Imager's challenge ip-2

by L. E. Modesitt

  I recognized that titles formed a pattern in any society, but what did that have to do with war? I didn’t ask, but I might as well have, because Isola read the inquiry in my expression.

  “You have to remember, Rhenn, that names and titles are like chains. Some few people wear them like fine light jewelry links that can be snapped in an instant, but for most the links are heavy enough to bind them within the confines and expectations that their name and title impose on them. The more traditional or formal a society is, the stronger those links, and both the Ferrans and the Jariolans are like that.”

  I frowned. “And we aren’t?”

  “The Council is, and much of Solidar is. The Collegium, or those who lead and direct it, is not . . . and yet is. Think about your training.”

  While I was thinking, she went on.

  “This is also true in families. Names come with expectations. Parents don’t say that the eldest child should be especially responsible, but the way in which they act effectively adds that expectation to the child’s name, perhaps every time that the child hears his name.”

  I hadn’t thought of it in quite that fashion. Then, I was more interested in the implications of what she and Quaelyn had been discussing . . . and how it related to me.

  There was a silence. A thought had occurred to me. “You know so much about this . . . but you’re here in L’Excelsis . . .” I looked to Quaelyn.

  He laughed. “I’m an analyst of patterns, not a military commander.” After a pause, he cleared his throat and added, in an almost embarrassed tone, “Every year, I teach a course at the staff college in pattern recognition and analysis. That’s for senior officers.”

  “Oh . . . I didn’t know.”

  “There’s no reason you should have,” he said gently.

  It was just another example of something else that the Collegium did that appeared nowhere in writing.

  After dinner, I did not return to my quarters, but instead walked to the south end of Imagisle, past the anomen, to the west side, where a stand of ancient oaks formed almost a second barrier between the grounds and the River Aluse. I had an idea, but as I was discovering, not all ideas translated into practice in the way I had envisioned.

  I walked up and down the line of oaks, under the all too faint light of Artiema, only half full. Erion was full, but already low in the western sky, his grayish red light far less helpful, although it gave a sinister look to the abandoned and partly burned-out old mill across the river. I looked away from the mill, concentrating on the trees. The second oak from the north end had several large branches near the top that appeared to be dead.

  After studying them more closely, I set to work, beginning near the branch tip, and imaging out a section of wood. The branch wavered, but did not break.

  I imaged out a bit more of the dead wood. Nothing happened.

  Another attempt brought a cracking, and then the branch broke, but only hung.

  After wiping my forehead, I took a deep breath. Like everything else, making my idea into a practical device was going to take more work and skill than I’d thought. But I kept at it for more than a glass before I finally learned how to make the heavy wood fall in the general, and then the specific area where I tried to direct it.

  33

  Vendrei was misty, with intermittent rain, and a damp chill that suggested a bitter late autumn, although winter proper was a bit more than a month away. I slipped several times on the four-mille run, but Dartazn slipped more, and I managed to finish closer to him than usual. Master Dichartyn wasn’t there for either the exercises or the run, and I wondered when he would be returning to Imagisle . . . and where he had been.

  After a cold shower and a shave that left my face blue, it took two full mugs of steaming tea at breakfast to lift the chill from my body, but I got to the duty coach early enough that I arrived on time for my last day of rounds with Alsoran. I even had to wait for him.

  He was smiling when he walked into the station.

  I couldn’t help smiling back. “Good morning. Ready to head out?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I shrugged, and we left the station and started off up Fuosta.

  “Will you miss any part of Third District, do you think?” I asked.

  “I’ll miss some of the patrollers. Lyonyt was always good to do rounds with, and Zellyn’s a good fellow. Some of the others, too. But they say that Captain Telleryn runs a good station.” He smiled. “Jotenyr told me I’d eat a lot better out in Fifth District, and that he sees a lot more pretty women.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “Have to admit I could stand better food than the bistros on this round.”

  With that I could definitely agree.

  As was usually the case in the earlier part of the morning, we didn’t see any taudis-toughs on the first two rounds, and only sniffed a hint of elveweed when we were two blocks or so past the Temple of Puryon on the first leg of the first round.

  Youdh’s territory, I thought.

  “Have you heard anything about the scripties, Master Rhennthyl?”

  “All I know is that they’ve started somewhere in L’Excelsis, but I don’t know much more than that, except it’s west of the river.”

  “They usually start in one of the taudis. That’d be Caniffe, most likely.”

  “Then where?”

  Alsoran shook his head. “Might do the nicer districts in the west or go straight for the hellhole. Can’t ever tell, and that’s the way they like it. They just move in and cordon off something like a ten-block square and move from house to house. We have to charge and send to gaol anyone who tries to attack them-if they don’t shoot ’em first.”

  I hadn’t heard that aspect of the conscription teams. I’d only seen them twice, when they’d visited our house when I was something like eleven and then again when I’d been an apprentice for Master Caliostrus, just before I made journeyman. “I didn’t see a cordon when they’ve been through before.”

  “They don’t use full force in some parts of the city, just in the trade and taudis quarters.”

  We kept walking and watching, but the second round ended without incident. By the second round, we’d both removed our cloaks because the sun beat down more like summer, and the air was getting hotter and steamier by the moment.

  “You never know what to expect this time of year.” Alsoran blotted his forehead. “You wear a summer uniform, and you freeze. You put on the heavier wool, and you roast.”

  By the third round, the usual toughs were beginning to appear, but all of them either ignored us or provided Alsoran with a quick nod. Clearly Jadhyl and Deyalt didn’t want trouble with the Patrol, or with Alsoran. Somewhere near the end of that round, I realized that I’d never seen the tough who’d drawn a knife on me nearly two weeks earlier.

  I insisted on buying Alsoran his lunch at Parmiens, one of the better bistros on the avenue section of the round, as a sort of promotion and transfer present. He tried to object.

  “Promotions don’t come every day, or even every year,” I pointed out. “And, this way, if no one else says anything, you can tell your wife that someone noticed. Besides, it’s Vendrei, and we deserve a good meal.”

  In the end, he capitulated.

  Not only was Alsoran pleased, but I didn’t have gut-aches for the rest of the afternoon, something that had occurred more than I would have preferred when we had eaten in some of his “favorite” places.

  When we walked up the walk to the station at the end of the last round of the day, I stopped just outside and clasped Alsoran’s hand. “I do wish you well in Fifth District.”

  “I’d be wishing you well, too, Master Rhennthyl. If you don’t mind my saying so, with some more experience, you’d be a good Patrol captain. You settle things down, somehow. Zellyn said the same thing.”

  Settle things down? It seemed to me that I was always being forced to stir things up.

  Once we entered the station, Captain Harraf, whom I had
n’t seen in days, beckoned to Alsoran, then smiled at me before escorting Alsoran into his study and closing the door.

  After I left Third District station, just after fourth glass, I took a hack to the Avenue D’Artisans and had the driver drop me off midway between the two points where Mardoyt had left the hack when I’d trailed him. Then I made my way westward to Saelio, moving in from the north under concealment shields. With the sun getting lower in the west, and the shadows from the old dwellings and oak trees, no one seemed to look in my direction as I took my time getting into position two houses away from Mardoyt’s duplex. His daughter was playing with dolls on the porch, then disappeared inside when someone called her as the shadows merged with twilight.

  As I continued to wait, not exactly comfortably, I studied the old oaks, picking out several as possibilities, and testing them gently. The twilight deepened into night, past the time when other men, and some women, returned to their houses. Twice, I had to ease out of people’s way, but they either didn’t see me through my shields, or if they caught a hint of something, they really didn’t want to look in my direction.

  In time, the lights on the lower level of the house were snuffed out, except for a single lamp that remained lit in the front hall, barely visible through the large window behind the porch. I kept waiting, until close to midnight, or perhaps past it.

  It was a long, long walk back to Imagisle, since there were no hacks about, and my feet ached by the time I opened the door to my quarters. I almost stepped on the note that had been slipped under my door, but bent over and picked it up. Then I closed the door and imaged the desk lamp into flame before opening the envelope and reading the single line.

  I’d like to see you.

  Under the five words was the initial D.

  I couldn’t say that I was surprised.

  34

  I was so tired on Vendrei night that it took me a moment to realize that my old charred armoire had been replaced, but my clothes had been merely laid out on my bed. That meant I had to put them away before I went to sleep. Before breakfast on Samedi morning, I immediately stopped by Master Dichartyn’s study. He wasn’t there, and I left word with the duty prime-Olseort-that I’d been by to see him. After breakfast I stopped by once more, but unsurprisingly he wasn’t there.

  So I headed out to my studio, where I fired up the stove to take the chill off, prepared for Master Rholyn’s sitting, and then began to work on the background-which didn’t require his presence. Several times, I glanced outside, where the morning sun was warming the damp ground and grass and fog was rising into a clear pale blue sky.

  Right around half past seven, while I was finishing up the foreground at the bottom of Master Rholyn’s portrait, Master Dichartyn walked into the studio.

  “Rhennthyl . . . I thought I might find you here. You’re so very predictable. Dutiful, too, for the most part.”

  I smiled my polite smile, the one Maitre Dyana had called almost supercilious or some such. “Yes, sir. I do try.”

  “You’re also trying.” He sighed. Loudly. “You asked for a pay schedule for the civic patrollers. Fortunately, you asked Master Schorzat. What would have happened if you had asked the Patrol commander or subcommander?”

  “I realized I shouldn’t have-”

  “Of course, you shouldn’t have. And it’s all well and good to be contrite after Master Schorzat pointed out the problems.” He didn’t raise his voice. “Sometimes, you offer such promise, and then . . .”

  “Sir . . . I understand. You pointed out to me when I first arrived at the Collegium, and that was slightly more than half a year ago, that I would be required to learn not only the written and formal rules of the Collegium, but the equally important and unspoken ones as well. That is all well and good, but I can learn what is unspoken only if I can observe, or if I can deduce from what I do not see, what I should or should not do. From Master Schorzat’s reaction and other observations I have made, I realized that requesting any such documentation from anyone in the Patrol would be a mistake, and I have requested nothing from anyone in the Patrol.” I didn’t see much point in stating that I had observed enough documents to learn what I needed.

  His face softened, just slightly. “You don’t really expect anyone in the Patrol to adhere to the standards of public conduct expected of imagers, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  He paused. “What else have you noted?”

  “About the conduct of the Civic Patrol and its officers, I’ve seen nothing new in the way of what might be termed proof. The patroller with whom I’ve been doing rounds for the past two weeks has been promoted and transferred. I agreed to do rounds with his partner, who has been on leave, for the next week. After that, I have no idea what either Captain Harraf or the commander or subcommander have in mind for me.”

  “Has anything occurred with regard to the High Holder?”

  “Nothing has changed there, either, sir.” That was true enough. I had learned more, but it hadn’t changed the situation at all.

  “What have you been doing, then?”

  “Learning as much as I can, sir, but as you have pointed out, if what I have learned does not qualify as proof, that knowledge, by itself, does not change the situation.”

  Abruptly he laughed, shaking his head. “You sound like Maitre Jhulian.” The laugh faded all too quickly. “Patrol Commander Artois is concerned that you are concerned with issues beyond learning about the Patrol.”

  This time I laughed. “I have not spoken to the commander since the first day I was at headquarters. Nor have I spoken to the subcommander in almost a month. The only three officers I’ve exchanged words with are Lieutenant Mardoyt, Captain Harraf, and Lieutenant Warydt. I find that most interesting, sir.”

  “Oh . . . it’s interesting enough, and I know what your suspicions are. But suspicions aren’t proof, and in the meantime, even assuming, just assuming, that they’re correct, you’ve been unable to come up with proof. When the working of an institution is at stake, or its integrity is, one must have proof of wrongdoing, or come up with results to correct the problem if one cannot properly charge a malefactor, and those results must seem accidental and unrelated to you or the Collegium.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now . . . there is one other item . . .”

  I didn’t care much for it when he was almost done and then said, “Now . . .” It usually meant a reprimand or a very pointed question. “Yes, sir?”

  “You know the Ferran envoy-Stauffen Gregg?”

  “No, sir. I never met or saw him. I would have thought he would have left L’Excelsis after the Council declared war on Ferrum.”

  “He and his staff left L’Excelsis for Westisle on the twentieth, but they did not actually leave Solidar proper until earlier this week, Mardi, in fact, because of the difficulty in obtaining passage on a neutral vessel that would take them somewhere from which they could hopefully take a Ferran ship to Ferrial. That will be risky indeed. But . . .” Dichartyn paused meaningfully. “Certain investigations revealed that some of the Ferran staff serving the envoy had vanished. Our first thought was that they had gone underground. But when we captured and interrogated some of the Ferran agents we have been following, none had ever heard or seen the missing staff members. They truly vanished. Interestingly enough, about the time they did, the shootings of imagers ceased. Did you happen to have anything to do with this?”

  “No, sir. I can say in all honesty I did not even know that any Ferrans had vanished, let alone that they belonged to the envoy.” That was absolutely true, even though, in retrospect, I had a very good idea what had happened to them. “Do you know what they were doing?”

  “We suspect that they were the ones who killed Thenard and one other junior imager. There were a number of shootings . . . and then they stopped. As I recall, you were shot at twice.”

  “Yes, sir, and it’s just as you said. In fact, I’d been wondering about that. I mean, I’ve taken shots since then, but those
have been Patrol- and taudis-related. The first ones were when I was in public places.”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to them?”

  “No, sir.” And I hadn’t.

  Dichartyn nodded. “We’d best leave it at that.”

  He suspected what I knew, but neither of us had any proof.

  “That’s all for now. On Vendrei, you can take one of the duty coaches with me to go to the Council’s Autumn Ball. Don’t forget to wear the imager’s pin, either.” At that point, he walked past me to where he could see the easel. “It does look like him, even unfinished.”

  I forbore saying that creating a lifelike resemblance was precisely the point of a portrait, but just nodded and watched as he left. I’d gotten his message, all right, as if I hadn’t already begun to understand. I understood. I definitely did.

  After a time, I shook myself and went back to painting.

  Master Rholyn appeared just as the bells were striking eighth glass. “Good morning, Rhennthyl. There’s a definite chill in the air this morning, isn’t there?”

  “That there is, sir.”

  Rholyn took the position on the crate, and I began to paint.

  After a time, he spoke. “You’ll be at the Autumn Ball?”

  He had to know that, but I merely said, “Master Dichartyn has insisted that I be there.”

  “It might be best if you did not attach yourself closely to any envoys, Rhennthyl.”

  “I had not thought to seek any out, sir.” Before he could suggest more, I added, “Did you meet the second Ferran envoy?”