I thought about that for a moment. It might keep the subject changed, and I was no longer forbidden to use imaging, but I had to use it appropriately, of course. “All right.” I glanced to the bookshelf, then smiled. At one end of a line of books was a bookend, a marble L shape with a crystal globe anchored to both sides of the green marble. There was only one because, years before, Rousel had knocked the other off when he’d thrown a school book at me, and it had fallen and shattered. I stood and walked to the bookshelf, looking at the bookend. There had to be enough stone and sand nearby outside the house so that imaging wouldn’t be that hard. I concentrated, visualizing a second bookend, identical to the first.
Then, there was one, sitting in the open space of the shelf beside the first.
I turned to Mother. “A bit late, but . . .”
Her mouth had opened, just a little. I had the feeling that she’d never been quite sure whether I was really an imager. Father’s eyes had widened.
“Is that all?” Disappointment colored Culthyn’s voice.
“Can you do that?” I countered.
“No.” The response was sullen.
“Imaging is like anything else. It’s work, and it has to be practical.”
“You take all the fun out of things.”
“Culthyn.” Mother’s voice was like ice in midwinter. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry, Rhenn.”
“If you don’t want to go to your sleeping chamber, you will be civil to your brother,” Father added. “From what I’ve heard, there aren’t many who can do what he just did.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before anyone else could speak, I did. “Father, I’d be interested in learning what you’ve heard about trade and shipping, especially between Solidar and Ferrum or Jariola.” I did want to know, and I didn’t want the conversation headed back to more questions about Seliora.
“Well . . .” He rubbed his thumbs against the sides of his forefingers, the way he sometimes did when he was thinking. “I heard from Peliagryn that there was a skirmish or something between some Ferran ships and ours in the north ocean, and most of their vessels got sunk. After that, the factors in the isles sent word to Rousel that traders in Ferrial are refusing to accept Solidaran wools. They’re afraid of confiscation if matters get any worse . . . things aren’t quite so bad with Jariola. At the same time, I really have trouble with the Oligarch. Those types don’t really understand commerce at all . . .”
I listened carefully, and not just out of politeness.
Later, we had tea and cakes before I left, and Mother didn’t press me again on Seliora, but she did mention three times how much she was looking forward to meeting her.
That evening at services, Chorister Isola offered a phrase in her homily that, once more, stuck with me as I walked back to my quarters, perhaps because of what Culthyn had said about my imaging not seeming to be so much.
“. . . Exalting one’s name is a vanity of vanities, for a name is merely an ephemeral label that will vanish and be forgotten soon after we have turned to ashes and dust. Even those whose names are remembered are forgotten, because all that is remembered is a label. To seek to do great deeds for ethical or practical reasons is a mark of courage or ambition, if not both; to do so to make one’s name famous is a vanity of the Namer.”
I could see that was another example of the narrowest of paths, as Grandmama Diestra had put it. But I had the feeling that all the paths before me were narrow.
65
Perfection can lead to great imperfection.
While I tried to run down Master Dichartyn on Lundi, he didn’t show up at the Collegium before I had to leave for the Council Chateau. Then, as it often seemed at the beginning of the week, little happened, and we were back at the Collegium well before fifth glass. I actually found Master Dichartyn in his study and able to see me.
“What do you have to report?”
“On Samedi night, someone followed me and took another set of shots . . .” I explained the details of what had happened, as well as my failures with the oil and the strange shield.
“The oil was a good idea,” he said with a nod, “but the way you tried to apply it shows a lack of experience. Think of it this way. A shield will deflect things thrown at it, but what about those things already there or placed before it?”
I could have hit my head with my palm. So obvious! All I’d had to do would have been to image the oil on the stones beyond the shield so that it was in place when he ran over it.
“That’s how you learn. By making and surviving mistakes.”
“What about the other imager’s shield?”
“That just confirms that he’s a foreign imager. He’s more than likely the one who hired the Ferran. That’s almost a certainty.”
“But why are they still after me?”
“They think you know something. Do you?” The corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes weren’t smiling.
“I don’t think so, but I thought of something else. You’ve probably already figured this out. This year the number of young or junior imagers who’ve been killed is much higher than ever, and almost all have been shot. But why would anyone kill young imagers? The only answer I could come up with was because they can’t kill older ones, but that means someone has decided to keep killing the younger ones so that in time there won’t be any older ones.”
“You’re right. That’s the most likely conclusion. We don’t have any proof, but the same thing was happening to young imagers in Liantigo and Nacliano. Unlike here, there they did kill several assassins and the killings have stopped for now. One assassin was caught, and he confessed that he’d been paid five golds for every killing, but he couldn’t identify who paid him.
“It has to be someone from someplace like Caenen or Jariola or Ferrum, or maybe even Tiempre,” I said.
“Possibly, but those aren’t the only lands that don’t like imagers, and assassinations, even five golds-or ten-a head are far cheaper than war.”
What surprised me was that Master Dichartyn didn’t seem all that upset. Was that because such attacks had been more common over the years than I knew? And why hadn’t they caught the assassins in L’Excelsis when they had in Westisle and Estisle?
“It seems odd-”
“That we still have assassins at large?” He shook his head. “You killed one. I’ve killed one. So has another imager. Three were killed in Westisle and two in Estisle, and there have been no more killings there for over two months. What that proves is that whoever is in charge of the operation is here, and that there is probably only one person from whatever land is involved, certainly no more than two. Is there anything else?”
Not about that, because he wasn’t about to say. “The ranks of the Collegium don’t show a Maitre D’Image, sir. Have there been many?”
“The Collegium-and Solidar-is fortunate to have one every few generations. More often would not necessarily be good for either. After the great imager of Rex Regis razed the walls of L’Excelsis and destroyed a third of the Bovarian population, and then created, or re-created, the Council Chateau, there was a certain amount of fear of imagers. Supposedly, that was why the first Hall of Imagers was created, as much to identify where imagers were as anything. That hall was actually right about where we are now . . .”
I’d known that the first Hall had been the start of the Collegium, but it was strange, in a way, to be sitting where it had been.
“. . . the fear died down over time, but never abated, although it was helped when Cyran destroyed Rex Defou and put his son on the throne. Knowing there are so few great imagers-those whom we would term Maitres D’Image today-the Council will defer to one, knowing that they are infrequent, not that they have much choice, but it is another form of balance. Other lands know that one could rise, and they do not wish to provoke Solidar. In times when the Collegium does not have one, Solidar will not press other lands too hard. Nor will the Council even when one does head the Collegium at the height of his powers, because to do so would invite retaliation after his death . . .”