Imager's challenge ip-2

by L. E. Modesitt

  When the patroller behind the desk saw us, he stood immediately, if slightly awkwardly. On each shoulder of the upper sleeve of his pale blue shirt was a single chevron of a darker blue.

  “Gulyart, this is Master Rhennthyl. He’s the new imager liaison to the Patrol. He’ll be spending the next two weeks with you.” Cydarth turned to me. “For now, you’re just to observe.” Then he turned back toward the staircase.

  I’d expected another far older patroller, but Gulyart looked to be somewhat less than ten years older than I was, with short blond hair and pale brown eyes. He offered the first genuine smile I’d seen since arriving at headquarters. “Master Rhennthyl, I’m glad to meet you.” He gestured to the wide desk. “The other chair is for you. A bit crowded, but this is the only way you’ll see how charging works.”

  I didn’t even have a chance to sit down before someone called out, “Gulyart! They’re bringing in the prisoners from last night.”

  “The charging desk is only open until midnight,” Gulyart explained quickly. “After tenth glass, they just put them in the holding cells. Most are just troublemakers or drank too much . . . a few elvers, at times, but we don’t get that many most nights.” He squared himself in his chair and adjusted the ledger-like book in front of him.

  I sat down quickly.

  The first prisoner was a little man with a big head and unruly wavy blond hair that stuck out from his skull. His hands were manacled behind him. His eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles beneath them. The patroller escorting him looked from Gulyart to me and back to Gulyart.

  “He claims his name is Guffryt. He was picked up on the Midroad just off the triad. The charge is drunkenness and attempted assault on the patrollers who apprehended him.”

  “I was just heading to my place to sleep, and they grabbed me,” protested Guffryt.

  “Where is your place?” asked Gulyart mildly. “Your home address, please?”

  After a long moment, Guffryt looked down.

  “Where do you live?”

  Finally, Guffryt replied, “Where I can.”

  “You’re charged with public disturbance, drunkenness, assaulting a patroller, and vagrancy.” Gulyart looked to me and gestured toward a set of stacked cases against the wall behind us. “The files are there. The names are alphabetical. The stack of cases to the left has the live files, the one to the right the names of victims where no one was charged. If you wouldn’t mind seeing if there’s any paper on this man?”

  It took me several moments to find the case with the names beginning with “G” and a few more to get to the end. “There’s no one listed under that name.”

  “Thank you.” Gulyart turned to the patroller. “Just a moment.”

  I sat down, watching as he wrote out a charging sheet, with the same information as he’d already entered in the charging ledger before him, then handed the sheet to the patroller. “He goes to the magistrate.”

  I did know that lesser offenses were handled by the magistrates, rather than by one of the full justices.

  “Let’s go, Guffryt. Count yourself lucky,” said the patroller, a hefty man.

  I wouldn’t have called him lucky, because he was facing at least a year on a road gang or in one of the penal manufactories.

  Before the next prisoner arrived, I pointed at the cases behind us. “Are those all the records?” How could there be that few files when there were close to two million people in L’Excelsis?

  “Once someone’s executed, their files go to the execution records in the cellar. If they go to a penal workhouse or permanent manufactory, the records go with them.”

  With that explanation, the smaller number of file cases made more sense.

  Then yet another prisoner appeared, a scrawny dark-haired woman, more like a girl, I thought, until I saw the lines in her face.

  “Her name is Arinetia,” offered the patroller. “Battery with a broken wine bottle.”

  “He deserved worse than that. Ripped my clothes and wouldn’t pay.”

  Gulyart looked at the patroller. “Do we have a patroller witness or a statement by the victim?”

  “No, First Patroller.”

  “Nothing? I can’t charge her with anything without a statement or a witness or a victim.”

  “Lieutenant Narkol had his men bring her in, sir.” The escorting patroller looked helplessly at Gulyart.

  “I’ll have to release her.”

  At that point, the woman, even with her hands manacled, turned and lunged at her escort, trying to bite his arm.

  Gulyart sighed. “I’ll book her for battery against a patroller. Magistrate’s court.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I went to the file case, but there was nothing under the name Arinetia.

  Right after the patroller hurried the woman out, Gulyart turned to me. “Odds are that the man she attacked was a taudischef, and if she’s released, no one will ever see her again. Two to four months making brooms is far better for her.”

  “Did you get that from the lieutenant’s action?”

  “It’s a guess, but his district has the south taudis-town, you know, the one east of Sudroad and south of D’Artisans.” He turned to the next prisoner, not only manacled but gagged as well.

  “This one’s Skyldar. Jariolan, probably,” explained the patroller. “He knifed a cabaret girl when she wouldn’t go with him. She was dead when they got there. Here are the statements.” He handed over a sheaf of papers.

  While Gulyart wrote out the charging sheet, I went to the cabinet and was surprised to find a single sheet. “Gulyart, there’s a sheet here on a Skyldar from Jariola. He served two months . . . just got out, it looks like, for roughing up a cabaret girl.”

  Gulyart shook his head. “Same girl, I’d bet, or one he thought was the same. Bring me the sheet, if you would, Master Rhennthyl.”

  At the mention of my name, the prisoner tried to jerk away from the patroller, who immediately clouted him with a short truncheon.

  I handed the sheet to Gulyart.

  “He’s charged with murder, premeditated. Justice court.”

  I had the feeling that the morning would be long, very long.

  5

  After the initial surge of prisoners on Lundi, matters slowed down until midafternoon, when another group of prisoners-those arrested in the morning-arrived. In between the two busy periods, Gulyart filled out supplementary reports, checked the holding cells, and explained more about the charging duties. We also went across Fedre to a small bistro and ate quickly while a regular patroller took the charging desk. That meant he sat there, and if anything came up, he’d come and get Gulyart. The same pattern of activity followed on Mardi, Meredi, and Jeudi. On Meredi after dinner, I did stop young Shault and talk to him for a bit about his studies, as well as doing my best to encourage him. I didn’t know how much it might help, but it couldn’t hurt.

  When I returned from my duties, such as they were, late on Jeudi afternoon, there was a message in my letter box, confirming that I was to meet with Master Dichartyn at half past fifth glass. I was glad for the reminder, but chagrined to realize I might well have forgotten without it. I immediately hurried back across the quadrangle.

  The door to his study was open, and I knocked and stepped inside.

  He was sitting behind the writing desk, fingering his chin. He gestured for me to sit down. I did.

  “The good news is that Commander Artois has not sent me a message complaining about you. Other matters are not so sanguine, however, particularly given the invasion of Jariola by the Ferrans. That could easily lead to a similar invasion of Caenen by Tiempre, Stakanar, and other members of the Otelyrnan League.”

  “Because we’ll have to deal with Jariola, Ferrum, and the Isles and because Caenen will be unsettled until a new High Priest is selected?”

  “Our treaty with Caenen upset the Tiempran strategy, as it was meant to do. In reaction, the First Speaker of Tiempre has let it be known that great rewards will fall to those
who strike at the enemies of equality.” Master Dichartyn’s words were dry. “Especially those who strike close to the heart. Keep that in mind.”

  Something else to keep in mind, as if there weren’t too many things already.

  “The Ferran government has stated that they have no issues with us and will respect our neutrality with regard to the unavoidable conflict with Jariola, but they suggest that we take special precautions to assure the safety of their envoy.” Dichartyn looked at me.

  “They think we’ll side with the Oligarch, and they will immediately act if there’s evidence of that. They also aren’t pleased with what happened to Vhillar.”

  “Would you be?”

  I didn’t answer that. “Besides keeping my eyes open, what do you want me to do?”

  “Report to me if you see anything unusual, even if you can’t determine the cause.”

  “What about High Holder Ryel?”

  “All actions have a cost, all choices a price. You should know that.” His words were flat.

  “You and the Collegium have made that very clear, sir.”

  “Can you imagine a land where any citizen believed he could do anything he wanted?”

  “I can imagine it,” I replied carefully. “I don’t think it would last very long. Everything anyone does has an impact on others, in some way. Most people desire more than they can obtain through their own efforts, but if they felt that they could take what they could get away with taking, they would try. Before long, there would be chaos and no rule at all except by those who were very powerful in some fashion.”

  “The reason societies have laws, as well as unspoken rules and traditions, is to balance the costs and prices of the actions of individuals. In general, most individuals do not wish to pay the price of their actions, or not the full price.”

  I could see that. I could also see that the High Holders of Solidar were especially guilty.

  “The Collegium’s function in Solidar is very basic, and very simple. We are the price all imagers in Solidar pay for their comparative freedom and existence.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “Think of this, Rhenn. What is to keep you from putting on normal clothes and walking away from the Collegium?”

  “Nothing . . . until you or Master Schorzat track me down,” I replied dryly.

  “Could we find you in a land of fifty million people? With what you know now?”

  “But . . . other than becoming a laborer or a clerk or the like, there’s little that I could do without being discovered. . . .” I paused. “Oh . . . in a way, that’s part of the price. By the fact that you could track me down if I used imaging abilities, you restrict my use of them, which is what the Collegium does anyway.”

  “And if you took passage to another land, while you might be free of the Collegium, your use of your talents would still be limited by your need to survive.”

  “So . . . by abiding by the rules of the Collegium, paying that price, we obtain a better life than we could otherwise, and by paying the price of having and heeding the Collegium, Solidar also benefits.”

  “That’s true, and obvious, so obvious that most imagers accept it without thinking deeply about it. The problem is that most outside of Imagisle neither understand nor accept that agreement between the Council and the Collegium. Any land has to decide, or at least agree to accept, who determines the public prices people must pay for their actions. In Solidar, at first we had warring rexdoms, but in all of them the rex was the one who made those decisions. Now we have the Council. In Jariola, the Oligarch and his council decide, in Caenen, the High Priest. What do they all have in common?”

  “Property and golds?”

  “And more. They all have power, position, and/or property at stake. Even in the Abierto Isles, where they have an elected parliament, the electors must have property. Is this important?”

  Obviously, Dichartyn thought it was. “It must be.”

  He shook his head. “If those who decide the rules and the prices have nothing at stake, they will adopt rules and laws that will take from those who have and give to themselves, and they will pay little or no price at all. Our system of government is not perfect. No government can be, but it recognizes who has property, who has wealth, and who has power. No individual artisan has power, but artisans as a whole do, and our government structure recognizes that. Why do we not let those in the taudis have a Council representative?”

  “Because they have little to offer and nothing material at stake?”

  “Exactly. Government has a responsibility for their safety, for providing certain services, such as water and sewers, and for affording them access to public grammaires. The cost of those services is roughly in proportion to what those in the taudis offer to Solidar in terms of their labor and what they buy from others who pay taxes on what they sell. But . . . most of them don’t think so. They feel oppressed and exploited.”

  “That’s where agents and troublemakers will head, then.”

  He nodded. “Just keep watching.”

  “Sir . . . Master Poincaryt’s portrait is framed.”

  “Have it delivered here. I’ll have it hung in the receiving hall. That would seem most appropriate, don’t you think?” He stood.

  So did I. “Yes, sir.” I inclined my head politely, then slipped out of his study and closed the door behind me, leaving him fingering his chin and standing at the window.

  I still had a little time before dinner, but not much. So I walked across the quadrangle to the dining hall, picked up copies of both newsheets-Veritum and Tableta-and checked my letter box-the inscription now reading MARHE, short for Maitre D’Aspect Rhennthyl. Not so long ago, the inscription had been TE-RHE.

  There was an envelope in my letter box, squarish, and of high-quality paper. The address on the outside was formal and written precisely in black ink.

  Rhennthyl D’Imagisle

  Maitre D’Aspect

  Collegium Imago, Imagisle

  The address was written in an unfamiliar hand, neither that of Seliora nor my mother, nor my sister Khethila. I couldn’t imagine who else might be writing. I finally opened the envelope.

  Inside was a blank formal card. Glued to the card was a miniature knot tied in silver ribbon. There was no writing whatsoever.

  I just looked at it for a long moment. It could only have been sent by or at the behest of High Holder Ryel, and I understood why he had waited long months. He wanted me to become a maitre so that I would lose more when he took his revenge for my partial blinding of his eldest son. To him, it didn’t matter that his son and the brother of a taudischef had attacked me with the intent of maiming me and disabling me for life. To him, all that mattered was that I had dared to strike out against the scion of a High Holder-even if Johanyr had been an evil and lazy excuse for a student imager who had abused the sisters of junior imagers unbeknownst to the maitres. I paused. I hoped that abuse had been unknown.

  Then, I shrugged. I couldn’t change the past.

  Master Dichartyn was at the dining hall for dinner. Usually, he ate at his dwelling on the north end of Imagisle with his family. I intercepted him before he could seat himself.

  “Sir, I just thought you’d like to know I just received a formal card with a silver knot.”

  “That was to be expected, don’t you think, once it became known you’d become a master? You’re free to deal with it in any fashion that meets imager standards. If you’ll excuse me, Rhenn . . . I see Maitre Jhulian.”

  I stepped back. While I hadn’t exactly expected a reaction much different, his attitude still irritated and angered me. Part of the reason I was in trouble with Ryel was because Master Dichartyn hadn’t understood just how evil Ryel’s son Johanyr had been or how vicious the attack on me had been. And now it was all my problem? My problem alone? Seething within, I took a seat next to Maitre Dyana, the last chair on the left side. I could see Shault at the primes’ table, talking to one of the other primes.

  �
��I assume you told Dichartyn that you’d received notice from Ryel,” she said calmly.

  “Yes. You saw the card?”

  “I saw a formal envelope, white. You just made master, and while it was not posted, word would have reached Ryel in a few days after you became Civic Patrol liaison . . . and you would not have spoken to Master Dichartyn here were the matter not of import.”

  I just wished I could have reached conclusions as quickly and as accurately as she did, but since she was the daughter of a High Holder, she did have some advantages in the matter at hand.

  “What do you suggest, maitre . . . in general terms?”

  “Protect yourself at all times, and arrange for accidents to occur to his agents.”

  “So Ryel can strike at me, and possibly at those around me, and the Collegium will do nothing unless it is so overt that the entire world would know?”

  “Do not make it sound so dramatic, Rhennthyl. The Collegium does not ever become involved in individual disputes unless one of those involved has clearly and overtly broken the laws of Solidar, and often then only if such disputes threaten the Collegium. Ryel has merely sent you notice. Has he broken any law? Has he yet harmed you in any way that you can prove?”

  The answer to that was unfortunately obvious. Still . . .

  “So what can I expect from Ryel? Beside the fact that he will attempt to destroy me?”

  “He will, indeed, attempt that.”

  “And I’m supposed to do nothing?”

  “You are so impatient, Rhennthyl. He must strike first. You should know that. Then you can act as you will. So long as it does not involve the Collegium.”

  The unspoken code of the Collegium was never to strike first. But I didn’t have to like it.

  “High Holders can be most indirect. Such notice might just be a step to hasten you into rash and unwise action. In any case, I seriously doubt that any imager would wish the Collegium looking into his or her background and personal life. Once you are convinced by evidence, and not a mere card, that there is a danger, we should talk again.”