“Even if you want to make Councilor Ramsael trip and crack his skull,” added Martyl, almost under his breath.
“Especially if you want that,” Baratyn riposted. “We’re not here to like them. We’re here to preserve them so that we don’t end up with something worse.”
I knew Ramsael was a High Holder from Kephria, but I’d never seen him. I had the feeling that one of the hardest things was going to be matching councilors’ names with their faces.
“In addition . . . at least one of you will be available to escort and act, if necessary, against anyone here to see a councilor.”
I could see that. Although every visitor allowed into the Chateau had to be on a list compiled from names provided by the councilors-or their aides-there was no assurance that the person who showed up at the gate was the person actually expected. Anyone could claim he was Raphael D’Factorius or Jorges D’Artisan. That didn’t mean that they were.
After Baratyn’s briefing, Dartazn took me on a tour of the outer grounds, pointing out all the places where assassins and intruders had tried to climb the walls or hide. Needless to say, as soon as we had gone outside, the sun broke through the mist, and I began to sweat.
Halfway along the west side, he pointed out the heavier foundation wall. “They call this the wall of life and death. The name dates back to Rex Regis.”
“Why?”
Dartazn shrugged. “Because it meant life for some and death for others.”
By the time Dartazn had finished taking me through the upper and lower gardens and the inner walks bordering the walls, we were both perspiring even more heavily. We were quite thorough in studying and inspecting the fountain court, with the cool created there by the various sprays of water. Then we returned to Baratyn’s study.
“Rhennthyl . . . you’re to spend the next glass studying a list of the regular visitors so that at least you know their names. After that, you can join Dartazn and Martyl in finishing the inventory of security equipment.”
Neither trying to learn names of people I had never seen nor comparing equipment in cases, racks, and boxes to a listing was terribly interesting, and all three of us were more than happy when it was time to return to Imagisle for lunch.
After lunch, I found a letter from Mother in my letter box. I read it quickly on my way back to my chamber to change into exercise clothes for my afternoon torture session with Clovyl.
Dear Rhennthyl,
Your father and I are both glad to hear that you are recovering, but sorry that you are being limited to Imagisle for the near future. We had hoped that you would be able to accompany us to Kherseilles. We are leaving on Jeudi to see Rousel’s and Remaya’s son. They have decided to name him Rheityr, after your great-grandfather.
I couldn’t help but shake my head at her assumption that, if I hadn’t been injured, of course, I’d be able to leave Imagisle for more than a week.
We will not be back for more than a week, since your father needs to go over the factoring in Kherseilles with Rousel, but as warm as it has been here in L’Excelsis, it is bound to be more pleasant there, and it will be good to see our grandson. Khethila will be at the house, and she will be spending each day at the factorage in your father’s absence, but we will take Culthyn with us.
I smiled at that. Neither of them wanted to admit how competent Khethila was getting to be. So far as the handling of coins went, I’d prefer to have her in charge, rather than Rousel. Rousel could sell anything, but coins had always had a way of dropping out of his wallet.
I will write once we have returned, and we will see about that dinner. By the time we are back and you are free, it may be well into harvest, but then, it will be cooler, and you might even have the name of a marriageable young woman that we could invite, inasmuch as you did not seem to find Zerlenya to your taste.
I winced at that, but just laid the letter on my desk as I entered my quarters. I had to change quickly and then hurry back to the exercise chambers.
After the warm-ups and the weights and the conditioning run, Clovyl resumed the training with knives, then followed that with a session with truncheons-or any relatively short length of wood or pipe or the like.
After a quick dinner, at seventh bell, I met Master Draffyd in the anteroom of the infirmary.
His face was grave. “This is not likely to be terribly pleasant for you, Rhennthyl. It will, we trust, make you a better imager. I’m going to dissect one of the bodies from this morning’s execution, in order to show you the exact placement of certain organs. I will also ask you to attempt certain precise imaging from time to time during the process. Some of it will improve your abilities to protect the Council. Some of it will help you protect yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” His words suggested some would improve my ability to kill, and some to heal, or at least limit bleeding or trauma, although he had not said those words.
He turned, and I followed him into the infirmary and down the corridor to a small room with a table. On one wall was a rack of shimmering instruments. On the table was a figure half covered with a thin gray blanket.
The body that lay faceup on the table was that of a woman with long flaming red hair, naked and uncovered from the waist up. She had been beautiful. Even in death, there was some attractiveness, but her face still bore a trace of pain or agony. Then, that might have been my imagination.
“This is the woman executed this morning. From her expression, your effort was relatively good.”
Relatively good?
He pointed to the top back of the woman’s shoulders. “You can see here the edge of faint white scars, and some newer welts. She’s been beaten. I reported that to the chief of patrollers and the justice, but the last beating took place before she was apprehended. The welts almost had healed during the time she was held for her hearing.” He shook his head. “I don’t always trust all the patrollers, but the degree of healing supports the chief’s story. I suppose we’ll never know what happened.” He pointed to her neck. “We’re using her body because it requires more precision. I’d like you to image a small plug of wax into her carotid artery.” He gestured to a white oblong of wax on the narrow shelf beneath the instrument rack.
The initial imaging wasn’t too bad, nor were the ones that followed, except I had to push away the questions about the welts on her back.
The dissection was another matter. It took every bit of willpower to keep my guts from turning inside out once Master Draffyd lifted back the scalpel and began to peel away various areas of skin, muscle, and bone to show me most clearly what he had in mind, illustrating where I could use imaging for what, and how it could be effectively used and where . . . and where it was useless, and why.
He also checked the accuracy of my imaging at almost every step of the dissection. I’d been accurate with the wax in the neck artery, and far less accurate with some of the other placements, particularly those deeper in the body or in the spinal column.
It was close to midnight when I made my way from the infirmary. Even a thorough washing didn’t help too much with my thoughts.
After I reached my own study, I first lit the lamp-with a striker and not by imaging-and then just stood there. Finally, I sat down at the writing desk and took out the letters from Seliora. I needed something to take my mind off what had happened during the course of a very long day, especially the beginning and the end.
50