After completing my normal early-morning schedule on Samedi, I put on my heavier winter grays and headed along the quadrangle to the dining hall and breakfast. The few masters who did eat at the dining hall must have slept in or gone somewhere for the weekend because Chassendri was the only one at the masters’ table.
“You’re dressed for winter,” she said cheerfully.
“I was cold after my shower.”
She laughed. “That’s right. You covert types practice masochism.” She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll take my smelly laboratory any day.”
“What do you do besides give grief to primes and seconds?” I could still recall my earlier sessions with her.
“I try to work out chemical formulations that can be imaged into being.”
“If they can be imaged . . .”
“Think about it, Rhenn. Would any imagers be able to image metals or the like if they didn’t know what they were imaging? And for some things, like gun cotton, the manufacturing process is very dangerous, but the end product is less dangerous. So it makes sense.”
She was telling me yet another aspect of imaging I hadn’t even considered. So I listened carefully.
After finishing breakfast, I hurried to my studio. Once there, I checked over Master Rholyn’s portrait carefully, both in shadow and in half-light, and in full light, trying to make sure that there wasn’t anything that appeared untoward in differing lighting. So far as I could tell, there wasn’t. I set it up on the easel, angled so that it was in good light from the north windows, and then went to work on Seliora’s portrait. I couldn’t do much else, anyway, and I did want to finish it before too long.
Rholyn arrived a few moments after the last bell of eighth glass, wearing the imager’s standard heavy gray winter cloak, and shaking himself as he stepped into the studio. His face was red. “It’s too much like winter out there.”
“It is cold,” I agreed, refraining from pointing out that he hadn’t had to take a cold shower after running four milles in the chill.
“Is it finished?”
“I’d like to think so, sir, but I’d appreciate your looking it over.” I pointed toward the easel.
Rholyn stepped toward the portrait, warily, seemingly as if he expected some unpleasant surprise. Then he stood and studied it. Finally, he looked to me. “It will do.” Then he grinned, the first time I’d ever seen him do so, so far as I could recall. “I have to admit, Rhenn, it’s very good. Not as flattering as I might like, but Mharrie will be very pleased when she sees it.” He paused. “What happens next?”
“I’ve made arrangements for it to be framed, and Maitre Poincaryt will determine where it will be hung. I’d judge that might be either in the receiving hall or possibly in the public corridor outside the dining hall. He has not told me, however.”
Rholyn turned away from the portrait. “Master Dichartyn told me about your accomplishments with the Civic Patrol. You were fortunate in finding the Tiempran priests.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Except it wasn’t fortune at all, was it? You had someone watching for them for days, I’d wager.”
“I asked someone. I didn’t know if they would.”
“You know, Rhenn, you’re the kind of imager that every maitre of the Collegium wishes for . . . and then regrets wishing for when he arrives.”
“I’m going to have to request a little clarification of that, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.”
“Often, I’m requested to clarify. I will, for you, but I’m not certain it will be at all helpful.” Rholyn chuckled. “You have powerful shields and untapped abilities. You’re intelligent, moderately good-looking, but not excessively so, and generally deferential. You continue to work and learn. You quietly, and sometimes not so quietly, question why the Collegium and the Council operate in the fashion that they do. I imagine you do the same with the Civic Patrol. You’re always seeking a better way to do something. The problem is that you are already sometimes correct, and you’re likely to become more so as you learn more. Very few people really want better ways to do things. They want easier ways, and seldom is better easier. Better also means change, and no matter what they say, people resist change. You have the power to change things. When someone has that power, it disturbs people. When someone actually forces change, it disturbs them even more. You’ll have to determine where you go from here, but I would suggest that you limit your suggestions and acts to those that are most valuable to the Collegium.” He smiled. “But I do appreciate the artistry in the portrait. Thank you.”
He was still smiling, as if at a private jest, when he left.
I couldn’t give the portrait to Grandison until Lundi. So I set it where it wouldn’t be disturbed and went back to work on Seliora’s portrait until slightly before noon, when I headed back to the dining hall. Since I was the only master at lunch, I ate quickly and then returned to my quarters.
After cleaning up and making a few preparations, I left my rooms and crossed the quadrangle on my way to the Bridge of Hopes and East River Road. From what I’d garnered from Iryela and Veblynt, Ryel’s foliage event was a late-afternoon and early-evening celebration. It might even last into evening, but to see the trees from the tower required daylight.
With the blustery afternoon wind, there were fewer hacks about, and it was slightly after first glass when I arrived at NordEste Design. Seliora was the one who let me in, and since no one else was in the lower foyer, we did enjoy a few moments with each other before walking up to the main entry hall.
“I’ve already saddled the mare.” She paused. “How long . . . ?”
“I don’t know. I might not be back until after dark.”
She nodded.
I appreciated her not asking for details. “I’ll tell you everything when I return.”
She squeezed my hand. “We’d better get you on your way.”
We walked to the back of the hall and then through the maze of narrow passageways that led to the staircase down to the rear courtyard. The courtyard was empty, and the wind swirled dust this way and that.
“It’s going to be a cold ride,” Seliora said.
“I’m wearing my heaviest woolens, and I brought my gloves.”
“Good. I left the mare in the stable.”
We crossed the courtyard, and I slid open the stable doors.
“You will be careful?” she said.
“As careful as I can be.”
I unlatched the stall half door and swung it back, and she untied the mare and led her out. I walked beside Seliora out to the courtyard.
As I was about to mount the mare, Seliora handed me a long leather case. “Take this. It might help.”
I eased off the hardened leather cap at one end. Inside was a polished brass spyglass. I closed the case and looked at her. “Thank you. It will.”
“I know.” She paused, then embraced me, murmuring as she did, “Please be as careful as you can.”
“I will.” I let go of her and climbed into the saddle, if not gracefully, at least not so awkwardly as had been the case weeks earlier. Then I flicked the reins, gently, and the mare began what could be a long journey, a very long journey, and one I hoped I survived.
The Boulevard D’Este wasn’t that heavily traveled, and before long I’d ridden around the Plaza D’Nord and was headed north toward destiny, whatever it might be. Once I was away from the plaza, I set up the blurring shields, the ones that didn’t hide me, but made me look less distinct, so that passersby would see a rider but not recall details.
I was less than a mille from Ryel’s estate when a stylish bronze and silver coach, drawn by a matched pair of grays, swept past me. Then, when I neared the top of the rise south of the Ryel estate, I could see another coach, decorated in blue and bronze, slow before turning and passing through the estate gates.
I kept riding downhill, but once I had ridden into the depression short of where the stream left the estate and where I could not be seen directly, I extended full concealment shields. Then I rode the mare along the road over the culvert and into the brushy space between the wall and the road. I dismounted and tied the mare to the base of a bushy tree, or a treelike bush, where she was largely out of sight from the road, although I did “tie” a blurring screen to her.