Imager's challenge

11

When I walked along the edge of the quadrangle toward the exercise chambers on Samedi morning, I could see there was no frost on the grass or trees or walkways, but it didn’t feel much warmer than earlier in the week because a stiff wind blew out of the northwest.

After the warm-up and conditioning exercises, and before I started the blade and truncheon routines, Clovyl drew me aside for a moment.

“Lundi, if Master Draffyd says it’s all right, you’ll start on a refresher in hand-to-hand combat, with some work on techniques that might prove useful on the streets with the patrollers.”

“Good. These solitary routines get tedious after a while.”

“They still might save your guts someday. You can’t always image your way out of all the troubles you might face.” He lowered his voice. “You’re talented enough that you’ll end up in more tight places than most could imagine. Master Dichartyn doesn’t hesitate to use talent.”

Or sacrifice it for a great gain for the Collegium. But I didn’t say that.

Dartazn was back in running form, and I didn’t finish the four-mille run within a hundred yards of him. He’d already headed for the showers before I stumbled to a halt outside the exercise chambers.

Master Schorzat wasn’t all that far behind me. He gave me a smile. “How are you finding the Civic Patrol?”

“It’s interesting, and I’m learning.”

“You might think over if there are other ways to do what the Patrol does, and what implications they would have.”

I laughed. “Are you trying to get me to think like a field imager?”

“No. That sort of thinking can help you figure out whether procedures can be changed-or why they shouldn’t be when someone has a brilliant new idea.” He snorted. “Someone always does, and half the time it’s a very bad brilliant new idea. A senior imager needs to be able to recognize those. That’s all.”

“Thank you, sir.” I had my doubts whether the reason he’d given me was the only reason why he wanted me to analyze Civic Patrol procedures.

After getting a shower and shaving, and dressing, I hurried to the dining hall, where, just after I appeared, Ferlyn arrived with a graying master I’d seen a few times when I’d been a third, but whom I’d never met. “Rhenn, have you met Quaelyn?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Quaelyn, this is Rhennthyl. He’s the newest Maitre D’Aspect. He also has the distinction of having survived more assassination attempts than any third in the history of the Collegium. The last time was when he stopped the Ferran spies from exploding a firewagon near the Council security force.” Ferlyn laughed softly. “They had to make him a master after that.”

“Ferlyn gives me too much credit,” I replied, although I had the feeling he might have been right about the assassination attempts.

“I doubt it, not if you report to Master Dichartyn,” replied Quaelyn.

“Might I ask your specialty?” I asked as we walked to the masters’ table.

“Me? I guess you’d call me the master of patterns. I look at ledgers and books and rosters, and report what I see in the numbers and figures and . . . everything.”

We sat down on the left end of the table. I looked out at the table holding the primes and seconds and could see Shault, sitting next to Lieryns. That was good. Surprisingly, Lieryns looked up, then nodded. I nodded back.

“Just before we saw you,” Ferlyn said, pouring tea for Quaelyn and then handing me the pot, “we were talking about the assassinations of imagers. Did you know that we lost another one last night?”

“Another junior imager? Or someone more senior?”

“Thenard. He was still a prime, but he was close to making second.”

I recalled Thenard. He’d offered a few suggestions and observation when I’d first come to Imagisle, and he’d been friendly and good-natured. “How did it happen?”

“He just crossed the Bridge of Desires. There’s a good patisserie not more than two blocks down the Boulevard D’Council, off a side lane. When he came out of the patisserie, someone shot him. No one saw the shooter.”

I turned to Quaelyn. “You weren’t discussing this as a coincidence, I take it?”

“No. It is an example of patterns. I’m working with Ferlyn on many of these. I’m not so young as I once was.”

“This is getting serious,” Ferlyn went on. “We find something between thirty and forty new imagers every year. Master Poincaryt thinks we get about half that are born in Solidar, later, of course. We’re fortunate to find even half, but that’s the way it is. Maybe ten imagers die naturally every year-on average, anyway. Another ten die because they’re imagers and either do something stupid or die as field or covert types, and, like it or not, five to ten get killed every year because some people don’t like imagers. Those are the numbers. The problem is that for the past year, we’ve had close to twenty junior imagers shot, and most have looked to be planned assassinations. And as soon as we stop one group, it’s like another pops up.”

While he was speaking, I served myself and handed the platter of cheesed eggs and sausage chunks to Ferlyn. “Why do you think that’s happening now?”

Ferlyn looked to Quaelyn.

The older master smiled. “Master Poincaryt and Dichartyn have their doubts, but I believe that it’s the result of intersecting patterns. Societies and cultures all function because they adopt patterns. Some of those patterns are so ingrained that no one even knows they’re patterns. Others aren’t so natural, and they need reinforcement. Laws are a form of pattern reinforcement . . .”

I just listened for a time.

“. . . as societies or whole lands change, the patterns have to change, and people need to be made aware of the need for change. If they don’t see that need and accept it, there’s always trouble. Even when those in power try to create greater awareness, people get upset. Those who were well off under the old ways fight change-”

“Like the High Holders?” I asked.

“That is an unfortunate truth,” Quaelyn admitted. “Sometimes, those who hold power merely find a way to keep holding power in a new fashion with new patterns. Usually, some fail to change, and they can be most bitter and dangerous. Those who gain power, such as the factors and the manufacturers, often adapt the mannerisms of the old elite, and the same control of power. That is the pattern in Ferrum. When patterns must change and times are unsettled, many turn to what they think of as unchanging.”

“Nothing’s unchanging, you said,” Ferlyn interjected.

Quaelyn smiled patiently. “Follow my words, Ferlyn. I said they turned to what they think is unchanging.”

“Faith in the Nameless, or Duodeus, or . . . what’s the Tiempran god?” I asked, then dredged up the answer to my own question from somewhere. “Puryon, that’s it.”

“That is what I surmise,” replied Quaelyn. “All theologies seem to embody the idea that because a deity is powerful, if not omnipotent, that deity is eternal and unchanging. That is a pattern of belief that comforts people. That is why it endures. Yet . . . all religions include the point that the deity created the world and the wider cosmos, and we can see how the world changes. Records show where harbors once were that have now silted up. Rivers change their courses. Parts of coasts fall into the sea. The world changes. We age and change. Yet religions all assume that their creator does not change. Such assumed inflexibility is anything but logical.” He shook his head. “These days, we live in a time of changes. . . .”

I wished I could have stayed at the table and listened longer, but I had to get to the studio and get set up for Master Rholyn’s sitting. So I finally excused myself and made my way through the still-chill air in the quadrangle north to the workshop building that held the studio.

As I went through setting up and deciding which paints to mix, my breath did not quite steam in the chill air of the studio. If Master Poincaryt wanted me to keep painting portraits in the winter months I’d need some heat in the space. Even oils congealed if they got too cold.

Master Rholyn arrived as the bells rang out the glass.

“Rhenn . . . good morning, chill as it is.” He paused. “Do you want me standing or sitting?”

“Sitting for the moment.” I walked over and studied his face, trying to fix the coloration and shading before I went back to my palette and finished mixing the shade I wanted.

“I noticed you dancing with Madame D’Shendael at the Council’s Harvest Ball.” Master Rholyn smiled.

“She asked me to dance, sir. It caught me quite off guard.” That was true enough.

“Did she say why?” The tone of his words suggested he already knew the answer.

“No, sir. She just said that she required a partner. If you would stand, now, sir, and take that position with your foot on the crate?”

He rose, more awkwardly than I had remembered, but that might have been because the grace and eloquence of his speech colored my memory. “This way?”

“Please turn your head a bit toward me. Good.” I eased the tip of the brush into the oils I’d mixed.

“Madame D’Shendael is quite intelligent, Rhennthyl. She never does anything without a reason. Did her words hint at any such purpose?”

“She talked only briefly, about art, and how little it was respected.”

Rholyn nodded almost sagely. “She believes in art, but that is not all.”

I said nothing, but continued to work on getting the set of his nose and eyes precisely.

“Did she speak of the Council?”

“No, sir, except that she told me that I was an imager, and that it was a silly fiction of the Council that I couldn’t even admit it.”

“A silly fiction? She would use such a term. You know that she does not approve of the current fashion of selecting councilors?”

“Master Dichartyn mentioned such, sir. He said she would prefer that some councilors be chosen by a form of popular voting.”

“As if the populace as a whole would ever choose wisely.”

I concentrated on the canvas before me.

“What do you think, Rhenn?”

I didn’t want to say what I thought. “It seems to me that the present way of selecting councilors provides a balance among artisans, factors, and High Holders. No one group or individual has control.”

“Balance of power . . . yes . . . there is a balance of power, and it is necessary, because those in the Council are far less honorable than those who lead the Collegium. Throughout our history, we’ve been fortunate that the imagers appointed to senior positions and to the Council by the senior maitre of the Collegium have proven themselves honorable and worthy types.” He paused. “I’d best stop talking and let you paint.” He smiled warmly.

Master Rholyn was as good as his word and said little after that. As a result, I got a good start on his face, especially around the eyes. Some portraiturists concentrate on the shape of the head and face first, and sometimes I had, but with Master Rholyn, there was a difference in the set of his nose, eyes, and eyebrows that I needed to address first.

I had to clean up the studio in a rush and then make my way to the infirmary to see Master Draffyd. I had to wait in the anteroom for almost a quint before he appeared. The smooth gray stone walls made the space seem even colder than it was, but the anteroom was far better than being in the cold gray individual rooms where I’d already spent too much time recuperating.

Draffyd strolled in with a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Rhenn. This way, please.”

I followed him into a small chamber off the anteroom where I removed my waistcoat, scarf-cravat, shirt, and undershirt.

“Does anything hurt?”

“Not any longer,” I admitted.

“What was the last thing to stop hurting, and when did it stop?”

“My ribs . . . on the right side. Here.” I pointed. “Maybe a week ago.”

He poked, prodded, thumped, and pressed and asked more questions before he finally announced, “You look good, and everything feels to have healed. Clovyl and Master Dichartyn have been asking when you’d be ready to handle more hand-to-hand combat training. You can start on Lundi, but no full-body throws. Make sure that you tell Clovyl that. He can be too enthusiastic. Those will have to wait another few weeks.”

“I’ll tell him.” I didn’t want to spend any more time healing. Close to a third of the last year I’d been recovering from wounds and injuries of some sort.

That left me with time for a leisurely stroll back across the quadrangle to the dining hall, where I was the only master there. I ate quickly and went back to my chambers. There I spent some time reading and reviewing court procedures. They were so tedious that I ended up dozing in my chair, and I had to hurry to get ready to leave for Seliora’s. I took a hack on the east side of the Bridge of Hopes . . . and no one shot at me.

The hack dropped me off outside Seliora’s door at half past four, but that was by design, although I’d originally thought to be there somewhat earlier.

Once more, Odelia opened the door, rather than her younger brother Bhenyt. “You seem to be making a habit of this, Rhenn,” she observed warmly.

“Coming here, or arriving early?”

“Both.”

“Actually, I had hoped to speak with Grandmama Diestra for a few moments.”

“I can ask her.”

“With Seliora,” I added.

“I’ll ask them both.”

We walked up the steps to the main second-level foyer, where she left me, heading up to the third level, and I walked around looking to see if there were any new chairs or upholstery designs. There weren’t.

Bhenyt was the one who came bounding down the side stairs and skidding out into the foyer. “Grandmama says you’re to meet her in the small plaques room upstairs, Master Rhenn.”

“I haven’t been there. If you’d lead the way.”

He grinned and turned. I had to walk quickly to catch up with him, but we reached the top of the narrower side staircase almost together. The small sitting room was almost directly across the smaller upper hallway from the archway from the staircase foyer. The stained oak door was open, and I stepped inside. The curtains were drawn back from the single long and narrow window, and pale white light formed an oblong on the Coharan patterned carpet.

Grandmama Diestra sat in an upholstered straight-backed chair at a small table on which was laid out a complicated form of solitaire. The three other chairs around the table were vacant. She wore a black jacket over a black sweater. Her steel-gray hair-looking almost silver above the black garments-was cut neatly at midneck level. She turned over the plaque she had in her hand and smiled, ruefully, before setting it facedown on the dark blue felt. Her black eyes focused on me.

“Sometimes, you play the plaques, and sometimes they play you.”

I wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that and had barely inclined my head to Diestra when Seliora stepped through the doorway behind me, closing the door firmly. She smiled, but it wasn’t the happiest of smiles. The crimson and black of her wool jacket was becoming, but it also made her look stern when the smile vanished, and her black eyes met mine.

“I’m very sorry,” I said, turning to her. “I didn’t mean to hurry you, but I’ve run into one of Grandmama’s warnings, and I’m afraid I’m going to need some help. More than some help, I think. It happened late yesterday, so that I really didn’t have time to send a note, and what happened I wouldn’t have wanted to put on paper.”

“Why don’t you both sit down?” suggested Diestra, before looking to Seliora. “If you really want him to be part of the family, he has to have the right to ask to talk to me directly.”

Her words clearly brought Seliora up short. After a moment, she said, “Yes, Grandmama.”

Diestra looked to me. “Your turn will come, when you least expect it. Try to be equally gracious.”

I inclined my head. “Thank you for the warning. I will try.” Then I turned to Seliora. “I do apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Her second smile was warmer, and she nodded and let me pull out the chair to the right of Grandmama Diestra for her. I went to the other side of the plaques table and sat down across from Seliora.

“What is this problem?” asked Diestra.

I offered a sheepish look. “Actually, I have three. First, I have to start working with Lieutenant Mardoyt on Lundi. He handles all the trial preparation for the patrollers. Now that I’ve seen how offenders are charged, Commander Artois wants me to see how the trials work before I accompany any patrollers.” Since I didn’t see any great reaction, I went on. “Second, on Meredi, when we were leaving Saliana’s at lunch, someone took another shot at me, and the bullet was a heavy sniper type. Third, the riot in the South Middle taudis wasn’t something that just happened, and I’d hope that you’d be able to arrange a meeting with that young taudischef I met at Imagisle when he brought his cousin in. His name was Horazt.”

“You think all of these are linked together?” asked Seliora.

“The shots at me and the riot might be linked. I can’t believe Commander Artois or the subcommander would be involved in the riot, but I feel there’s a reason behind my being assigned to observe Mardoyt.”

“The obvious reason is that Mardoyt is getting to be a problem, and that the commander wants you to discover something so that the blame falls on you,” said Diestra.

“That was my feeling. I thought that Horazt might know something about Mardoyt, and he certainly should be able to tell me about the riot.”

“Arranging such a meeting would not be impossible,” mused Diestra, “but would it be wise? Why would he agree?”

“He needs to show he has control, even contacts. I can tell him about his young cousin. He might even care.”

“Already, you are cynical.” Diestra’s words were dry.

“I’d also like advice from both of you on dealing with Mardoyt and all the things I need to watch out for.”

“The easiest thing,” began the gray-haired Pharsi woman, “is to arrange the meeting with Horazt. Between your position and our interest, he would rather have us owing him than the other way around. How is the boy-his young cousin-doing?”

“He seems to be all right. I’ve been watching from the background, and talking to him once or twice a week. Some of the other primes are watching out for him as well.”

“That is good. Betara and I can also make a few inquiries about the riot. That will seem natural, and we can also see if Staelia has overheard anything. The shootings of an imager are not something we should ask about. Such questions from us will do you more harm than good.”

“I can see that.”

“Mardoyt is another question. Whatever he asks of you, only do what the procedures demand. Nothing else. Be most polite. If he feels slighted, you will become his enemy. You must learn with whom he works. I would suggest that you play the role you can play so well, young Rhenn. That is of the eager young imager who wants to learn and not to offend. Just keep thanking him for every insight and bit of information. But do not ever trust him, even on the slightest of matters. He is doubtless well aware of the weaknesses of imagers.” A crooked smile crossed her lips. “It is unlikely that he will do anything wrong or improper while you are around, but that does not mean he will not do such.”

That meant I’d have to find evidence of some sort, and Mardoyt didn’t sound like someone who left many tracks.

“If that is all, you two can go and leave an old woman in peace.” The words were said with a smile.

“Thank you.” I stood and bowed to her.

Seliora did not say anything until we were out in the upper hallway, with no one close by. “You didn’t tell Grandmama Diestra everything, did you?”

I shook my head. “We-the imagers-have another problem. Someone is shooting junior imagers. Whether it’s a group of assassins, or whether someone has offered a bounty for every dead imager, no one knows, but it’s happening.”

“Most people feel the same way about imagers and Pharsis.”

“That may be, but over the past year, they’ve killed over twenty young imagers-that’s about half the number the Collegium finds every year. If someone shot half the Pharsis born in a given year, Solidar would be in shambles.”

For a moment, Seliora just stood there in the foyer. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

“I didn’t either, until Ferlyn pointed it out this morning at breakfast. There’s another problem-”

“Announcing it will just make matters worse.”

I nodded.

“You’re going to ask Horazt, aren’t you?”

“I’d thought to. I could bring up the fact that I’d like to resolve the problem before Shault is free to leave Imagisle.”

“That might work.” She paused. “If you don’t find anything, Mama and Grandmama could ask if anyone’s been promising payoffs for shootings, without mentioning imagers. They might find something. If they don’t . . . doesn’t that suggest it’s someone like the Ferran who was after you?”

“It wouldn’t be absolute, but it would seem more likely.”

“Good! I’ll talk to them.” She looked directly at me. “We’ve both had long weeks. Can we not talk about them and enjoy dinner?”

“Absolutely. That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard.” With that, I offered her my arm, and we walked down the staircases.

Bhenyt had hailed a hack, and it was waiting. I slipped him a copper. More, and the family wouldn’t have approved. He grinned at me as I offered Seliora a hand getting into the hack.

“Azeyd’s,” I told the hacker.

“Azeyd’s it is, sir.”

Once inside the coach, I turned sideways to face Seliora. “I am sorry . . .”

“Are you sorry you did it? Or sorry you upset me?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I accept. You did need to talk to her, but there was time to tell me that was what you needed.”

I understood all too well. Offering an apology for a necessary act was hypocrisy, but not apologizing for a rude approach to the necessary was unforgivable. Since I had apologized . . . all was well. I hoped.

Azeyd’s was located on a side street without a name off Nordroad, some three blocks to the west of Guild Square. The outside was unprepossessing, just a dark red set of double doors in a yellow brick facade, bound in brass under a short awning and flanked on each side by a set of two narrow windows filled with leaded glass panes that were anything but recent in style or construction.

After helping Seliora from the hack and opening the door, I followed her into the restaurant. The woman standing at the far side of the small foyer tiled in large red and black squares looked to Seliora. “Ah . . . Mistress D’Shelim.” Then she looked to me, her eyes clearly measuring me and the imager grays that I wore. “Sir.”

“This is Imager Master Rhennthyl. He’s a friend of the family.” Seliora smiled demurely. “He’s an even better friend of mine.”

“Then he is certainly welcome here.” Her smile to me was warm, yet wary, before she turned and led us to the right into a narrow and long room that held two rows of tables-four on one side and five on the other, each row set against a pale tan plastered wall.

The wall was decorated with a form of art I’d never seen before-thin strips of colored leather braided and worked into designs, ranging in size from a diamond shape less than ten digits on an edge to a leather mosaic mural almost two yards wide and two-thirds of a yard high. The mural showed Pharsi riders charging a line of musket-bearing foot soldiers.

“The battle of Khelgror,” Seliora murmured. “The last stand of the Khelan Pharsi against the Bovarians.”

“Here you are,” offered the hostess, gesturing to an oval table against the inside wall.

“Thank you.” Seliora and I spoke almost simultaneously.

A single bronze lamp hung from a bronze chain, positioned about a yard above the center of the table. The linens were red, and a single slate sat on a polished black wooden stand set near the plaster wall and facing outward.

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

“Have you ever had Enazai? It’s a traditional ice wine, powerful, but served before a meal.” She paused. “Father claims that’s because, after drinking it, no one cared what the food tasted like.”

“I should try it.”

“Two.” Seliora nodded to the hostess, who slipped away.

I looked over the menu chalked on the slate. “How is the Bertetia? What is it?”

“Cow stomach marinated for months, sliced and fermented, and then broiled and served with blue potatoes. Grandmama likes it. None of the rest of us have tried it more than once.”

“The forest quail sounds better.”

“It’s one of my favorites, along with venison ragout, but that’s very spicy.”

The hostess returned with two half-sized goblets of a pale red, almost pinkish, wine. “What will you have?”

“We’ll share the priata platter, and I’ll have the ragout,” Seliora said, “and a red Grisio.”

“The quail with a white Cambrisio,” I added.

After the hostess left the table, I lifted the small goblet. “To you.”

“To us,” Seliora replied.

I sipped the Enazai . . . and was glad that I’d only sipped. It didn’t burn on the way down, but even that small swallow had a definite impact. Within moments, I could feel the warmth it imparted all over. “I like it, but your father has a point.”

“He usually does.”

“Like you,” I teased.

“And you don’t?” she countered.

Since I was supposed to have a point, I had to come up with one. “I heard something at breakfast this morning. One of the older masters was talking about how life and people really operate in patterns and how some of the problems we face are a result of intersecting patterns-old patterns of doing things that clash with new patterns created by the way things change.”

“Go on,” Seliora prompted.

“Things are changing in Solidar. The number of High Holders is decreasing, and those who are left are more powerful-”

“And more arrogant.”

“The larger factors are also getting wealthier and more powerful, and I have the feeling that we’re getting more people in the taudis, and they’re poorer than before.” That was more feeling than anything, but I trusted it.

“There are boys who are smoking elveweed now. Not just men.”

“Khethila has seen more men smoking it as well.”

“They can’t get jobs. We hire from there when we can, for the hauling and rough positions, but we only need a few men. It’s hard to find ones who will work and aren’t weeded out. Grandmama said it would have been hard for her if she’d arrived in L’Excelsis now.”

“Why?”

“Everyone wants to make golds the easy way, and that’s trafficking in elveweed. She wouldn’t do anything like that.”

At that moment the priata platter arrived. On it were small pastry crescents with a dark sauce oozing from the edge where the two sides of the flaky crust joined, large green olives stuffed with some sort of cheese, melon circles wrapped in thin ham, and marinated grape leaves wrapped around some sort of filling.

Seliora lifted one of the crescents, and I followed her example, discovering the sweet/sharp sauce imparted a tang to the chopped onion and ripe olive mixture within the crust.

“You said you had a point,” Seliora prompted.

Not only did I see the mischievous glint in her eyes, but I could hear a certain interest in her voice. “Besides a good dinner? Oh . . . I was thinking that better steam engines mean we need fewer strong backs and mules and horses, and more people who can do things with powered looms, the way you design fabric patterns, or the way Father can order a fabric more to a clothing factor’s requirements.”

“Those engines that power the looms and the ironway engines cost more in golds, but they produce more, and so the large High Holders get larger, and the larger factors get wealthier, and there are more smaller businesses like NordEste, and fewer individual crafters-”

“You’re not exactly small,” I pointed out.

“Compared to the wealth of a High Holder like Ryel? We’re nothing.”

“But there are hundreds of businesses like yours. Thousands all over Solidar, and that will change things. The Council is based on the way things were a century ago.”

“Rhenn . . . listen to your own words. The structure of the Council hasn’t changed. People still think of Pharsis with distaste, and shopkeepers and trades-people as unworthy of having any real rights. Do you think that the High Holders or the guilds want to give up power? Together, they outvote the factors. Why would they change?”

“Not all the guild members think that way.” I was thinking of Caartyl. “You’re right, though. Maybe they won’t change, but it’s still a pattern of conflict.”

By then we had finished off everything on the priata platter, and the hostess appeared and whisked it away, only to reappear with our dinner and wine.

From there on in, we talked about families, the world, food, wine, and each other. Before all that long, or so it seemed to me, I was helping Seliora out of the hack outside of NordEste Design and escorting her to the door-holding my shields so as to protect us both.

“Can I stop by tomorrow?” I asked just before she was about to close the door.

“Why don’t you come for lunch-except that it’s really a combination of breakfast and lunch? It’s at half before noon.”

“I’ll be there.” I couldn’t help smiling, and it certainly didn’t hurt to see her smile back at me.

The wind had turned much colder by the time I returned to the hack, and as I rode back to the Bridge of Desires, I realized that if I reached my rooms without incident, it would be one of the few times in recent months that nothing had occurred after I had left Seliora.

I didn’t relax until I was back in my rooms, but nothing happened. “Not this time,” a small voice whispered inside my skull. I had the feeling the voice was right . . . that sooner or later, I’d have an unpleasant surprise, courtesy of High Holder Ryel, but I’d still had a wonderful evening.