“Yes, sir.”
“Give her my thanks.” I hurried back out of the stable and across the courtyard, taking the south entrance onto Nordroad.
I did have to wait for a bit, but less than a quint before getting a hack, one of the older and more dilapidated coaches, but I wasn’t feeling that choosy at the moment. After I got out of the hack at the Plaza Sudeste, I wasn’t as fortunate at finding Lyonyt and Fuast as I had been on Mardi, and it was two quints before second glass when I finally caught up with them as they were coming up Saelio.
“Little earlier today, sir,” offered Lyonyt.
“It is, and I won’t have to be ducking out for the rest of the week. I finally finished what was required.” Before he could comment, although I doubted he would, I asked, “Is it still quiet on the rounds?”
“Except for a grab-and-run on the avenue, sir, it’s been real quiet.”
“That’s good for us.”
“You still think the scripties are coming?”
“Yes. I just don’t know when.”
“Won’t be long,” murmured Fuast.
He was doubtless right about that.
We finished two more rounds through quiet streets of the taudis, streets that were never that quiet. Even the odor of elveweed was less pervasive, and that suggested that those who sold it didn’t want to lose any of it to the conscription teams.
When we walked back into the station just after fourth glass, Lieutenant Warydt beckoned to me from outside his study. I walked back to join him.
“We haven’t seen any conscription teams yet, Master Rhennthyl,” said the lieutenant. “Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing more than before, that they’ve been operating in the west of L’Excelsis.”
Warydt smiled warmly and nodded. “If you do hear . . .”
“I’ll certainly let you know, sir.”
“That would be helpful.”
As I left the Third District station, I had the feeling that the entire conversation was really to point out how little I knew that was really helpful to the Civic Patrol.
It might have been my imagination, but it seemed as though there were fewer hacks on South Middle near the taudis. I walked all the way to the Midroad before I could hail one, and the ride down the Midroad, around the Guild Square, and along the Boulevard D’Imagers seemed interminable.
When I finally left the hack and crossed the Bridge of Hopes to Imagisle, carrying the blue-gray patroller’s cloak because the afternoon had gotten uncomfortably warm, even though the gray clouds loomed closer in the west, I kept looking to see if some junior prime might be looking for me, but no one was. I reached my quarters and hung up the cloak, then went down to the main level and washed up. While it was still a good half glass before the time for dinner, I decided to walk over to the dining hall and see if I had any letters or messages. I didn’t want to, because, sooner or later, I feared, there would be one.
As I walked into the dining hall, I made the point of looking up at the plaques that held the names of past imagers who had died serving the Collegium. There was a new plaque, one for Thenard, right below the one for Claustyn. Getting shot by Ferran assassins was serving the Collegium, even if the Collegium did frown upon my doing in one of the envoys who’d authorized those assassinations.
In that respect, I didn’t agree with Collegium policies. I still thought that those who created evil should pay, even if it happened to be politically “inconvenient.” I did agree that any action taken should not be traceable to the Collegium, at least not through proof. People would still speculate. Then . . . there might be times when others would know, but could prove and do nothing. That was dangerous, but I could see that there would be times when that was unavoidable.
I walked toward the letter boxes, opened mine . . . and froze. A red-striped letter sat there, as deadly as if I were looking at the barrel of a pistol. As I drew it out, I recognized Khethila’s writing. I knew what was in the letter, but I still had to open and read it.
Dear Rhenn,
I have the feeling that this will come as no surprise to you. Rousel died late on Samedi. He never really woke up, Mother wrote.
Father is closing the factorage there, for now, and they will be returning with Remaya and Rheityr. They plan to arrive back here on Solayi afternoon. I will be arranging a memorial service for Rousel with Chorister Aknotyn for some time next week . . .
For all that I had feared Rousel’s death, even worried about it and half anticipated it, I felt encased in chill and as though I were being squeezed on all sides by massive unseen weights.
Numbly, I slipped the envelope and note into my waistcoat and hurried out of the dining hall and across the quadrangle toward the Bridge of Hopes. Hopes?
I had to wait almost a quint in the fading twilight before I could catch a hack to take me out to Khethila. Then as I sat on the hard seat of the coach, I couldn’t help but think, yet again, about how everything had come about, how the seemingly smallest of actions created ever greater losses. Because I’d half blinded the arrogant son of an even more arrogant High Holder in self-defense, my brother was dead, his wife a widow, and his son fatherless. Alynat was dead because he would have carried on with what Ryel had begun, as would Dulyk, given half a chance. And Ryel thought he was in the right.
I couldn’t help but reflect on Grandmama Diestra’s words about how those who were good but naive always believed that there was a way out where no one was hurt, and where all ended well. All too often, I was learning, such didn’t exist.
Yet . . . what I had done-and would do-was not right. It was necessary to prevent a chain of further wrongs . . . and I intended that the example I set would do just that, hopefully so that other imagers would not be faced with what I had encountered.
Was that a vain hope? I could only trust in my feeling that it was not, but that required my success, and that was not at all certain. I only knew that I had to try.
The ride out the Midroad seemed to take glasses, but it was less than half a glass when the hacker pulled up in front of the gate before my parents’ house. I gave him an extra few coppers over the fare and hurried up the walk to the door. I rapped loudly.
Khethila opened the door. Her face and cheeks were dry, but her eyes were red. “I thought you’d come.”
“I’m here.” I stepped inside and hugged her, then closed the door, one-handed, before putting both arms around her.
We just held to each other for a time.
Finally, I stepped back. “I’ve spent all week fearing it would come to this. Most people don’t live through those kinds of injuries . . . but I still hoped.”
“So did I.”
“The service . . . can I . . . ?”
“I closed the factorage early and had Charlsyn take me to see Chorister Aknotyn. He won’t set the day firmly until Mother and Father are back, but we’re planning on Jeudi. I thought you’d speak for the family. Can you be there?”
“I’ll arrange it.” We didn’t speak of it, but we both knew Rousel had been cremated in Kherseilles and his ashes scattered there, probably to the sea, because he had loved to sail.
We walked slowly back to the family parlor. Khethila dropped heavily onto the settee. I took the armchair across from Father’s and waited for Khethila to say what she would.
“I never felt good about Rousel going to Kherseilles,” she finally said.
“I worried about it.” I had, but not for the same reasons, I suspected.
“Rousel . . . he trusted people too much. He couldn’t believe that . . . that people could be so selfish . . . so uncaring.”
That was true enough. Even though he’d annoyed me at times with his carelessness and gibes, what she said was true. Part of Rousel’s carelessness came from his belief that things and people couldn’t go that wrong. But his carelessness and overly optimistic attitude, the arrogance of the Ryels, and my imaging abilities . . . and even my own willfulness in not wanting to bow down to Johanyr . . . al
l those had combined to kill my brother.
And I could not say anything to my own family. What good would it do, except create greater bitterness and anger, both against me and against the High Holders and the Collegium?
That was another price of being an imager, I was learning. I wondered how many more I would discover in the days, months, and years ahead.
47
Needless to say, I stayed late with Khethila, but did get a ride back to the Collegium with Charlsyn, only to sleep fitfully and wake up early on Jeudi. Because of the nightmares, most of which I didn’t remember, about all sorts of mayhem and violence being perpetrated on Khethila, one of the first things I did, after lighting the desk lamp, was to write a brief note to Seliora. I did take care to make it seem as harmless as possible.
Dearest,
Since I won’t see you until Samedi at the sitting for the portrait, I thought you should know that Rousel died over the weekend. Given the circumstances and the severity of his injuries, I had feared this might happen. There will be a memorial service here in L’Excelsis next week, but I do not know when yet.
I know that this might be an imposition for Grandmama Diestra, but Khethila will be all alone at the house until my parents return on Solayi, and you understand that, as an imager, I cannot stay there at night. If there is anything that can be done to see that she is not disturbed, I cannot tell you how greatly I would appreciate it.
I did sign it “With Love, Rhennthyl.”
After I sealed the letter, I sat at the desk for a time, recalling what Martyl or Dartazn had said about Master Dichartyn-that he never seemed to sleep and that it was no wonder, with what he had done. I also recalled what Maitre Poincaryt had said about Master Dichartyn not having had as few problems or enemies as I did in more than ten years.
But why? Why did it have to be that way?
Couldn’t the Collegium work matters out better with the Council and the factors and the guilds? Or had they, and what we lived under was the best they could do? That didn’t seem like the most satisfactory of answers, not to me, but it had been brought home forcefully that at times the best of compromises exacted a great burden on those caught between the millwheels of the compromisers.
Finally, I got into exercise clothes and headed out.
Both Master Dichartyn and Master Schorzat were there for the morning exercises and run, and I thought about telling them about Rousel. First, I dismissed it because saying anything would just leave more traces back to me. Then I realized that I could certainly say that he’d died of injuries in a wagon accident and that I would need part of a day to be at the memorial service. Not mentioning it would suggest more than being straightforward.
After the exercise routines, where I got thrown more than I should have in sparring, and the run, I cleaned up and hurried through breakfast. I did force myself to eat because I knew I needed to, and then headed to the administration building to find Master Dichartyn. It was early enough that he was there, and no one else was, when I rapped on his study door.
“Come in.” His voice was tired. “What is it, Rhennthyl?”
“Just one thing, sir. Last night I received word that my brother died of injuries he received in a wagon accident. I just wanted you to know that I’ll need part of a day next week to go to the memorial service. I trust that won’t be a problem.”
Dichartyn looked at me intently. “I wondered. You seemed distracted this morning.” He frowned. “You found out just last night? Last night?”
“Yes, sir. I got an urgent message from my sister. He died in Kherseilles over the weekend.”
Master Dichartyn looked at me. “I imagine you’re upset. Don’t do anything foolish. Foolishness won’t bring him back or help you.”
“No, sir. I understand that. I won’t do anything foolish.” In time, I’d do what was necessary, but not until that time.
He kept looking at me. I met his gaze.
Then he nodded. “Please let me know when the service is. There won’t be any problem.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I had the feeling Master Dichartyn knew about Alynat, and the timing puzzled him. That was fine with me.
After leaving Master Dichartyn and before leaving for Third District station, I did arrange with Beleart to send the letter to Seliora by private courier. That cost me a silver, but it was worth it. I hoped they could help . . . but Seliora and her family had offered.
I hurried off to the extra duty coach where, as the driver headed out over the Bridge of Hopes, I sat on the hard seat worrying about what Ryel might do next and hoping that Seliora’s family could and would help-and that I could repay them without compromising my position at the Collegium. Yet . . . the Collegium’s frigging unspoken and unbending rules and the frigging unbending customs of the High Holders were what had gotten me-and my family-into the position where I found myself. And . . . for all that I knew Alynat’s death was necessary, the fact that it had been bothered me.
When the duty coach turned on Quierca and then on Fuosta, I thought I saw mounted riders ahead. The conscription team? That was all I needed.
I hurried into the station, where all the patrollers were drawn up, and joined Lyonyt and Fuast. “What’s happening?”
“The lieutenant just said that he needed to talk to everyone before they headed out,” replied Lyonyt.
“It has to be about the conscription teams.”
“He didn’t say.”
It wasn’t that long before the lieutenant walked from his study and stopped short of the assembled patrollers. He waited for the murmurings to die away before he spoke. “Some of you have already seen that the Navy conscription team has arrived. They’ve set up a cordon all along South Middle, up to Saelio and across to Quierca and back south to Goryn. . . .”
That mean the entire taudis was cordoned off.
“. . . If past practice is any guide, all they’ll do today is man their perimeter and grab anyone who’s the right age without an approved job or schooling who tries to sneak by them. They’ll start taking their teams door to door tomorrow. Just patrol the outside of your round and keep clear of their teams,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t try to cross the cordon lines, and don’t argue with them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” came a response, mostly in unison.
“That’s all.”
We let some of the other patrollers-those whose patrols did not include the South Middle taudis-leave the station first, then followed.
“Could be a long day.” Lyonyt glanced up at the thin overcast that had turned the sky a bluish silver. “Good thing it’s not too hot.”
When we reached South Middle short of Dugalle, I could make out the pattern of the cordon. There were riders stationed every fifty yards or so and roughly three men armed with oak batons, longer than truncheons, set equidistant between the riders, who also carried batons. The riders had pistols, but the uniformed men in olive-green uniforms-I thought they were marines-did not. There was a larger group of marines opposite the Temple and another group, it appeared, farther up South Middle.
“Why do they do it this way?” asked Fuast.
I’d had the same question.
“They don’t say, and they don’t like us asking. If you ask me, I’d guess they figure that if they just hold their position for a while, everyone inside will calm down.”
I had my doubts about that, particularly since the conscription teams cordoned the taudis areas of cities only before going house to house. It was almost as though they wanted to provoke resistance so that they could use force.
We kept back from the riders and marines, actually walking on the north side of East Middle until we passed Saelio where the cordon ended. Then we resumed our normal patrol round. After we patrolled the avenue and up to Saelio on Quierca, we crossed the street and walked past Dugalle to the end, before turning and retracing the same pattern.
We were nearing Mando on South Middle when a white-haired and bent old woman, accompanied by
a boy, walked across South Middle. One of the riders was closest, and he yelled out, “You there! Halt!”
The woman either did not hear or did not understand, and while the boy tugged at her sleeve, she shifted the bundles in her arms and kept walking.
“Halt!” yelled the rider, turning his mount and lifting the long baton.
“Stay here,” I hissed at Lyonyt, moving forward toward what I saw as an unnecessary use of force.
The mounted officer urged his mount into a quick trot toward the woman, bringing the baton into position for a vicious cut.
“Grandmere!” cried the youth, a boy not that much older than Shault.
I managed to throw a partial shield, at an angle, just as the officer struck, and the horse staggered sideways, nearly unhorsing the officer. I didn’t know Navy rank insignia but the silver bars indicated an officer. His position suggested a junior one.
He wheeled the horse back toward the pair, raising the baton to strike again, even as the boy tried to help the old woman pick up her scattered parcels and groceries.
I stepped forward. “You don’t ride down old women, Lieutenant, conscription team or no conscription team.”
“What?” He reined up and turned in the saddle, looking down at me. He was older, probably a junior officer who’d come up through the ranks. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the grays and the insignia on my visor cap. “You don’t tell a conscription team what to do. Not even an imager does. No one breaks a cordon, and no one carries in food for those taudis-types. No one, and don’t tell us what to do.”
“I’m just asking you not to ride down helpless old women,” I said mildly.
“Get out of the way, or your Collegium will hear that you interfered.”
I was getting very tired of arrogance, everywhere. Namer-tired, and there was no one close to us, not close enough to hear, not yet. “Do you prove your manhood by abusing women and boys? Are you that type?”
I could see him flush.
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