Imager

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Rhenn …”

  “If I know what’s there,” I replied in a low voice, “I’ll be fine. I don’t want anyone else around.” I slipped from my chair. “If you all will excuse me for a moment … I need to stretch. Some of the exercises and running may be catching up with me. I should only be a moment.”

  Seliora’s glance all but screamed “Take care!”

  I was holding full shields as I stepped out into the continuing light drizzle, and I had them angled, in a way that even Maitre Dyana might have actually approved.

  The first bullet barely shook me. I turned, looking through the misty evening, then saw the muzzle flash from beside the trunk of a tree less than twenty yards to my left, across the narrow lane. The jolt staggered me, but only for an instant.

  I imaged oil across the stones of the sidewalk behind the tree, since I couldn’t make out any figures. Rather I tried, because the oil just formed a momentary tent in midair before slipping to the ground as two men sprinted from the tree and up an alley. One of them had used an imager’s shield. An imager’s shield?

  I started after them, then slowed as I heard hoofs on pavement, but I went far enough to see down the alley and make sure that they had indeed left and that the alley was empty. Then I walked back to the restaurant, realizing that the shield I had encountered hadn’t really been so much strong as different, and that if I’d had a moment longer, I might have gotten through it. Had that been why the two had fled?

  One had to be an imager, the other probably the Ferran. What chilled me as much as the presence of an unknown imager was the fact that someone knew where I’d be and when. The imager’s presence also confirmed that Emanus’s death was not accidental and had a part in matters, even if inadvertent, but it still made no sense to me, except that it did suggest that Emanus had known something that the imager believed I now knew. But what could that be?

  Before reentering the restaurant, I glanced around again, but the street was empty, not surprisingly, given the rain.

  “Do you feel better?” asked Seliora as I returned, after wending my way around several tables.

  “The cooler air helped.” I smiled, then sat down again, murmuring to her, “Everything’s fine. They’ve gone.”

  Odelia raised an eyebrow, but I just smiled, before taking a bite of the lemon tart. It was every bit as good as the rest of the meal had been. Seliora had a thin slice of almond cake, drizzled with chocolate.

  Surprisingly, at least to me, the total for all four of us was only a bit over six silvers, a healthy sum, but not what it could have been.

  When we left Terraza, Odelia gave Kolasyn a hug and a kiss, and then joined us for the hack ride back to NordEste Design. I thought Kolasyn looked a bit dejected as he started to walk down the Boulevard D’Este.

  Once we were back at Seliora’s, Odelia vanished, and Seliora and I made our way up to the east terrace. Through the mist and the rain, we could barely see three blocks, and certainly not even a fraction of the distance to Martradon. In the darkness, the terrace was cool, but not uncomfortable, especially not after the long embrace that Seliora bestowed upon me as soon as we were clearly alone. We did move the chairs so that we sat side by side, with no table between us.

  “I was worried when you went outside at Terraza. What happened?”

  “There were two of them. One fired. I tried to image oil so that they’d slip, but I couldn’t see them, and it didn’t quite work. They had a coach or trap or something around the corner and were gone before I could get close.”

  “Someone with golds, then.”

  “Someone who knows imagers, too. They never let me get a moment’s look at them.” That was as much as I wanted to say about that, at least until I talked to Master Dichartyn.

  “They’re watching you, aren’t they? What can you do?”

  “Be careful, and try to learn more. I don’t know what else I can do. Do you?”

  Her fingers tightened around mine. “No. I wish I did.”

  “Has your solicitor found out anything about Madame D’Shendael? I still think there’s a connection.”

  “I had to go through Grandmama on that. Yesterday, she said it was taking longer than Ailphens thought, but there might be something.”

  “Did she say what?”

  Seliora shook her head.

  “Since we can’t solve any of those problems, not now anyway,” I said, “tell me what your best memory is of when you were little.”

  “Little or really little?”

  “Let’s start with really little.”

  “That was the time that Grandmama and Mother took me to Extela one winter. I don’t remember why they went, but they took me, and I got to play in the snow, real snow, and there was this fuzzy black puppy …”

  We talked for more than a glass, before I thought I heard steps, quiet ones. I turned in the dimness to look directly at Seliora.

  She smiled, and nodded, and we got up.

  After a time, we stepped apart.

  “I’d like to see you tomorrow …”

  “I’d like to see you, but it is the twins’ birthday, and it should be their special day. Also, perhaps you should see your parents. It might not hurt.”

  She was right about that, much as I hated to admit it.

  In the hack on the way back to the Bridge of Hopes, something Kolasyn said came back to me. “With people, there’s a reason for everything … the trick is to figure out the reason.”

  What were the simplest reasons to kill junior imagers? Because it was harder to kill senior imagers? Because if someone killed junior imagers …

  I swallowed. Could it be that simple? That cold? And if so, why hadn’t Master Dichartyn mentioned it? Or was I supposed to tell him—again?

  64

  To those who fail to understand, the most fantastic in life remains disappointing.

  For all the excitement of Samedi, I did sleep soundly that night, well enough that I did not wake until well after breakfast, possibly because the day was so dark and gray, although the rain had stopped. Since Master Dichartyn didn’t have the duty, he wasn’t around, and I had no way to reach him easily. Besides, what could he have done to track down an unknown imager on a Solayi? I’d certainly let him know on Lundi. So I just took my time, still pondering over the strange shield used by the Ferran’s accomplice, and thinking about how I might overcome it should I again come into contact with its wielder.

  Menyard was the only third I knew well at lunch, and I joined him and several others, but mostly, I just listened and ate. After lunch, I crossed the Bridge of Hopes, holding full shields, something that was no longer much of an effort, and took a hack out to my parents’ dwelling.

  Mother actually was the one to open the door. “Rhenn! What a pleasant surprise.” Her smile was certainly welcoming. “Your father will be so pleased.”

  I followed her into the family parlor, closing the door behind me. Kethila was lounging in Father’s chair, reading something, but it wasn’t one of the D’Shendael books.

  “Do have a seat, dear. I’ll tell your father that you’re here.”

  Khethila closed the book and moved to the settee. “I want to hear all about her.”

  “In a moment,” I replied, not that I was about to tell anyone anything more than the absolute minimum. “Have you yet read On Art and Society?”

  “The bookshop hasn’t found a copy yet.”

  “I’ve read several chapters …” I grinned.

  “You have it?”

  “The Collegium library does. I was able to borrow it.” I glanced toward the back hall leading to Father’s private study. “Don’t let Father see it. I’d suggest not quoting from it.”

  “I’ll like it, then?”

  “It might make even you think differently.”

  “How?”

  “She says that financial pressures and childbirth are why there have been almost no women artists. Also that art can easily become a male pretension.”

  “She re
ally wrote that?” Khethila frowned.

  “You’ll have to read it yourself.” I looked down the hall. “Father’s on his way.”

  She gave me a mock glare, which vanished as Culthyn hurried in and plopped himself on the settee next to her.

  Once Father arrived in the family parlor and seated himself, Mother settled down in her chair and looked at me. I ignored the look and sat in the straight-backed chair that was at an angle to both the settee and Father.

  “Tell us something about her, Rhenn,” Mother pressed.

  “Where should I start?” I smiled. “Let me see. Her eyes are stars on a moonless night, her hair darker than jet ebony, her lips redder than flame, her skin fairer than Artiema full at harvest …”

  “That’s poetry stuff,” complained Culthyn. “You mean she’s got real black hair and red lips? She can’t have white eyes like the stars.”

  When Culthyn talked that way, he reminded me of Rousel at that age, and it wasn’t a pleasant memory.

  “You could be a little less poetic, dear,” suggested Mother.

  “She has black hair, not quite shoulder length when it’s down. Her eyes are black, the irises, that is, and she’s about a head shorter than I am.”

  “That still makes her tall for a woman,” Father said.

  “Not compared to her cousin. Odelia is almost as tall as I am.”

  “What else?” prompted Mother. “What about her family?”

  “They’re well off. That, I can assure you. She has a brother a bit younger than Culthyn, and another brother who’s a bit older than I am, I think.”

  “You don’t know?” asked Khethila.

  “I didn’t ask. I’m interested in her, not them.”

  Culthyn grinned.

  “She’s involved in the family business, and they make custom and quite costly furniture, usually for High Holders.”

  “Exactly what does she do?” pressed Father.

  “Believe it or not, it’s rather technical, and she can explain it far better than I can, and I’m certain she will be more than happy to do so next week. Oh, she’s also a very good dancer, far better than I am, and she has a good sense of humor, and a nice smile.”

  “Is she fat?” asked Culthyn. “You didn’t say she was pretty.”

  Both Mother and Khethila glared at him. Under the pressure of two sets of eyes, he shrank back into the sofa.

  “No, she’s not fat. You’ll see.”

  “Your description about her suitability leaves a great deal of room, Rhenn,” Mother said.

  “I’ve discovered that sometimes it’s best not to say too much. Seliora is very open, and I’m sure you can determine what you think next week after meeting her.”

  “Seliora … that sounds like …”

  “She’s Pharsi … but they’ve lived in L’Excelsis for at least three generations.”

  “Remaya is a lovely girl,” Mother offered.

  That was a concession it had taken her ten years to make, although I wasn’t about to complain, since I hoped it would make matters easier for Seliora … and me.

  “Remaya’s a woman with a child, not a girl,” Father said with a gruff laugh.

  After a moment where no one spoke, Culthyn looked at me. “Rhenn, you promised you’d show me what imagers do. You promised.”

  I thought about that for a moment. It might keep the subject changed, and I was no longer forbidden to use imaging, but I had to use it appropriately, of course. “All right.” I glanced to the bookshelf, then smiled. At one end of a line of books was a bookend, a marble L shape with a crystal globe anchored to both sides of the green marble. There was only one because, years before, Rousel had knocked the other off when he’d thrown a school book at me, and it had fallen and shattered. I stood and walked to the bookshelf, looking at the bookend. There had to be enough stone and sand nearby outside the house so that imaging wouldn’t be that hard. I concentrated, visualizing a second bookend, identical to the first.

  Then, there was one, sitting in the open space of the shelf beside the first.

  I turned to Mother. “A bit late, but …”

  Her mouth had opened, just a little. I had the feeling that she’d never been quite sure whether I was really an imager. Father’s eyes had widened.

  “Is that all?” Disappointment colored Culthyn’s voice.

  “Can you do that?” I countered.

  “No.” The response was sullen.

  “Imaging is like anything else. It’s work, and it has to be practical.”

  “You take all the fun out of things.”

  “Culthyn.” Mother’s voice was like ice in midwinter. “Apologize.”

  “I’m sorry, Rhenn.”

  “If you don’t want to go to your sleeping chamber, you will be civil to your brother,” Father added. “From what I’ve heard, there aren’t many who can do what he just did.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Before anyone else could speak, I did. “Father, I’d be interested in learning what you’ve heard about trade and shipping, especially between Solidar and Ferrum or Jariola.” I did want to know, and I didn’t want the conversation headed back to more questions about Seliora.

  “Well …” He rubbed his thumbs against the sides of his forefingers, the way he sometimes did when he was thinking. “I heard from Peliagryn that there was a skirmish or something between some Ferran ships and ours in the north ocean, and most of their vessels got sunk. After that, the factors in the isles sent word to Rousel that traders in Ferrial are refusing to accept Solidaran wools. They’re afraid of confiscation if matters get any worse … things aren’t quite so bad with Jariola. At the same time, I really have trouble with the Oligarch. Those types don’t really understand commerce at all …”

  I listened carefully, and not just out of politeness.

  Later, we had tea and cakes before I left, and Mother didn’t press me again on Seliora, but she did mention three times how much she was looking forward to meeting her.

  That evening at services, Chorister Isola offered a phrase in her homily that, once more, stuck with me as I walked back to my quarters, perhaps because of what Culthyn had said about my imaging not seeming to be so much.

  “… Exalting one’s name is a vanity of vanities, for a name is merely an ephemeral label that will vanish and be forgotten soon after we have turned to ashes and dust. Even those whose names are remembered are forgotten, because all that is remembered is a label. To seek to do great deeds for ethical or practical reasons is a mark of courage or ambition, if not both; to do so to make one’s name famous is a vanity of the Namer.”

  I could see that was another example of the narrowest of paths, as Grandmama Diestra had put it. But I had the feeling that all the paths before me were narrow.

  65

  Perfection can lead to great imperfection.

  While I tried to run down Master Dichartyn on Lundi, he didn’t show up at the Collegium before I had to leave for the Council Chateau. Then, as it often seemed at the beginning of the week, little happened, and we were back at the Collegium well before fifth glass. I actually found Master Dichartyn in his study and able to see me.

  “What do you have to report?”

  “On Samedi night, someone followed me and took another set of shots …” I explained the details of what had happened, as well as my failures with the oil and the strange shield.

  “The oil was a good idea,” he said with a nod, “but the way you tried to apply it shows a lack of experience. Think of it this way. A shield will deflect things thrown at it, but what about those things already there or placed before it?”

  I could have hit my head with my palm. So obvious! All I’d had to do would have been to image the oil on the stones beyond the shield so that it was in place when he ran over it.

  “That’s how you learn. By making and surviving mistakes.”

  “What about the other imager’s shield?”

  “That just confirms that he’s a foreign imager. He’s more
than likely the one who hired the Ferran. That’s almost a certainty.”

  “But why are they still after me?”

  “They think you know something. Do you?” The corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes weren’t smiling.

  “I don’t think so, but I thought of something else. You’ve probably already figured this out. This year the number of young or junior imagers who’ve been killed is much higher than ever, and almost all have been shot. But why would anyone kill young imagers? The only answer I could come up with was because they can’t kill older ones, but that means someone has decided to keep killing the younger ones so that in time there won’t be any older ones.”

  “You’re right. That’s the most likely conclusion. We don’t have any proof, but the same thing was happening to young imagers in Liantigo and Nacliano. Unlike here, there they did kill several assassins and the killings have stopped for now. One assassin was caught, and he confessed that he’d been paid five golds for every killing, but he couldn’t identify who paid him.

  “It has to be someone from someplace like Caenen or Jariola or Ferrum, or maybe even Tiempre,” I said.

  “Possibly, but those aren’t the only lands that don’t like imagers, and assassinations, even five golds—or ten—a head are far cheaper than war.”

  What surprised me was that Master Dichartyn didn’t seem all that upset. Was that because such attacks had been more common over the years than I knew? And why hadn’t they caught the assassins in L’Excelsis when they had in Westisle and Estisle?

  “It seems odd—”

  “That we still have assassins at large?” He shook his head. “You killed one. I’ve killed one. So has another imager. Three were killed in Westisle and two in Estisle, and there have been no more killings there for over two months. What that proves is that whoever is in charge of the operation is here, and that there is probably only one person from whatever land is involved, certainly no more than two. Is there anything else?”

  Not about that, because he wasn’t about to say. “The ranks of the Collegium don’t show a Maitre D’Image, sir. Have there been many?”