Imager

.

A suitable background was a polite way of saying someone who was at least from the factoring or full merchant class and most preferably not Pharsi.

. . . That is, of course, a matter with which you must deal, but we were only trying to be helpful.

That was doubtless true, but I didn’t need to be reminded of it.

We would still very much like to have a belated celebration of your twenty-fifth birthday. I do hope that this finds you in good health and that you will let us know when we may expect you or when I may visit you.

The last thing I wanted to do was write a reply, but doing so quickly would reduce the amount of guilt Mother would attempt to lay at my feet. I set aside the still-unopened letter from Seliora and wrote a quick reply to Mother, based on the truth, stating that while I had recovered physically, I was still restricted to Imagisle until certain aspects of my training were completed, but that, if she wished to visit, she was now more than welcome on either Samedi or Solayi afternoons, and should drop me a note to let me know when to expect her, and that I looked forward to seeing her.

Then I finally sat back in my study chair and opened the letter from Seliora.

Dear Rhenn,

At last, we have arrived in Pointe Neimon. The trip was hard for Grandmama, but she is in good spirits. She sends her best to you. So does Shomyr.

We have already toured four textile manufactories, and we have improved arrangements with two. Their fabric is excellent. One other is satisfactory. The other we will not use, but it is good to see what each can do.

I trust that you are well and will be fully recovered and able to leave Imagisle by the time we return. We have tickets on the Express for the fourth of Agostos. Grandmama says that we should invite you to dinner on the fourteenth. If you know that you can come then and let me know, I can write Mother and tell her to plan for it. If you do not know, then we can work out a time once we return to L’Excelsis.

You would find Pointe Neimon refreshing and beautiful. I do wish you could be here, but you must do what you must. I only ask that you take care in your duties, great care.

At the bottom was an address in Pointe Neimon, and, again, the signature was just her name, but the last two words before her signature, and the kiss when we had last parted, suggested far more than friendship.

I smiled. I did have time to write a response.

49

Death always leaves some stories incomplete; and

some are better left so.

Getting up well before dawn on Jeudi was not exactly to my liking, especially with what lay ahead, as much as I knew the necessity. I struggled to Master Dichartyn’s study, early enough that I sat slumped on the bench for a time before he appeared.

“Buck up, Rhennthyl. You’re not the one being executed.”

I jumped to my feet. “It’s early, sir.”

“Every morning’s early.” His voice was dry.

I walked quietly beside him as we made our way to the duty coach, which had drawn up outside the administration building. He said nothing to the black-clad obdurate driver.

Mist rose from the river as we crossed the Bridge of Stones, the hoofs of the two horses clattering on the pavement. The route to the prison was fairly direct-south on the West River Road to the intersection with the Avenue D’Artisans just after it crossed the Sud Bridge, and then more than a mille on the avenue and across the bridge over the ironway tracks, after which the coach turned onto a short street that ended at a gatehouse. Behind the gatehouse rose the gray flint walls of the Poignard Prison.

The duty coach halted by the gatehouse. No sooner had we stepped out onto the ancient cobblestones, damp from the light rain of the evening before, than two men in blue and black uniforms emerged. The one with the four-pointed star on his collars bowed to Master Dichartyn.

“Maitre D’Esprit.”

“Warden . . .”

The warden’s eyes flicked to me, just for a moment, before he and the guard escorted us through the gate and along a windowless stone-walled corridor until we reached an iron door, where another guard turned a black wheel to unlock it. We stepped into a small courtyard. I glanced up. The sky was beginning to lighten, just slightly, but I could still see clearly the reddish crescent that was Erion. At the far side of the courtyard was a scaffold. There were three nooses rigged from an overhead beam.

The warden stepped away, and the guard remained, a pace to one side.

Master Dichartyn leaned toward me and spoke softly. “The man to be executed will be led onto the platform on to one of the traps where there is a noose. He will be hooded and blindfolded. The executioner will put the noose over his head and adjust it properly. Then the executioner will step back. His next move will be to pull the lever to release that trap. As soon as he steps back and puts his hand on the lever, you are to act. If you image properly, the man will die and start to slump, and the executioner will pull the lever. The guilty man will be dead or dying before the noose breaks his neck.

“There will be three executed this morning. If you are successful with the first, try another technique with the second, and another with the third.”

Left unsaid was that I had practiced none of the techniques on living people-for obvious reasons.

The first technique was simply to image a moderate amount of air into the convicted man’s heart, vena cava, and aorta. Master Dichartyn had pointed out that, given the pressure of the heart pumping liquid, I would have to image some of the blood elsewhere for the effect to be near-instant.

The first prisoner was a heavyset man. Not only was he blindfolded, but his hands were tied behind his back, and his feet were manacled so that he could only take short steps. Two guards had to hold him, and a third wrapped a strap around his legs before the executioner could put the noose in place. As soon as the executioner stepped back, I concentrated.

The prisoner gave a sudden jerk, as if burned all over, then started to slump. The executioner pulled the lever. The prisoner was shuddering and twitching for that long moment before he reached the end of the rope and the noose snapped his neck.

“Not enough air in the aorta,” observed Master Dichartyn. “He would have died, but not quickly. Try that again.”

The second prisoner was thinner and shorter, and probably older. He didn’t struggle, just walked listlessly to the noose. This time I tried to follow the procedure more carefully.

The convicted man only jerked once, then slumped.