Madness in Solidar

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “From what I’ve seen so far,” replied Alastar, “he doesn’t like to decide difficult things quickly. He also seems partial to the army, and that worries me.” More than a little.

  “You seem to be suggesting that the regiment south of here might be used against the Collegium,” offered Obsolym. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

  “Anything is possible,” replied Alastar.

  “You aren’t suggesting attacking them, are you?” pressed Obsolym.

  “That’s the last thing we need to do. It’s one thing to defend ourselves and the students. it’s another to destroy thousands—assuming we could even do that—before anything happens. We’ve talked about that before.”

  “Why would they do that after what you did to them before?” Obsolym seemed truly curious.

  Wasn’t he here when I brought this up before? Alastar thought back, then realized that while he’d thought over the question Obsolym had raised time and time again, he’d never actually discussed it with any of the senior maitres except Akoryt. “We used their own powder against them. What would happen if a regiment, more than two thousand troopers in all, invaded Imagisle all at once? We have fifteen maitres at the moment and a handful of thirds who could defend themselves with shields for a time, and kill a few troopers. Those are odds of over a hundred to one. It’s been almost four hundred years since imagers were trained to kill large numbers of troopers, and only a handful of them were successful at that. If the stories are correct, only Quaeryt could dispatch hundreds or thousands. I’m certain Marshal Petayn knows those figures as well, and he might very well feel that the loss of even several thousand troopers might well be worth the cost to break the Collegium.”

  “He couldn’t kill every one of us,” said Obsolym.

  “Probably not,” admitted Alastar, “but even if every maitre escaped … then what? The most we could do at that point would be to wreak revenge on those who planned and ordered the attack … and that would only weaken Solidar and make imagers truly hated.”

  “You sound like we’re doomed,” snapped Obsolym.

  Alastar shook his head. “We’re not. But what our survival will require—if there is such an attack—is that every single trooper who sets foot on Imagisle, or tries to, is immediately killed, whether with an imaged iron dart or stones imaged into his chest, or anything else. If there is such an attack, there can be absolutely no mercy—unless a trooper is so badly wounded he can’t move and it would be a waste of effort to kill him. We need to show that any such attack will be suicidal for any attacker.” His voice was cold as he finished.

  “No mercy?” Not totally surprisingly, that was Cyran.

  “When we’ve already been bombarded by cannon, with no thought about children and students?” countered Alastar. “I’m talking about killing only troopers who are attacking us. They’re willing to kill anyone.”

  “What about everyone else?” asked Akoryt.

  “If there is an attack and any troopers actually reach Imagisle, put all the students who aren’t able to defend themselves in here, with enough thirds who can hold shields over windows and doors.”

  “When do you think an attack might come, if it does?” asked Alyna.

  “Sometime immediately after first glass, about the time that there’s likely to be an attack on the Anomen D’Rex.”

  “Marshal Petayn wouldn’t do that … would he?” asked Obsolym.

  “I would hope not, but something is going to happen, and I’d prefer that the Collegium be prepared for the worst,” replied Alastar. “If I’m wrong, then we do nothing, and no one off Imagisle is the wiser. If I’m right, and we’re not prepared, there will be all too many dead junior imagers and students. I have no intention of having the Collegium act first. If Petayn does act, however, we need to strike back hard enough and fiercely enough that no one will attempt another attack on the Collegium. Ever.”

  “He couldn’t be that unwise…” Obsolym shook his head.

  “What exactly has the Collegium done in centuries to make him think otherwise?”

  The question hung in the air for long moments.

  “That no one has an answer to the Maitre’s question is reply enough,” said Akoryt dryly.

  “Given that,” said Alastar, “if there is an attack, the troopers will arrive either over the Bridge of Desires or by barge or boat. Cyran, don’t be afraid to destroy the middle span of the bridge again. That will require them to use boats or attempt to bridge the gap. Either way, that will spread them out so that they don’t arrive in a mass…”

  For the next glass, Alastar and the senior maitres discussed the ways to defend Imagisle. Then he dismissed them to make their preparations, preparations he hoped would not be necessary and feared would be.

  At two quints past ninth glass, Akoryt returned to the study and took a seat opposite Alastar. “From what the thirds report, there are four mounted companies forming up at headquarters. They’re all in dress uniforms, and each company has a fancy wagon with four horses. The horses are hitched with parade harnesses.”

  “Four horses?” asked Alastar. And almost a full battalion. For a memorial service?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are the wagons the kind that troopers sit on?”

  “The scouts say that they’re more like parade wagons, fancy high-sided and enclosed. With lots of brasswork.”

  “And enough space inside to conceal anything … except cannon. They couldn’t take the weight.”

  “Oh, there’s one coach, too.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  Alastar frowned. That suggested that Petayn—or some senior officer—intended to be there. To command the operation in person? “What else?”

  “They’re all carrying both rifles and sabres.”

  Rifles for a ceremonial duty? “You’re sure about the rifles?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alastar and Akoryt went over the details of what the thirds had seen for more than a quint, but Alastar learned little more than Akoryt had reported in the first few moments, and Akoryt, already looking tired, once more departed.

  At two quints before noon, Alastar set out for the stables, carrying two water bottles filled with dark lager. Once there, he had a few more words with Cyran, then mounted up. Riding with him over the Bridge of Desires on the way to the Anomen D’Rex were Taryn, Shaelyt, and two thirds and a second—Chervyt, Glaesyn, and Maercyl, just enough to hold their mounts in readiness. Alastar was carrying full shields, as he had been almost every moment since he’d arrived in L’Excelsis.

  Once the six reined up in front of the anomen, a good two quints before first glass, Alastar gathered everyone together. “Chervyt, you’re in command of your group. I want you three to wait over there in the lane opposite the middle of the east side of the anomen. If anything happens, raise a concealment, hold your shields … and wait. Wait,” emphasized Alastar. “I need to know that you’ll be here. If you go looking for us, we’ll never meet up. And if something does happen, and we’re not back in half a glass, Chervyt, you and Glaesyn wait. Maercyl, you ride back to the Collegium and see if you can report. If they’re in trouble, stay near Imagisle, but don’t hazard yourself. Is that clear? All three of you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alastar dismounted, followed by the other two masters, and the three walked toward the main entrance of the anomen.

  The chateau guard captain, whose name Alastar could not remember and who wore a dress uniform of green and gold, hurried forward and motioned to the imagers. “Maitre, sir. If you’d come with me and wait by the side door. You’re supposed to enter after the marshal and before Rex Lorien and Lady Chelia.”

  “What about Lady Asarya?”

  The captain did not meet Alastar’s eyes for a moment, then said, “She has a violent flux. Nothing stays in her stomach. So does Lord Ryentar.”

  “Oh?”

  “I … well … I heard her ret
ching, sir. She also left word that she wasn’t about to make an appearance when she was so ill. Not for a man who had nothing to do with her for twenty years.”

  Alastar wondered who had conveyed such words, although he could understand the sentiment. “Who might have conveyed…”

  “Maryssa, her personal maid. We’ve known each other … for years.”

  That made sense, but Asarya’s absence bothered him. So did Ryentar’s. Now … if Lorien doesn’t appear … Still, he nodded.

  The captain cleared his throat, then paused. “Ah … this way, sir.”

  Alastar and the other two turned and followed the captain. Alastar finally remembered the guard captain’s name—Fonteau.

  Once they reached the side door, Alastar smiled pleasantly and asked, “How are your preparations going, Captain Fonteau?”

  Fonteau glanced around and, seeing only the two chateau guards posted by the side door and the imagers, replied, “I didn’t expect quite so many … mourners so early.”

  “It’s not every day that a rex dies,” Alastar pointed out gently.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Maitre?”

  “Do what you need to do, Captain.”

  Once Fonteau hurried back toward the main entrance to the anomen, Alastar looked to Shaelyt and Taryn. He said nothing, but raised his eyebrows.

  “I like this less and less, sir,” murmured Taryn.

  “As do I. Keep your shields at all times, especially once we’re in the anomen.”

  Little more than a quint passed while Alastar, Taryn, and Shaelyt stood there, well away from the small side door with the two chateau guards wearing dress uniforms of gold and green.

  From where he stood, Alastar surveyed the area, watching as the mounted troopers rode up the street from the south—making a far less impressive approach than they would have, Alastar had to admit, once the Avenue D’Rex Ryen was completed. Behind the first mounted flag-bearers, one with the regial ensign, one with the flag of Solidar, both flanking the trooper bearing the green and black flag of mourning, came a military coach, behind which rode another mourning flag-bearer followed by a company of troopers. The mass of the troopers conveyed a definite majesty and pomp, stretching back almost as far as Alastar could see. Before that long, the coach stopped at the main entrance to the anomen, and three officers stepped out.

  The third was definitely Petayn, wearing the full dress uniform of a marshal. Alastar did not recognize either of the other two. Rather than walking along the side of the anomen and joining Alastar, the three continued directly into the anomen. The fact that Petayn and another commander were in fact physically present bothered Alastar … more than a little, because it meant he had no idea of exactly what might happen, especially since he couldn’t imagine anything violent happening with Petayn present.

  Maybe it is all just a coincidence … that a regiment is departing and the troopers are here because Lorien wanted more pomp and majesty.

  A fraction of a quint later, the guard captain appeared. “Maitre, you and the other masters can enter now. Your space is marked by the brass stands and the gray velvet rope.” He gestured toward the side door.

  Alastar let Shaelyt precede him, and Taryn follow as they stepped through the door and then into a side hall where they turned left and made their way toward the archway opening into the nave just short of the sacristy.

  When the guard captain had mentioned the rope stands, Alastar had imagined slender brass posts with wide circular bases. The supposed stands were more like cylinders a good hand in diameter and slightly taller than waist high. There were four, two against the anomen wall, and two set out slightly more than two yards. The space reserved for Alastar as Maitre was the foremost on the left side, as Lorien had earlier indicated. Beside his space was another space, set off with the same heavy stands, connected by green velvet rope, in which stood Petayn, a commander Alastar had never seen before, and a captain he also did not know.

  Across the anomen from them was a larger—and still empty—space enclosed by stands linked by a green and gold rope. Another set of stands, linked by a black rope, ran from the edge of the army’s “enclosure” on the side farthest from the sacristy across the nave to the back edge of the regial enclosure. The space behind the black rope was largely filled all the way to the back of the anomen.

  For a moment, given Ryen’s definite lack of popularity, Alastar wondered why there were so many people there—until he recalled that coins would be scattered and thrown after the service was concluded, and those coins would not be just coppers, but also included some golds and quite a few silvers. Then, there were also the merchants and crafters who serviced the Chateau D’Rex, who likely did not ever wish to let it be known that they had not been present.

  As he entered the area roped off in gray, Alastar turned to Petayn. “Good afternoon, Marshal. Your troopers offer an imposing presence.”

  “I would hope so, Maitre. Any rex deserves that last gesture of respect.” Petayn’s smile was pleasant, but little more, and his voice barely cordial.

  Gesture of respect? “It’s too bad that it’s come to gestures, but that’s often what happens when one insists on having it all his way … or not at all.”

  “You do seem to understand that, Maitre.” Petayn half-turned, indicating he preferred to not continue the conversation.

  Alastar did not press, but studied the sacristy. As in all anomens, it was bare except for the sole pulpit, and there were no decorations on the walls. Presumably there were some benches along the side walls of the nave for the elderly and infirm, but the numbers of those in the nave kept Alastar from seeing whether that was so.

  The brass rope stands bothered Alastar. While he understood the necessity of reserving some places, they seemed unduly clunky. But they have to be heavy to anchor the velvet ropes.

  He reached out and lifted the rope separating him from the open space that stretched across the nave to the empty rope-enclosed area where Lorien and Chelia were supposed to stand. If they even show up. Yet Alastar couldn’t imagine that the rex wouldn’t appear, not when he had been so directly involved in planning the service. He lifted the rope again. It wasn’t that heavy.

  Then he heard a horn fanfare. It took him only an instant to realize that it announced Lorien’s arrival. A fraction of a quint later, Lorien and Chelia emerged from side hall opposite where Alastar stood, at the front of the nave, accompanied by a pair of chateau guards in the dress uniforms. Lorien wore a dark green tunic and trousers trimmed in black, as did Chelia, although the severity of the colors tended to wash her out. Or is that because she’s also been fighting a flux? Looking at Chelia across the anomen, Alastar once more had the feeling that she reminded him of someone else besides Bettaur, but who it was he still couldn’t place.

  Just as the bell of the anomen chimed the first glass, Chorister Dumont stepped out onto the dais and positioned himself in the middle. Although Alastar had never seen or met the chorister, a tall and slender man with shimmering black hair, Lorien had informed him who would be conducting the service. Dumont’s voice was deep and resonant as he offered the invocation. “We are gathered here together this afternoon in the spirit of the Nameless, in affirmation of the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do, and in celebration of the life of Ryen D’Rex, and in memory of his service to the land of Solidar.”

  The opening hymn was traditional—“The Glory of the Nameless.” Alastar did not sing, but merely mouthed the words, even as he continued to study the anomen, as discreetly as he could. Neither Shaelyt nor Taryn sang all that loudly, either, he noticed. Then came the confession.

  “We do not name You, for naming is presumptuous…” As Dumont’s voice carried to every corner of the anomen, Alastar barely murmured the words, still trying to catch sight of anything that might give him a clue to what might happen. He knew something would, but how could Petayn possibly control anything powerful enough to deal with Lorien and Alastar and still survive?

&n
bsp; “… celebration of You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped,” concluded Dumont.

  “In peace and harmony,” responded the audience. Alastar didn’t think of most of them as mourners or worshippers.

  Next came the charge from Dumont. “Life is a gift from the Nameless, for from the glory of the Nameless do we come…” Another hymn followed, one not traditional, but used at Lorien’s insistence—“In Vain A Crown of Gold.”

  “All words of praise will die as spoken

  As night precedes the dawn unwoken …

  To claim in vain a crown of gold,

  Belies the truth the Nameless told…”

  Only a fraction of the congregation, if it could be termed such, Alastar thought wryly, knew the words, much less the melody, and he still wondered why Lorien had insisted on the song. While it was true that Ryen had never paraded his riches, he had certainly exercised his power and been more than a little angered—to say the least—when he had been thwarted.

  Then Dumont announced, “Now we will hear from Rex Lorien…”

  Alastar felt/sensed something, almost like imager shields pressing on him.

  The instant the pressure ended, yellow-green flames exploded around the army officers and metal fragments or shrapnel impacted his shields …

  Metal? The only metal inside the anomen was that in the heavy brass rope stands!

  “Shields! Follow me…” Even before he uttered the words, Alastar raised a second set of shields around Lorien and Chelia, barely instants before Alastar felt the quick and light pressure and the regial couple was also surrounded by the yellow-green flames.

  By that time, Alastar was already halfway across the nave, but even with his shields, he was rocked back by the force of the explosion, and then pushed forward by explosions behind him, most like from those brass rope holders. As he caught his balance, Alastar glanced back toward the east side of the nave … and swallowed hard. Already three officers were half-blackened masses of yellow-green flames, and the would-be mourners were screaming, yelling, and scrambling toward the main doors at the north end of the anomen.