not in the summer.

  My changing was swift enough that I was walking up to the duty coach at almost the same moment as Master Dichartyn. He said nothing, but gestured for me to enter the coach.

  Because he had not spoken, I waited until the coach began to move before I asked, “Do you know what is happening with our fleets and the Caenenans, sir?”

  “No more than is in the newsheets, Rhennthyl.”

  That was little help because neither Veritum nor Tableta contained anything but vague speculation. “What do you think will happen?”

  “The Caenenans and their High Priest will do something foolish out of pride, and, hopefully, we will do something less foolish to keep open warfare from flaring up.” He fingered his chin, then lowered his hand.

  I waited. Sometimes silence was a better way to get a response.

  “Life is always about power. When men or nations talk about honor, what they mean is how others perceive their power. When a man claims his honor has been affronted, what he is saying is that another’s actions, if unchallenged, may diminish his power in the eyes of others. The same is true of nations. The Collegium does not care about the popular perceptions of power, unless those perceptions actually diminish Solidar’s power. Often our duties require redressing the balance of power without any overt use of military or economic force. That is all I will say for now, but I trust you will consider my words carefully as you watch the Council and those who move around it, prating of honor when they are in reality merely seeking to have the Council increase their power or diminish that of another.”

  I already understood that. A wool importer benefited when import tariffs were lowered, and I had heard my father rail on about the lack of honor in the Council in not tariffing certain finished fabrics, but that was because those fabrics went to other factors.

  My eyes strayed outside as the coach carried us over the Bridge of Desires, not the other bridge on the west side of Imagisle, which was the Bridge of Stones, because t
hat was used almost entirely for heavy wagons and the like. We rode west past the modest spires of Council Anomen, so named because it was the anomen closest to the Council Chateau, not because the councilors necessarily attended services there, and then down the Boulevard D’Council a good mille and a half to Council Hill, ringed by a wide avenue, with the Square of Justice on the plaza to the south. Eight avenues or boulevards radiated from the ring road, but none of them were all that heavily traveled, not the way those east of the river were. The coach turned south on Council Circle, then came to a stop on the east side, just opposite a small postern gate in the white alabaster wall. I got out and waited for Master Dichartyn.

  He walked up to the black iron gate. I followed him. The guard standing behind the chest-high grillwork wore a black uniform similar to mine, except for a thin black cotton waistcoat rather than a full coat. He also had a large pistol in a belt holster and a truncheon.

  He nodded. “Another messenger, Master Dichartyn?”

  “Yes. This is Rhennthyl. He starts today.”

  The guard studied me, then nodded. I realized that he was an obdurate, but that made sense. He opened the iron gate.

  Behind the wall and gate was a narrow stone walk-also white, but white granite-that led to an equally narrow set of steps leading up the side of the low hill on which the Chateau sat. Even so, there were more than a hundred steps before we reached a stone terrace surrounded by a waist-high alabaster wall. By then I was sweating, but I wasn’t breathing hard, and that I owed to Clovyl. Neither was Master Dichartyn, either, and he’d set a quick pace up the steps. The terrace had but two exits-the steps and a door in the wall of the Chateau.

  “This is the way you always enter-unless you have specific instructions otherwise.” Master Dichartyn opened the door, and we stepped out of the glare of the blazing sun into what seemed cool gloom, although I knew that was only by comparison.

  Inside was another armed obdurate guard. Master Dichartyn nodded in my direction. “This is Rhennthyl. He’s the newest messenger.”