L. Modesitt - Imager's challenge

“You were there?” asked Khethila. “I read about that. What did you do?”

“What I had to. It comes with the assignment.”

She gave me the oddest look, but didn’t say more.

“Can’t trust those Tiemprans,” Father said. “Not any of those southerners, really, Caenenans aren’t any better, maybe worse.”

“I’m just about finished with another portrait. This is the one of the Collegium’s councilor . . .” I explained a bit.

Then Father told us about the train trip to Kherseilles and the one back, but said nothing about Rousel, and that I understood.

In another quint, Remaya rejoined us with a quieter Rheityr. “I fed him, and that helped.” Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, and while she’d removed any other physical traces, I had no doubt she’d shed more tears. How could she not, being in the home where her husband had grown up?

Just before five, Khethila slipped out to the kitchen, then returned to announce, “Dinner is ready.” She glanced to Culthyn. “Even for you.”

Culthyn looked to me before getting up, and he didn’t bound toward the dining chamber in his usual fashion. I didn’t care about that. As the youngest, he’d gotten away with far too much for too long.

Dinner was subdued, and no one talked much about anything except the food, the weather, and the dismal state of the world, but only in general terms where the world was concerned. I wasn’t surprised that no one said much about Rousel. For all his faults, he’d been cheerful and lively, and even alluding to him would have been too painful.

I finally left the house sometime after seventh glass, and I had to walk all the way to the Plaza D’Este to find a hack. I hadn’t been about to ask Charlsyn to stay on what was usually his day off. As I rode toward NordEste Design, I realized that I’d missed services at Imagisle, and I hoped that Seliora would be back from services, but then, hers were at sixth glass, not seventh as was the case at Imagisle.

When I finally walked up to the door and dropped the brass knocker, only a few moments passed before Seliora herself opened the door, dressed in a muted dark blue shirt and jacket, with a silver necklace and earrings.

“I hoped you’d come.”

“I hoped you’d be here.” I stepped inside and let her close and bolt the door. Then I put my arms around her. “I can’t stay too long.”

“I know.”

We walked up the staircase to the main hall and then over to the settee midway back and near the west wall, where we sat down.

“It was hard, wasn’t it?” she asked.

I nodded. “Rousel’s dead, and I caused it, but it’s not really my fault, and yet it is, and I don’t dare say anything. What good would that do?”

“It wouldn’t. Your parents and Remaya don’t need to bear hate for you because of Ryel’s actions.”

“Still . . . it’s hard. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I want to be here for you.”

For that I was grateful, and I reached out and embraced her again. After a time I said, “The memorial service is at the second glass of the afternoon on Jeudi at the Anomen D’Este. You know where that is-just off the Plaza D’Este?”

“We go to the Nordroad Anomen, but I’ve seen it. I’ll be there. Odelia might come with me.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” She leaned toward me and brushed my cheek with her lips, then leaned back. “Rhenn? How do you feel? Tell me.”

I turned to her. “I feel guilty, even though I had no way of knowing that half blinding Johanyr would lead to Rousel’s death, and I didn’t even mean to hurt Johanyr that much. I’m angry, because Ryel’s arrogance and pride have created so much turmoil and death, and because I’ve had to do things I’d rather not do to protect my family and stay alive. I’ve dragged your family into it, and they’ve supported me because you love me. I’m angry at that, too, because there doesn’t seem any other way to resolve things. I’m angry at the Collegium because their frigging rules mean that no one will stand up directly to the High Holders and because it means I have to fight something all alone except for you and your family, and that’s one family against everyone. That’s the way it feels, anyway.”

“And when you win, what then? Will you be able to put the anger aside?”

When I won?

“You will win.” Seliora took my hands. “You must destroy those who would kill your family . . . and us . . . but no more.”

Were her words based on Pharsi farsight . . . or faith? Or both? Whatever they were based on, there was no doubt of her absolute conviction, and that was more chilling than my own doubts about whether I’d be able to prevail.

For a time we clung to each other, although I was the one clinging, really. Then it was time for me to return to Imagisle.

When I returned to the Collegium, I found my steps lagging as I approached my quarters. Was it because I wasn’t looking forward to anything in the week ahead? The corridor outside my quarters was empty, and so were they, but I could not shake a feeling of apprehension and dread as I laid out my garments for Lundi before preparing for bed.

Lundi was the coldest morning of autumn so far, with frost everywhere and a biting wind out of the northeast that rattled my windows and seeped into my quarters. Even so, I was in the duty coach before a quint past sixth glass, wearing the blue-gray patroller’s cloak that wasn’t as warm as my imager’s cloak. I walked into Third District station just after half past the glass. Lieutenant Warydt was waiting.

“Major Trowyn has suggested that your presence would be appreciated on the conscription team that will begin at the northwest corner of Mando and South Middle at seventh glass.” Warydt did not smile, for once, and for which I was grateful.

“I’ll join them now.”

Warydt nodded, saying nothing. I turned and headed for the station doors.

As I walked up Fuosta and then eastward on South Middle, I tried to remember what Maitre Jhulian had taught me about the laws concerning conscription. The five rights of citizens did not preclude searches of private property, but they did preclude seizure of property without cause. Conscription was not a seizure and was allowed for those older than fourteen who were not in school, not artisan apprentices or journeymen or higher, or otherwise engaged in trade or commerce as a proprietor or holder-or those who could show a worth of a hundred golds or more. In short, the Navy could conscript the jobless, day laborers, young idlers, and the like-and taudis-toughs . . . if they could find them. I doubted that many of the taudis-toughs would be found.

Three large stake wagons with bench seats were lined up on South Middle, opposite the ruins of the Temple. Did the marines expect to fill all those wagons with conscriptees? I certainly hadn’t seen that many young men or men who weren’t mindless elvers.

As I approached the marines gathered at the corner of Mando and South Middle, I did a quick count. Ten men-a chief, eight marines armed with truncheons of a length between a patroller’s truncheon and a riot stick, but with pistols at their belts, and a ninth marine with a bound folder. Did they need that many?

The chief kept surveying South Middle in both directions, until he saw me. Then he just waited until I stepped up to the marines.

“You’re the master imager working with the Civic Patrol?” he asked.

“Rhennthyl, Maitre D’Aspect, and liaison to the Civic Patrol.”

“You’re the one that captured those Tiempran friggers?”

“I worked with the Patrol and some of the local dwellers to bring them in. The locals didn’t want to be blamed for something they had no part in.”