L. Modesitt - Imager

When I left and Charlsyn drove me back to the Collegium-or the east side of the Bridge of Hopes-it was close to the eighth glass of the evening. I did realize one thing when I stepped out of the carriage just short of the Bridge of Hopes that night. For some people, home is always there. For others, while the structure and the family may still be there, and they may all still care for you, it’s no longer home. I was one of those. Was it that I was an imager? Or had it been that way from the time I’d wanted to be an artist?

I walked across the bridge quickly, alert for whatever or whoever might be around, but I saw no one, except a few figures in gray from a distance. Although Artiema was full, the faint haze dulled her luminous light. To the west the quarter disc of Erion seemed redder than usual, as if the lesser hunter were somehow lying in wait for the greater huntress. Was that because I felt that someone, or more than a single person, was watching? Yet no one appeared as I neared the quarters building.

I had time to work on my shields, and that I could do safely in my chamber. I’d already done the reading assigned by Master Dichartyn.

There was nothing to keep me from leaving Imagisle on Solayi, except no one I wanted to see and no desire to spend my few silvers in L’Excelsis merely for the sake of spending them. Besides, I was still worried about my imaging shields, especially after having had the feeling of being watched the night before. So, after breakfast, which I ate near several thirds at a table with less than ten people scattered along a length that could hold close to a hundred, I walked back to my chamber and read my assignments, trying to think of the kind of questions Master Dichartyn might ask. After every few pages, I stopped and worked on my shields.

By late morning the overcast had lifted, and I decided to take a break from the indoor studying and try to work on fog and shadows. After leaving my room, I made my way down the steps to the main level and then across the quadrangle and southward to the grove north of the chapel. Once more, not only was someone watching me the entire way, I felt, but he or they kept watching while I struggled with concealment projections. Fog proved to be easier to create, but it tended not to last long, vanishing shortly after the sun struck it. It did linger in the shadows, but I had trouble making it thick enough to cloak me. What I created might work at night . . . maybe.

Shadows were something else. After perhaps a quarter glass, I figured out how to create shadows-an imaging shield that blocked sunlight without being visible-but that didn’t help much, because in any light bright enough to create shadows, I’d still be visible, and that meant I needed another approach. Even after a long glass of experimentation, I couldn’t think of one.

When I walked back north to the dining hall from the grove, just before the ten bells of noon began to strike, I saw Diazt and Johanyr talking some ten yards outside the main entrance. Johanyr’s voice was low and intent, but he stopped for a moment and glared at me, then snorted, before returning his attention to Diazt.

What had I done to make him angry, except try to avoid him? Or had they been the ones observing me? If they were, there wasn’t much I could do about it. So I went inside and sat next to Shannyr, who, unlike Diazt and Johanyr, gave me a friendly smile.

“Johanyr’s not in a very good mood,” I said quietly.

Shannyr shook his head. “He’s not. Hasn’t been since Vendrei. Stewing in his own sweat. Master Ghaend told him that he’d never make tertius if he didn’t study. Also said that if he didn’t learn more, he’d have to go to work with the seconds like me.” Shannyr’s tone was totally without rancor or bitterness.

“Master Ghaend said that?”

“No. Master Ghaend told him he couldn’t play at being a student, and that he’d have to learn or go to work. I heard Johanyr telling Diazt that. He was so angry that anyone in ten yards could have heard.”

“Why doesn’t he just study?” I had an idea why, but I wanted to hear what Shannyr said.

“He was born Johanyr D’Ryel. Might have something to do with it.”

“He comes from the High Holders, and he’s an imager?”

“Doesn’t matter where you come from.” He laughed softly. “Me, I’m one of the fortunate ones. Till I came here, never knew when I’d eat next. Ma was happy to know I’d get fed and happier to get the gold.”

“You don’t mind working in the armory?”

“Why’d I mind? I’d be slaving for some factor, lugging barrels and the like, or I’d already have been press-ganged into the Navy or conscripted.” He smiled. “Much better to work as a common imager. Diazt doesn’t see that. He thinks he’s so much smarter than Floryn. He’s just the same, but not as smart.”

“Did Diazt come from the taudis?”

“The hellhole.”

That was the worst slum in L’Excelsis, except that-unlike the taudis below South Middle-it wasn’t actually in the city, but off the highway that Sudroad turned into some five milles south of the Avenue D’Artisans. “He’s better off here.”

“He doesn’t think so. He ran a ganglet-kids doing stuff for the elvers and stealing from the sansespoirs.”

“He was in control, and he doesn’t like it when other people are.” I paused, then added, “It sounds like Johanyr doesn’t much like it, either.”

“No matter who you are,” Shannyr said, “there’s always someone else tougher. Saw that growing up.”

“Or brighter or better-connected . . . or whatever.”

“You miss painting?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “But, in a way, imaging’s like that. I don’t know that I’d have ever discovered I could image if I hadn’t been a portraiturist. Did you ever . . .” I wasn’t quite sure how to ask whether he’d worked at anything. “. . . want to do anything besides be an imager?”

“Fieldwork or the mines-those were the choices out in Tacqueville. Didn’t care much for either, but I was working a ditch crew when I imaged a lousy copper for Ma. So bad that she knew I’d made it. Hadn’t seen that many.” Shannyr laughed. “Armory’s better any day.”

Diazt was the type who’d rather run a gang in the hellholes of Solidar than answer to anyone in twice the comfort. But weren’t more than a few people like that?

When I left the table and Shannyr, Diazt and Johanyr were standing beyond the archway. Neither looked at me as I passed, and I even offered a polite smile. Behind me, though, I could hear a few muttered words.

“Stuff’s too easy for him . . .”

“Rodie . . . got to be a rodie . . .”

Me? A rodent, a snoop, reporting back to the senior imagers? That didn’t make sense. Why would I give up being a portraiturist to become an imager, and then an informer for Master Dichartyn or any other master? I almost turned and snapped back that they were imbeciles and master imagers didn’t need toadies, but my guts told me that would only make matters worse.

Besides, if I didn’t react, they couldn’t be sure if I’d overheard them.

On Solayi evening and at breakfast on Lundi, Johanyr and Diazt stood outside the entrance to the dining hall and looked hard at me. I just smiled back. They didn’t return the smile, nor did they choose to sit anywhere near me. I sat with Shannyr. He was good company.

After breakfast, when I was finally admitted to Master Dichartyn’s study, he didn’t test my shields at all. Instead, he concentrated on asking me questions about the Council and governing. Once he’d determined that I’d read the pages he’d assigned, he smiled.