Madness in Solidar (11 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Your mother will be back from the inn later.”

The boy hoped she would have leftover bread, or scraps. Sometimes she did. Most times, she didn't. He glanced at Mahara and Dyel. The two could crawl, but they weren't walking. They weren't much fun, but he didn't want them to get into the ashes of the hearth. There weren't any coals left.

Mahara was chewing on the leg of a straw figure covered in small scraps of cloth tied to resemble clothing. Dyel was crawling toward the bench that their father had left.

If only they had something to play with … a real toy. The boy thought about the merchanter's son he'd seen the day before, who had dropped a shiny blue top from a coach. The boy had picked it up and tried to hand it back, but the coach footman had taken it and wiped it off carefully before returning it. No one had even looked at the boy except the footman.

The boy thought about the top, trying to imagine just what it had looked like. It had only been wood, but painted. If he had a knife, he might have carved one, but the only knife like that was the one his father carried with him all the time. The boy tried even harder to imagine that top, holding it … spinning it …

For an instant, dizziness washed over him, and then … he held something cool and blue in his hand—a blue top! He fingered it. Could he have done that? His eyes watered, and he still felt dizzy. Whatever he had done, he had the feeling he shouldn't do it again. Not soon anyway.

Still holding the top, he watched his brother and sister until the dizziness passed. Then he knelt on the floor in front of Dyel and spun the top.

Dyel gooed and stuck a small hand out, knocking the top slightly, so that it skittered away.

The boy retrieved the top and spun it again.

Even Mahara watched as the two played.

The door opened, and the children's mother stepped into the cot, and the boy grabbed for the top.

“What do you have in your hand? Show me right now.”

The boy stood and reluctantly showed her the blue top.

“Where did you get that?”

“I found it in the gutter yesterday. It was all covered with mud.” He had found a top in the gutter. That was true. He given that one back. “There was no one around. There was no one to give it back to.”

“Likely story.”

“I didn't take it from anyone. Honest! I didn't.” The boy felt tears running down his cheeks. It was so unfair. He'd just wanted to make his brother and sister a little toy. “They don't have anything much to play with. It's not much, and no one will miss it.” That was true.

“No…” His mother's voice softened. “I can see you didn't steal it, and if it was in the gutter … It could have been anyone's.”

“I didn't take from anyone. No one was looking for it.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, Mother. I didn't take it. I couldn't take anything that really belonged to anyone.”

She looked at him, then said, “We may be poor, but we're not thieves. We don't take things.” She forced a smile. “I have a whole half a loaf of bread, and even some other bits for you three…”

The boy looked at the small top. Maybe … just maybe … he could make other things … if he was very, very careful.

 

7

The egg toast was only lightly browned on Lundi morning. Alastar hoped that was a favorable omen for the day. As Maitre, he certainly could have insisted on having Jienna do the cooking at the residence, but he didn't see the point of that, especially given the parlous state of Collegium finances. He would have liked to have done without a maid as well, but the dwelling was so large that it needed someone to tend to it … and Jienna was pleasant enough and good at what she did, even cooking on rare occasions. But he certainly didn't need a full-time cook, not yet, although he might have to reconsider once he got the Collegium on a better footing and he began to do some necessary entertaining. But, for the moment, by eating in the dining hall, he had better control over what the students ate … although it had taken three days for the egg toast to appear in proper form.

Alastar took a deep breath as he walked back to the administration building and was pleased to note that there was absolutely no odor of sewage. That had made his morning run much more pleasant. What especially pleased him was that the wind was light and blowing from the southeast, indicating that the repairs had addressed the immediate cause of olfactory distress.

Back in his study, Alastar studied the master ledger, then turned his thoughts to ways of turning the conflict between the rex and the High Council to benefit the Collegium—without the application of what amounted to either extensive covert imaging, which would not remain covert, and overt brute force. He was having little success when Dareyn appeared in his doorway.

“High Holder Haebyn has agreed to see you tomorrow, and High Holder Vaun can only see you this very afternoon, preferably at third glass. Should I send messages to confirm?”

“Please do. Suggest second glass tomorrow afternoon. I take it there's been no reply from either Moeryn or Nacryon?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we'll have to wait a day or two before we inquire again.”

After Dareyn left, Alastar spent less than a third of a glass jotting down notes on how instruction for imagers in protecting themselves through nonlethal ways might be improved before Dareyn was once again at his door.

“Chorister Iskhar is here to see you.”

“Have him come in.”

In moments, the sandy-haired chorister, who ranked as a junior master, stepped into the study, carefully closing the door behind himself.

“I take it that you're not here to learn my reaction to your homily,” began Alastar, motioning to the chairs. “I liked it, by the way. Thought-provoking, as a homily should be … although I'm not so convinced that all feelings, even overpowering ones, are necessarily the tools of the Namer, nor that all rational judgments are superior to feelings.” Alastar chuckled. “Then again, your homily might be more appropriate for the students than for a curmudgeon like me…”

Iskhar laughed softly. “I have noticed a certain phrase being used by some of the students, to the effect that, if it feels good, one should try it. The implication is that all good feelings come from the Nameless.”

“They probably do, but the Namer's not above using them for his own ends, and the Namer and his tools can also use logic and rationality for the worst of ends. All one has to do is to observe advocates and justicers to see that. But that's not why you're here. What is it?”

“Chorister Lytaarl of the Anomen L'Excelsis visited this morning. He was rather concerned…”

“Upset?” asked Alastar.

“Rather.” Iskhar spoiled his stern tone with an amused smile. “He wanted to convey to me that Solayi is the day of the Nameless. He said it should not be profaned.”

“Especially by imagers, of all people, having the temerity to tear up the East River Road and repair a sewer that was profaning the air along the road and even across the river?”

“Yes, Maitre. He was most … voluble, in expressing his opinions.”

“I haven't heard from him,” said Alastar blandly.

“I didn't think you would want to. I told him that it might be better if I conveyed his concerns to you.”

“Was he that upset?” Alastar understood that some people, and more likely choristers, truly felt Solayi was a time for family, reflection, and worship, although most likely Lytaarl would have reversed that priority. “What do you think, Iskhar?”

“I understand his concerns, sir…”

“I'm afraid I don't,” replied Alastar, knowing he was being deliberately obtuse. “Why couldn't he just thank the Nameless that someone had removed the pernicious stench? Since I seem to be missing something, could you explain what those concerns are, and the basis for them?”

“Many choristers believe that the end-day should be devoted to … higher considerations, such as worship and reflection on one's benefits and family.”

“Air not filled with odors is a great benefit. Did you mention that to him?”

“No, sir.”

Alastar replied sternly, “Perhaps I should.” He could only keep a straight face at Iskhar's horrified expression for a moment before he laughed wryly. “No … I won't do that. I'd like to, but it would only make matters worse. Tell the most concerned chorister of estimable rectitude that the Maitre appreciates his concerns and that we will not profane Solayi in the future, and that we do not anticipate undertaking any other activities that might reflect poorly on the Collegium's respect for the Nameless … or something along those lines.” He extracted a gold from his wallet. “Give this to him as a gift to the poor and deserving and as a token of my respect for his efforts to maintain proper respect for the traditions of the Nameless.”

Alastar personally hardly had that many golds to spare, and he wasn't about to use any Collegium golds to mollify Lytaarl, but since the last thing he needed was greater irritation of the chorister of the most influential anomen in L'Excelsis, he would part with a gold of his own.

“It might be better…”

“No, it wouldn't be. Lytaarl is a most perceptive man. Just from my actions in undertaking the repairs, he knows where I stand. Seeing him personally would send the wrong signal for such a minor affront.”
Besides, if he continues to make a fuss after receiving what amounts to an apology in gold, you can make it known that he wanted more than a gold as an apology for doing a good service for the people of L'Excelsis at a theologically inconvenient time.
The factors would understand, and they were going to be the ones who counted.

“You have something else in mind, don't you, sir?”

“I do. I hope it's not necessary.”

“So do I, sir.” Iskhar took the gold.

“Is there anything else?”

The chorister grinned. “I'll think about a homily on the good side of feelings.”

Alastar shook his head as Iskhar left the study.

Second glass neared well before Alastar had accomplished a fraction of the tasks he had in mind. He set aside his draft on physical training for older imagers and made his way to the stable where the gelding was waiting, along with two escorts.

When he reached the stable, he mounted quickly and led the way to the narrow east bridge, and then, once across, turned the gelding north on the East River Road. He took a deep breath, but he could not smell the pungent odor of sewage—other less than admirable smells, but not sewage. He nodded and surveyed both sides of the avenue, taking in the grayish waters of the river to his left and then the buildings to his right, an old, not-quite shabby caf
é
with a d
é
cor of white and dark brown, including an awning striped in the same colors and a tailor's shop, both probably dating from the time of Rex Hayar, who had decreed that all barges and river merchanting be moved south of L'Excelsis proper. That was also roughly when the old Great Canal had been filled and turned into a paved highway all the way to Laaryn.

Alastar almost snorted. Had Ryen tried something a tenth that ambitious all the High Holders and factors would have been at his throat.
How much of that is because the power of the Collegium and the abilities of its imagers have declined?
The answer to his question had been more than obvious from the moment he had stepped onto Imagisle.
You can't undo the past. You can only hold off the most immediate dangers while you rebuild.
If he could, and some days he wondered about that, especially when he had to listen to Obsolym.

A mille and a half north of the Nord Bridge, he and the two thirds reached their destination. Vaun had an expansive mansion, if modest for a High Holder, situated in the midst of gardens and grounds enclosed by a brick wall that was itself set back some ten yards from the East River Road. A man in workman's brown opened the iron gates as the three rode up, nodded politely as they rode through, and immediately closed them.

A footman in tan livery, trimmed in black, stood at the front entry. “Welcome to Vaun Hall, sir. The High Holder awaits you.”

Alastar dismounted, handing the reins to Chervyt, accompanied this time by an older second, Maercyl, and then followed the footman up the wide steps and through the double doors into the entry hall, positively modest, an oblong space no more than three yards in width and five in length, with simple tapestry hangings on the side wall, each of a stylized tree against a light brown background, bordered in black trimmed in gold thread. The floor tiles were of a translucent amber-colored stone, and the walls of goldenwood. The archway at the rear opened onto a hallway that extended both left and right as well as to a staircase to the upper two levels.

The footman gestured to the left. “This way, sir.”

Alastar followed him to the second door on the left, which was open.

“Ah … Maitre Alastar, do come in. Might I offer you refreshments after your ride? Perhaps a dark lager?” For all that he was almost as tall as Alastar, the brown-haired Vaun conveyed the impression of a coney—not necessary scared, but very alert. His nose even twitched as he looked at the Maitre.

“A dark lager would be welcome. Thank you.”

Vaun gestured to the footman, and then to small table, flanked by two chairs, set before a window that afforded a view to the west, mostly of the far shore of the River Aluse. The footman departed silently, and Vaun walked to the table and paused just slightly, enough that he and Alastar sat at the same time.

“You have obviously inquired about my habits, Councilor.”

“I could let you think that,” replied Vaun, with the hint of a smile, “but I did not have time. The dark lager was a guess. You are known as a man of action, and you are neither young nor old. You are reputed to be the strongest imager of our times, and in little more than a month of taking over a Collegium that has needed stronger leadership than it has had, you are visiting with the High Council. That suggested dark lager.” The High Holder shrugged.