“Is there an advocate for the ones who can’t afford to pay for one?”
“There are two public advocates on duty every day at the court. They get half a glass, sometimes a little less, to meet with each prisoner before they go before the justice. But don’t worry. You’re mostly here to watch and ask questions. Just be here a bit before eighth glass on Lundi. Then we’ll go over the prisoners and the schedule for the day, quickly, so that you can see what’s involved. The clerks actually prepare the final schedule the afternoon before, but schedules are roughed out sometimes a week in advance. . . .”
The lieutenant went on for another quarter glass before he sent me back down to the charging desk. After that, we only charged two more offenders, both for trying to make off with hams from a butcher.
As we got ready to leave for the day, I turned to Gulyart. “Thank you. I appreciate your time and showing me how the charging desk works. On Lundi, I start to observe Lieutenant Mardoyt and the courts.”
“I appreciated the help, especially this week.” Gulyart grinned. “The lieutenant is very smooth, very polished. Watch him closely, and you’ll learn a lot.”
“I’m sure I will. I just might stop back here occasionally.”
“You’re always welcome, sir.”
As I walked back toward Imagisle, I couldn’t help but think that my own impressions, not to mention Gulyart’s polite words, tended to confirm what Grandmama Diestra had said.
Once I got to the Collegium, I did have a little time to clean up before I headed to the dining hall. But when I did head in to dinner, I picked up a copy of Veritum because my eyes picked up the headline-“Ferran Fleet Alert.” To one side was another story about the need for increased conscription.
I saw that the masters’ table had only a handful of people there. Ferlyn was on the side away from me, seated with Ghaend and Draffyd. That reminded me that I had to see Maitre Draffyd at ninth glass on Samedi morning, right after the portrait session with Master Rholyn.
Closer to me were the two women maitres, and I stepped toward them.
“I see you’ve been perusing the scandal sheets,” said Maitre Dyana from where she sat beside Maitre Chassendri. “Did you learn anything?” She flipped back the brilliant blue scarf, one of the many bright-colored ones she wore to complement her imager grays.
“Only that they don’t seem to know much more than I do, and that’s discouraging.” I slipped into the chair beside her.
“That’s the beginning of wisdom,” added Chassendri, “when you realize that almost no one really knows much about anything and that the sum total of human knowledge can explain only a fraction of what we observe.”
“Spoken like a true scientist.” Maitre Dyana’s words were both dry and cutting. “If we know so little, you might explain why we still don’t live in caves.”
“Given how intelligent so many seem to be,” countered Chassendri, “why has it taken so long for us to learn how to build warm and comfortable dwellings, let alone steam engines and turbines, and ironway systems?”
“Politics,” I suggested, “and the fact that there are far too many people who want more than they contribute. Or who would rather take from others than build or make it themselves.”
“You’re almost as cynical as Maitre Dyana,” said Chassendri, “and you’re far younger. I shudder to think of how misanthropic you’ll be by the time you’re her age.”
“Young master Rhenn has lived longer beyond the walls of the Collegium than have most imagers his age,” replied Dyana, her voice gentle, almost sweet. “He’s been required to look at life from three very different perspectives. That sort of experience does tend to create a more realistic outlook than laboratory expertise.”
“A lofty perspective, such as that of a High Holder who has to become an imager.”
“Any High Holder’s daughter would murder if she thought it would make her an imager, and bribe and suborn almost anyone to marry one . . . as you should know, dear Chassendri.”
I froze, unable to say anything. Those were the most cutting words I’d ever heard from Maitre Dyana, as sweetly as they had been spoken.
After the briefest of pauses, Dyana went on in the same tone. “Rhenn has a far wider perspective than a High Holder, and that will make it harder for him to deal with such, but also will make him less understandable to them.”
For the moment, listening to them, I felt more like a chemical substance or a creature on Master Draffyd’s dissecting table. I still smiled, then asked, “What do you two think about the taudis riot?”
Chassendri shrugged. “They do riot at times. It comes with poverty and deprivation.”
“You don’t think it was that, do you?” Maitre Dyana looked at me.
“No. It’s too soon after harvest. Food isn’t dear, and it’s neither that hot nor that cold, and the Council didn’t announce increased conscription levels until after the riot, and the Patrol hasn’t been harassing the elvers.”
“What do you think?” inquired Dyana.
I grinned. “You have far more experience than I, despite your kind words. I was hoping you might offer an opinion based on your expertise.” I poured some red Cambrisio into her goblet, and then into mine. I could use it after dealing with both Cydarth and Mardoyt.
Chassendri managed to hide a grin behind the platter of sliced Mantean beef.
Dyana chuckled. “Unlike my compatriot, I would so love to see you in twenty years.”
I waited through that gambit while Dyana served herself the beef, the gravy, and the brown rice. Then I served myself.
Finally, she said, “The riot was most likely instigated by an outside source, but whoever did so will not have left any direct traces, but evidence leading to some other party.”
“Couldn’t it just be some of the High Holders who fear the factors and guilds getting more power in the Council?” asked Chassendri.
“It could be, or it could be the mercantilist factors who want to prove that the poor are that way because they deserve to be-that’s the way the Ferrans operate. Or it could be someone in the taudis trying to get the Civic Patrol to crack down on the territory of a rival taudischef. Or it could be a foreign power with the aim of creating unrest and disruption here in L’Excelsis so that we would be less likely to become involved in war elsewhere. Or . . .” Dyana offered an enigmatic smile. “There are more than a few possibilities.”
There were, and I didn’t much care for any of them. I doubted that we even knew all of them . . . but I couldn’t help wondering how much the words of the First Speaker of Tiempre had contributed to the riot . . . and whether it had just been his words.
11
When I walked along the edge of the quadrangle toward the exercise chambers on Samedi morning, I could see there was no frost on the grass or trees or walkways, but it didn’t feel much warmer than earlier in the week because a stiff wind blew out of the northwest.
After the warm-up and conditioning exercises, and before I started the blade and truncheon routines, Clovyl drew me aside for a moment.
“Lundi, if Master Draffyd says it’s all right, you’ll start on a refresher in hand-to-hand combat, with some work on techniques that might prove useful on the streets with the patrollers.”
“Good. These solitary routines get tedious after a while.”
“They still might save your guts someday. You can’t always image your way out of all the troubles you might face.” He lowered his voice. “You’re talented enough that you’ll end up in more tight places than most could imagine. Master Dichartyn doesn’t hesitate to use talent.”
Or sacrifice it for a great gain for the Collegium. But I didn’t say that.
Dartazn was back in running form, and I didn’t finish the four-mille run within a hundred yards of him. He’d already headed for the showers before I stumbled to a halt outside the exercise chambers.
Master Schorzat wasn’t all that far behind me. He gave me a smile. “How are you finding the Civic Patrol?�
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“It’s interesting, and I’m learning.”
“You might think over if there are other ways to do what the Patrol does, and what implications they would have.”
I laughed. “Are you trying to get me to think like a field imager?”
“No. That sort of thinking can help you figure out whether procedures can be changed-or why they shouldn’t be when someone has a brilliant new idea.” He snorted. “Someone always does, and half the time it’s a very bad brilliant new idea. A senior imager needs to be able to recognize those. That’s all.”
“Thank you, sir.” I had my doubts whether the reason he’d given me was the only reason why he wanted me to analyze Civic Patrol procedures.
After getting a shower and shaving, and dressing, I hurried to the dining hall, where, just after I appeared, Ferlyn arrived with a graying master I’d seen a few times when I’d been a third, but whom I’d never met. “Rhenn, have you met Quaelyn?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Quaelyn, this is Rhennthyl. He’s the newest Maitre D’Aspect. He also has the distinction of having survived more assassination attempts than any third in the history of the Collegium. The last time was when he stopped the Ferran spies from exploding a firewagon near the Council security force.” Ferlyn laughed softly. “They had to make him a master after that.”
“Ferlyn gives me too much credit,” I replied, although I had the feeling he might have been right about the assassination attempts.
“I doubt it, not if you report to Master Dichartyn,” replied Quaelyn.
“Might I ask your specialty?” I asked as we walked to the masters’ table.
“Me? I guess you’d call me the master of patterns. I look at ledgers and books and rosters, and report what I see in the numbers and figures and . . . everything.”
We sat down on the left end of the table. I looked out at the table holding the primes and seconds and could see Shault, sitting next to Lieryns. That was good. Surprisingly, Lieryns looked up, then nodded. I nodded back.
“Just before we saw you,” Ferlyn said, pouring tea for Quaelyn and then handing me the pot, “we were talking about the assassinations of imagers. Did you know that we lost another one last night?”
“Another junior imager? Or someone more senior?”
“Thenard. He was still a prime, but he was close to making second.”
I recalled Thenard. He’d offered a few suggestions and observation when I’d first come to Imagisle, and he’d been friendly and good-natured. “How did it happen?”
“He just crossed the Bridge of Desires. There’s a good patisserie not more than two blocks down the Boulevard D’Council, off a side lane. When he came out of the patisserie, someone shot him. No one saw the shooter.”
I turned to Quaelyn. “You weren’t discussing this as a coincidence, I take it?”
“No. It is an example of patterns. I’m working with Ferlyn on many of these. I’m not so young as I once was.”
“This is getting serious,” Ferlyn went on. “We find something between thirty and forty new imagers every year. Master Poincaryt thinks we get about half that are born in Solidar, later, of course. We’re fortunate to find even half, but that’s the way it is. Maybe ten imagers die naturally every year-on average, anyway. Another ten die because they’re imagers and either do something stupid or die as field or covert types, and, like it or not, five to ten get killed every year because some people don’t like imagers. Those are the numbers. The problem is that for the past year, we’ve had close to twenty junior imagers shot, and most have looked to be planned assassinations. And as soon as we stop one group, it’s like another pops up.”
While he was speaking, I served myself and handed the platter of cheesed eggs and sausage chunks to Ferlyn. “Why do you think that’s happening now?”
Ferlyn looked to Quaelyn.
The older master smiled. “Master Poincaryt and Dichartyn have their doubts, but I believe that it’s the result of intersecting patterns. Societies and cultures all function because they adopt patterns. Some of those patterns are so ingrained that no one even knows they’re patterns. Others aren’t so natural, and they need reinforcement. Laws are a form of pattern reinforcement . . .”
I just listened for a time.
“. . . as societies or whole lands change, the patterns have to change, and people need to be made aware of the need for change. If they don’t see that need and accept it, there’s always trouble. Even when those in power try to create greater awareness, people get upset. Those who were well off under the old ways fight change-”
“Like the High Holders?” I asked.
“That is an unfortunate truth,” Quaelyn admitted. “Sometimes, those who hold power merely find a way to keep holding power in a new fashion with new patterns. Usually, some fail to change, and they can be most bitter and dangerous. Those who gain power, such as the factors and the manufacturers, often adapt the mannerisms of the old elite, and the same control of power. That is the pattern in Ferrum. When patterns must change and times are unsettled, many turn to what they think of as unchanging.”
“Nothing’s unchanging, you said,” Ferlyn interjected.
Quaelyn smiled patiently. “Follow my words, Ferlyn. I said they turned to what they think is unchanging.”
“Faith in the Nameless, or Duodeus, or . . . what’s the Tiempran god?” I asked, then dredged up the answer to my own question from somewhere. “Puryon, that’s it.”
“That is what I surmise,” replied Quaelyn. “All theologies seem to embody the idea that because a deity is powerful, if not omnipotent, that deity is eternal and unchanging. That is a pattern of belief that comforts people. That is why it endures. Yet . . . all religions include the point that the deity created the world and the wider cosmos, and we can see how the world changes. Records show where harbors once were that have now silted up. Rivers change their courses. Parts of coasts fall into the sea. The world changes. We age and change. Yet religions all assume that their creator does not change. Such assumed inflexibility is anything but logical.” He shook his head. “These days, we live in a time of changes. . . .”
I wished I could have stayed at the table and listened longer, but I had to get to the studio and get set up for Master Rholyn’s sitting. So I finally excused myself and made my way through the still-chill air in the quadrangle north to the workshop building that held the studio.
As I went through setting up and deciding which paints to mix, my breath did not quite steam in the chill air of the studio. If Master Poincaryt wanted me to keep painting portraits in the winter months I’d need some heat in the space. Even oils congealed if they got too cold.
Master Rholyn arrived as the bells rang out the glass.
“Rhenn . . . good morning, chill as it is.” He paused. “Do you want me standing or sitting?”
“Sitting for the moment.” I walked over and studied his face, trying to fix the coloration and shading before I went back to my palette and finished mixing the shade I wanted.
“I noticed you dancing with Madame D’Shendael at the Council’s Harvest Ball.” Master Rholyn smiled.
“She asked me to dance, sir. It caught me quite off guard.” That was true enough.
“Did she say why?” The tone of his words suggested he already knew the answer.
“No, sir. She just said that she required a partner. If you would stand, now, sir, and take that position with your foot on the crate?”
He rose, more awkwardly than I had remembered, but that might have been because the grace and eloquence of his speech colored my memory. “This way?”
“Please turn your head a bit toward me. Good.” I eased the tip of the brush into the oils I’d mixed.
“Madame D’Shendael is quite intelligent, Rhennthyl. She never does anything without a reason. Did her words hint at any such purpose?”
“She talked only briefly, about art, and how little it was respected.”
Rholyn no
dded almost sagely. “She believes in art, but that is not all.”
I said nothing, but continued to work on getting the set of his nose and eyes precisely.
“Did she speak of the Council?”
“No, sir, except that she told me that I was an imager, and that it was a silly fiction of the Council that I couldn’t even admit it.”
“A silly fiction? She would use such a term. You know that she does not approve of the current fashion of selecting councilors?”
“Master Dichartyn mentioned such, sir. He said she would prefer that some councilors be chosen by a form of popular voting.”
“As if the populace as a whole would ever choose wisely.”
I concentrated on the canvas before me.
“What do you think, Rhenn?”
I didn’t want to say what I thought. “It seems to me that the present way of selecting councilors provides a balance among artisans, factors, and High Holders. No one group or individual has control.”
“Balance of power . . . yes . . . there is a balance of power, and it is necessary, because those in the Council are far less honorable than those who lead the Collegium. Throughout our history, we’ve been fortunate that the imagers appointed to senior positions and to the Council by the senior maitre of the Collegium have proven themselves honorable and worthy types.” He paused. “I’d best stop talking and let you paint.” He smiled warmly.
Master Rholyn was as good as his word and said little after that. As a result, I got a good start on his face, especially around the eyes. Some portraiturists concentrate on the shape of the head and face first, and sometimes I had, but with Master Rholyn, there was a difference in the set of his nose, eyes, and eyebrows that I needed to address first.
I had to clean up the studio in a rush and then make my way to the infirmary to see Master Draffyd. I had to wait in the anteroom for almost a quint before he appeared. The smooth gray stone walls made the space seem even colder than it was, but the anteroom was far better than being in the cold gray individual rooms where I’d already spent too much time recuperating.
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