She turned, and I followed her. She walked briskly, for all the gray hair and her almost fragile frame. When I entered the room with the oval table and six chairs, she was standing by the window, looking out into the twilight. She said nothing.
I closed the door and moved closer to the conference table. Finally, she looked at me. Those blue eyes were as cold as lapis, yet seemingly without judgment.
I waited.
“Good. I detest unnecessary chatter. Conversation is useful only in certain settings, and for certain purposes. Master Dichartyn has requested that I attempt to teach you how to improve your shields. I do not know how you developed your shields. So . . . I will make several brief attacks, and we will proceed from there.”
“Yes, maitre.” I inclined my head slightly.
The first attack was more like a jab, so light that my heavier secondary shields did not spring into play. The second was harder, but easy enough to repulse. The third was strong enough that I was forced backward a step. The fourth and last was aimed more at my shields, but was powerful enough-even though off-center-that I had to move back once more.
Maitre Dyana looked at me sadly, as though I were a truant grammaire student. “Finesse, dear boy . . . finesse. You’ll exhaust yourself in a fraction of a glass defending yourself like that. The last attack was at an angle. You used your entire shield to stop it. Almost all attacks come from an angle, if a small one. When you can, let your shields collapse a little. Let the attacks slide off. The object is to protect yourself with the least effort possible. Imagers are too few in number as it is. We don’t need to lose more because you spent too much energy defending yourself unnecessarily vigorously.” She waited for a response.
“Yes, maitre.”
“We’ll start over again. This time I’ll stand over here and image force at you. It will be direct. Please make an effort to slide it past you . . .”
I wouldn’t have said my efforts were a total failure, but my successes were few and far from complete.
As the outside bells struck eight, Maitre Dyana raised her hand. “That will be all for this evening. Now that I’ve gotten your attention and you understand your deficiencies, dear boy, tomorrow evening I will expect a better performance from you.”
She offered a brief and perfunctory smile, then nodded and walked past me, leaving me standing in the conference room, sweating and exhausted once more. So far as I could tell, the seemingly frail maitre had not even raised a drop of perspiration while wearing me out.
37
The best traders weigh their words as carefully as their
goods.
The week ended as it began. No matter how hard I worked for Master Jhulian, Clovyl, and Maitre Dyana, and no matter how much I improved or learned, there was always more to learn and do. By Samedi, I was more than ready to leave Imagisle, even for a dinner at my parents with a factor I hadn’t seen in years and his daughter, a young woman I’d never met.
I didn’t leave at ninth glass or even noon. Instead, as the ten bells of midday struck, I was seated in my study poring over Jurisprudence, the section dealing with tort claims. According to the text, the Council itself was immune to juristic claims of damages, as were the Juristic Courts, and all branches of government. Individual councilors, or anyone in any branch of government, could be subject to a suit under tort law. At that point, I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.
After several moments, I opened my eyes and looked down at the listing of acts for which an official was not liable, followed on the next page by a listing of those where he might be. I slipped a leather bookmark in place and closed the book.
I still had another essay to write for Master Jhulian, this one on the theoretical and practical limits of sovereign immunity as exercised by the Council and the government over which it presided, and I had to explain why the first Council had created the malfeasance and misfeasance sections of the Juristic Code.
I’d asked Master Jhulian why imagers needed to read about law, and his answer had been direct and troubling. “All imagers need to know some of this. Anyone who works with Master Dichartyn needs to know more than I can teach. I have to prepare you to keep learning.” Then he’d smiled. “After I’m satisfied, Master Dichartyn will explain why what you are learning is applicable. That’s because, unless you do learn it, you won’t keep working with him, and you won’t need to know why.”
From the time I’d first come to Imagisle, I’d known that there was a darker side to the Collegium, but with every day that passed, I was getting the feeling that I was getting closer to it. Finally, I began to reread the pages in Jurisprudence. I stayed at my desk, more or less, until just before the fourth glass, when I hurried out of my quarters.
Even so, I was at my parents’ door at half past four, where Nellica ushered me in.
“Sir . . . everyone will be meeting in the formal parlor at five.”
“Is anyone there?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I’ll slip into the family parlor and wait there.”
She wasn’t totally pleased, but she didn’t have to be. I settled into one of the armchairs-not my father’s-but I didn’t have to wait long before Culthyn appeared, a slightly sullen expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Father says I’m not invited to dinner. Khethila isn’t either.”
“Where is she?”
“She went to Brennai’s for the evening. Brennai’s her best friend. This week, anyway.”
“You’re cynical.”
“That’s what Mother says.” He looked at me. “What do you really do as an imager?”
“At the moment, I’m studying the laws of Solidar and L’Excelis.”
“You’re going to be an imager advocate? That’s freezing!”
“We all have to study law . . . and science, and history, and philosophy.”
“Oh . . . Can you do imaging? Can you show me?”
“Not yet. I can do it, but the masters don’t let us do it off Imagisle until we’re more experienced.”
“Come on, Rhenn. No one would know.”
I offered a smile. “I would, and sooner or later, so would Master Dichartyn. He’s my preceptor. He’s very perceptive.”
“What good is being an imager if they don’t let you image?”
“Culthyn,” I said slowly, “imaging is more dangerous than I ever knew or dreamed. That’s why almost a third of all imagers die in training.”
That stopped him, but only for a moment. “You haven’t died.”
“That’s because I’ve paid attention to those who know better than I do.”
“That’s a lesson you still need to learn, Culthyn,” announced Mother as she entered the family parlor. “Off to the kitchen. Your dinner is on the table in the breakfast room. Don’t bother Nellica or Kiesela. When you’re done, up to your rooms.”
“Yes, Mother.” He looked to me. “Someday, will you show me?”
“I will. It might be a while.”
After he left through the archway into the rear hall, Mother asked, “Show him what?”
“Imaging. Right now, I’m not supposed to image off Imagisle.”
“I can see that.” She nodded. “Zerlenya and her parents are most anxious to meet you.”
“Rhenn!” My father’s voice boomed across the parlor. “You’re even early!” He looked at me. “You look more like a guard officer every time I see you.”
“He looks just fine, Chenkyr.”
“That’s what I meant. He stands taller.”
Shortly, there was another knock on the front door, and the three of us moved to the formal parlor while Nellica ushered the guests into the house.
In moments, Tomaz was stepping toward me. He was a short and stocky man with an engaging smile. “You’re Rhenn, I take it, and an imager to boot. Wager your father never planned on that.”
“No, sir, he didn’t, but he’s fortunate to have Rousel and Culthyn to carry on.” After I’d said that, I realized I should have mentioned Khethila.