L. Modesitt: Imager's challenge

Clovyl stepped over to me. “Not too bad for a cripple.” Even though he was an imager tertius, he was in charge of conditioning and training for all imagers in the covert branch of the Collegium, and he knew exactly how much to press me. “You’re improving.”

Not too bad at all, considering I’d only been able to run for the past week or so, but then, I’d been in good shape before the explosion that had thrown me into the stone wall surrounding the Council Chateau, and my shields had taken the brunt of the impact, although Master Draffyd had pointed out that was also why I’d been bruised all over, because they had distributed the impact as much as cushioning it.

“We’ll wait another few weeks before you get more training in hand-to-hand combat,” he added. “Master Dichartyn thinks you’ll need it sooner or later.”

I just nodded. My suspicions were that Master Dichartyn felt I needed it more to keep me humble than for any other reason . . . but he’d been right most of the time. I just had to remember what Seliora’s Pharsi grandmother had said-that while Master Dichartyn and the Collegium were not my enemies, neither were they my friends. The Collegium looked out for the best interests of imagers as a whole, not for individual imagers, and individuals often paid the price. That was why Claustyn-one of the friendliest imagers I’d known-had died in Caenen, the only reminder a stone plaque bearing his name on the memorial wall adjoining the dining hall. I didn’t even know how or why he’d died.

“I’ll let you know,” Clovyl added before turning away and addressing Dartazn. “You’re slowing down there.”

“Late night last night, sir.” Dartazn smiled apologetically.

I couldn’t help grinning as I walked back toward my quarters in the building that housed single imagers tertius and a few single junior masters like me.

After showering and shaving, I dressed and headed for the dining hall. Once there, I still felt strange taking a seat at the masters’ table, the smaller table at one end of the hall, set perpendicular to the two long tables, one for imagers primus, and the other for imagers secondus and tertius. My lack of ease came from the fact that I’d only been a master for a little over two weeks, and I was by far the youngest at the table. Ferlyn was the only master who was close to my age-the only officially revealed master, at least, because some of the field and covert operatives, such as Baratyn, who headed security at the Council Chateau, held the hidden rank and pay of Maitre D’Aspect. I sat next to Ferlyn, and we were joined by Isola who, although technically a tertius, was granted master privileges as the chorister of the Nameless at the Anomen D’Imagisle.

“Good morning, Rhenn, Ferlyn.”

“Good morning,” I replied. Isola was always cheerful, and while we were generally expected to attend services on Solayi evening, for me that had been no real problem, because her homilies were usually so good that it didn’t bother me that I wasn’t even sure whether I believed in the Nameless.

“Did either of you see Veritum this morning?” asked Ferlyn.

“I’m part of Clovyl’s morning torture group. I usually don’t get a chance to pick up the newsheets until after breakfast. What’s happened now?”

“The Oligarch of Jariola claims that the Ferrans are massing forces on the border next to the coal mines, and Chief Councilor Suyrien has sent a communique to Ferrial suggesting that Solidar regards that as a hostile and provocative act.”

“Is our southern fleet heading north from Caenen and Tiempre?” asked Isola as she passed the flatcakes and berry syrup to me.

“There’s nothing in either Tableta or Veritum ,” Ferlyn replied. “The First Speaker of Tiempre issued another warning about our trade agreement with Caenen, though.”

“Their implied surrender,” I said dryly. “What did he say?”

“Something about now Solidar would pay deeply and in its heart for the treachery of its agreement with the demons of Caenen, that sort of thing.” Ferlyn snorted.

“They’re unhappy we didn’t declare war on Caenen over their killings of our envoy’s staff members,” I suggested. “Then they could have had an excuse to invade and grab land.”

“Submissive treaties are a less expensive way for the Council to get cheaper raw materials.”

“The Abiertan Assembly is debating a declaration of neutrality, or they were last week,” offered Isola. “If war breaks out, that would deny us use of the ports in the Abierto Isles for recoaling and resupply, wouldn’t it?”

“If they pass such a measure,” Ferlyn replied, “but I’d judge that they’re stalling to keep Ferrum from declaring war on them, while they wait to see what we’ll do.”

That seemed more likely to me, but I concentrated on the corn flatcakes and sausage and syrup, along with the mug of hot tea that I’d poured.

“Does Ferrum have that large a navy?” asked Isola.

“Only ours is larger, and not by much, but our ships are newer and better. They have a larger army and more troop transports. If we didn’t stop them on the high seas, they could certainly overrun the Isles.”

I didn’t pretend to understand the hostility of the Ferrans, especially since both Ferrum and Solidar tended to emphasize freedom of commerce, and neither was controlled by a hereditary ruler, despot, or oligarchy in the way lands like Jariola, Caenen, or Tiempre were. My own experiences with the late and less than honorable Klauzvol Vhillar suggested that they were every bit as ruthless as the Collegium was reputed to be.

I just listened as Isola and Ferlyn talked.

After breakfast, I hurried north along the west side of the quadrangle toward the large, oblong, gray granite building that held workrooms of various sizes, as well as some of the specialized manufacturing chambers-all lead-lined so that one imager’s work didn’t affect another’s, the same reason why we all had separate quarters with lead-lined walls and leaded glass windows-because imagers’ dreams and thoughtless desires could have most unfortunate consequences-as I well knew. After I’d become an imager tertius, Master Dichartyn had arranged for one of the smallest workrooms with northern light to be turned into a portraiture studio, and one of my additional duties, as possible, was to paint the portraits of senior imagers. I’d only just completed the first-that of Master Poincaryt-not only the head of the Collegium, but also a Maitre D’Esprit, one of but two, the other being Master Dichartyn. Master Poincaryt was supposed to come by the studio to see it sometime after eighth glass. He hadn’t seen the finished version, and I was more than a bit nervous about showing it to him.

Because I reached my workroom-studio with a good quarter glass to spare, I spent the time sketching an alternative design for the portrait of Seliora. While the convention was to paint most portraits-especially of women-in a sitting position, I’d decided to do Seliora standing. I’d seen the miniature that Emanus had done of his unacknowledged daughter-Madame Juniae D’Shendael-and that had been done with her standing, and it had a power that a sitting portrait seldom possessed.

Absently, I still wondered exactly what the connection had been between Vhillar and Madame D’Shendael. They hadn’t been lovers. Political allies, perhaps, since Vhillar had represented Ferrum-which opposed all blood-based hereditary nobility, such as the High Holders of Solidar or the Oligarchy of Jariola-and since Madame D’Shendael had been writing and pressing for a Council of Solidar with at least some councilors being directly elected, rather than being appointed by their guilds or associations or by a vote among High Holders.