Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  It could only be because they had planned on an imager being assigned to the Civic Patrol, and that method, someone knew, might work against imager shields. Also, dropping stone on me was one of the only sure ways to disable my shields without my seeing what was happening before it occurred. That also suggested that Mardoyt knew what I’d discovered, and Harraf was afraid of what I might find out.

  I wanted to shake my head. There was no way I could prove what I’d learned and figured out, and I didn’t see that I’d ever come up with enough proof to bring before a justice, not unless I spent months or longer working out of the Third District station. After my last conversation with Master Dichartyn, I also didn’t see much point in running to tell him what had happened. All I had were surmises, and he definitely wasn’t interested in those. All he wanted was hard proof.

  Pondering the unlikely wouldn’t help, and I had a long day ahead of me. In the fall gloom, I struggled from my bed, dressed, and headed out for Clovyl’s exercises, sparring, and running. After the night before, I had to admit I was grateful for his tutoring, but I still didn’t have to enjoy the process.

  All in all, after exercises, sparring, running, showering, dressing, and eating, I managed to get to the station slightly before seventh glass, and before Zellyn. As I waited for the older patroller and looked around, I saw Captain Harraf.

  He stepped toward me and asked, “How was your patrol last night?”

  “Except for the two footpads and the screaming woman, it was uneventful.” I kept my tone ironic.

  “Oh . . . that. The night reports from Lieutenant Warydt mentioned that Huerl and Koshal had come upon the end of a fight between two ruffians, but that they killed each other. Wasn’t that what happened?”

  “In summary. One was chasing the woman and apparently ran into the other. One of them killed the other, but in the process they knocked a scaffold or something loose, and he got his skull crushed by the stones piled on it.”

  Harraf nodded. “Those things happen when people aren’t aware of their surroundings.”

  “That’s very true, sir. Anyone can be surprised, and sometimes things don’t go the way they’re planned.” I smiled pleasantly.

  He smiled in return. “You’re learning about the Patrol. Next week and the week after, I’d thought I’d pair you with Alsoran. His partner has leave, and that will allow us not to leave some areas less patrolled.”

  “What area does his round cover?”

  “The east end of the taudis and the area farther east to the Avenue D’Artisans.”

  I nodded. Again, I couldn’t say I was surprised.

  “I’ve told Alsoran, but you’ll need to keep your eyes open more than usual. We haven’t heard anything official, but there are rumors that there will be a conscription sweep through our area sometime this fall. Before long, some of the taudischefs will know, after that . . .” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I appreciate the word, sir.”

  “I thought you would.” He turned and headed to his study.

  Zellyn was waiting for me to finish with the captain.

  We headed out. Once we were clear of the station, he looked to me.

  “The captain wants me to pair with Alsoran next week.”

  “He’s a good man. Lousy round, but a good man.” He paused. “What about Lyonyt?”

  “He said Lyonyt would be on leave.”

  Zellyn just nodded to that, and we continued on our way, going down Fuosta to Quierca, reversing the direction of the initial round.

  Although in midafternoon Zellyn and I stopped at the silversmith’s, Kantros insisted that nothing of import was missing, and in the end, unlike my rounds with Zellyn on Meredi or those with Huerl and Koshal the night before, Vendrei was thankfully most uneventful.

  For more than a few reasons, including the fact that trying to image still brought on a headache, if not quite so severe as had been the instance that morning, I took a hack back to Imagisle. For the past weeks, I’d not been saving much of my pay, just because of the number of hack rides I’d taken, and that bothered me. It was getting so that everything was bothering me, and that bothered me as well.

  As I hurried across the Bridge of Hopes, I thought about reporting to Master Dichartyn, but decided against it, because I was more than a little tired of being told, in effect, not to bother him unless I had some sort of proof.

  When I finally did get to the dining hall, I found Maitre Dyana waiting outside. That was no coincidence.

  “Dichartyn suggested we might have a conversation over dinner.” Her smile was pleasant, and there was a sparkle in her eyes that intimated I was about to learn something else less than to my liking.

  “If both of you agree, I’d best listen carefully.” I smiled in return as I walked beside her into the dining hall and to the masters’ table. Ferlyn was already there, seated with Chassendri on one side and Quaelyn on the other. At the center of the table sat Maitre Poincaryt with a dark-haired older imager I had not seen before. “Is Master Poincaryt with a chief maitre of one of the other collegia?”

  “Not a bad surmise, and accurate this time. That’s Maitre Dhelyn. He’s from Westisle.” Dyana guided us toward the end of the table, away from the others, but to where two carafes of wine had been placed.

  After we had seated ourselves, I asked, “Red or white?”

  “The red, please.”

  I poured red for both of us, then took a sip—after she did.

  “For a young imager, even a young master, Rhennthyl, you’re comparatively bright, and you tend not to make the same mistake twice. Also, there are gaps in your education, and the combination leads older heads to assume that you know more than you do. You also don’t always see the import of what you have been told. Together, these create certain problems.” She looked to me inquiringly.

  “I have a tendency to act, and not always wisely, because I don’t know things obvious to those imagers my own age who have been imagers far longer.”

  She nodded, then waited as one of the servers offered her a platter on which rested slices of skirt steak stuffed with mushrooms, onions, parsley, and herbs, and covered with a cream sauce. She took a single slice.

  I took two slices. It had been a long day.

  Once we had served ourselves, with both the meat and the leeks and squash and fried brown rice that followed, she looked to me again. “What do you think the silver knot means?”

  “A High Holder has declared me as an enemy. Beyond that, very little, except from what you’ve said, and what I’ve heard, when a High Holder sets out to ruin an enemy, obtaining the death of that enemy is almost secondary to assuring that the enemy and his family will not remain as High Holders. At least, that seems to be the goal.”

  Dyana did not respond until after she took another sip of the wine, a rather tart Grisio. “In the ‘ideal’ sense, the successful pursuit of ruination first destroys the assets of the opponent, then all friendships and alliances that would allow rebuilding, and then the suicide of the enemy because everything is lost. Often matters do not go that far, but often they do. There is, however, another aspect that is seldom mentioned.”

  “Which is?” I asked because I didn’t know and because the question was clearly expected.

  “Should the one who issues the notice die, every male heir, in turn, is obligated to continue the effort.”

  For a moment I said nothing. Finally, I spoke, trying to hold in anger. “I asked you about this earlier, and you told me we would talk if Ryel proceeded beyond the card.”

  “Has he?”

  What could I say? The last thing I wanted to do was admit to Maitre Dyana that while I knew Ryel had been behind the arson, I could prove nothing. “There’s no proof of anything yet. Not that I know of.”

  “Then you have time, don’t you?”

  There might have been a hint of irony there, but I couldn’t tell. So I swallowed my anger and ignored the thrust of her words and went back to what she’d said earlier. “So
the one being attacked must either ruin the attacker or kill every male heir? Or both?”

  “Exactly.” Her smile was cool.

  I hadn’t exactly planned on that in dealing with Ryel, and how could I possibly ruin him commercially? I had no idea even what all his holdings were. I definitely didn’t have any economic power.

  “The Council and the Collegium support this?” I found that hard to believe.

  “It provides a certain, shall we say, balance of power. While you may not notice this, you can take it as a granted that seldom do High Holders declare factors or tradespeople as enemies. There are several reasons for this. First, they consider those exclusively in commerce beneath them. Second, the factoring associations will unite to refuse to trade or buy from any High Holder who attacks a member. That is one reason why few factors refuse to join the associations or pay their annual fees. Third, the gain obtained from attacking any single factor is seldom worth the cost, and there is little satisfaction from the result. Fourth, it provides a way for pruning out truly incompetent High Holders.”

  I could understand all that, but what I really wanted to know was why the Collegium didn’t stand up to the High Holders the way the factors did. Maitre Dyana was assuming I knew, and I didn’t. For a moment I took refuge in my food. The skirt steak was tender and flavorful, but the onions and leeks were overcooked. I finally asked, “Why doesn’t the Collegium react the way the factors do?”

  “I have a question for you, Rhennthyl. How many imagers do you think have an ability with shields similar to yours?”

  I’d actually thought about that when I’d considered the numbers of young imagers that had been killed by the assassins hired by the late Ferran envoy, Vhillar. I also had been wondering if the newest Ferran envoy had been trying to continue those policies, although it had been something like two weeks since someone had fired at me. “I have the impression, maitre, that very few have that ability outside of those reporting to Master Dichartyn, either directly or indirectly. There may be some others, such as you.” That was safe enough.

  “How many do you think that might be?”

  I knew there were only about five hundred imagers in all of Solidar, and there were only ten to fifteen in the counterspy area, and perhaps as many field operatives reporting to Master Schorzat. “I’d say there might be forty with strong shields, and another forty who could muster some sort of shield.”

  “That is close enough. How many High Holdings are there?”

  “Over a thousand.”

  She smiled politely. “You should find those numbers interesting, I would think. You know, the Collegium as an institution has never had to confront a High Holder . . . or all the High Holders. I have no doubt you understand why that is so.”

  A cold chill went down my back. I understood exactly what message I’d been given—that the Collegium would not risk itself for a single individual unfortunate enough to cross a High Holder—but I did reply. “I assume that it is for the same reason that only a single imager represents the Collegium in the Council.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” She smiled. “How are you finding being a liaison to the Civic Patrol?”

  “I’m still being rotated through various duties in order to gain a better understanding of how the Patrol works.” And how it didn’t, but I was more than certain she knew that as well.

  “Understanding is a two-edged blade.”

  “I’m discovering that.” I managed a laugh, even as I wondered how long it would be before I regained my imaging abilities, and even as I managed to damp the anger that her words about the Collegium and High Holders had raised. Mama Diestra definitely had been right about the Collegium not being my friend, especially in dealing with Ryel.

  When I awoke on Samedi, I again tried to raise shields, and found that I could, but with an immediate, if dull, headache. That was both a frustration and a relief, because I was improving, just not as quickly as I would have liked. I’d been thrown into a wall by an explosion outside the Chateau, and that hadn’t affected my ability at all, but a load of granite crashing down on me from above had destroyed my ability to create shields for days? The only thing I could figure was something Maitre Dyana had said months earlier—about the angling of shields. There had been no way to slide the impact of the stones because they had dropped directly down on me, whereas I’d been at an angle to the explosion. But . . . again, that suggested someone knew far too much about imager limits.

  Putting those thoughts aside for the moment, I pulled myself from bed, donned exercise clothes and boots, and headed out to deal with Clovyl’s regimen. Under a sky graying with approaching dawn, the air was chill, almost cold enough for frost, and I thought that was unusual for so early in the year—until I realized it was fall. So much of the year had slipped by without my really knowing it.

  Clovyl worked us so hard that the cool was more than welcome for the four-mille run that always ended the early-morning sessions. The cold shower that followed wasn’t nearly so welcome, and even after I donned the gray imager’s garb that had seemed so hot during summer and harvest I took a while to warm up as I crossed the quadrangle.

  Dartazn and Martyl were standing outside the dining hall when I got there. I had missed their company at meals, and I walked over to them. “How are things going with the Council—besides your being overworked?”

  Martyl grinned. “Overworked? How could you say that, sir?”

  “No ‘sirs’ between us. I wouldn’t have the position if they hadn’t had to get me away from the Council.” I wouldn’t have been surprised if Dartazn and Baratyn both were Maitres D’Aspect, anyway, their rank concealed as was the case with many working for Master Dichartyn. “Is the Council doing anything?” That wasn’t an idle question. Outside of reading Veritum and Tableta, I hadn’t done much to keep up with events between Solidar and Ferrum. War hadn’t been declared, but there had been minor naval incidents off the coast of Jariola.

  “Nothing that anyone can see.” Dartazn’s tone was dry. “There are lots of Navy couriers, and Councilor Rholyn has made at least two quick trips from the Chateau to the Collegium in the middle of the day.”

  “Something’s about to happen, then.”

  “That’d be our guess.” Martyl shrugged. “What about you? How do you like the Civic Patrol?”

  “It’s more eventful. You know . . . burglaries, weeded-out elvers, toughs killing each other. And lots and lots of walking. Oh, I forgot, boredom in watching justice cases, and lots of excuses when people are charged.”

  “Almost makes you want to come back to the Chateau, does it?” asked Dartazn.

  “The company at the Chateau is much better. So is the food, and far cheaper.”

  “You have to pay for your own lunches?”

  “So far, anyway.” I paused. “Has Master Dichartyn found anyone to help you?”

  “Not yet,” replied Martyl. “I don’t think he’s hurrying, either.”

  “Any new kinds of attempts to attack councilors?”

  The two exchanged the quickest of glances.

  “Cannons?” I pressed. “Gunpowder devices?”

  “Someone tried to drive another wagon through the gates,” Martyl admitted. “Like the one you exploded. It was filled with black powder and grapeshot. Dartazn, here, got it to explode outside the gates. Two guards were injured, and they had to put down a half-dozen dray horses. Good thing it was on a day when only the High Council was there.”

  Did that mean that it had been a Jariolan plot? Or a Tiempran one? Would anyone ever know?

  We talked a bit more and then went to our separate tables. I sat with Ferlyn, but he didn’t know as much as Dartazn and Martyl had. After breakfast, I hurried back to my studio, not because I had that much to do in preparation for the sitting with Master Rholyn but because I wanted to start on some design sketches for Seliora’s portrait. Her portrait wouldn’t be one where she was seated, although most were, but Seliora had too much energy for that. I wasn’t certain h
ow to capture her standing, either.

  By the time Master Rholyn arrived just after ninth glass, I’d gone through something like four different design sketches and found each of them lacking. I was ready to set them aside for the task of working on finishing Rholyn’s face, or as much of it as I could.

  “Good morning, sir,” I offered.

  He only nodded as he took off his heavy cloak and walked over to the low crate. “The same position?”

  “If you would, for a moment.”

  I decided not to ask any questions while I worked on the part of the portrait dealing with his neck and chin. After perhaps two quints, when I’d done what I could and he was getting stiff and tired, I said, “If you’d like to sit down, sir.”

  After several moments, while still painting, I said, “I heard that someone tried to send a wagon filled with explosives into the Chateau.”

  “It was rather hard to miss . . . the explosion, that is.”

  “Do you think it was the Jariolans or the Ferrans?”

  “The Jariolans are most secretive, and it’s rather hard to find out things when the Solidaran embassy in Ferrial is closed, even temporarily,” replied Rholyn. “The Ferran parliament, if you can term it such, was not exactly pleased at the demise of their previous envoy, accidental as it may have appeared.”

  “That sounds to me like the death of envoys, however accidental, is unacceptable, but the death of tens of imagers is . . . from the Ferran point of view, at least.”

  “The deaths of imagers are always acceptable, anywhere in Terahnar.” Rholyn raised his eyebrows. “Haven’t you learned that yet?”

  “I’ve learned it, sir, but I’d hoped such deaths wouldn’t be that acceptable within the Collegium.” I was baiting Rholyn a bit. That was probably unwise, but I’d gotten more than a little tired of a leadership attitude in the Collegium which seemed to regard junior imagers as expendable targets and lures.