Imager ip-1

by L. E. Modesitt

  Not about that, because he wasn’t about to say. “The ranks of the Collegium don’t show a Maitre D’Image, sir. Have there been many?”

  “The Collegium-and Solidar-is fortunate to have one every few generations. More often would not necessarily be good for either. After the great imager of Rex Regis razed the walls of L’Excelsis and destroyed a third of the Bovarian population, and then created, or re-created, the Council Chateau, there was a certain amount of fear of imagers. Supposedly, that was why the first Hall of Imagers was created, as much to identify where imagers were as anything. That hall was actually right about where we are now . . .”

  I’d known that the first Hall had been the start of the Collegium, but it was strange, in a way, to be sitting where it had been.

  “. . . the fear died down over time, but never abated, although it was helped when Cyran destroyed Rex Defou and put his son on the throne. Knowing there are so few great imagers-those whom we would term Maitres D’Image today-the Council will defer to one, knowing that they are infrequent, not that they have much choice, but it is another form of balance. Other lands know that one could rise, and they do not wish to provoke Solidar. In times when the Collegium does not have one, Solidar will not press other lands too hard. Nor will the Council even when one does head the Collegium at the height of his powers, because to do so would invite retaliation after his death . . .”

  “Is that why there are four Collegia?”

  “We use the term as if there were four. There is really only one, split into four different locations, but such a separation renders the Collegium less vulnerable, especially in times when its powers are less, or less apparent.”

  “What about the regionals? Do they report to you or to Master Poincaryt?”

  “You are assuming that I have some sort of position, Rhennthyl.”

  “No, sir. From observation, I know you have some sort of position, even though it appears nowhere. I also suspect that Master Poincaryt was your predecessor in that position.”

  He chuckled. “And you, Rhennthyl with your brashness, will either be dead in ten years, or my successor. The odds, unfortunately, heavily favor the former unless you can learn greater skills in forbearance and dissembling.” He paused, then added, “Dissembling is not inherently dishonest. It is the skill of disguising what you feel and know until you can act with the highest chance of success. Live dissemblers are far more useful than dead heroes. How are your latest studies with Maitre Dyana going?”

  “As you would expect, sir. I’m learning, but not so well or with as much finesse as she would prefer.”

  He did laugh at that, heartily. Then he said, “You must realize that Maitre Dyana comes from a background where the slightest misstep can cause great pain, if not death. Demand for perfection of skills in all areas comes naturally to her.”

  “Sir . . . you’ve suggested that many High Holders are not among the brightest . . .”

  “That does not mean they are not highly skilled, and the harnessing of a wide range of finely honed skills to a lack of intelligence can be deadly to those nearby.”

  I hadn’t thought of it in that way.

  “You do have certain strengths, Rhenn. I don’t mean as an imager, but beyond that. I’d like you to think about what they are, and what they imply for the way you should act. Unless something comes up that is urgent, I will meet you here after you leave the Chateau on Jeudi, and we will discuss what you think those strengths might be.” He stood.

  So did I. “Yes, sir.”

  With half a glass remaining before dinner, and rain once more threatening, I hurried back to my quarters and thought about what Master Dichartyn had said. Besides strong shields, and the ability to paint, what were my strengths? In the end, I could come up with only one, and that was my ability to combine what I knew with what I felt to come to a conclusion that was usually right-often long before I could have proved the correctness of that conclusion.

  The other thing I realized, again, was that I was being used as a target and a lure for whoever was trying to attack the Collegium. I was not being given any advanced training in attacking, or ways to attack, but only in defense, and after a time, if one cannot attack, one usually loses.

  After dinner, and then after my exercises with Maitre Dyana, I felt totally exhausted. She was instructing me in the use of imaging to detect poisons in food, and that reinforced my sense of being trained as a lure. Tired as I felt, I still forced myself to write a letter to Seliora thanking her for a wonderful Samedi and telling her that my visit with my parents had gone as expected and that they looked forward very much to meeting her.

  The only problem was that, once I dropped into sleep, I had nightmares about having dinners with High Holders and trying to determine what was poisoned and how, especially after I discovered a tiny silver knot set by my cutlery at a formal dinner in an ornate dining hall I did not recognize.

  66

  Observing an observer is often boring, but vital.

  On Mardi, the only thing that happened of note was that a petitioner tried to get to Councilor Suyrien. Dartazn had to kill him, and Baratyn and the civic patrollers discovered that the assassin had killed the factor who had the appointment and taken his place.

  That evening, Maitre Dyana, in the midst of attempting to instill more finesse in my poison diagnostics, suggested that half of diagnostics was observation before the fact, and that I still tended to rush before I had all the information.

  “Patience, dear boy. Observation in detail with patience.”

  If she were still alive twenty years from now, I thought, she’d still be calling me “dear boy,” which I suspected was a more pleasant way of saying, “Think before you act, idiot.”

  On Meredi, I received from the Collegium tailor a formal white and gray uniform jacket to be worn to the Council’s Harvest Ball the following week. I tried it on, and, unsurprisingly, it fit perfectly. I had to admit that it looked far better than the standard gray waistcoat.

  Of course, right after arriving back at the Collegium on Jeudi afternoon, I marched myself to Master Dichartyn’s studio.

  As soon as I sat down, he asked, “Why do you think an assassin tried to kill Councilor Suyrien?”

  That certainly wasn’t the first question I expected. “Because he’s the head of the executive committee, and effectively runs the Council.”

  “That is a statement of fact that is meaningless. What has he done to cause someone to want to kill him?”

  “I don’t know, sir. From what I have heard, he is opposed to changing anything.”

  “That is true. What does that tell you about the assassin-or whoever paid him, if it turns out he was hired?”

  “He feels he has been hurt by the present system or strongly wants change or both.”

  “Many people feel that way. They don’t try to kill a councilor.”

  “Either blood or golds or both are involved.”

  “Better. Think about this. You’ve read the newsheets, have you not, with the stories about more hostilities between Ferrum and Jariola-and the skirmish between one of our flotillas that was positioned to keep Ferran warships from attacking Jariolan merchanters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There is the possibility of war between Ferrum and Jariola. Which land is less popular in Solidar?”

  “Jariola, I’d say. The Oligarch makes people think of an overbearing rex.”

  “What about among the factors and merchanters?”

  I thought about my father’s reactions. “They’re probably even more in favor of Ferrum, and they’re not happy that the Council’s attempt at evenhandedness is costing them.”

  “Now, while it has not been made that public,” Master Dichartyn went on, “Councilor Suyrien has suggested that Solidar may have to support Jariola, given the belligerent stance of Ferrum. He has also stated that he fears the dangers of a nation whose policy is ruled only by profits. Can you see a possible link to the assassin, at least in terms of view
s?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now . . . have you considered what I asked of you on Lundi?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then summarize your conclusions.” He sat back and waited.

  “Well, sir . . . I’ve thought about this for a long time, but the only significant strengths I seem to have are very strong shields for someone of my level and the ability to combine what I know with what I feel to come to a conclusion that usually seems to be right-often long before I could have actually proved the correctness of that conclusion. The implication behind that is probably what Maitre Dyana keeps saying, and that’s that I need to be more patient. At least, in most cases.” I couldn’t help adding, “I don’t think I’m the single-handed hero type who can charge into the taudis and capture scores.”

  “What about your portraiture ability?”

  “That’s a strength, and it probably added to my imaging ability, but, outside of providing portraits for the Collegium . . .”

  He nodded. “Those probably are among your strongest points, and the implications are correct so far as you have carried them. We also don’t train, as you put it, single-handed heroes. We often act alone, but it’s far more effective, and far safer, to act from the shadows . . . or in direct sunlight with everyone watching in a fashion where no one realizes what you’ve done, and even when they do, where no one connects it to you or the Collegium.” He smiled. “Next week, at the Council’s Harvest Ball, above all, observe. Observe and try to correlate what you see with what you know and what you feel. It may surprise you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Taking the young lady who saved my life to meet my parents.”

  He fingered his chin, then nodded. “For all of our sakes, use your shields and be careful . . . and observant.”

  After I left, I had, more than ever, the feeling that I was the lure for a much larger predator than I’d first imagined.

  67

  Professional interrogators should study mothers.

  Fortunately, Samedi morning was clear, cool, and with a light breeze that made the long run that followed Clovyl’s exercises and the session in physical self-defense seem almost pleasant. I finished somewhat closer to Dartazn, but not much. I hurried through cleaning up and eating, so that I could get to the studio and get some work done on some of the details of the portrait that didn’t require Master Poincaryt before he arrived.

  He was as punctual as always, settling into the chair. “Good day, Rhennthyl.” He settled into the chair. “I apologize for my absence last week. There were some matters to deal with.”

  “Beyond the infiltrators in the taudis, sir?”

  A smile crossed his face. “You know, Rhennthyl, I find these sessions most useful. They provide a time when I am awake, relatively rested, and without people and details clamoring for actions and solutions.” He turned his head. “This way?”

  “A touch away from me, just a little.” I paused. “Good.”

  I had to admire the way he’d handled my question. Just a smile, and warm words on another subject, hinting that he wasn’t about to deal with my query. Before I lifted my brush, I just studied him again, looking from the canvas and back to him. Then I caught it. The way I’d painted his left temple was as though in a different light setting than the cheekbone below. I concentrated, trying to visualize it just so . . . and then it was just that way on the canvas. I had to smile. In a way, it was ironic.

  I worked steadily for a good quarter glass before he spoke again.

  “Master Dichartyn has briefed me on the situation in which you find yourself. How would you describe it? Honestly, but as dispassionately as possible.”

  “The Collegium has been good to me, sir. That I cannot deny, and I’ve learned a great deal. At the moment, though, I do feel more like the lure for a large and unknown predator lurking somewhere out beyond the Collegium.”

  “That’s a fair description of the situation. I would point out, however, as I am certain Master Dichartyn has already told you, that all imagers are in a sense lures. Our duty and responsibility is to draw such predators in order that they do not prey on Solidar itself.”

  “He has said that, sir.”

  “Good. I felt sure he had. You’ll be at the Council’s Harvest Ball next Vendrei, I trust?”

  “Yes, sir. Won’t you?”

  “No. On such social occasions, my presence would have, shall we say, a dampening effect on the atmosphere. The chief maitre of the Collegium must take care never to put himself in a position where he might be seen to challenge or dim the authority of the Council.”

  I realized I’d already understood that without actually having thought it through. I just hadn’t applied it to the Ball.

  “The Ball is one of those occasions when you have a chance to observe and learn without being observed that much yourself. If someone is observing you, of course, it is significant, and something to consider.” He paused. “How long before I might see the portrait?”

  “You can look at it anytime, sir. I have your face mostly done, and the garments.”

  “After we’re done today. I dislike surprises, especially those I can prevent.”

  He said nothing more for the rest of the session, clearly lost in his own thoughts and concerns. When the first bell of ninth glass struck, he looked to me.

  “Yes, sir. I have more than enough to work on before the next session.”

  Master Poincaryt stood, stretched, and then walked toward the easel, circling it and then studying the unfinished work. After a moment, he nodded. “They were right. You’re as good as many of the master portraiturists.” A wry smile followed. “It’s accurate, and lifelike, but you’re an imager, and it’s not as flattering as those of Master Estafen. More accurate, but not so flattering.”

  “Master Dichartyn has always stressed accuracy, sir.”

  The chief maitre laughed. “Master Dichartyn also informed me that you have a certain . . . shall we say . . . way of reducing egos. I would suggest you not employ it at the Ball.” He stepped back from the unfinished portrait, looked at it once more, then turned. “Next week?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was almost at the door before he stopped and half-turned. “Rhennthyl?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Being a lure does not mean one is defenseless. Nor does it preclude action. Just make certain that such action is in your best interests and those of the Collegium.” With that, he smiled and left the studio.

  I ended up painting for almost another glass, leaving just enough time to clean up and walk to the dining hall. With good fortune, I’d be able to finish the portrait in one or, at the most, two more sessions. It was a good work-perhaps not my very best, but better than that of many masters.

  After lunch with Menyard, I stepped out into the foyer and walked to the main entrance. I glanced up at the plaques . . . and froze. Another name had been added: Claustyn, Maitre D’Aspect, 727-755 A.L.

  Had he been the one to remove the old High Priest of Caenen . . . or had he just been killed as part of the operation?

  Menyard stopped. “You didn’t know?”

  “No. I don’t usually come this way, and I’m never here for lunch, except on Samedi and Solayi.”

  We just stood there for a moment. I couldn’t say that Claustyn had been a close friend, but he’d been warm and welcoming when I’d first become a third and changed quarters, after the confrontation with Johanyr. He’d introduced me to other thirds with grace at a time when I’d needed and appreciated that kindness. It made me think. Had I been that way? No . . . but there hadn’t been any new thirds in the last few months, not near my quarters.

  Still . . . that was something I needed to remember.

  Menyard and I left the dining hall silently, and I walked along the west side of the quadrangle back to my quarters.

  For a time, I just thought. Then I decided to go to the library to see what there m
ight be on High Holder Ryel. Lures could learn, I supposed.

  Once I reached the library and began to search the stacks, I began to realize how little written information there was. Oh, there was a listing of all the High Holder houses, but it was a century out of date. There was also a book on the limits of High Holder low justice, but after skimming that, I realized that it was just a simplification of what Master Jhulian had pounded into me-or forced me into pounding into myself. In the end, I spent almost two glasses learning that I wasn’t going to find that information in a book.

  After that, I returned to my quarters, read a bit more of On Art and Society, then washed up once more, and headed out to pick up Seliora for our silent inquisition.

  I took the Bridge of Desires and hailed a hack there-it couldn’t hurt to vary which bridges I used. Then, after we reached NordEste Design, I paid him to wait while I went inside to get Seliora. I supposed that he could have left, but I had the feeling that no hacker really wanted to stiff an imager.

  The twins were the ones who opened the door, and this time it was Hestya who yelled up the stairs. “He’s here, Aunt Seliora!”

  Hanahra just grinned.

  “How was your birthday?”

  “Good.” They both smiled shyly, looking away, then followed me up the stairs.

  I only waited a moment, after the twins hurried away, before Seliora stepped through the archway from the staircase, wearing another dress I had never seen, this one with a black skirt emphasized by narrow panels of a brilliant but dark green silk. The bodice was also black, but the sleeves were of a filmy silk that matched the panels in the skirt, and her scarf was silver, trimmed in the same green. She also wore a jadeite pendant on a silver rope necklace with matching earrings.

  “You look stunning!” And she did, more than stunning, in fact.

  “I thought I had better.” She smiled. “Pharsi girls try harder.”

  I winced at the out-of-context quote.

  She bent forward and brushed my cheek with her lips. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t feel that way, but . . . let’s just say that it was a difficult week.”