“Believe it or not, it’s rather technical, and she can explain it far better than I can, and I’m certain she will be more than happy to do so next week. Oh, she’s also a very good dancer, far better than I am, and she has a good sense of humor, and a nice smile.”
“Is she fat?” asked Culthyn. “You didn’t say she was pretty.”
Both Mother and Khethila glared at him. Under the pressure of two sets of eyes, he shrank back into the sofa.
“No, she’s not fat. You’ll see.”
“Your description about her suitability leaves a great deal of room, Rhenn,” Mother said.
“I’ve discovered that sometimes it’s best not to say too much. Seliora is very open, and I’m sure you can determine what you think next week after meeting her.”
“Seliora . . . that sounds like . . .”
“She’s Pharsi . . . but they’ve lived in L’Excelsis for at least three generations.”
“Remaya is a lovely girl,” Mother offered.
That was a concession it had taken her ten years to make, although I wasn’t about to complain, since I hoped it would make matters easier for Seliora . . . and me.
“Remaya’s a woman with a child, not a girl,” Father said with a gruff laugh.
After a moment where no one spoke, Culthyn looked at me. “Rhenn, you promised you’d show me what imagers do. You promised.”
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.
