L. Modesitt - Imager

He did have a point there.

“Is that all you’ve discovered?”

“I’ve also learned a few other things, sir. Diazt’s brother-he was a taudischef in the hellhole-took out a contract on me . . . for ten golds. After I killed the first assassin, he tried to recover the golds and was garroted. The garrote rope held a silver knot, but there have been two attempts on me since then, presumably not from Diazt’s family or the source of the silver knot.”

“Where did you find this out?”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, sir. It was hard enough to find it out as it was, and I’d like to be able to ask again, if I need to.”

“If that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is.” He paused. “You didn’t promise anything that might compromise-”

“No, sir. There’s no crime or wrongdoing involved.”

“How did you . . .” He shook his head. “All I can say, Rhennthyl, is that you had best keep improving your imaging abilities.” He paused. “Unless you hear from me, you’re to meet with Maitre Dyana tomorrow evening at seventh glass in the corridor outside the dining hall. You need to learn about poisons. A great deal, before it’s too late.” He stood, stifling a yawn.

“Oh . . . one other thing, sir. I did discover the name of the woman in the miniature. A later etching is in one of her books.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“Would you, sir?”

He gave me a wry smile. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that to yourself. The fewer who discover we know that, the better the chance we have to use that knowledge to find out who’s shooting at you, and those other junior imagers who have not been fortunate enough to have your skills.” He stifled another yawn. “Good evening, Rhennthyl.”

There wasn’t much else I cared to say. I nodded. “Good evening, sir.”

Then I went back to my quarters and changed into my imager grays before going to dinner. When I got to the dining hall, I found Martyl with Menyard and Reynol, and we sat near the head of the table. I was more than a little surprised to see Master Dichartyn at the masters’ table, because he almost never was there for dinner, not that I’d expected it, since he had a wife and children. With him was another man I’d never seen, perhaps ten years older than I was.

“Who’s the master with Dichartyn?” I asked Martyl.

“He has to be another master, but I’ve never seen him. He might be from Estisle or one of the other Collegia.”

“Or a regional,” added Reynol.

“Regional?” I’d never heard of the term.

“Could be,” mused Martyl. “They report periodically to Master Dichartyn.”

“What’s a regional?” I finally asked.

“A regional representative of the Collegium. All the cities that don’t have Collegia have them, and some of the larger towns do. They’re . . . well . . . let’s say that they operate sort of like field types do, except inside Solidar.”

For a moment, I just sat there, holding my wineglass. Then I took a sip. There was nothing in any of what I had read about regionals, but then there was nothing about silent guards or covert imagers, either. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I’d known . . . and perhaps still did.

When I returned from the Council Chateau on Jeudi, I found a letter awaiting me in my letter box. It was addressed to me in Mother’s perfect script, and she must have dispatched it by special messenger, rather than by regular post. After looking at it several times, I broke the seal right there in the corridor, opened it, and began to read.

Dear Rhennthyl,

I was delighted to receive your letter, which arrived at the house in my absence, and I am most certain that your father will be equally pleased, especially if you have found a young woman of suitable background and intelligence. Knowing that you have found someone suitable in background and demeanor would bring great happiness to both of us.

Of course, we would be more than delighted to meet her over dinner here at the house, and, if you have no objections, we would suggest next Samedi, the twenty-eighth, at fifth glass.

Khethila was pleased that you stopped by the factorage, as am I. It never hurts to have a male relative of such import appear. Upon reading your letter, which I did share with her, she mentioned that you had declined an invitation to dine with her, and that the reasons for that demurral were obvious in light of your letter. Like your father and me, she looks forward to meeting Mistress Seliora D’Shelim.

The implications were clear enough. While I knew Seliora was certainly up to the not-so-silent inquisition, I wasn’t certain that I would be.

The only other notable aspect of Jeudi was my meeting with Maitre Dyana. She was as composed, as direct, and as contemptuous of foolishness and thoughtless questions as ever, as when I offered a question as to why there was such sudden urgency in my learning about poisons.

“Why indeed? Dear boy, please think. You have shields as strong as any imager, and stronger than most. They could be far more effective if you would practice finesse as well, but you are young, and finesse is seldom appreciated by the young and strong, not until they have been defeated by old age and treachery, both of which are far more effective than thoughtless youth and strength.”

She’d as much as admitted that, were I careful, my shields would protect me against direct attacks. “That suggests that I will be placed in situations where I will be vulnerable to such treachery.”

“Brilliant. Positively brilliant. Now . . . might we continue?” Without waiting for a response, she pointed to the goblets lined up on the conference table of the chamber where she had instructed me before. “What you need to do is image the tiniest bit of the wine or whatever you suspect onto a test paper strip and watch. The paper strips are treated. If it’s a cyanotic poison . . . the strip will turn green, if joraban, a maroon . . .”

I could see a problem there.

“Yes?”

“If there’s joraba in red wine . . .”

“You don’t need to worry about that. You can only put joraba in clear liquids. Its nature is such that it tends to change the colors of anything. But . . .” She shrugged. “. . . that does mean you need to be aware of the proper colors of various wines. That is one reason why High Holders are such experts on vintages. Those who are not often suffer strange and fatal maladies . . .”

I had no doubt that the coming sessions with Maitre Dyana would be even more painful.

Vendrei was without incident, excepting for another long evening session with Maitre Dyana. So was early Samedi morning, except that we had to run through a heavy rain, and my exercise clothes were sodden by the time I returned to my quarters. Even so, I managed to get to breakfast, eat, and arrive at my makeshift studio with enough time to get my paints set up and even get in a little work on the background of the portrait before Master Poincaryt arrived punctually at the first bell of eighth glass.

Recalling his “homily” about observation, I watched as he entered the studio, noting how, without seeming to, he surveyed me and the entire space of the converted workroom before taking his seat. I could see that might also be a good habit to form.

As he sat down, he smiled. “Yes . . . I do. Most covert imagers learn that early, if they survive.”

“I’m still working on what you suggested, sir.”