Imager (18 page)

“Could be worse than the armory. They had me in the engine room of one of the riverboats. Wet and cold most of the time.”

I shuddered at the thought of being cramped into a riverboat engine room. “What do you do in the armory? Can I ask? I mean . . .”

Shannyr laughed. “You can ask. I can even tell you. I image the special powder for the percussion caps that the four-digit naval guns use.”

“You image it right into the cap?”

“That’s right. There’s no metal touching metal, no chance of a spark, and no explosions.”

Another one of those special services provided to the Council by the Collegium, I realized. How many were there?

“What about you?” he asked. “When you’re not under instruction?”

“Making metal bars.”

He winced. “That’s work.”

“I can only do so many, and I have to rest a lot.” I paused. “You know I’m new here . . . I was thinking about girlfriends. I used to have one, and some imagers are married . . .”

“They’re the lucky ones.” Shannyr shook his head. “Lots of women will give you a fling, even married ones, but not many want to marry an imager.”

“Why is that?”

“We scare ’em a bit. That interests ’em, but they won’t marry someone who scares them.”

I could see that, but I had to wonder if that happened to be true with all imagers, or if that had just been Shannyr’s own experience.

“You want to have fun with the women, when you’re free, don’t stay around Imagisle. Take a hack out to Martradon or out to some of the bistros on Nordroad or Sudroad . . .”

I listened politely, although I could see that I knew far more about where the women were in L’Excelsis than he did.

That night, after dinner, I had another idea. I went outside and imaged rubber, a thin layer of it, along the inside of a small cloth bag. Then I poured some of the caustic I had left into the bag, which I tied shut. For a while, anyway, until I was more confident in my abilities, I could carry that with me.

Then I tried to practice shields—and shadows—until I was truly exhausted. The shadows weren’t very good, and I was more than ready to climb the stairs and collapse into my bed.

Those in a family may well share the same dwelling,
but not the same home.

Both Vendrei and Samedi mornings were hard because Master Dichartyn kept pressing me on my shields. No matter how much I improved, he kept insisting that my efforts were not adequate. Then he offered an onslaught of questions, not only on what I read, but on how it all related to the Collegium and its role in Solidar. I kept those questions to myself and told Johanyr and his group of seconds only a few of the easier and more purely academic or technical ones.

On Samedi afternoon, I was waiting on the east side of the Bridge of Hopes a good half glass before three. The day was sunny, with the faintest haze, but there was a hint of chill, and I wore my cloak. On the roughly triangular space where the boulevard intersected the East River Road stood a flower seller with a weathered face, but a pleasant expression.

“Flowers, sir imager? Flowers for a lady, a friend, or family?”

For a moment, I couldn’t help smiling. “No, thank you.”

The tempting aroma of fowl roasting over charcoal on a cart across the boulevard wafted around me. For all that, it might as well have been gray and gloomy, given the way I felt. I shouldn’t have. I was healthy and had a profession, if not what I’d expected, that earned decent coins. Mother and Rousel certainly wanted to see me, and probably Remaya did. Even Father did, I suspected, even if he’d never admit it.

Two women, one in bright green and the other in scarlet, eyed me speculatively as they neared, but I wasn’t in the mood for either of their favors, even if I could have afforded them. After they passed, a mother in a worn brown coat dragged two children toward the wall separating the sidewalk from the narrow boulevard gardens in order to put as much space between the three of them and me as possible. Was she a malleable, or did she just fear imagers?

As the time neared three, the coach, with its glistening brown body and polished brasswork, appeared on the Boulevard D’Imagers. Before long, Charlsyn pulled up next to the curb, but well short of the flower seller, easily reining in the two matched chestnuts.

“Good afternoon, Charlsyn.”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

I climbed in and closed the coach door. Because of all the coaches and riders on the Boulevard D’Imagers, I surmised, Charlsyn took Marchand Avenue back to Sudroad, and then to the Midroad. It was close to half past the glass before the carriage pulled up at the side portico of the house, where Mother, Rousel, and Remaya were waiting as I stepped up under the portico.

“Good wool in that cloak and waistcoat,” observed Rousel, if with a grin.

“Mother already noticed that. Did she tell you?”

“She told me to look,” he admitted.

“You look dashing in that gray,” added Remaya with a smile. She had become rotund, and even chubby in the face, but her eyes sparkled, especially when she looked up at Rousel.

“Much more businesslike than when he was an artist,” added Father from the doorway where he stood. “Come on inside, all of you, especially you, young woman,” he added to Remaya. “The breeze isn’t good for my grandson.”

“She might be a granddaughter,” said Khethila from behind Father.

“Grandson!” yelled Culthyn from inside the family parlor.

Rousel just laughed. “He or she will be what he or she is.”

In moments, everyone was in the parlor, and Nellica was passing a tray with spiced wine, or chilled white or red. After slipping out of my cloak, I took the white.

Father had settled into his favorite chair. He didn’t wait for anyone else to sit down before he asked, “What can you tell us about this imager business?” As always, everything was business. Before I could answer, he added, “You know that last weekend a young graycoat was killed near the Nord Bridge.” He shook his head. “Shouldn’t have been there.”

I hadn’t seen that in either
Tableta
or
Veritum
. “I wouldn’t go anywhere like that.”

“I would hope not.”

“The Collegium at Imagisle is like a guild for imagers.” I settled into the straight-backed chair across from his upholstered needlepoint armchair. “When I started, I was an imager primus. Now I’m a secondus. Most imagers are tertius, I suppose just like most crafters are journeymen. There are four classes of masters.”

“Names . . . names . . . what do you do?”

“Chenkyr . . .” murmured Mother.

“It isn’t what you’re called that matters,” he replied amiably. “It’s what you do and what you earn.”

“I’m still learning,” I replied, “in the mornings, anyway. I have to learn more about science and about government and history. In the afternoons, I work.”

“What do you
do
?” A hint of exasperation colored his words.

“Imager things. I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Chenkyr . . .” Mother’s voice was firmer and louder.

“I could, but I’m not allowed to. Since I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing imaging drudgery in the workshops, I won’t. I get fed better than at Master Caliostrus’s and have a chance at earning a comfortable living.” I smiled politely. “How is the wool business?”

“Very well,” interjected Rousel cheerfully. “We’ve more than tripled sales and shipments out of Kherseilles this year. That won’t last, but with the shipping embargo levied on Caenen by the Council and by Ferrum and Jariola, we’re doing well.”

“If shipments to Caenen are embargoed . . .?” I asked.

“We just ship to factors in the Abierto Isles. They sell to Caenenan factors. We had to advance them a little credit, but the Caenenans send their own bottoms there.”

“Why won’t it last?”

Rousel shrugged. “I had a feeling things would get tense with the dualgodders. So I opened up trade with some cloth factors in the isles. They usually don’t deal that much in wool, and I had to give them . . . some considerations . . . last year, but no one else shipping out of Kherseilles had any arrangements in place. They’re all hurrying and scrambling, but for now, we’re doing nicely. More than nicely, and I’ve got an arrangement for some high-quality Caenenan cotton coming back the other way. We didn’t have that even before the embargo.”

“The Council won’t object?” I asked.

“How can they?” Rousel grinned. “We’re not selling to Caenenans. We’re selling to Abiertans. We can’t control who they sell to.”

“You can’t stop trade with laws,” added Father. “Even embargoes and warships aren’t effective. People want to buy what they want to buy, and they want to pay as little as possible.”

“Unless it’s rare, and then they bid up the price.” I paused. “Is there a difference in the tariff rate between what you’d pay if wool went directly to Caenen and what it costs going through Abierto?”

“You’re still sharp enough to be a factor,” said Rousel. “There’s only a one percent tariff between Solidar and the isles, and we have a reciprocal agreement.”

“And the difference in shipping costs?”

“The landed price per hundredweight is almost the same.”

I had to wonder why the Council bothered with the embargo.

“Can we talk about something else?” asked Mother. “Have you met anyone we know?”

“Not that I know of. There aren’t all that many imagers in all of Solidar.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” demanded Culthyn.

“It’s mathematics, stupid,” replied Khethila. “If there aren’t many imagers, then not many are born—”

“That’s enough . . . I understand, and I’m not stupid.”

I looked to Rousel and Remaya, sitting on the settee. “See what awaits you?”

“We’ll manage,” he replied.

“Are there any women imagers?” asked Remaya.

“Only a few.” Forestalling the inevitable, I quickly added, “I haven’t met any my age, but there might be one or two.”

“I hope you do.”

Behind her smile and the kindness of her words, I could sense the pity. I’d never wanted her pity, and I quickly asked, “How are you finding Kherseilles?”

“It’s charming,” she answered. “It is not too large, and we have a lovely small villa on the hills overlooking the harbor, with a pleasant breeze . . .”

After more chatter, mostly about Kherseilles, Mother rose. “Dinner is ready.”

As people began to move toward the dining chamber, Mother eased up beside me. “We’re going to have a dinner here on the thirty-fifth of Avryl. I think you’d like the people.”

“Who is she?” I couldn’t help grinning.

Mother did have the grace to blush. “She’s nice, and quite pretty, but very shy. You actually have met her younger cousin.”

“I have?”

“Quite a number of times.” Her face had a mischievous expression. “Aeylana D’Weidyn is her cousin. You painted her portrait. Her father is the renowned cabinetmaker, and his brother Tomaz is the largest produce factor in L’Excelsis. Tomaz is also a friend of your father, and we’ve invited them for dinner.”

“And the shy young lady? What’s her name?”

“Her name is Zerlenya.”

I couldn’t say that I’d met or remembered anyone named Zerlenya, and that was probably good, because few of the girls or women I’d met over the years had impressed me. Only a handful had—Remaya, Kalyssa, Larguera, and Seliora—and I hadn’t heard anything about Kalyssa in years, and Larguera had married some heir to a brewery fortune or something like that.

“I’ll be here, and I’ll be as charming as I can.”

“More charming than that, please, dear.” Her smile was affectionate. “Now . . . enjoy the dinner. It’s one of your favorites—the apple-stuffed pork crown roast.”

It was one of my favorites, and I did enjoy it. The conversation at dinner was pleasant. Even Father stopped being the businessman and told stories, including one I’d never heard about the time when he’d first been buying wool and didn’t know that sangora was coney hair.

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.

The greatest curse is to inherit wealth or position
without ability.

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.