Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  That was doubtless true, but what was also true was that part of the testing and training involved was that I had to figure out the problems to solve and the ways to do so without telling anyone or revealing that I had. That much, I had begun to figure out. If a problem vanished before anyone recognized it was a problem in a way that seemed coincidental or accidental, then far fewer questions were likely to arise. The difficulty, of course, was making sure that it was indeed a problem. And some problems were obvious—like Mardoyt and possibly Harraf—and it was far harder to find an unobvious solution to an obvious problem because everyone was watching all the time.

  “Would you really want to know everything that Maitre Dichartyn does . . . or even what Rhenn here does?” Maitre Dyana’s voice remained level and almost sweet as she addressed Chassendri.

  Chassendri frowned.

  “Would you want the world, or the Council, to know?” pressed Maitre Dyana. “Too many people prattle on about openness and the need for the Collegium and the Council to reveal everything.” Her eyes didn’t quite roll. “All that means is that they want to know for their own advantage. All ruling and government requires compromise, yet most people only want the other person to do the compromising, and when everything is known, no one will compromise, and ruling then becomes a question of force. Force leads to more force, and eventually to strife, sometimes to rebellion.”

  “But too much secrecy leads to a land where no one trusts anyone. That leads to rebellion,” replied Chassendri.

  “That suggests,” I interjected, “that an appearance of openness is required, and that some matters be disclosed, but not all.”

  “You’re suggesting effective government is hypocritical.” Chassendri’s voice was cool.

  “Isn’t it?” asked Maitre Dyana. “Aren’t many effective aspects of society just accepted hypocrisy, such as good manners toward those one detests, being courteous to someone whose treatment of others leaves much to be desired?”

  A sour smile appeared on Chassendri’s lips. “I may be better suited to research and chemical development. Reagents and reactions don’t rely on deception.”

  “That is true, Chassendri,” replied Maitre Dyana, “but people do.”

  No one said anything immediately following that, but we finally did talk about whether there might be an “official” war between Ferrum and Solidar, but in the end we all agreed that the only way that would occur would be if the Ferrans declared it.

  After I finished the lime tart—the best part of the dinner—I excused myself and headed to the corridor outside the dining hall to wait for Shault. I didn’t wait long before he appeared.

  “Sir? What is it?”

  “I met with Horazt the other day. He’s glad to know that you’re doing well here, and he wants you to work as hard as you can.”

  “I know, sir. My mere wrote me. Well, he wrote for her. She doesn’t know her letters. She said that, too.”

  “How is your reading coming?”

  “It’s better, Master Ghaend says. Lieryns and Mayra have helped.”

  “And your imaging?”

  Shault smiled. “I can image good coppers now—but only one a week, Master Ghaend says. I’m really not supposed to image them.” The smile vanished.

  “Do you want to send coins or a letter to your mother?”

  “Can I?”

  “I think we can manage something. You have her address, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Shault paused. “She can’t read, and messengers won’t go there. I have to post to Horazt, and . . .”

  “When he’s short of coin . . . you’re afraid what you send won’t get there?”

  The boy nodded.

  “For now, until she can come visit you, if you want anything taken to her, I’ll make sure it gets there. I’m working not that far away. If you give me her address, the one where she lives, and tell me what she looks like,” I added with a smile.

  “If you would, sir. Can I give it to you tomorrow? She’s not much taller than me, sir. Her hair, it’s black. She always wears a chain with the crescent.”

  “I can remember that.” I paused. “No imaged coins, Shault, and don’t image coppers and trade them for a half silver, either.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I noted the slightly resigned tone behind the pleasant acquiescence. “Shault . . . don’t go against the rules. Every taudis-kid who tried that is dead—not because of the Collegium, either. They either broke laws and got caught or killed themselves because they didn’t understand the rules were to protect them as well as other imagers.”

  I could tell that either my words or tone had reached him, because his eyes widened, but his body didn’t stiffen into resistance. So I added, “I want you to succeed. I wouldn’t watch you and tell you all this if I didn’t. I’m not your preceptor, remember?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll find you tomorrow night.”

  “Good.” I smiled and watched as he hurried away. I could only do what I could and hope he didn’t end up like Diazt.

  Mardi was much the same as Lundi, but when I arrived at the station on Meredi morning, Captain Harraf was waiting in the doorway to his study. “A moment, if you would, Master Rhennthyl.”

  He gestured, and I followed him into his study, not closing the door. He didn’t ask me to, either. So I stood and waited for what he had to say.

  “So much of what the Civic Patrol does happens at night, but I’ve been told that you are not available for night duties on a regular basis because of other imager commitments. Yet I am supposed to have you accompany some night patrols as your schedule permits. I had thought that this Jeudi evening might be a possibility . . . just the first two glasses.” He raised his eyebrows.

  I didn’t know why Master Dichartyn—or the commander or subcommander—had indicated that I wouldn’t be available on all nights, but I was grateful for that, given Captain Harraf, because I had the feeling that I might have been pulling more than a few night patrols.

  “I would be happy to accompany whoever you think would be best Jeudi evening.”

  “Huerl and Koshal have a round on the north side of South Middle. It should give you a feel for night patrolling without being unduly . . . eventful.” He paused. “That’s all I had. You’ll finish your regular round at fourth glass, and they’ll meet you at the station at sixth glass, after they’ve completed one round. That will give you a little rest and time to get something to eat.”

  “Yes, sir.” It also meant that I’d be doing the patrol after sunset, which was doubtless what the captain had in mind.

  “That’s all, Master Rhennthyl.” Harraf’s smile was professionally polite.

  Zellyn was waiting out in the open area when I stepped from the captain’s study, and we walked out of the station. He didn’t ask what the captain had said.

  “I’ll be doing part of a night patrol with Huerl and Koshal later this week,” I offered. “I haven’t met them. What are they like?”

  “They’re usually on the first night shift. From what I’ve heard they don’t seem to have many problems. Except for stupid drunks and elvers.”

  “The smart drunks and elvers just avoid patrollers?”

  “The smart drunks just drink and don’t bother anyone. There aren’t any smart elvers.”

  “Do you think there are more elvers than there used to be?”

  Zellyn snorted. “When I was your age, Master Rhennthyl, I might go three weeks without seeing an elver, and I was patrolling the center of the south taudis. Today, you can’t walk ten yards in any of the taudis without tripping over one.”

  “Why do you think that’s so?”

  “Golds. The taudischefs found out they could mint more coins with elveweed than with cheap plonk or their bawds. Then the Pharsis got into it, and all the darkies from Otelyrn, especially the Tiemprans . . .” He shook his head. “The stuff’s everywhere.”

  “It’s illegal to import it, but not to use it,” I offered.

  “How’d you
stop people from using it? Make smoking it against the law and throw ’em in gaol and put ’em on the road crews where they’d be useless? The only time we pick up elvers is when they do something else, and we get too many of them as it is.”

  Zellyn had a point, but then what about all of those who dragged friends and family down to support their habit?

  The day, unlike some, was cool enough that wearing the patroller’s cloak over my grays didn’t leave me too hot. I was thankful I hadn’t been doing rounds in the heat of summer, but then I might have just had to wear a patroller’s summer tunic with the imager’s pin in some unobtrusive place.

  As we neared the Midroad, a man in gray, with a darker gray stained leather apron, rushed from a shop on the far side of South Middle. “Patrollers!”

  “Burglary last night, I’d wager,” Zellyn said quietly, even as he glanced both ways before hurrying across the avenue, after letting a collier’s wagon lumber past.

  I followed, and when we neared the shop, I caught sight of the small sign—KANTROS & SON, SILVERSMITHS.

  “What’s the matter, Kantros?” asked Zellyn calmly.

  “You ask what the matter is? Come and see!” The silversmith turned and strode back toward the shop, his bald pate and the gray hair that bordered it glistening in the morning sun for a moment before he stepped into the shadows cast by the shops on the east side of South Middle. After he reached the front door, he held it open. “Go see for yourselves.”

  Zellyn led the way, his truncheon out, through the door set between the still-shuttered glass display windows into the front of the shop, a narrow space with display shelves—empty—on the side walls and a counter less than two yards from the door which extended across from the right wall almost to the left wall, at which point where there was a gap a yard wide to permit access to the rear. Nothing had been touched in front of the counter, but behind it the doors had been ripped off both wall cabinets and hurled against the brick base of the small forge. Four large drawers had been yanked out of a chest and thrown on the floor, with various items that looked to be tools scattered across the ancient stone floor, unlike the polished ceramic tile in front of the counter. A tool case had been up-ended, and the pages from some sort of plan or drawing folder had been ripped and thrown in all directions. Even the glass of the two narrow high windows—too small for entry—had been smashed.

  “How did he get in?” asked Zellyn in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Kantros led us to the rear door, hanging at an angle by two chains above and below the door bolt. The heavy iron hinges had literally been pried out of the masonry, and there were gouges in the brick above the lower hinge and both above and below the upper one.

  Zellyn looked at the dust near the door in the alleyway. “Boots about average size. No other marks. No blood anywhere. Means he didn’t cut himself breaking in.” Then he nodded and walked back to the counter, avoiding the debris. He looked at Kantros. “Early last night, was it?”

  Kantros shrugged. “I don’t know. It was like this when I came down this morning.”

  “What did the thief take?” asked Zellyn.

  “Almost nothing. The silver goes upstairs behind all the locks every night. A half ingot of copper, a handful of coppers . . . There might be some small tools missing. Who could tell?” Kantros gestured around the back of the shop. “But look at this! The damage!”

  “The thief was angry there were no coins and nothing he could take and sell. That’s what it looks like.” Zellyn glanced to me. “Has to be a young tough or an elver. Any good thief would know there’d be nothing for him down here.” He looked to Kantros. “You’re lucky he didn’t know that.”

  “I got double iron bound and barred doors upstairs.”

  “If you can tell us what’s missing, I can put out the word.” Zellyn offered a professional and sad smile.

  “Much good that will do.” Kantros shook his head. “Besides . . . how can I tell?”

  Zellyn nodded. “I understand. When you find out, let us know, and we’ll do what we can.” He pulled out his blue-covered patrolling book and used a marker to jot down notes, then slipped it back inside his tunic.

  “Not much good . . .” Kantros was still muttering as we left.

  “We’ll have to report it, but he’ll never tell us what was taken.” Zellyn glanced across South Middle, waiting until two coaches rolled past, both heading toward the Midroad. “He probably doesn’t know himself.”

  The remainder of the morning was less eventful, but mornings usually were, it seemed. Even so, when the ten bells of noon began to toll we were both hungry and thirsty, but we were nowhere near any place to eat, and it wasn’t until close to half past that we sat down in the rear of a small bistro on Quierca in an alleyway a block off the Midroad. The name on the signboard with peeling paint read Alysna’s, but inside was clean—and bare.

  I followed Zellyn’s lead and had a Domchana—a batter-dipped and fried sandwich that held fowl and ham strips wrapped around mild peppers and a pungent cheese I’d never tasted before. It wasn’t bad—but not all that good—if filling. The lager helped.

  I’d been thinking about the burglary and finally asked, “You said it was early last night. Why?”

  “Kantros likes his brandy at night. Has ever since his son was killed. Young Lantryn ran with a bad crowd and was caught with some silvers that weren’t his. He was also probably lifting coins from his father. Justice allowed him to join the Navy, rather than do the road gangs. He was unlucky and got killed in a boiler explosion on the Chedryn. The daughter ran off to Solis, married a coppersmith. After that, Kantros’s wife died. He drank a lot before that, but lately . . .” Zellyn shook his head. “Oh . . . that much in spirits means you sleep like the dead for a glass, maybe two or three, then you’re restless after that.”

  “Someone had to know him, then.”

  “Wager it was one of those fellows who got Lantryn in trouble, but trying to find them . . . don’t spend two nights in the same place, and most of them went south to the hellhole. That’s not in our district. All we can do is send the patrollers in Fourth District a notice. Sometimes, it leads to something.”

  His tone suggested that most times it didn’t.

  “If Kantros didn’t keep silver in the shop at night, why were there all the chains and heavy hinges on the rear door?”

  Zellyn smiled. “What would keep someone from coming up behind him when he’s working?”

  Put that way, the chains made sense. I just hadn’t thought of it like that, perhaps because for anyone to steal anything of great value from Alusine Wool would have taken a wagon and a team. Wool was heavier than people realized.

  Before that long we were back walking the rounds, looking and being seen. Nothing happened until after third glass, on what would probably be the last round of the day. We were headed up Faistasa when we heard screams.

  “Help! Help!”

  Both of us hurried up the street for another three houses until we reached one of the narrow wooden dwellings with a half mansard roof of cracked tiles. The house was one of those that dated back close to a century, and that had been turned into dwellings for several families. The wooden clapboards were a faded gray that might have been some other color once, and the yellow bricks in the walk were uneven and cracked.

  A man in a ragged brown jacket was beating on the street-level side door, trying to force it open, while the woman screaming was trying to force it closed against him.

  He didn’t even turn as we approached.

  “You patrollers! Get him!” the woman yelled.

  At that moment, the assailant turned and lunged toward Zellyn. Behind the attacker, the door slammed.

  The patroller’s truncheon slammed into the man’s temple, and he staggered, but started to lunge again. I delivered a turn-kick to his weight-bearing leg, rather than his knee, and he went down, face-first, into the brick walkway.

  Zellyn dropped onto his back and cuffed him so quickly I couldn’t believe
it, but the man immediately began to kick and squirm.

  “If you’d pin his legs, sir!”

  I did, and Zellyn wrapped a leather restrainer around both legs, then rolled the man over. His face was scratched and bleeding, but he tried to spit at Zellyn, who promptly clouted him alongside the jaw. “Next time, I won’t be so gentle.”

  “Frigging trolies!”

  As I looked at the man more closely, I could see that the irises of his eyes had expanded, or his pupils contracted, so much that the pupils looked to be little more than black dots, and the whites of those eyes were so bloodshot that they looked bright pink.

  “Longtime elver,” Zellyn said contemptuously, leaving the bound figure on the walk and moving back to the door. “Madame . . . we’ve got him tied up.”

  There was no answer.

  Zellyn rapped, then pounded. Finally, he shook his head. “No point in breaking down the door. She won’t talk anyway. The women around here never do. We’ll just charge him with attacking the woman and attacking patrollers. That’ll more than take care of him.”

  The nearest pickup pole was only a block and a half away, but even with both of us carrying the squirming elver, covering that distance seemed to take forever. When we reached the pole, Zellyn didn’t attempt to uncuff the man, just used another strap to tie the cuffs to the railing.

  “You . . . trolie bastards . . . sewer-rat sows . . .” From there, his curses grew fouler and far less inventive.

  That made it somewhat easier to ignore him, but it was still close to another two quints before the patroller pickup wagon rolled toward us. After we lifted the still-cursing and squirming elver onto the wagon, Zellyn looked to me. “Might as well climb on and ride back. Marshyn won’t mind.” He grinned at the burly patroller driving the wagon.

  “Nope. I’ll even head straight back.”

  “Only because it’s your last stop.”

  “Next to last.”

  Since there was no one at the last pickup point, we reached the Third District station about two quints before fourth glass, but it took most of that time to write up our report and give it to the desk patroller.