Madness in Solidar

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Senior imager? The second only to the Maitre?”

  “She was the senior imager for three different Maitres, beginning with the last years of Elsior.”

  Because she thought a woman Maitre would make matters too difficult for the Collegium? “And she only had daughters, too?” That was a guess.

  “Two. Apparently, neither were imagers. Neither were their daughters. Daughters seemed to run in the family. One of their descendants married the heir to a high holding and became Vaelia D’Zaerlyn.”

  “And Alyna is not only the sister of Zaerlyn D’Alte, but distantly related to Rex Ryen?” And to Quaeryt and Vaelora.

  Obsolym nodded.

  “What about Tertius Arion?”

  “His father is Calkoran D’Alte. He has a sizable holding in Vaestora—that’s a pleasant town well south of Rivages. He’s one of the few Pharsi High Holders in this part of Solidar. That’s about all I know.”

  “How did you come to be an imager?”

  For an instant, the white-haired maitre frowned, as though the change of subject had been unexpected and not totally welcome. “The same as many, I would suppose, sir. My father was a tinsmith in Tuuryl. He found me imaging holes in tin plate he’d hammered out. Before I knew it, I was here on Imagisle. I can’t say I regret it. There have been times…” He shook his head. “There are always times.”

  “That’s true. What do you think has changed the most since you came here?”

  “Not too much changed until Maitre Fhaen got ill. Then he began to demand more, and he sent for you. They’ll change more, won’t they?” The last words were more of a challenge than a question.

  “They’ll have to. The High Holders and possibly even the factors are thinking of defying the rex. No matter how that turns out, nothing will be the same after that. What do you think of young Lorien?”

  “The heir? I’ve never met him. Maitre Fhaen always said he seemed more sensible than his sire, but that wouldn’t be hard, according to what I hear. There’s a reason so many call Ryen Rex Dafou behind his back.”

  “Can you name any factors who have shown an interest in the Collegium in recent years?”

  Obsolym frowned, tilted his head, then worried his lips before he finally spoke. “Factor Wylum … his son Gherard is a student … a secondus … Factor Veramur … he has a … niece…”

  “Niece … as in the daughter of his mistress?” asked Alastar dryly.

  “I would surmise so, but Maitre Fhaen never said.”

  Alastar waited.

  “Factoria Kathila … her daughter … she often inquires.”

  Alastar did not speak for a moment, considering that out of the hundred or so full factors, those meriting the title Factorius or Factoria, there was only a handful of women. “Why? Don’t they speak?”

  Obsolym shook his head. “Young Seconda Thelia had a privileged life. Factoria Kathila is on the factors’ council.”

  Meaning that she is very rich and powerful. “What does she factor?”

  “Jewels, fine fabrics, oils, scents, all manner of soaps … and … ah…”

  It took a moment for Alastar to put the pieces together. “Rendering and tanning? Where she obtains the fats and materials to provide the substance for those soaps, potions, and lotions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Most interesting. “Any others?”

  “There must be, sir, but I’m not aware of who they might be.”

  After Obsolym left, Alastar sat at the desk. He’d been so preoccupied with cleaning up all the loose ends within the Collegium in the short period since he’d arrived in L’Excelsis that he’d had little time to learn more about the problems outside the Collegium. And now it’s becoming all too apparent that you should have learned more … as if you’d had any time for that. He took a long slow breath, then stood and left the study, pausing for a moment to address Dareyn. “I’m headed over to the infirmary. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alastar walked down the long corridor to the old main entrance and then outside, wincing at the odor that assailed him even before he could start to cover the fifty yards or so to the infirmary, a comparatively small structure that held a few treatment rooms, a surgery, and eight other chambers, each of which could hold two beds. What made the stench worse was that the air was heavy and still. Every day the odors escaping from the sewers on the east side of the River Aluse seemed to worsen, while Ryen and the factors’ council each insisted it was the other’s responsibility to remedy the problem.

  The imager second on infirmary duty must have seen the Collegium Maitre approaching, because Gaellen was waiting in the small entry hall when Alastar entered.

  “Greetings, Maitre. You’re here about Dylert?”

  “What else?” asked Alastar, his voice dryly warm. “Or are there more injuries or illnesses you haven’t mentioned?”

  “Outside of two cases of mild flux, likely caused by eating in the wrong places in L’Excelsis, and Dylert, the infirmary is, thanks to the Nameless, without others who are ill.”

  “Do you know how Dylert burned himself?”

  “I didn’t ask. I thought you or Maitre Cyran would be more effective. Besides, if I ask too much, some of them aren’t likely to come here when they should.”

  Alastar didn’t like that idea, but he did understand. “How badly was he burned?”

  “Not so badly as it could have been. There’s one place on the top of his forearm that needed a dressing. We’ll have to watch that. One of the junior seconds, Thelia, got most of the burn in a bucket of cool water fairly soon. She made him walk over here with his arm in the bucket. I asked her how she knew that. She said she knew about burns from hot oil.”

  Thelia … the daughter of the factoria? Maybe she isn’t so spoiled as Obsolym thinks … but what was she doing in the young men’s quarters? Alastar repressed a sigh. He’d have to look into that as well. “Where is he?”

  “The third door back past the surgery on the left.”

  “I’ll let you know.” Alastar smiled wryly, then made his way past the closed door to the surgery and past the open doors of the next two chambers, both of which held imagers, each young man seemingly asleep, although Alastar had his doubts. The third door was only ajar, and he pushed it open and stepped into the room.

  Dylert sat in a wooden armchair, wearing only an undertunic, the right sleeve of which had been cut off at mid-biceps. Immediately below the ragged linen, there was a dressing around his arm above the elbow. Below the elbow, Dylert’s right forearm was bare, but bright red, as if badly sunburned, and his wrist and hand were also red.

  “Maitre, sir…” The student imager started to rise.

  “Just stay seated.” Alastar gestured. “Tell me how you managed to get this burn. The whole story, please, including the parts that might reveal your stupidity. The fact that you’re here already reveals that.” Alastar’s voice remained pleasant, as if he were asking about the weather or what the imagers’ dining hall might be serving that evening.

  Dylert swallowed. “Ah … sir…”

  “Go on.”

  “My chamber is on the lower level. It’s dark. I had some time before I was to go to exercises with Maitre Cyran. So I took the lamp outside. I know it’s not wise to image in the quarters. I imaged oil into the reservoir. I don’t know what happened, but there was lamp oil everywhere, and it caught fire…” The student shook his head.

  “The lamp wasn’t lit, I hope?”

  “No, sir.”

  Alastar nodded. “I think I know what happened. First, you imaged too much oil, and it spurted out everywhere. Second, I suspect you thought of the lamp as being lit when you imaged the oil into it. That would account for why everything caught fire.” He paused. “Weren’t you told not to image anything without permission?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alastar could see that Dylert had almost said more. “But you’ve done it before, and nothing happened?”

  “Yes
, sir.” The admission was grudging.

  More sloppiness. “I want you to remember what I’m about to say. If you don’t remember and practice what I’m about to tell you, sooner or later, your imaging will kill you.” Alastar paused. “Imaging is controlled by your thoughts and concentration. If you do not concentrate exactly on what you are doing, on precisely the image you need for that imaging, you create great danger for yourself. The errant thought of a lit lamp and a lack of precision in how much oil you needed for the lamp created burning oil over your arm and wrist. You’re fortunate that imager grays are thick and that Seconda Thelia knew what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are not to do any imaging from now on unless a maitre is present. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d also like to know what Seconda Thelia was doing to be close enough to keep the burn from being even worse.”

  Dylert flushed. “I didn’t know she was anywhere near. I wouldn’t have done it if I knew she was.”

  “She was? Or anyone?”

  “Anyone, but…”

  “But especially her? Why?”

  “It’s just … sir…” Dylert’s mouth moved, spasmodically, before he finally added, “It’s … she looks … like … she knows everything … and everyone else … they’re stupid…”

  “I see.” There was obviously something more to Seconda Thelia. You should meet with her. But then, you should meet with each of the student imagers … and before too long. Along with everything else. “It’s clear she knew enough to keep that burn from being worse. It’s also clear that you knew what you were doing wasn’t something you should have been doing. Where were you? In that grassy space behind the quarters that’s surrounded on three sides by bushes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For now, you’re restricted to Imagisle. Once your arm is healed, you’ll have some extra duties to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With that, Alastar turned and left the room.

  “What did you tell him?” asked Gaellen when Alastar reached the infirmary entrance. “Besides his being fortunate he didn’t kill himself?”

  “That he would if he didn’t concentrate more when he imaged … and that he’s restricted to Imagisle.”

  “In the past…”

  “That will change … if it takes locking up imagers in a lead-lined room.” Alastar nodded and made his way from the infirmary. He still had trouble believing how far the Collegium in L’Excelsis had fallen in a generation.

  Dareyn looked up from his desk as Alastar walked back toward his study. “I have that information, sir.”

  “Come on in.” Alastar had to force pleasantness into his voice. He stopped beside his own desk and turned, but did not sit down. “What have you found out?”

  “Both Haebyn and Nacryon have residences in L’Excelsis. I have directions to each.”

  “Good … and thank you. I’d like to have a few moments with Haebyn in the next day or so. I’ll draft a polite request, and you can send one of the imager couriers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I also need to start meeting with each of the student imagers. We’ll start next week with the older thirds … no more than a quint of a glass with each…” Alastar went on to explain how he wanted Dareyn to explain the meetings to the students … and to any other imagers who asked.

  Once he finished with that explanation, he picked up the visor cap from the side table, donned it, and headed for the stables. As he strode along the paved walk close to the carriage house, he nodded as he saw the broad-shouldered, but almost squat and stocky figure of Petros, the graying Maitre D’Aspect who was in charge of the stables, mounts, wagons, and carriages of the Collegium. Petros was instructing one of the teamsters about a harness, it appeared.

  Alastar waited until the other maitre stepped away from the teamster. “Good afternoon, Petros.”

  “The same to you, Maitre Alastar. What might you be needing?”

  “I’d like you to accompany me on a ride along the East River Road. I need a maitre who’s been here awhile and who has a strong stomach. And some other experience.”

  “Heading south, perhaps?” Petros grinned.

  “I had that in mind. I’ll tell you more once we’re on our way.”

  Petros nodded. “Do you need your mount saddled?”

  “I’ll do that myself.” Alastar had a little time, and he didn’t want to get totally out of the habit of doing so.

  A quint later, the two rode across the narrow stone span of the east bridge, only wide enough for a single horse or a small cart at best, another aspect of the Collegium that Alastar had not had a chance to pursue, since most of the people in L’Excelsis lived on the east side of the River Aluse. But then, the Collegium gets most of its provisions from the west. Still …

  That inquiry would have to wait.

  At the east end of the bridge, Alastar gestured to the left. “We’ll ride up to the Nord Bridge and then back.” The smell of sewage was muted, most likely because the light wind was coming out of the northwest.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Where the odors from the sewers are the worst and what might be the causes.”

  “You know I’m not the most accomplished of imagers, sir?”

  Alastar was well aware of that. Petros barely met the standards of a tertius, but he’d been granted the rank of Maitre D’Aspect because of his value to the Collegium in his position as stablemaster, trainer, and quartermaster. “That’s not why I wanted you to come. I understand that you were the one who supervised the repair of the sewers for the newer student quarters.” “Newer” was a relative term, since those buildings were more than a century old.

  “Yes, sir, but I couldn’t do the imaging. Not much of it, anyway. Young Cyran did the most.”

  And he’s no longer so young. “I’m interested in your expertise, not your imaging.” Alastar guided the gelding to the side of the road in order to avoid a high-sided wagon filled with barrels, most likely either ale or lager, then slowed the gelding as a beggar stepped forward, then scuttled back as he saw the gray imager jackets and trousers. The east side of the East River Road—actually a stone-paved avenue with stone sidewalks—north of the bridge to Imagisle was lined with shops of various sorts, including a milliner, two tailors in the first block, a cabinetmaker with a display window featuring an elaborate sideboard in what looked to be cherry, and several cafés. South of the bridge there were more factorages … and an older narrow stone building with barred windows bearing the signboard proclaiming BANQUE D’EXCELSIS.

  Alastar reined up at the end of the first block, catching sight of the Yellow Rose, a theatre favored, so he had heard, by the younger merchanters and some offspring of High Holders, perhaps because most of the “productions” featured music and attractive young women who were often less than fully clothed, if tastefully so, according to Cyran. After a few moments, he and Petros continued northward, but even the faint odor of sewage vanished after another block, at which point he turned the gelding back south. Less than half a block past the narrow bridge to Imagisle, he could again begin to smell the odor of sewage. After another block it was almost overpowering. The paving blocks in the middle of the avenue slumped so that those in the middle were almost a hand lower than those on each side. While Alastar could see no signs of liquid, the mortar around the paving stones, where it even existed, was cracked and crumbled, and the odor was even stronger in the middle of the road.

  He reined up at the west side of the road and motioned for Petros to join him, then said, “There’s likely a problem here. I’ve done some searches of the records and made some inquiries. The top of the sewers here are only two yards down, if that, and they run down the middle of the road. The tunnel is an oval a yard and a half high and a yard across at the base, where it’s flattened into a gentle curve that’s almost level except for a slight depression in the center. They’re supposed to be flushed all the time using
a covered canal that takes water from the river a mille north of the Nord Bridge.”

  “It looks like the tunnel is leaking and the ground is sinking. The sewers ought to be deeper, below the cellars of the buildings.”

  “We can’t change that. I was thinking of uncovering them section by section where the odor is the worst and having the imagers repair the breaks and the drains from the buildings and the street. What would you suggest?”

  Petros laughed, gruffly. “About what you have in mind, sir. Then you’ll see whether it works.”

  Alastar laughed as well, adding, “No. We’ll see. You’re going to be with me on this.” He studied the center of the avenue. The depressed section of the pavement extended some fifty yards. “Can we do this part in a day, with all the senior imagers and the best five or six Maitres D’Aspect?”

  “If you can keep folks away … maybe…”

  “Maitre Cyran and I will also do what we can.”

  “You might be able to do that. After you do, you may find other leaks farther south.”

  “Let’s hope that they’re far enough south that the stench doesn’t reach Imagisle.” He shook his head. “If it does … we’ll deal with that.” He paused. “We might as well ride farther south, just to see.”

  The next three blocks showed no overt signs of sewer leakage, and the stench was less farther south, despite the slight breeze from the north.

  “We can head back now.” Alastar turned the gelding around in front of a large factorage bearing the name Alamara Artisans. He couldn’t help but notice that there was no display window and that the single door was stout and brass-bound—and closed.

  You can’t pursue every strange situation you observe, not when you can’t even resolve the problems you have. He resolutely turned away from the brass-bound door and urged the gray gelding northward toward the bridge.