L. Modesitt - Imager

At that moment, Dartazn gestured, and I joined him, Martyl, and Nansyar, a third I knew only by name and face.

“I see you were reading about the strange and wondrous events in the world.”

I nodded as I poured some tea. “The events in Caena were strange and wondrous, but not unexpected. I’d hope that the cost wasn’t another name on a plaque.”

“As do I,” added Martyl, “but that’s something we’ll just have to wait out.”

“What do you think about the taudis explosions?”

“Pure happenstance.” Dartazn’s words were edged with irony overlaid with gentle sarcasm. “What do you think?”

“About the same.”

Nansyar glanced from Dartazn to me, and then to Martyl. “I hate it when you covert types do that.”

“We all have our little secrets,” said Martyl, with a laugh. “You don’t tell us what goes on in the armory laboratories.”

After that, we talked about how the communique might affect the situation between Ferrum and Jariola. About all we agreed upon was that the cooling down in Otelyrn would allow the Navy to move most of its warships to the waters off Jariola and Ferrum. Then we took the duty coach to the Council Chateau, where I did post the letter, but where nothing unusual or of import occurred on Lundi . . . or Mardi.

On Meredi morning, though, right after we arrived, Baratyn gathered us together. He smiled, not unkindly, as he glanced at the three of us. “We are approaching the end of Agostos, and I imagine some of you know what that means.”

Dartazn nodded solemnly. Martyl showed no expression, and I just stood there, not having any idea what Baratyn meant.

“On the last Friday of Agostos, Vendrei, the thirty-fourth, is the annual Harvest Ball of the Council. You will be present, and in addition to keeping your eyes open and your abilities ready, you will be expected to dance, when necessary and if asked, or if you see a lady in an embarrassing situation and clearly needing a partner. This takes precedence over all other personal and professional engagements, unless directly mandated otherwise by Master Dichartyn. Is that clear? Good. Now for today. The Council will be debating the communique from Caenen, and the Executive Council has decreed that no visitors or petitioners will be received.”

After Baratyn dismissed us to our assignments, I turned to Dartazn. “Why is this ball on a Vendrei?”

“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one to ask that. I did, two years ago. Master Dichartyn was not kind.” He smiled. “It was originally a function only for High Holders, and having it on Vendrei made the point that the common working and trade types could not have attended even if they so wished.”

“Even when the Councils then had guild and factor councilors?”

He nodded. “The Executive Council was composed of High Holders for the first century. It was also a way of emphasizing their . . . superiority.”

I’d forgotten the early makeup of the Executive Council. “Thank you.”

Right after a very short break for a bite to eat just after noon, Baratyn walked over to where I was watching the upper west corridor.

“Master Dichartyn sent a message. You’re to report to his study as soon as you return to the Collegium this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir. Did he say why?”

Baratyn offered a wry smile. “He never does.”

I hadn’t seen Master Dichartyn since the previous Vendrei, but that was no surprise.

Once I got back to the Collegium, I didn’t go straight to the administration building, but made a very slight detour through my quarters to pick up the felt bag Seliora had given me. Then I continued on to his study.

The door was closed, and I knocked.

“Come in, Rhennthyl, and close the door.”

I did, and then took the seat before his desk.

“What have you been up to?” Master Dichartyn still looked tired. “What have you discovered?”

“Were all the explosions mentioned in Veritum what you used to deal with spies?” I asked in return.

“Rhennthyl . . .”

I ignored the stern tone and dropped the bag with the bullets in it on the writing desk. Even through the cloth, they made a satisfactory clunk. “These were fired at me on Samedi night.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would provide a somewhat longer explanation, Rhenn.”

I did, without details about exactly where I had been or with whom, just that I’d been hailing a hack on Nordroad at the time I’d been fired upon.

When I had finished, he took the bag, eased the bullets out of it, and examined them. Then he looked at me again. “What flattened them?”

“My shields. What else? The Ferran, if that’s who it was, is a very good shot.”

Master Dichartyn gave a low whistle. “If I’m not mistaken, those are from a Ferran sniper’s rifle-but a midrange weapon, with a more massive bullet. It’s designed to penetrate more than flesh-unarmored carriages, for example. It is a good thing you’ve been working on your shields.”

At that point, I wanted to strangle him. I forced a smile. “I understand your position, sir, and the idea that there are things I should not know because I have no need to know. I am very junior in your organization. There isn’t anyone any more junior. But . . . if you will pardon me, I am getting very tired of being a target and not knowing why.” I wanted to point out that I doubted many imagers could have survived those bullets, and that it might not be a bad idea to give me more information if he wanted to keep that talent around the Collegium. I didn’t. I wanted to see what he’d say. Besides, it was clear that withholding information worked two ways, and not telling him that I knew what he wasn’t saying might work to my advantage. The way things were going, silence couldn’t work any more to my disadvantage than offering more than he asked for. For the sake of the Nameless, and with a quick silent prayer not to let me fall prey to the Namer, I hoped so.

“Rhennthyl . . .”That single word carried great exasperation.

I ignored it and replied politely, “Yes, sir?”

He looked at me, attempting intimidation.

I returned the look, not bothering to look away. I didn’t feel antagonistic; I just didn’t feel like being subservient. I also held full shields, if very close to me.

After a moment, he nodded, then spoke. “You know how few imagers we have, and even fewer have the capabilities you and those like you possess. How can we question everyone about everything? Even if we had enough imagers, or could use all the civic patrollers, do you think that the citizens of L’Excelsis would put up with it for long?”

“No, sir. They’re wary of us as it is.”

“Every action has a link to something, and if we can make our enemies act, then that proves their danger and also provides that link. One of our duties-mine and yours-is simply to be targets, to offer our enemies someone and something at which to strike, so that we can discover them and destroy them. Why do you think Maitre Dyana and I have spent so much time and effort on building your shields and your techniques with them?”

“So that I can be a target and survive, clearly.”

“And so that others can as well,” he said gently. “Every single time you, Martyl, Dartazn, or Baratyn, or the others, remove someone who is a danger, you reinforce the Collegium, and Solidar. Every time you survive an assassination attempt you do the same.”

“Sir . . . won’t people learning that make them even more afraid of us?”

“Think about it, Rhenn. How many people does an assassin dare tell? And what did that hack driver see? He saw you fall or get knocked down. You got up and took the hack. That’s dangerous? The only one who’s likely to feel fear is the assassin.”