“Yes, sir. That’s an accurate summary.”
“Are you being sarcastic, Master Rhennthyl?”
“No, sir. I’ve studied the procedures, but I’ve only worked briefly with one patroller. I do think I can learn, and there are situations where I might be helpful.”
“Outside of being an imager, what do you know?”
“I was a journeyman artist for three years after a seven-year apprenticeship, and my family is in the wool business. So I know something about art and the guilds, and about factoring and commerce. I’ve been trained to take care of myself.” I doubted that there was much else I could say that he didn’t know.
“Do you know accounting?”
“I used to do ledger entries.”
“You’ve killed men in the line of duty. How many and under what circumstances?”
I had to think for a moment. Diazt, the first assassin, the Ferran, Vhillar, and at least two others. “At least six, sir.”
“At least? You don’t remember?”
“When the Ferran envoy’s assassins tried to attack, I blew up their wagon. There were at least three people killed, but I got knocked unconscious. So I don’t know if there were more.”
“Let me put it another way. How many have you killed face-to-face at different times?”
“Three.” That was counting Vhillar.
“You realize that many patrollers have never killed anyone. That’s not our task.”
“Many imagers have not, either, sir, but even more people would have died if I had not acted.”
“How many did you attack first, before they did anything?”
“None, sir. One of them tried to kill me three times before I killed him.”
“Three times?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I doubt they were all reported.”
“The first and last times were.” I paused. “I don’t know that. Patrollers were there the first and last times. I don’t know what they reported.”
Artois smiled faintly. “Don’t you trust our finest?”
“It’s not a question of trust, sir. I don’t know what they did. I reported to Master Dichartyn. He was my superior.”
Those words actually got a nod, a grudging one, I thought.
“Do you know why we agree to have imager liaisons, Rhennthyl?”
“I’ve been told why the Collegium wants me here; I haven’t been told why you agree to it, and it would be only speculation on my part to say.”
“Only speculation.” Artois repeated my words, sardonically. “Would you care to speculate?”
“No, sir. I’d rather know than speculate.”
“You are here because you are potentially a powerful imager. Powerful imagers can cause great problems if they do not understand how L’Excelsis works. The Civic Patrol is a key part of the city. We want you to understand how matters really work. Occasionally, you will be helpful. Until you have a better idea of how, just stand back, protect yourself, and watch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will actually report to Subcommander Cydarth, and he will rotate you through observing various patroller operations. When and if you finish your initial rotations, you will use the empty desk in the outer study here. That won’t be for some time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need to meet the subcommander.” Without another word, Commander Artois turned and walked past me, opening the door.
I followed him out through the anteroom and to the right to the next door, where we entered a slightly smaller anteroom arranged in a similar fashion to that of the one outside the commander’s study, save that there was only one desk, and no one was seated there. Artois pushed open the study door, already ajar, and stepped inside.
Subcommander Cydarth was standing beside his desk, looking out the window. He turned. He was taller than the commander and had black hair and a swarthy complexion. Part of his upper right ear was missing.
“Cydarth, here’s your liaison, Maitre D’Aspect Rhennthyl.” Commander Artois nodded to me. “I’ll leave you in the most capable hands of the subcommander.” He left the study without a word.
“The commander can often be abrupt, but he’s quite effective.” Cydarth’s voice was so low it actually rumbled. I’d read of voices that deep, but I’d never heard one before.
“That is what Master Dichartyn said.”
“I doubt he said it quite that way.” Cydarth’s smile belied the sardonic tone of his words.
I waited.
“There’s one thing I want to emphasize before we get you settled. Most patrollers will call you ‘sir’ or ‘Master Rhennthyl.’ That is a courtesy, in the sense that you are not their superior. You cannot order even the lowest patroller to do anything. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. Master Dichartyn made that clear.”
“He would have. He understands a bit of what we do.”
I managed to keep a pleasant smile on my face, but I had no doubts that Master Dichartyn understood far more than either the commander or the subcommander realized.
“For the next few days, you’ll be assigned to observe the charging desk here in headquarters. I want you to study every person charged, and then read whatever past records we have on them, not that there will be many.” He looked at me. “Do you know why?”
“To note on their charging record, because those who have committed a single major offense will either be executed or will spend the rest of their life in a penal workhouse. Those who have more than three minor offenses will be spending years in the penal manufactories or on road or ironway maintenance.”
“Exactly . . . except for one thing. Do you know what it is?”
I had no idea. “No, sir.”
“What if they’re of common appearance and have changed their names?”
“Aren’t repeat offenders branded on their hip?”
“They are after a second offense, but there are minor offenders who move to another city after serving time for one offense and then change their names. You’ll learn to recognize that type.” He gestured toward the door. “Let’s get you settled in with First Patroller Gulyart. He runs charging downstairs.”
Again, I found myself following as Cydarth walked swiftly to a narrow staircase at the end of the hall and headed down it. At the bottom was a door with a heavy iron bolt, which he slid aside before opening the door and stepping into a ground-floor chamber a good eight yards long and four wide. While there were several benches, most of the space was without fixtures or furnishings, except for wall lamps. On one side of the room was a low dais, or the equivalent, on which rested a solid-front wide desk. There were two chairs behind it. One was occupied.
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.
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 other
s, 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?”
Imager's Challenge Page 5
