Imager ip-1

by L. E. Modesitt

  I slowly finished them, as well as my tea, then made my way to Master Dichartyn’s study, where I sat on the bench in the hall and began to leaf through the manual.

  “Rhennthyl?” Gherard stood in the middle of the corridor. “Master Dichartyn is preparing for the hearing. He asked me to tell you to read the eighth section of Natural Science and the first section of Practical Philosophy. He will see you tomorrow morning.”

  I went back to my room and struggled through five pages of the philosophy book before making my way out into the misty fog that covered the quadrangle and then to the Justice Building. The gallery consisted of wooden high-backed benches set on tiers that rose behind a low wall that separated the hearing area from the gallery. The benches flanked a central set of steps, coming down from the upper entry on the second level of the building. The lower level was very simple. At the east end was a dais a yard high, and from the middle rose a solid black desk with a high-backed chair behind it. The floor was of seamless stone, but a walkway of black stone, seemingly with no joins separating it from the gray stone around it, ran from the archway at the west end of the chamber to the foot of the dais. At the end of the dais, above where the black stone ended, was a black railing two yards long, supported at each end by black posts.

  By the time all the imagers had filed in, the gallery was close to filled. From my best count, there were close to two hundred imagers there, ranging from primes just out of grammaire to graying masters.

  “Is this most of the Collegium?” I looked toward Thenard, seated on my right.

  He shrugged. “This is only the third hearing I’ve been to. That’s in two years. There have been about the same number at each hearing.”

  Outside, the bells began to ring the glass.

  “All rise.” The words came from a dark-haired master standing by the west-end archway facing the dais.

  As we stood, the justice-or hearing officer-walked in and then settled himself behind the desk on the high dais. He wore a long gray robe, like the Council justices, except his was trimmed in both black and red, instead of just black.

  “You may be seated,” announced the bailiff. “Floryn, Imager Tertius, step forward to the bar.”

  Floryn didn’t have much choice about stepping forward. His hands were manacled behind him, and a thick black blindfold covered his eyes. Two large obdurates in black escorted him forward until he stood before the black railing. I wondered about the blindfold, but only for a moment. It would be hard to image anything if you couldn’t see, and the position of the manacles prevented him from lifting his hands to remove the blindfold.

  “Who stands to defend the accused?” asked the justice.

  “I do.” Master Dichartyn stepped forward and stood beside the small table on the right, facing the dais.

  “Who presents the case for the Collegium against the accused?”

  “I do.” The thin blond man who stepped up to the table on the left was a man I’d seen at meals, seated at the masters’ table, but whom I did not know.

  “State the charges against the accused.”

  “The accused faces three charges. The first charge is that of counterfeiting the coin of Solidar, to wit, by imaging a gold crown that was not pure gold and by attempting to use such to purchase goods. The second charge is that of employing imaging to obstruct a civic patroller in the course of his duties. The third charge is that of attempted murder in the use of imaging against a master of the Collegium.”

  After the reading of the third charge, I could hear several indrawn breaths, particularly from a row of thirds seated below us.

  “How does the accused plead? Guilty, Not Guilty, No Plea, or For Mercy?”

  “For Mercy, Your Honor,” offered Master Dichartyn.

  The justice looked directly at Floryn. “Floryn, your defender has offered a plea of For Mercy. Do you accept that plea?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Even I could sense the defeat and resignation behind those two words.

  “Seat the accused.”

  The two guards led Floryn to the table on the right of the chamber, behind which were two chairs. After they seated him in the one away from the black stone walkway, they took position behind him, while Master Dichartyn seated himself in the other chair.

  “Proceed, Advocate for the Collegium,” stated the justice.

  The blond master nodded to the bailiff, who announced, “Sandyal, Imager Tertius, to the bar.”

  A lanky and sandy-haired imager who looked to be close to my age walked from the west archway forward to the bar.

  “Sandyal,” began the justice, “do you understand that you are required to tell the whole truth, and that your words must not deceive, either by elaboration or omission?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Sandyal,” began the Collegium advocate, “you had a conversation with Floryn on Solayi, the twenty-ninth of Maris. Would you please recount what Floryn said he was going to do?”

  “Yes, sir. We had the afternoon off. We had to be back for chapel, but the afternoon was ours, and Floryn said that he wanted to have some spiced wine and pastries at Naranje. I told him that I didn’t have enough coin, and he said that he’d take care of whatever we bought. . . .”

  Sandyal must have recounted every detail of the afternoon, and it took more than half a glass, but the gist was that Floryn didn’t have any coin and that he imaged a gold. The serving girl thought it felt wrong and put it in a water-tester. It came up false. She told the owner of the patisserie, and he summoned the patrollers. Because she had also said that it came from a young imager, they summoned the duty master. The summons didn’t reach the master before a patroller arrived. Floryn realized something was wrong and ran out of the patisserie. The patroller followed, and Floryn imaged something that tripped the patroller.”

  “Did you see what happened after that?”

  “No, sir, except that Floryn ran across the boulevard-the Boulevard D’Imagers, sir-and down an alleyway. I just waited there in the patisserie. I didn’t have any coins, and . . . I thought Floryn was going to pay. He said he would.”

  “I have no further questions.” The advocate looked to Master Dichartyn.

  “I have no questions.”

  “You may leave the chamber for the anteroom, Imager Sandyal.”

  Sandyal inclined his head, then turned.

  “What will happen to Sandyal?” I whispered as he walked back down the black stone.

  “He’s restricted to Imagisle for the next year, and then they’ll review it.”

  I didn’t hear who said that, but it wasn’t Thenard.

  “Master Ferlyn to the bar.”

  The angular master who strode down the central black stoneway didn’t look all that much older than I was. He had dark mahogany hair and a sharp nose.

  “Master Ferlyn,” asked the justice, “do you understand that you are required to tell the whole truth, and that your words must not deceive, either by elaboration or omission?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Ferlyn’s answers to the advocate’s questions paralleled what Sandyal had said.

  “Did you see what happened to the civic patroller?”

  “Yes, sir. Floryn imaged a timber right before his knees. The patroller wasn’t threatening Floryn. He was trying to keep him in sight until I arrived . . .”

  That also made sense to me.

  “. . . when I caught sight of him in Milliners’ Lane, Floryn tried to use imagery to block my vision of what was happening as well as making a personal attack on me. The details are in the documentation presented to the court. I request that those details not be stated in open court.”

  The justice looked to Master Dichartyn, but Master Dichartyn did not object to that request. For an instant, I wondered why, but then realized that there was a greater disadvantage to Floryn in having the details made public.

  After Master Ferlyn’s testimony, statements were read from the serving girl and fro
m the patroller, and the patisserie owner.

  Then the bailiff called out, “Vanjhant, Imager Secondus.”

  In moments, the chubby and blond young imager was standing before the bar, having been exhorted to tell the truth.

  “Vanjhant, you listened to something that Floryn said several weeks ago. I would like you to recount what you heard.”

  “Yes, sir.” Vanjhant licked his lips. Then he swallowed. “We were leaving the dining hall, and it wasn’t that good that day. Least we didn’t think so. Morryset was wishing that he could have a real pastry, and Floryn said that was no problem, that all you had to do was image a few silvers or a gold, whenever you wanted to, and go out across the bridge and buy one. . . . Chastyn said it wasn’t that easy. Floryn said that so long as the gold was on the outside and it was heavy enough, anyone would take it . . .”

  The advocate asked several more questions, then dismissed Vanjhant. After that, three more junior imagers were called, and all confirmed that Floryn had made similar statements.

  “Are there any additional witnesses?” asked the justice.

  “No, Your Honor.” The words from both masters were nearly simultaneous.

  “Your statement, master defender.”

  Master Dichartyn stood. “I cannot contest the facts in this case. Floryn did in fact image a gold that did not contain the proper gold content. Had the coin been of the proper weight, at most he would face a disciplinary hearing, assuming that his duplication of a coin would ever have been noticed. His life is at stake because his abilities were not equal to his self-confidence. As with many young people who realize that they have made a terrible mistake, he panicked. He attempted to stop a patroller from following him, but he did not use imaging in a fashion intended to do any permanent harm to the patroller. The same is true of his use of imaging against Master Ferlyn. Because his actions were based on poor judgment, and because his actions showed clearly his desire not to create permanent harm or injury to anyone, I request that he receive mercy, and that he be sentenced to five years in the duplication section of the machine works, and that he be restricted to Imagisle for ten years, and that any violation of either condition result in immediate execution of the sentence that would otherwise be imposed.”

  The way Master Dichartyn put it, the request for mercy seemed fair enough. Certainly Floryn would not be getting off lightly, but it was clear that the alternative was his death.

  “Your statement, Advocate for the Collegium.”

  The blond master stood. “My colleague has presented an eloquent argument, and one that, in other circumstances, I would in fact endorse and support. Were Floryn an Imager Primus or Secondus, with perhaps a year or so at the Collegium, I would not hesitate to do so. Had he been here even two, or perhaps three years, I would probably support a plea of For Mercy. But Floryn has been at the Collegium for over five years, and his actions, as shown by the statements he made to all levels of young imagers, embody a thoughtlessness and a recklessness that, in time, could threaten the very Collegium itself. This was not the impetuous and isolated act of a young imager, excited over new abilities and unaware of the consequences. These acts were those of an arrogant and self-centered man who could only consider his own pleasure, and who created disruption and brought discredit upon the Collegium-all for a few mugs of spiced wine and two pastries. For those reasons, I must ask that the plea of For Mercy be rejected, that Floryn be found guilty of the charges levied against him, and that the appropriate sentence be carried out.” The Collegium advocate inclined his head, first to Master Dichartyn, then to the justice.

  “Floryn, Imager Tertius, to the bar.”

  The two guards half-urged, half-lifted Floryn from his chair and escorted him back to the bar, facing the justice. Then they retreated several paces and waited.

  The justice stood.

  “All rise!” ordered the bailiff.

  I stood, feeling queasy as I did so.

  “Floryn, Imager Tertius, this court finds as follows. First, the facts and testimony confirm that you did in fact commit the offenses with which you have been charged. Second, given your length of study at the Collegium, acceptance of a plea of For Mercy is not warranted. Third, the penalty for conviction on each of the three charges is death.”

  Floryn winced, as if struck.

  Silence filled the space, from the court area all the way up through the gallery.

  Floryn shuddered, then collapsed on the black stone floor before the dais. He twitched several times. Then he was still. The two burly guards stepped forward and picked up the body, lifting it easily up and onto their shoulders, and then carried it out.

  The robed master looked down from the dais. “The sentence of the Collegium has been enforced. Justice has been done. So be it.” After a moment, he turned and walked out through the smaller archway at the rear of the dais. Then, all of those below turned and departed.

  I just stood there for a long moment, even as the imagers around me began to leave.

  23

  Guilt provides far more effective motivation than

  greed, for greed can at times be satiated.

  On Jeudi night, after too many glasses studying and worrying, I was particularly glad for my private quarters, because I did not sleep well, not with dreams of facing a hearing for the death of Master Caliostrus running through my nightmares. Not with the vision of the Collegium advocate reciting how I had imaged my portraiturist master to death because I hated his son. I also had visions of some master imaging poison or something like it into my body, and being unable to do anything at all against such an attack.

  When I woke on Vendrei, far earlier than normal, with the early-spring light barely seeping from cloud-covered skies through leaded-glass windows, more questions rushed through my brain. Had in fact the justice imaged poison into Floryn as he had stood before the bar? Was that technique another reason for all the anatomy drawings in the Natural Science volume?

  I shook my head. That technique could be applied to everything, if an imager happened to become strong and talented enough. But then, if that were so, of what use were obdurates?

  Breakfast at the prime table was as quietly boisterous as usual. That bothered me as well, but I said nothing and did my best to enjoy the ham rashers that went with the omelet casserole. There were no letters in my box, not that I expected any, and I trudged through the misting drizzle that sifted down on the quadrangle as I made my way to Master Dichartyn’s study.

  The door was open, and he was waiting for me. “Did Gherard deliver your assignments?”

  That was a pleasant way of asking whether I’d read them.

  “Yes, sir. The philosophy is hard.”

  “If it weren’t hard, it wouldn’t be philosophy.” He closed the study door behind me. “You look tired. Are you all right?”

  Rather than answer that, because I wasn’t certain how I was and didn’t want to say, I said, “Might I ask you about the hearing, sir?”

  “You may ask. I may choose not to reply.”

  “Why did Floryn not speak for himself? Is that forbidden?”

  Master Dichartyn shook his head. “It is not, and most accused do speak for themselves. Floryn had a greater chance for mercy if he did not speak. It was not a great chance, but it was the only hope that he had.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  “I would deny that to most junior imagers, Rhennthyl, but I will answer you on two conditions. First, you are never to repeat my answer to anyone, and after this meeting, not even to me. Second, you will make an honest attempt to explain to me why I am allowing you this liberty.” He looked at me. “Do you accept those conditions?”

  There was more there than I knew, but I also needed to know. “Yes, sir.”

  “Floryn’s life was at stake, but what he did not understand is that his and every imager’s life is at stake every moment of every day. Now . . . it is not arrogant to believe in one’s true capabilities, but it is arrogant for an imager to declare those c
apabilities publicly, and it is unacceptably arrogant to overstate one’s capabilities, particularly when we exist on the sufferance of the people. Floryn was incapable of speaking without revealing his arrogance, and arrogance from junior imagers does not set well with masters, particularly not with Master Jhulian, who was serving as justice. I tried to coach Floryn as to how he should speak, but his anger was so great that anything he said would have ensured his death.”

  “Was he a talented imager, sir?”

  “Almost as talented as you may become, if you work hard at it.” He paused. “Why have I let you ask this?”

  The answer was obvious. It was also painful. “Because I could become arrogant, as Floryn was.”

  “Not quite. You would never be as blatantly, flagrantly stupid, and you are not the type to boast. You could be the type to boast to yourself and to act in anger, but in subtle and cool arrogance, when you feel yourself wronged or disregarded. How did you feel when you did not win the journeyman’s competition last Ianus?”

  “Wronged,” I admitted, even as I wondered how he knew that, because I’d never mentioned it to anyone at the Collegium. “My work was better than those that won, and several masters admitted as much indirectly.”

  “Then why did you not win?”

  I wanted to blurt out that they had played favorites, but there was more behind it, and Master Dichartyn would not have asked the question if there had not been. “I would guess that part of the competition was to determine who would follow the traditions and the unspoken rules of their guild.”

  “If that were so, then did you deserve to win?”

  “I deserved to win on artistic merit, sir, but not if the prizes were to be given on blind compliance with unspoken rules.”

  Master Dichartyn nodded. “You don’t like to admit that, do you?”