When Baluzt and I and the coach-wagons returned to headquarters Vendrei night, through a mist that was threatening to become a full-fledged rain, a patroller greeted me almost as soon as I’d stepped down into the back alley.
“Master Rhennthyl, sir, the subcommander would like to see you immediately.”
“Thank you.”
Cydarth was standing by the window again, and I had to wonder if that happened to be his favorite position for meeting people. He turned. “Master Rhennthyl, how have you enjoyed your week at the justice hall?”
“It has been informative in many ways,” I replied.
“That’s good. Both the commander and I felt that seeing the charging process and the trials would give you a better idea of what happens to offenders. Now that you’ve seen that, the commander feels that you need to see the street side of the Patrol. Starting Lundi morning, at seventh glass, you’ll be accompanying various patrollers out of the Third District station off South Middle. Captain Harraf will be expecting you.”
“Yes, sir.” Seventh glass. That meant a very quick shower and breakfast snatched on the run. Third District was the station with the responsibility for the South Middle taudis . . . and an additional two milles from Imagisle.
“I’m most certain that you will find that duty more interesting, Master Rhennthyl. I won’t keep you. If you would tell Lieutenant Mardoyt of your change of duty, I would appreciate it.”
“I will, sir.” I inclined my head, then departed, making my way down the upper level hallway to Mardoyt’s study. I caught him as he was about to leave, probably for the court preparation room.
“If I could have a moment, sir. The subcommander has decided that a week of observing your duties was sufficient. He’s assigned me to observe Third District next week.”
“What we do”—Mardoyt smiled warmly—“isn’t terribly interesting. Necessary, but not intriguing.”
“I’ve learned a great deal.” And I had, if not exactly what Mardoyt would have wished.
“You’re obviously an imager with a future, Master Rhennthyl,” Mardoyt said. “That’s clear from the ease with which you’ve picked up how the Patrol works.”
“You and the others have gone out of your way to make sure I understand, and I appreciate that.”
“You’ve been most diligent in checking the charge sheets against the justice proceedings, I also understand.”
“I just want to make sure that I understand how things really work, Lieutenant.” I smiled pleasantly.
“You’re a very bright man, especially for an imager, Master Rhennthyl, and you have quite a future. That Seliora D’Shelim is quite a beauty, I understand. Like a fine blade or a good pistol. You know, a year or so ago, a young man, not much older than you, Master Rhennthyl . . . well . . . he was shot. He was Pharsi, and he wouldn’t say anything, but there were only two girls who could have done it. One was Seliora.” Mardoyt shrugged. “He got it in the shoulder, but he lived, and no one in the Patrol thought there was any reason to get involved in a Pharsi love spat. Not when no one would say anything.”
I wasn’t surprised that Mardoyt had made his own inquiries, not after Grandmama Diestra’s cautions to me. I couldn’t even say I was surprised that Seliora had shot someone who’d attempted to force himself on her. I’d seen her use the pistol to get me to safety.
“Her family has done well, coming up from the taudis,” Mardoyt went on, “but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they still didn’t have ties to some people there that the Patrol would like to put away for a long time.”
“They’ve never mentioned anything like that.”
“I suppose they wouldn’t, not to an upstanding young imager like you.”
“It wouldn’t matter.” I laughed softly. “We get all types at Imagisle, from the children of High Holders to those from the taudis. Some have even been brothers to taudischefs. At Imagisle, what you do is what matters, not where you came from.”
“I suppose that’s true.” He shook his head. “It’s too bad that the rest of L’Excelsis and Solidar aren’t like that. I’ve seen families suffer, sometimes even to the point of being ruined, when people find out their past.” He shrugged. “Sometimes, that past isn’t even past. You never know.”
I nodded. “That’s true.” I wanted to add something, but anything I said along those lines, such as that the most respectable-seeming officers were often nothing like that, would have revealed too much. Better to leave the lieutenant guessing. “If you don’t have anything else for me, sir, I’ll be leaving.”
“Best of fortune at Third District.”
“Thank you.” I walked out of the anteroom and down the corridor to the stairs, then I stopped and stepped back into the alcove beside the steps, erecting an image shield that matched the wall—I hoped.
Before long, Mardoyt appeared, and walked past me and down the steps. At the bottom, he eased open the door, looked, and then closed it, before turning and walking back up and past me. His actions were more than suggestive, but certainly not proof. I waited until he entered the courtroom preparation chamber before slipping down the stairs to the charging area.
Gulyart was still at the charging desk, alone with several stacks of paper.
“Would you like some help filling out some of those?” I asked. “I’ve got a little time.”
Gulyart smiled faintly.
“I mean it.” I pulled up a chair. “Just tell me what you want done.”
“If you don’t mind . . . Ghrisha would be glad that I got home before it gets too dark.”
I followed his example, checking the record sheets that had been delivered, and then filing them, after making any necessary changes or entering changes on existing records sheets and then replacing them. Along the way, I sneaked a look at several areas of the files, but the sheets I was looking for weren’t there, including the one that should have been on Chardyn D’Steinyn. Only after close to half a glass, when we were nearing the end of the pile, did I speak.
“Someone mentioned a first patroller named Smyrrt who used to work for Lieutenant Mardoyt. I got the impression that something had happened to him.”
Gulyart nodded. “He was killed last winter, walking by that new stone building some three blocks up on his way home. Someone knocked over a stack of cut granite . . . fell three stories and hit him. Anyway, he was found under the stone, and his skull was crushed. . . .”
“That sounds like accidental on purpose,” I observed.
“Some said it was.” Gulyart shrugged. “But Mardoyt looked into it and said it was an accident. Everyone agreed.”
“Then it was an accident.” I paused. “Have a good weekend.”
“I will . . . and thank you for the help.”
When I left the Patrol headquarters, I did hail a hack to take me back to the Collegium, and not because of the rain, which wasn’t that heavy, but because I wanted to get there in time to talk to Master Dichartyn. I was fortunate enough to find him in and momentarily unoccupied.
“I thought I might be seeing you. Have you been reassigned yet?”
“Third District, starting on Lundi.” I eased off my damp gray woolen cloak and sat down in the armless wooden chair across the writing desk from him.
“What of great import do you have to impart?”
I ignored the sarcasm. “Mardoyt’s taking payoffs to lose charge sheets or get charges reduced before they’re presented to the justices. There’s no real proof except for missing charge sheets.”
“That’s always been a problem, with whoever’s held that position. What else?”
“A taudischef named Youdh is fairly close to the Tiempran priests who incited the riots, and they paid for the advocate to represent some of those sentenced, as well as the bribes to get some of the charges unofficially dropped. It’s well known that Baluzt is the pocket man for Mardoyt.”
“I see that you haven’t confined your observations to what has been presented to you, but you’ll have to do better if y
ou want to change matters.”
“Should I want to change them?”
That brought a frown to Dichartyn’s face.
“You pointed out that I was only to be an observer, sir. If the Civic Patrol structure is such that it encourages bribery, that’s not exactly something for a liaison to address, is it?”
“No. But proof would help.”
I was the one to laugh. “Mardoyt has years of experience in avoiding providing proof. What I know absolutely and what I can prove are two separate matters, and you know that far better than I, sir.”
“I’m glad to see you recognize that. Just don’t mention what you’ve told me to anyone except Master Poincaryt until you do have proof.” He cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing. The Council is having its annual Autumn Ball on Vendrei the thirty-fourth of next month.”
“Do they have one every season?”
“Every season except summer. Although Master Schorzat and I both have some reservations about your methods, your ability to discern trouble is extremely good. We have agreed that your presence will be salutary. Since you are no longer officially part of Council security, you will need to wear the black formal jacket of a Solidaran functionary—and the imager’s pin, of course. This is not a deception because as both a master imager and a liaison to the Civic Patrol, you are exactly that. The tailor is expecting you for a fitting tomorrow at ninth glass, after you finish your session with Master Rholyn.”
“Speaking of that, sir, it’s getting rather chill in the studio. If it gets much colder, I won’t be able to paint because the oils will harden too much. I’m going to need some way to heat the studio on the coldest days.”
“I can see that, but just talk to Grandisyn. I’m sure you two can figure something out.”
“I didn’t wish to go around you, sir.”
“For matters like that,” Master Dichartyn said dryly, “please do.”
“I have another question.”
“Oh?”
“I’d like to paint the portrait of the young woman who saved my life. But since the Collegium paid for everything, from canvases to paints, I don’t know how exactly to repay the Collegium. Also, is it possible to have her do the sittings here at the studio . . . if I make sure she only takes the public ways?”
Master Dichartyn laughed. “We’re not that secretive, Rhenn, and the Collegium certainly won’t have a problem with your painting her portrait or, as you indicated earlier, portraits of other imagers who are friends or acquaintances.”
“I didn’t want to take any advantage . . .”
“That’s very clear . . . and appreciated. Is there anything else? If not . . .” He stood.
“There was one other thing . . . some of the taudischefs are worried about conscriptors scouring the taudis for youngsters.”
Master Dichartyn shook his head. “They don’t tell me, but it will happen, and sooner than later. The Army and Navy are always short of men, and it’s been a good year since the last sweep. I don’t feel that sorry for the taudischefs. Most of the boys will fare better outside the taudis, even in war.”
He was probably right about that—and I was definitely missing something, something that he wasn’t about to tell me . . . as always.
I hurried to the dining hall, only to find that the only convenient space at the masters’ table was one to the left of the pattern-finder Quaelyn. On his right was Maitre Dyana.
“Good evening, Rhennthyl,” she offered.
“Good evening, maitre, Master Quaelyn,” I replied as I seated myself.
“How are you finding the Civic Patrol?” she returned.
“Enlightening in ways that I never considered, but possibly should have.” I tried to keep my tone light and wry, accepting the platter of river trout, each wrapped in what passed for parchment.
“A certain practicality, leavened, as it were, by personal necessity?” inquired Quaelyn.
“That’s one way of putting it.” I poured some of the red table wine. I didn’t know what it was, but felt I could use some.
“Practicality and personal necessity. Imagine that,” murmured someone.
“What do your patterns say about how the coming war will affect the High Holders?” I looked to the older master.
“Your question, Rhennthyl, contains a number of assumptions, such as there being a war, that such a war will impact Solidar in more than a minimal sense, and that such impacts will indeed affect High Holders as such.”
“If you would address Rhenn’s assumptions first, then,” suggested Maitre Dyana.
“The first assumption is the most reasonable, because whether an actual war is declared or not, there is a definite struggle for economic and military control, but the impacts of such a war are likely to be indirect at best. That is because the Ferrans—or the Tiemprans or anyone else—do not have adequate troop transport capabilities to bring an army onto Solidaran soil. In the worst case, there will be shortages of certain goods, such as spices, rarer metals, specialty woods, and minerals. Shortages drive up prices of those goods and others as well. Such price increases will impact the poorest in Solidar the most, the crafters almost as much, the factors less, and the vast majority of High Holders minimally.” Quaelyn smiled apologetically and somewhat condescendingly.
“I see your reasoning.” I smiled. “Thank you.” I might be missing something in regards to Master Dichartyn, but I had the feeling that Quaelyn was missing a vital aspect. The taudis already had periodic riots from various causes, and with another conscription effort, followed by higher prices of even a few goods, parts of Solidar—and L’Excelsis—were likely to face more in the way of riots and unrest. He might be right in that such unrest would not extend to the lands and properties of the High Holders . . . but I wouldn’t have wagered much on that, although I couldn’t have said why.
“With what patterns will the Council respond?” I pressed.
“They will lay the blame primarily upon the Ferrans, and secondarily upon the factoring class, which will respond by pointing out that they did not cause the shortages and that the Council did nothing to anticipate the problems at hand. . . .”
I nodded and kept listening.
Samedi morning afforded no rest, not that Samedis ever did. I hurried through everything so that I could get to the studio early enough to set up and—hopefully—to talk to Grandisyn, but he wasn’t anywhere around. I’d have to see him on Lundi, then.
Maitre Rholyn appeared in the studio a few moments before eighth glass.
“The standing position?”
“If you would, sir.” I paused. “Before we begin, might I ask where it appears the Council stands on the question of war with Ferrum?”
“You can certainly ask, but the Council has declared it opposes war and is unlikely to discuss the matter unless the situation changes.”
In short, they’d wait until Ferrum acted.
“Have you thought about my comments of last week?” he asked as he put one foot on the crate.
For a moment I had to search mentally for what he’d said—he’d implied that the Collegium was more authoritarian than even the Council, although his words had been more carefully chosen than that. “Yes, sir. There were several implications behind your words. At least, I thought there were.”
“Such as?” He smiled faintly.
“The implication that while some fictions, such as not overtly conceding the obvious in identifying Council security force members as imagers, may be obvious, they are also necessary.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Manners are often a fiction, yet without them, all too many gatherings and conversations might well end in violence.” I picked up the palette and the fine-tipped brush.
That brought a nod. “Did you . . . ponder any others?”
“I could be mistaken, but I gathered the impression that you implied there was a trade-off between accountability and authority.”
Rholyn frowned, as I’d hoped he might. “How did you re
ach that conclusion?”
“You discussed how the Council must reach a consensus for a decision, but how the Collegium almost always accepts the decision of the chief maitre. The difference is that all know that the Maitre D’Collegium is fully accountable to the Collegium and can be replaced by a vote of all masters at any time, whereas councilors serve fixed terms, regardless of their actions. Also, seldom, if ever, is a single councilor made accountable for a Council action. Thus, it is clear that while the Maitre D’Collegium is accountable, such sole accountability is far from clear with the Council of Solidar, even when the Executive Council acts independently.”
Maitre Rholyn laughed. I thought the sound was a trace forced.
“In time, you might well represent the Collegium before the Council, Rhenn.”
“I think not, sir. I am not always the best at reserving my views for the time most appropriate for disclosure.”
“That may come with experience.” He turned his head. “This way?”
“A bit more toward me.”
After that, Rholyn did not mention anything of great import. Once he departed, a few moments before ninth glass, I cleaned up the studio, then looked once more for Grandisyn, who remained nowhere to be found, and hastened back to the quadrangle for my fitting.
Based on the way I felt matters would be going over the weekend, after my fitting with the tailor, I immediately took a hack from the west side of the Bridge of Desires to see Khethila and Father at the factorage. As soon as the hack stopped and I stepped out, I could see that something was wrong. There was a definite odor of smoke and burned wool, and Eilthyr was standing outside by the front doors, propped wide open, just below the tasteful sign proclaiming Alusine Wool, set on the yellow bricks of the wall comprising the long front of the one-story building. The loading docks were in back, more toward the south end, but still out of sight.
“Master Rhennthyl, we’re closed ’cause of the fire, but Mistress Khethila and Factor Chenkyr are inside.”
“A fire? Where?” A coldness flashed down my spine.
“In the back on the north end.”
I hurried up the steps to the open double oak doors and inside, where the heavy acrid odor of smoke assaulted me. I glanced beyond the open area before the racks that held the swathes of various wools. To the right was another set of racks with the lighter fabrics—muslin, cotton, linen. Behind that was the raised platform with desks and files from where Father—and now Khethila—could watch the entry.
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