Imager

37

The week ended as it began. No matter how hard I worked for Master Jhulian, Clovyl, and Maitre Dyana, and no matter how much I improved or learned, there was always more to learn and do. By Samedi, I was more than ready to leave Imagisle, even for a dinner at my parents with a factor I hadn’t seen in years and his daughter, a young woman I’d never met.

I didn’t leave at ninth glass or even noon. Instead, as the ten bells of midday struck, I was seated in my study poring over Jurisprudence, the section dealing with tort claims. According to the text, the Council itself was immune to juristic claims of damages, as were the Juristic Courts, and all branches of government. Individual councilors, or anyone in any branch of government, could be subject to a suit under tort law. At that point, I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.

After several moments, I opened my eyes and looked down at the listing of acts for which an official was not liable, followed on the next page by a listing of those where he might be. I slipped a leather bookmark in place and closed the book.

I still had another essay to write for Master Jhulian, this one on the theoretical and practical limits of sovereign immunity as exercised by the Council and the government over which it presided, and I had to explain why the first Council had created the malfeasance and misfeasance sections of the Juristic Code.

I’d asked Master Jhulian why imagers needed to read about law, and his answer had been direct and troubling. “All imagers need to know some of this. Anyone who works with Master Dichartyn needs to know more than I can teach. I have to prepare you to keep learning.” Then he’d smiled. “After I’m satisfied, Master Dichartyn will explain why what you are learning is applicable. That’s because, unless you do learn it, you won’t keep working with him, and you won’t need to know why.”

From the time I’d first come to Imagisle, I’d known that there was a darker side to the Collegium, but with every day that passed, I was getting the feeling that I was getting closer to it. Finally, I began to reread the pages in Jurisprudence. I stayed at my desk, more or less, until just before the fourth glass, when I hurried out of my quarters.

Even so, I was at my parents’ door at half past four, where Nellica ushered me in.

“Sir . . . everyone will be meeting in the formal parlor at five.”

“Is anyone there?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’ll slip into the family parlor and wait there.”

She wasn’t totally pleased, but she didn’t have to be. I settled into one of the armchairs-not my father’s-but I didn’t have to wait long before Culthyn appeared, a slightly sullen expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Father says I’m not invited to dinner. Khethila isn’t either.”

“Where is she?”

“She went to Brennai’s for the evening. Brennai’s her best friend. This week, anyway.”

“You’re cynical.”

“That’s what Mother says.” He looked at me. “What do you really do as an imager?”

“At the moment, I’m studying the laws of Solidar and L’Excelis.”

“You’re going to be an imager advocate? That’s freezing!”

“We all have to study law . . . and science, and history, and philosophy.”

“Oh . . . Can you do imaging? Can you show me?”

“Not yet. I can do it, but the masters don’t let us do it off Imagisle until we’re more experienced.”

“Come on, Rhenn. No one would know.”

I offered a smile. “I would, and sooner or later, so would Master Dichartyn. He’s my preceptor. He’s very perceptive.”

“What good is being an imager if they don’t let you image?”

“Culthyn,” I said slowly, “imaging is more dangerous than I ever knew or dreamed. That’s why almost a third of all imagers die in training.”

That stopped him, but only for a moment. “You haven’t died.”

“That’s because I’ve paid attention to those who know better than I do.”

“That’s a lesson you still need to learn, Culthyn,” announced Mother as she entered the family parlor. “Off to the kitchen. Your dinner is on the table in the breakfast room. Don’t bother Nellica or Kiesela. When you’re done, up to your rooms.”

“Yes, Mother.” He looked to me. “Someday, will you show me?”

“I will. It might be a while.”

After he left through the archway into the rear hall, Mother asked, “Show him what?”

“Imaging. Right now, I’m not supposed to image off Imagisle.”

“I can see that.” She nodded. “Zerlenya and her parents are most anxious to meet you.”

“Rhenn!” My father’s voice boomed across the parlor. “You’re even early!” He looked at me. “You look more like a guard officer every time I see you.”

“He looks just fine, Chenkyr.”

“That’s what I meant. He stands taller.”

Shortly, there was another knock on the front door, and the three of us moved to the formal parlor while Nellica ushered the guests into the house.

In moments, Tomaz was stepping toward me. He was a short and stocky man with an engaging smile. “You’re Rhenn, I take it, and an imager to boot. Wager your father never planned on that.”

“No, sir, he didn’t, but he’s fortunate to have Rousel and Culthyn to carry on.” After I’d said that, I realized I should have mentioned Khethila.

“Oh!” Tomaz turned and gestured. “This is my daughter Zerlenya.” He beckoned again. “Zerlenya, come and meet Rhennthyl. It’s not every day you get to meet an imager that you know personally-or his father, anyway.”

Zerlenya stepped forward, offering a tentative smile. She was thin, almost painfully so, but she had wide cheekbones, and a clear pale complexion, with tight-curled jet-black hair that would have dropped to midshoulder had it not been swept up and curled into a swirl at the back of her long neck. Her eyes were pale gray, and in the off-white gown and shoulder scarf, she gave the impression of a beautiful swan, if one ready to take wing at the slightest danger.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” I offered a smile with my words.

“Father has spoken of you. I’ve never met an imager.”

“You have now. I’m a very recent imager, though.”

“What can you image?”

“So far I’ve managed a copy of my brother’s wife’s comb, a box, and all sorts of small objects in training, including a metal bar or two.”

“That doesn’t sound terribly dangerous.” Her voice was thin and bright, the kind that could be heard across a room.

“I hope not. Time will tell.”

“It always does.”

I just nodded to that.

“Do you like being an imager?”

I hadn’t really thought about that, unlike being a portraiturist. I’d wanted to paint, but since I’d never considered being an imager until I discovered I had the talent, it hadn’t been a question of liking, but of doing the best I could. “I hadn’t thought about it. It’s not an occupation you dream about as a child.”

“But do you like it? Father’s always saying that you cannot be good at something unless you like doing it.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I do. That’s why Uncle Weidyn is so good a cabinetmaker.”

“I haven’t met him. I’ve only met Aeylana.”

“Oh . . . yes. You did the portrait, didn’t you? It’s very pleasant.”

I couldn’t help but bristle inside. When someone refers to a work of art, even one that is not superb, as “nice” or “pleasant,” it means that they don’t know art or that they think it’s terrible. “She seemed to like it.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“She was very good at the sittings.”

“She’s very good, and very well mannered.”

Before long, Nellica rang the dinner chimes, and we repaired to the dining chamber, where we stood behind our chairs. The dinner settings were not strictly formal, because Father was flanked by Madame Tomaz and Zerlenya, while Mother was flanked by Tomaz and me, but with just six it really didn’t matter. Anyone could converse with anyone else.

Father rested his hands on the back of his chair and offered the blessing.

“In peace and harmony,” we all murmured when he finished, then seated ourselves.

Father carved the side of beef with his usual dispatch and efficiency, and before long, plates and goblets were full.

“How is the produce business these days?”

“Slow . . . so slow, Chenkyr. We’re almost through our stored stocks of root vegetables and the like. The spring vegetables and fruits from the South won’t be in for another month, three weeks if we’re fortunate. You can sell cloth at any time.”

“Ah . . . my friend . . . I can sell at any time, but I have to buy the wool and arrange the weaving almost a year in advance, and pay much in advance, and if I judge wrong . . .” Father shrugged expressively. He always showed more emotion when he talked about business.

“You can always sell wool; it does not spoil.”

“The price. It is always the price at which one buys, not the price at which one sells.”

I looked at Zerlenya and offered a helpless shrug.

A ghost of a smile was her reply.

“Father is most at home talking business,” I added, “wherever he is.”

“Business is what supports the home,” said Tomaz enthusiastically. “Why shouldn’t we talk about it? We’re not High Holders who talk about music no one can understand or books no one has read.”

Khethila would have disputed that, but I doubted that Tomaz had ever seen a copy of Madame D’Schendael’s book. I looked to Zerlenya. “Do you follow the produce business?”

“It would be difficult not to. Father insists we know everything.”

“And why not?” replied Tomaz. “If anything happened to me, the Nameless forbid, if you didn’t know the business, how would you all get by? Even you, Zerlenya, know more than I did at your age, and a good thing it is, too.”

“Are all of your children following in the business?” asked Mother.

“All but Thurlyn,” answered Madame Tomaz. “He’s an ensign in the Navy. He’s stationed on the Rex Charyn. He’s always loved the water . . .”

From there the conversation remained firmly fixed in the areas of the mundane, and no one said anything about imagers and Imagisle.

Once the guests had left, nearly two glasses later, Mother closed the front door and turned to me. “What did you think of Zerlenya?”

“She’s very nice.”

“You didn’t like her, then.”

“She is pretty, in an ethereal way. I don’t think she’d be happy with me.”

“That’s not the question,” interjected Father. “Could you be happy with her?”

“It is the question, Father. Imagers cannot marry those who are not happy with them.”

“Marriage isn’t just about lust.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that it’s very important that an imager and his or her spouse get along well. More important than with other couples.”

There must have been something in my voice. They exchanged glances.

After a moment, Mother said, “You know best.”

Her tone suggested that I knew anything but. “It’s something that all the senior imagers have stressed, Mother. I might not know, but I have to trust that they do.”

“I see.” This time, there was resignation in her voice. “I hope you find someone.”

So did I, I reflected as I left.

At least they provided Charlsyn and the coach for the ride back to the Bridge of Hopes. For better or worse, Artiema had set and Erion-the grayish red lesser hunter-stood almost at its zenith, ruling the night sky.