“That’s more accurate, far more accurate.” The sharpness faded from his voice. “Now . . . is a point of order a procedural stalling tactic or a valid objection?”
“Ah . . . both?”
“Rhenn . . . you don’t seem all that certain about what you read. Why not?”
“I read that section twice, sir, and part of it a third time.”
“Surely, with that much perusal you could remember with more certainty.”
What did he want? I was doing the best I could do.
Master Dichartyn’s face turned even more stern. “Rhennthyl . . . you may have talent, but you definitely do not understand one basic thing about the Collegium and the world. No one cares whether you are tired, whether you had a hard day, or whether you have trouble thinking straight. In fact, if you let anyone know when you feel that way, it may well result in either your death or your immediate retirement to Mont D’Image with your friend Johanyr.”
I did hide a swallow at that.
“Being a fully-trained imager is one of the most difficult professions to master, and failure to master it will mean either that you will end up in the machine works or the armory or some lesser position or that you will be injured or die.” He paused for a moment. “I have the feeling that you do not wish to spend your life doing something beneath your potential. Am I wrong?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you will need to use your time more effectively. If you cannot think after a long day of effort, you need to rise earlier and do your reading and assignments then. Short naps also help. Long naps are worse than no naps, because they disrupt your sleep, and you end up more tired than ever.”
“Yes, sir.”
After that, he was slightly less sharp, but his questions were as probing as ever, and I felt like I knew almost nothing.
Finally, he stopped examining me on the procedures appendix and said, “Read the appendix again, and think more about it. I also want you to read the next section in the science text, the one about anatomy.” He paused. “Master Draffyd overheard something about your wanting to paint portraits.”
“No, sir. Not exactly. Some of the thirds asked if I could paint their portraits. I said that I couldn’t do that for coins . . . but I suppose I could let them give me supplies and brushes. Would there be anywhere I could set up a small studio?”
“You want to do more? You just told me you were having trouble doing what has been assigned to you.”
“I didn’t mean right now. It would take weeks even to obtain everything, and I wouldn’t even think of trying it unless I was doing well enough that you approved. But I wanted to know if it might be possible. If it is not, I understand, and I will not bring up the matter again.”
Master Dichartyn frowned for a moment, then suddenly smiled, and nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it might be well for you to keep that skill. It could be most useful, and some of the masters here have not ever had portraits . . .”
That was the best part of the day.
I had to go back to my quarters and rewrite my essay on secrecy and then pore over the procedural appendix yet again. Lunch was one of the few meals I could barely eat-a strong liver and onion ragout whose smell nearly turned my guts inside out. Even the bread tasted like onions and liver to me. I hurried to get into my exercise clothing. Clovyl worked me hard for a glass with exercises, and then took me on a run-twice all the way around Imagisle, close to four milles. He was barely breathing hard, and I was panting and gasping and sweat-soaked when I tottered to a halt outside the exercise rooms.
Then came my first instruction in hand-to-hand fighting, where Clovyl demonstrated a move, and I had to mimic it exactly. Exactly.
After his instruction, which lasted well past the fourth glass, and left me almost as sweat-soaked as the run had, I showered again, and took a short nap and then read the next section of the science text, the one on human anatomy. Dinner was better, a rice and cheese dish with some sort of fowl.
Then I had to return to Master Dichartyn’s study by the seventh glass and work on imaging with and passing items through moving objects. At that point, my muscles were getting sore, very sore, and I tried not to think about the fact that I had a month of this sort of training ahead of me . . . if not more.
I did force myself to hang up my clothes and put everything in my quarters where it should be before I climbed under my blankets.
33
Those who speak of “good people” with great
conviction are to be feared.
The next two and a half weeks followed the same pattern of that first full day as an imager tertius in training, a day that could well have been called a Day of the Namer-except that each day except Solayis was more difficult than the day before, and it would have been repetitious to attribute the trials of each to the Namer. Along the way, I managed a visit to the barber, prompted by Master Dichartyn. By the time the morning of Vendrei the twenty-seventh of Avryl had arrived, I had to admit that I was developing muscles I hadn’t realized I had, and I could certainly run farther and faster, and I was so tired every night that I had little trouble falling asleep. The muscular soreness had also abated, and Clovyl had grudgingly admitted the afternoon before that my skills in defending myself had improved.
“You might be able to take down most common footpads now, but your knifework needs work.” Clovyl had shrugged. “You’re getting there, but don’t go getting any ideas.”
Most evenings I worked with Master Dichartyn on shields and specialized imaging, including the differences in handling powders and liquids, and even air itself.
After much more reading and rereading, and more than a few pointed questions from Master Dichartyn, I did understand the rules and procedures of the Council, finally. “Better than some of the councilors,” he admitted.
Still, that morning, he asked me another question that I’d never heard, just another in a seemingly endless series of such. “Do you know the ‘good people’ fallacy?”
“That wasn’t in anything I’ve ever read,” I said, adding quickly, “I don’t think.”
“That wasn’t a bad recovery,” he replied with a smile, “but I’d suggest saying something like, ‘There are a number of fallacies involving good people. Which one did you have in mind?’ Of course, to say that, you’d best have a few in mind.”
I didn’t have any in mind, and he knew it.
“The fallacy is that someone who is good cannot do evil. I get rather suspicious when someone talks about another as being a good person. A man may do good in every small way on every day, and yet be a part of great evil. Even a land cannot be accurately judged by the number of good or bad people within it. All lands have good and bad individuals. The goodness or evil of a land is determined by what that land does as a whole. A handful of evil leaders can pursue hatred and destruction, while the majority of so-called good-hearted souls do nothing. Less frequently, but still occurring, are the instances where good-hearted leaders lead a populace whose individuals are predominantly selfish and cruel, and the acts of such a land under such leaders are praiseworthy. All too often, the term ‘good people’ is used as an excuse, as in the phrase ‘but they were good people.’ ”
I could see that, and I’d even heard words like that from my parents.
“How would you judge Solidar, Rhenn? Is it a good land or less than good?”
“Compared to what, sir? I know only what I have read about other lands, and I haven’t even met that many different kinds of people in L’Excelsis. I’ve never really met a High Holder or many from the taudis or other countries.”
“That’s a fair answer. Not helpful, but honest. Shall we say . . . compared to what you think it could be.”
I wasn’t at all certain why Master Dichartyn pressed such questions, although I could understand his efforts to get me to think and to point out errors in my facts or thinking. “Ideally, any country could be better than it is, if people acted as well as they could, but they often do not. Solidar is like that, but I don’t see the kinds of cruelties that I read about in places like Caenen.”