Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  I was more than tired when I reached the quadrangle at close to eighth glass. Given the day, how late it was, and especially given Master Dichartyn’s condescension of the afternoon before, I didn’t see any necessity to report on what had happened at the charging desk. He would have been briefed on the riot, and a report was bound to be in both Veritum and Tableta as well.

  I just washed up, undressed, and went to bed.

  Vendrei wasn’t all that much better than Jeudi at the Patrol headquarters charging desk, because we got another twenty prisoners who had been held at Third District station until we could work through those we’d already dealt with—and we still had to charge those brought in for the daily range of crimes and offenses.

  The chargings slowed to a halt in the afternoon around fourth glass, and at that moment, a fresh-faced patroller, several years younger even than I was, appeared. “Master Rhennthyl, the subcommander would appreciate a few moments with you.”

  “I’m fine,” Gulyart said. “Go while things are slow.”

  The young patroller led the way up the back stairs, and in moments I was in Subcommander Cydarth’s study. Although Cydarth was standing by the window, looking out at a clear gray-blue sky, he turned to face me. He did not sit, nor motion for me to do so.

  “Rhennthyl, how have you found the past two weeks on the charging desk?”

  “Most instructive, sir.”

  “Oh, and in what fashion, might I ask?” As when I had talked to him before, his words were even, but still carried a sense of the sardonic.

  “Certainly in more than any one fashion, sir. The volume of senseless and petty offenses cannot help but remind one of the need for law and patrollers. The few vicious crimes point out that there are always those who would hurt others, if not removed. The care with which the patrollers I have seen carry out their duties increases my respect for them.”

  “If you take only those thoughts back to the Collegium when you eventually return, the Patrol will be more than repaid.”

  I ignored the condescension and the implication that I would provide nothing to the Civic Patrol while assigned as liaison. “In time, I’m certain that I will learn more.”

  His face tightened for a moment. Then he shrugged. “You saw all those who were charged in the riot on Jeudi night, did you not? What did you think about them?”

  I’d thought more than a little about it, but I was not about to share all those thoughts with the subcommander. “It seemed strange to me. The weather wasn’t hot. There weren’t any problems such as the time when that lace mill burned and they discovered that the women had been chained to their machines and burned alive. There wasn’t a conscription team near. . . .”

  “Exactly. You were here barely more than a week, and you can see that it shouldn’t have happened . . . but it did.” He paused. “You worked security at the Council Chateau, Master Dichartyn said. How closely did you observe the councilors and their visitors?”

  “Most closely in the course of my duties. Otherwise, I never saw them.”

  “A few assassins ended up dead due to your efforts.” He paused and looked at me. “Sometimes . . . one can determine where one stands by his enemies.”

  “That well may be, sir, but almost every councilor was a target of some assassin or another even in the time I was there. From what I observed of those charged here, there were a few more that looked to be of Ferran origin, but that may have been just what I saw.”

  “One of the men picked up in the riot spoke Tiempran and had a wallet with some Jariolan golds. How likely is it that a taudis-dweller who speaks Tiempran and Solidaran and has Jariolan golds in his wallet happens to be in a taudis riot in L’Excelsis by accident?”

  “That would seem highly unlikely, sir.”

  “You might pass that on to Master Dichartyn.”

  “I’m certain he will appreciate that.”

  “As for you, Commander Artois has decided that you should spend the next week or so observing cases presented in the justice courts. That way, before you start accompanying patrollers, you’ll have an idea of the process after someone is arrested and charged. You’ll be observing and assisting Lieutenant Mardoyt. He’s in charge of making sure that the prisoners and the officers involved in each case appear on time and with all the supporting evidence.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was something behind Cydarth’s words, and it didn’t help that Grandmama Diestra had warned me against Mardoyt.

  “Lieutenant Mardoyt has the study two doors down. He’s expecting you.” Cydarth turned and looked toward the window.

  I didn’t bother to say more, but stepped out of his study and walked through the empty anteroom and down the slightly dusty hallway. The second door was ajar. I rapped gently.

  “Master Rhennthyl?” asked a smooth baritone voice.

  “The same.”

  “Do come in.”

  As I entered, the man who rose from the small writing desk in a narrow room with a single window was blond, blue-eyed, and slender. Slightly shorter than I, he also offered a warm smile, and there was the slightest crinkle around his eyes when he smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Subcommander Cydarth has been most favorable in his assessment of you, and I have to say that anyone who has demonstrated master qualities as both a portraiturist and an imager has my admiration.”

  I smiled as warmly as I could in response, even though I felt there was a calculating coldness behind the lieutenant’s superficial warmth. “The subcommander was most admiring of your abilities, sir, and I hope that I’ll be able to be of some assistance in addition to observing.”

  “I’m sure you will be.” Another smile followed the words. “What we do—that’s me, and now you, and four patroller clerks—what we do is to prepare the presentation of charges to the justices in the central judicial district here. Not for the minor cases that go to the magistrates; we just send them there with the charge sheets. There are six districts that serve L’Excelsis, and we handle all of the major charges from them. We have to make sure that the charging slip matches the prisoner, that a date and time is set for the case before the justice, and that we have an escort and a covered wagon to take each consignment of prisoners to the court building in the Square of Justice. We also have to make sure any patrollers involved in a case are present, and witnesses as well. Once the sentence is passed, we then make sure the papers are correct and complete before we turn the prisoner over to the penal guards.”

  “Is there an advocate for the ones who can’t afford to pay for one?”

  “There are two public advocates on duty every day at the court. They get half a glass, sometimes a little less, to meet with each prisoner before they go before the justice. But don’t worry. You’re mostly here to watch and ask questions. Just be here a bit before eighth glass on Lundi. Then we’ll go over the prisoners and the schedule for the day, quickly, so that you can see what’s involved. The clerks actually prepare the final schedule the afternoon before, but schedules are roughed out sometimes a week in advance. . . .”

  The lieutenant went on for another quarter glass before he sent me back down to the charging desk. After that, we only charged two more offenders, both for trying to make off with hams from a butcher.

  As we got ready to leave for the day, I turned to Gulyart. “Thank you. I appreciate your time and showing me how the charging desk works. On Lundi, I start to observe Lieutenant Mardoyt and the courts.”

  “I appreciated the help, especially this week.” Gulyart grinned. “The lieutenant is very smooth, very polished. Watch him closely, and you’ll learn a lot.”

  “I’m sure I will. I just might stop back here occasionally.”

  “You’re always welcome, sir.”

  As I walked back toward Imagisle, I couldn’t help but think that my own impressions, not to mention Gulyart’s polite words, tended to confirm what Grandmama Diestra had said.

  Once I got to the Collegium, I did have a little time to clean up before I headed to the d
ining hall. But when I did head in to dinner, I picked up a copy of Veritum because my eyes picked up the headline—“Ferran Fleet Alert.” To one side was another story about the need for increased conscription.

  I saw that the masters’ table had only a handful of people there. Ferlyn was on the side away from me, seated with Ghaend and Draffyd. That reminded me that I had to see Maitre Draffyd at ninth glass on Samedi morning, right after the portrait session with Master Rholyn.

  Closer to me were the two women maitres, and I stepped toward them.

  “I see you’ve been perusing the scandal sheets,” said Maitre Dyana from where she sat beside Maitre Chassendri. “Did you learn anything?” She flipped back the brilliant blue scarf, one of the many bright-colored ones she wore to complement her imager grays.

  “Only that they don’t seem to know much more than I do, and that’s discouraging.” I slipped into the chair beside her.

  “That’s the beginning of wisdom,” added Chassendri, “when you realize that almost no one really knows much about anything and that the sum total of human knowledge can explain only a fraction of what we observe.”

  “Spoken like a true scientist.” Maitre Dyana’s words were both dry and cutting. “If we know so little, you might explain why we still don’t live in caves.”

  “Given how intelligent so many seem to be,” countered Chassendri, “why has it taken so long for us to learn how to build warm and comfortable dwellings, let alone steam engines and turbines, and ironway systems?”

  “Politics,” I suggested, “and the fact that there are far too many people who want more than they contribute. Or who would rather take from others than build or make it themselves.”

  “You’re almost as cynical as Maitre Dyana,” said Chassendri, “and you’re far younger. I shudder to think of how misanthropic you’ll be by the time you’re her age.”

  “Young master Rhenn has lived longer beyond the walls of the Collegium than have most imagers his age,” replied Dyana, her voice gentle, almost sweet. “He’s been required to look at life from three very different perspectives. That sort of experience does tend to create a more realistic outlook than laboratory expertise.”

  “A lofty perspective, such as that of a High Holder who has to become an imager.”

  “Any High Holder’s daughter would murder if she thought it would make her an imager, and bribe and suborn almost anyone to marry one . . . as you should know, dear Chassendri.”

  I froze, unable to say anything. Those were the most cutting words I’d ever heard from Maitre Dyana, as sweetly as they had been spoken.

  After the briefest of pauses, Dyana went on in the same tone. “Rhenn has a far wider perspective than a High Holder, and that will make it harder for him to deal with such, but also will make him less understandable to them.”

  For the moment, listening to them, I felt more like a chemical substance or a creature on Master Draffyd’s dissecting table. I still smiled, then asked, “What do you two think about the taudis riot?”

  Chassendri shrugged. “They do riot at times. It comes with poverty and deprivation.”

  “You don’t think it was that, do you?” Maitre Dyana looked at me.

  “No. It’s too soon after harvest. Food isn’t dear, and it’s neither that hot nor that cold, and the Council didn’t announce increased conscription levels until after the riot, and the Patrol hasn’t been harassing the elvers.”

  “What do you think?” inquired Dyana.

  I grinned. “You have far more experience than I, despite your kind words. I was hoping you might offer an opinion based on your expertise.” I poured some red Cambrisio into her goblet, and then into mine. I could use it after dealing with both Cydarth and Mardoyt.

  Chassendri managed to hide a grin behind the platter of sliced Mantean beef.

  Dyana chuckled. “Unlike my compatriot, I would so love to see you in twenty years.”

  I waited through that gambit while Dyana served herself the beef, the gravy, and the brown rice. Then I served myself.

  Finally, she said, “The riot was most likely instigated by an outside source, but whoever did so will not have left any direct traces, but evidence leading to some other party.”

  “Couldn’t it just be some of the High Holders who fear the factors and guilds getting more power in the Council?” asked Chassendri.

  “It could be, or it could be the mercantilist factors who want to prove that the poor are that way because they deserve to be—that’s the way the Ferrans operate. Or it could be someone in the taudis trying to get the Civic Patrol to crack down on the territory of a rival taudischef. Or it could be a foreign power with the aim of creating unrest and disruption here in L’Excelsis so that we would be less likely to become involved in war elsewhere. Or . . .” Dyana offered an enigmatic smile. “There are more than a few possibilities.”

  There were, and I didn’t much care for any of them. I doubted that we even knew all of them . . . but I couldn’t help wondering how much the words of the First Speaker of Tiempre had contributed to the riot . . . and whether it had just been his words.

  When I walked along the edge of the quadrangle toward the exercise chambers on Samedi morning, I could see there was no frost on the grass or trees or walkways, but it didn’t feel much warmer than earlier in the week because a stiff wind blew out of the northwest.

  After the warm-up and conditioning exercises, and before I started the blade and truncheon routines, Clovyl drew me aside for a moment.

  “Lundi, if Master Draffyd says it’s all right, you’ll start on a refresher in hand-to-hand combat, with some work on techniques that might prove useful on the streets with the patrollers.”

  “Good. These solitary routines get tedious after a while.”

  “They still might save your guts someday. You can’t always image your way out of all the troubles you might face.” He lowered his voice. “You’re talented enough that you’ll end up in more tight places than most could imagine. Master Dichartyn doesn’t hesitate to use talent.”

  Or sacrifice it for a great gain for the Collegium. But I didn’t say that.

  Dartazn was back in running form, and I didn’t finish the four-mille run within a hundred yards of him. He’d already headed for the showers before I stumbled to a halt outside the exercise chambers.

  Master Schorzat wasn’t all that far behind me. He gave me a smile. “How are you finding the Civic Patrol?”

  “It’s interesting, and I’m learning.”

  “You might think over if there are other ways to do what the Patrol does, and what implications they would have.”

  I laughed. “Are you trying to get me to think like a field imager?”

  “No. That sort of thinking can help you figure out whether procedures can be changed—or why they shouldn’t be when someone has a brilliant new idea.” He snorted. “Someone always does, and half the time it’s a very bad brilliant new idea. A senior imager needs to be able to recognize those. That’s all.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I had my doubts whether the reason he’d given me was the only reason why he wanted me to analyze Civic Patrol procedures.

  After getting a shower and shaving, and dressing, I hurried to the dining hall, where, just after I appeared, Ferlyn arrived with a graying master I’d seen a few times when I’d been a third, but whom I’d never met. “Rhenn, have you met Quaelyn?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Quaelyn, this is Rhennthyl. He’s the newest Maitre D’Aspect. He also has the distinction of having survived more assassination attempts than any third in the history of the Collegium. The last time was when he stopped the Ferran spies from exploding a firewagon near the Council security force.” Ferlyn laughed softly. “They had to make him a master after that.”

  “Ferlyn gives me too much credit,” I replied, although I had the feeling he might have been right about the assassination attempts.

  “I doubt it, not if you report to Master Dichartyn,�
� replied Quaelyn.

  “Might I ask your specialty?” I asked as we walked to the masters’ table.

  “Me? I guess you’d call me the master of patterns. I look at ledgers and books and rosters, and report what I see in the numbers and figures and . . . everything.”

  We sat down on the left end of the table. I looked out at the table holding the primes and seconds and could see Shault, sitting next to Lieryns. That was good. Surprisingly, Lieryns looked up, then nodded. I nodded back.

  “Just before we saw you,” Ferlyn said, pouring tea for Quaelyn and then handing me the pot, “we were talking about the assassinations of imagers. Did you know that we lost another one last night?”

  “Another junior imager? Or someone more senior?”

  “Thenard. He was still a prime, but he was close to making second.”

  I recalled Thenard. He’d offered a few suggestions and observation when I’d first come to Imagisle, and he’d been friendly and good-natured. “How did it happen?”

  “He just crossed the Bridge of Desires. There’s a good patisserie not more than two blocks down the Boulevard D’Council, off a side lane. When he came out of the patisserie, someone shot him. No one saw the shooter.”

  I turned to Quaelyn. “You weren’t discussing this as a coincidence, I take it?”

  “No. It is an example of patterns. I’m working with Ferlyn on many of these. I’m not so young as I once was.”

  “This is getting serious,” Ferlyn went on. “We find something between thirty and forty new imagers every year. Master Poincaryt thinks we get about half that are born in Solidar, later, of course. We’re fortunate to find even half, but that’s the way it is. Maybe ten imagers die naturally every year—on average, anyway. Another ten die because they’re imagers and either do something stupid or die as field or covert types, and, like it or not, five to ten get killed every year because some people don’t like imagers. Those are the numbers. The problem is that for the past year, we’ve had close to twenty junior imagers shot, and most have looked to be planned assassinations. And as soon as we stop one group, it’s like another pops up.”