L. Modesitt - Imager

I gave the best answer I could come up with. “So that we’ll be better imagers?”

“That’s true as far as it goes.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Your brain knows more than you recall at any one point,” he went on. “If you have a friend, when you meet him, you don’t think about everything you know about him at that moment, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“But all your actions and all your words take into account everything you know, even if you don’t try to remember it all. What all this study about metals and science is designed to do is to provide the same kind of knowledge in order to improve your imaging skills.”

That made sense. I could see that I was already doing that.

“Do you have the two cylinders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see what you can do.”

I had the two cylinders, but I hadn’t even thought about them. Still, was air any different from porridge, except thinner? I took out the larger cylinder and propped it in place sideways on Master Dichartyn’s writing desk with two books that had been on the far corner, then held the smaller cylinder. Could I just move it? I decided to try.

The small cylinder vanished from my hand and appeared in the middle of the larger one, hanging there for just an instant before clunking down onto the bottom side of the larger cylinder.

Master Dichartyn’s eyes flicked from my hand to the cylinder and then back to my hand. He nodded slowly. “I wondered when you’d make that connection. Some never do. They’re the ones who remain seconds.”

“Seconds?” I blurted.

“Right now, you have the raw talent of a tertius, but you don’t have the understanding necessary for a secondus of your ability. We’re going to have to work on that.”

“Yes, sir.” While I didn’t mind the work, I didn’t much care for the way in which he’d expressed the words.

“Why is there an absolute prohibition on an imager using his ability for any significant financial advantage for himself personally or for any other individual?”

I’d read that section. So I answered quickly. “That would give him or her an unfair advantage over others, and that would create anger against the Collegium.”

“That’s very true, Rhenn. It’s also very incomplete. Can you think of other reasons?”

“It might create conflict within the Collegium.”

“That’s also true. I’d like you to think about that for a while. Let’s look at it from another perspective. You mentioned that you’d used imaging in painting your own work, but what if you used your talent to copy an entire painting of a master?”

“It wouldn’t work, sir. There’s too much detail.”

Dichartyn sighed and gave a weary smile. “That’s a bad example, then. Let’s take something simpler, a gold crown. You could probably image one now. Doing so would leave you weak and dizzy, if not in far worse shape, and, even if I said you could, you shouldn’t try it, but in time you would be able to image a handful or so of them, at least in the right place. They’d be real gold, not counterfeit, and no one would be the wiser. Why would that be wrong?”

“Besides the fact that the rules of the Collegium forbid it?” I had to think about that. “I don’t know that I can answer that, because that sort of imaging is work, and if I imaged real gold pieces, what’s the difference between painting a portrait and receiving golds and creating the golds. I mean . . . someone mines the ore, and someone smelts it, and someone coins it, and they all get paid. So where is that any different from my imaging a gold crown?”

This time I got a cold look. I just waited. I really did want to know.

“Did you get a number of extra assignments in the grammaire, Rhennthyl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can see why. Let me see if I can make this clear with a different example.” He frowned. “You’ve heard of the Cyella Ruby, haven’t you?”

“The one that sits on the scepter of the Priest-Autarch of Caenen? Yes, sir.”

“He’s the High Priest. What about the Storaci Emerald?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What if you imaged an exact, an absolutely perfect duplicate?”

“Sir? How would I ever get close enough to see the originals?”

He gave me an even colder look.

“There’d be two,” I said slowly, trying to think what he wanted.

“Yes, there would be.” He paused, then asked, “What makes them so valuable? What would happen if you imaged two . . . or three?”

“Oh! They wouldn’t be so valuable because they wouldn’t be so rare.”

“That’s one thing. How would the owners feel about being robbed of that value? And if the valuable object has some religious context or value . . . does the duplicate? Who could tell which one happened to be the one with that value? What might the Caenenans do?”

“They could do . . . anything.” Of that, I knew enough to be sure.

“You need to think about what the imagers of the Collegium image-you’ve seen some of what we do-and why we’re so careful about what we allow to be imaged. Also, not all things imaged turn out to be true duplicates. I trust you can see what difficulty that might create.”

“Yes, sir.” I paused. “What laws would punish someone who could image who got caught by making a bad copy?”

“If that person happened to be an adult, older than eighteen, and the crime was a major offense, he or she would be executed. Committing any major crime through the means of imaging is a capital offense. Younger than that and they’d be sent to us for training. Some of them don’t survive training, but imagers are rare enough that it’s worth the effort. Some of the young ones don’t know it’s a crime, and some don’t see that they have any choice.”

I felt cold inside. I was older than eighteen, and I had been when the fire and explosion had killed Master Caliostrus.

“That should give you enough to think about for now. Today, I’m going to take you over to the machine shop for some instruction. Then you can help with cleaning duties.”

That sounded like an assignment I’d rather do without, not that I had any choice, especially after what I’d just learned.

I’d been at the Collegium three weeks and three days, and on that Meredi morning, Maris eighteenth, I was shivering, even under my covers. I forced myself from bed and peered through the window. Outside, fat flakes of snow were drifting down from a dark gray sky, although not more than two or three digits’ worth of snow had piled up on the quadrangle. Spring was supposed to arrive in a week or so, but it felt like winter. I pulled on the robe that had come with the room and trudged out and down to the showers and bathing rooms. I did like being clean and clean-shaven. I just didn’t care much for the process, and not in winter-cold weather.

On the way back from the shower, as I climbed the steps from the lower level, I heard heavy footsteps. When I stepped away from the landing, I saw two obdurate guards in their black uniforms carrying a stretcher. They headed down the hallway to an open door two doors before mine. Before I reached that doorway they had entered and then come out, carrying a figure covered with a blanket. One of them closed the door one-handed, bracing the stretcher on his knee for a moment, and then they strode toward me. I flattened myself against the stone wall of the corridor, not that I really needed to. Neither looked at me, but most obdurates ignored those of us who were still learning.

Standing in the corridor between the now-closed door and mine were two imagers. Although they looked to be several years younger than I was, they were both seconds, and had said little to me. From what I could see, they were both upset and trying not to show it. The taller one’s cheeks were damp, as if he’d wiped away tears.