Imager

49

Getting up well before dawn on Jeudi was not exactly to my liking, especially with what lay ahead, as much as I knew the necessity. I struggled to Master Dichartyn’s study, early enough that I sat slumped on the bench for a time before he appeared.

“Buck up, Rhennthyl. You’re not the one being executed.”

I jumped to my feet. “It’s early, sir.”

“Every morning’s early.” His voice was dry.

I walked quietly beside him as we made our way to the duty coach, which had drawn up outside the administration building. He said nothing to the black-clad obdurate driver.

Mist rose from the river as we crossed the Bridge of Stones, the hoofs of the two horses clattering on the pavement. The route to the prison was fairly direct-south on the West River Road to the intersection with the Avenue D’Artisans just after it crossed the Sud Bridge, and then more than a mille on the avenue and across the bridge over the ironway tracks, after which the coach turned onto a short street that ended at a gatehouse. Behind the gatehouse rose the gray flint walls of the Poignard Prison.

The duty coach halted by the gatehouse. No sooner had we stepped out onto the ancient cobblestones, damp from the light rain of the evening before, than two men in blue and black uniforms emerged. The one with the four-pointed star on his collars bowed to Master Dichartyn.

“Maitre D’Esprit.”

“Warden . . .”

The warden’s eyes flicked to me, just for a moment, before he and the guard escorted us through the gate and along a windowless stone-walled corridor until we reached an iron door, where another guard turned a black wheel to unlock it. We stepped into a small courtyard. I glanced up. The sky was beginning to lighten, just slightly, but I could still see clearly the reddish crescent that was Erion. At the far side of the courtyard was a scaffold. There were three nooses rigged from an overhead beam.

The warden stepped away, and the guard remained, a pace to one side.

Master Dichartyn leaned toward me and spoke softly. “The man to be executed will be led onto the platform on to one of the traps where there is a noose. He will be hooded and blindfolded. The executioner will put the noose over his head and adjust it properly. Then the executioner will step back. His next move will be to pull the lever to release that trap. As soon as he steps back and puts his hand on the lever, you are to act. If you image properly, the man will die and start to slump, and the executioner will pull the lever. The guilty man will be dead or dying before the noose breaks his neck.

“There will be three executed this morning. If you are successful with the first, try another technique with the second, and another with the third.”

Left unsaid was that I had practiced none of the techniques on living people-for obvious reasons.

The first technique was simply to image a moderate amount of air into the convicted man’s heart, vena cava, and aorta. Master Dichartyn had pointed out that, given the pressure of the heart pumping liquid, I would have to image some of the blood elsewhere for the effect to be near-instant.

The first prisoner was a heavyset man. Not only was he blindfolded, but his hands were tied behind his back, and his feet were manacled so that he could only take short steps. Two guards had to hold him, and a third wrapped a strap around his legs before the executioner could put the noose in place. As soon as the executioner stepped back, I concentrated.

The prisoner gave a sudden jerk, as if burned all over, then started to slump. The executioner pulled the lever. The prisoner was shuddering and twitching for that long moment before he reached the end of the rope and the noose snapped his neck.

“Not enough air in the aorta,” observed Master Dichartyn. “He would have died, but not quickly. Try that again.”

The second prisoner was thinner and shorter, and probably older. He didn’t struggle, just walked listlessly to the noose. This time I tried to follow the procedure more carefully.

The convicted man only jerked once, then slumped.

“Good. He felt one jolting pain, and that was it. Try something else now.”

I wasn’t ready for the next prisoner. She was a woman, tall and with a shapely figure, even hooded and in the prison drab.

Master Dichartyn sensed my reaction. “If she’s up there, whatever she did must have been horrible. Otherwise, she’d be drugged and used as a comfort woman by the Navy.”

That didn’t help, because I’d never heard of drugged comfort women. I swallowed and tried to concentrate. Fortunately, the convicted woman, who had taken her first steps almost demurely, literally jumped with both manacled feet, trying even while hooded and blindfolded a form of snap-kick at the leg of one of the guards. She struck hard enough that he went down, but so did she, and another guard dashed forward and wrapped a leather strap around her ankles. The three were not gentle as they forced the noose over her head and around her neck.

“Concentrate.” Master Dichartyn’s voice was low and hard.

I fixed my eyes and concentration on that part of her skull-or the spot beneath it-where the pitricine had to go. Contrary to that long-ago rumor promulgated by Seleus, it wasn’t swift if imaged to the heart or stomach-and most physicians could detect that kind of poisoning.

Just before the executioner touched the lever, I imaged.

She folded and slumped, but the executioner was ready, so much so that I doubt if anyone who did not know what had happened would have guessed that she was already dead.

“That was well done.” Master Dichartyn’s voice was again low. “Especially under the circumstances.”

The executioner stepped forward. “Evil as they may have been, they had lives and hopes, and we commend them to the Nameless. Let their example remind us all that kindness and honesty to others are the roots of harmony.”

For a moment, all was silent. Then the warden crossed the courtyard to us, and without speaking led us back the way we had come.

When we reached the coach, Master Dichartyn nodded to the guard and the warden. “We thank you.”

Both bowed slightly, and the warden replied, “As always, we appreciate what Imagisle does for us, and we wish you both well.” There was a slight, but distinct emphasis on the word “both.”

“As do we you,” I replied, as I’d been coached.

Once we were in the duty coach and on our way back to Imagisle, Master Dichartyn cleared his throat, then said, “I’d like you to think of another way to accomplish what you did this morning, one that is equally undetectable-if done properly.”

I managed a polite smile, even after the last three words, which were a reminder that I had not handled the first prisoner as well as I should have. “Yes, sir.”

“You are not, obviously, to write this down, but you are to think it out thoroughly.” He paused. “Why am I asking this?”

“I would judge, sir, that if everyone I must stop from doing harm seems to suffer either a heart stoppage or a brain seizure, there might be more questions than I or the Collegium would like to answer.”

He nodded. “On Lundi night, we’ll work on slowing and disrupting stratagems. Most times, those are to be preferred, but they’re easier and quicker to learn, and your injuries have necessitated training you in a different order to ready you in time to assume your duties.”

I was getting an ever-stronger feeling that Master Dichartyn was anticipating great troubles before long. “Who will strike first?”

He laughed, and there was a bitterness I had not heard before. “Who will not?”

I had to think for a moment. “The Abiertans? Or the Ferrans?”

“The Abiertans are afraid that we will annex them to keep the trade routes open. Any councilor who suggests such will be a target, and several already have survived attacks, not that they know it. Especially Councilor Reyner. The Ferrans are so touchy and arrogant that they believe their machines will allow them to fight both the Oligarch and Solidar. We don’t want any of those wars, and if councilors are attacked, wounded, or killed, there will likely be war. An important part of your job-and that of Baratyn and all of you working with him-is not to give anyone on the Council the excuse for fighting a war.”

Before all that long, we were back at the Collegium, but I was still late for breakfast, and Martyl and Dartazn, even Reynol and Menyard, were already finished. All through my hurried meal, I had to wonder what the woman had done that was so horrible that she had been sentenced to die. Then I had to rush to the duty coach that took the three of us to the Council Chateau.

“You were late for breakfast,” Martyl said as I climbed into the coach.

“I was with Master Dichartyn. We finished late-not late last night, but late with what we were doing this morning.”

The coach pulled away from the Collegium. Outside, it was still misty, but getting brighter, and that suggested a hot and sticky day to come.

“Prison stuff?” asked Dartazn.

I just nodded. I still worried about the woman, then I wondered why I was more concerned about her than about the men. There was no reason why a woman couldn’t have killed someone . . . or worse. “I had to drag myself over to meet him before we left. He looked as if he’d been awake for glasses.”

“He doesn’t ever sleep much, they say,” replied Martyl.

“If I had to deal with what’s on his mind,” added Dartazn, “I wouldn’t sleep much, either. He’s got to think of his work and supervise Master Schorzat as well.”

I hadn’t fully realized that Master Dichartyn was over Master Schorzat, although I should have, because Master Dichartyn was in charge of all Collegium security.

After reaching the Chateau, we met with Baratyn just before eighth glass, as had been the practice, although that would change to half past seventh glass once the Council reconvened.

“This session of the Council, we will be making some changes,” Baratyn said. “The first one is that when the Council is in session, one of you will always be near the doorway from the councilors’ lounge to the private passageway that leads to the chamber. As always, you will say nothing unless you are delivering a message or if you are addressed personally.”

“Even if you want to make Councilor Ramsael trip and crack his skull,” added Martyl, almost under his breath.

“Especially if you want that,” Baratyn riposted. “We’re not here to like them. We’re here to preserve them so that we don’t end up with something worse.”

I knew Ramsael was a High Holder from Kephria, but I’d never seen him. I had the feeling that one of the hardest things was going to be matching councilors’ names with their faces.

“In addition . . . at least one of you will be available to escort and act, if necessary, against anyone here to see a councilor.”

I could see that. Although every visitor allowed into the Chateau had to be on a list compiled from names provided by the councilors-or their aides-there was no assurance that the person who showed up at the gate was the person actually expected. Anyone could claim he was Raphael D’Factorius or Jorges D’Artisan. That didn’t mean that they were.

After Baratyn’s briefing, Dartazn took me on a tour of the outer grounds, pointing out all the places where assassins and intruders had tried to climb the walls or hide. Needless to say, as soon as we had gone outside, the sun broke through the mist, and I began to sweat.

Halfway along the west side, he pointed out the heavier foundation wall. “They call this the wall of life and death. The name dates back to Rex Regis.”

“Why?”

Dartazn shrugged. “Because it meant life for some and death for others.”

By the time Dartazn had finished taking me through the upper and lower gardens and the inner walks bordering the walls, we were both perspiring even more heavily. We were quite thorough in studying and inspecting the fountain court, with the cool created there by the various sprays of water. Then we returned to Baratyn’s study.

“Rhennthyl . . . you’re to spend the next glass studying a list of the regular visitors so that at least you know their names. After that, you can join Dartazn and Martyl in finishing the inventory of security equipment.”

Neither trying to learn names of people I had never seen nor comparing equipment in cases, racks, and boxes to a listing was terribly interesting, and all three of us were more than happy when it was time to return to Imagisle for lunch.

After lunch, I found a letter from Mother in my letter box. I read it quickly on my way back to my chamber to change into exercise clothes for my afternoon torture session with Clovyl.

Dear Rhennthyl,

Your father and I are both glad to hear that you are recovering, but sorry that you are being limited to Imagisle for the near future. We had hoped that you would be able to accompany us to Kherseilles. We are leaving on Jeudi to see Rousel’s and Remaya’s son. They have decided to name him Rheityr, after your great-grandfather.

I couldn’t help but shake my head at her assumption that, if I hadn’t been injured, of course, I’d be able to leave Imagisle for more than a week.

We will not be back for more than a week, since your father needs to go over the factoring in Kherseilles with Rousel, but as warm as it has been here in L’Excelsis, it is bound to be more pleasant there, and it will be good to see our grandson. Khethila will be at the house, and she will be spending each day at the factorage in your father’s absence, but we will take Culthyn with us.

I smiled at that. Neither of them wanted to admit how competent Khethila was getting to be. So far as the handling of coins went, I’d prefer to have her in charge, rather than Rousel. Rousel could sell anything, but coins had always had a way of dropping out of his wallet.

I will write once we have returned, and we will see about that dinner. By the time we are back and you are free, it may be well into harvest, but then, it will be cooler, and you might even have the name of a marriageable young woman that we could invite, inasmuch as you did not seem to find Zerlenya to your taste.

I winced at that, but just laid the letter on my desk as I entered my quarters. I had to change quickly and then hurry back to the exercise chambers.

After the warm-ups and the weights and the conditioning run, Clovyl resumed the training with knives, then followed that with a session with truncheons-or any relatively short length of wood or pipe or the like.

After a quick dinner, at seventh bell, I met Master Draffyd in the anteroom of the infirmary.

His face was grave. “This is not likely to be terribly pleasant for you, Rhennthyl. It will, we trust, make you a better imager. I’m going to dissect one of the bodies from this morning’s execution, in order to show you the exact placement of certain organs. I will also ask you to attempt certain precise imaging from time to time during the process. Some of it will improve your abilities to protect the Council. Some of it will help you protect yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” His words suggested some would improve my ability to kill, and some to heal, or at least limit bleeding or trauma, although he had not said those words.

He turned, and I followed him into the infirmary and down the corridor to a small room with a table. On one wall was a rack of shimmering instruments. On the table was a figure half covered with a thin gray blanket.

The body that lay faceup on the table was that of a woman with long flaming red hair, naked and uncovered from the waist up. She had been beautiful. Even in death, there was some attractiveness, but her face still bore a trace of pain or agony. Then, that might have been my imagination.

“This is the woman executed this morning. From her expression, your effort was relatively good.”

Relatively good?

He pointed to the top back of the woman’s shoulders. “You can see here the edge of faint white scars, and some newer welts. She’s been beaten. I reported that to the chief of patrollers and the justice, but the last beating took place before she was apprehended. The welts almost had healed during the time she was held for her hearing.” He shook his head. “I don’t always trust all the patrollers, but the degree of healing supports the chief’s story. I suppose we’ll never know what happened.” He pointed to her neck. “We’re using her body because it requires more precision. I’d like you to image a small plug of wax into her carotid artery.” He gestured to a white oblong of wax on the narrow shelf beneath the instrument rack.

The initial imaging wasn’t too bad, nor were the ones that followed, except I had to push away the questions about the welts on her back.

The dissection was another matter. It took every bit of willpower to keep my guts from turning inside out once Master Draffyd lifted back the scalpel and began to peel away various areas of skin, muscle, and bone to show me most clearly what he had in mind, illustrating where I could use imaging for what, and how it could be effectively used and where . . . and where it was useless, and why.

He also checked the accuracy of my imaging at almost every step of the dissection. I’d been accurate with the wax in the neck artery, and far less accurate with some of the other placements, particularly those deeper in the body or in the spinal column.

It was close to midnight when I made my way from the infirmary. Even a thorough washing didn’t help too much with my thoughts.

After I reached my own study, I first lit the lamp-with a striker and not by imaging-and then just stood there. Finally, I sat down at the writing desk and took out the letters from Seliora. I needed something to take my mind off what had happened during the course of a very long day, especially the beginning and the end.