Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Was that really so? Wouldn’t I want others to remember me? To remember Rhenn? And didn’t the Collegium list the names of imagers who died in service on plaques? Like Claustyn, who’d been so supportive of me when I’d first made third. Or were those names carved in stone more to illustrate that they had died doing deeds?

  “The Nameless cares for us, for what we have done, for how we have loved . . . for those are what comprise us, not a name, nor a label. We are the sum of our acts and thoughts and feelings, not mere names to be set on dead stone. . . .”

  I had to wonder if, in a way, that was why I preferred portraiture to sculpting, because the goal of the portraiturist was to create an image, an impression, of the sum of the personage as he or she was in life, an image that also touched and changed the lives and views of the beholder in the way I had never found that cold stone could do.

  I would remember Claustyn for his warmth and friendliness, not for his name.

  Wouldn’t I?

  On Lundi morning, I’d barely taken three steps into District Three station, carrying the bag that held the brown cloak, the plaid cap, and the smaller bag with the purple scrap of wool, when Captain Harraf appeared at his study door and summoned me with a peremptory gesture. He said nothing until he had closed the door behind me.

  “You haven’t heard anything about the Navy conscription teams, have you?”

  “I asked about them, but all I was told was that they’re likely to begin conscripting in L’Excelsis shortly. The Collegium hasn’t been informed when they might start in specific areas of the city.”

  “Shortly? Is that weeks or days?”

  “I got the impression that they would begin in L’Excelsis sooner rather than later, but no one could tell me an exact date.”

  “Rather convenient. I suppose that even the liaison to the Civic Patrol isn’t exalted enough to be privy to such.”

  “So far as I can tell, Captain, even the Collegium councilor doesn’t know.”

  He looked hard at me.

  I had no doubts that Rholyn didn’t know. Master Dichartyn might, but not Rholyn.

  Finally, he said, “You expect me to believe that, Master Rhennthyl?”

  “Captain, you can believe whatever you like, but the councilor told me that he didn’t know, and if he doesn’t, I don’t know when the conscription teams will be doing anything, or where—except that I do know they will be operating in L’Excelsis before long.”

  “It appears that the Navy trusts the Collegium as little as I do.” He smiled coolly. “That was all I had for you, Master Rhennthyl. I imagine Lyonyt is waiting outside for you.”

  “Do you know when you’ll have a replacement for Alsoran?”

  “He’s not the kind of patroller to replace. A new man is scheduled to be here a week from today. It may be that you will be rotated to another station before long, as well, but no one has informed me.”

  That was also understandable, from what I’d seen. Neither the subcommander nor the commander really knew what to do with me, and I’d gotten the impression that Artois didn’t want to talk to me and Cydarth didn’t want me in headquarters. “I’ll help as I can here, sir, until the commander decides.”

  Harraf nodded. “You’d best find Lyonyt.”

  I didn’t bother replying, but smiled, turned, opened the door, and departed, leaving the door open behind me. I stowed the bag in the cubby and went to look for Lyonyt.

  “Master Rhennthyl?”

  I turned.

  “Lyonyt, sir.” He stood almost a head shorter than did I, with a wiry build, and brown eyes that never seemed to remain fixed on anything, even while he was looking at me.

  “We’re to be patrolling together this week, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late, but the captain had a question.” I looked toward the station door. “I suppose we’d better get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lyonyt seemed to bounce as he moved.

  I didn’t say more until we were striding up Fuosta toward South Middle. “You’ve been on leave.”

  “Yes, sir. I have to thank you. The captain said I only got it because you were available to help Alsoran.”

  “I’m not sure he needed much help.”

  “Could be, sir, but it meant a lot to me. Anacherie was so ill after little Marie was born, and then with my father dying right after that . . .”

  And Harraf wouldn’t allow Lyonyt leave without a replacement? Was Third District that short of patrollers? “I’m glad it worked out.” I paused. “How long have you been with the Civic Patrol?”

  “Be nine years next Ianus. Best thing I ever did, quit being a butcher’s apprentice and apply to the Patrol. Wasn’t the cutting. That was fine. Always have liked knives.” He drew a long shimmering blade from the sheath on his heavy belt, a sheath partly concealed by his short patroller’s cloak. “Times a knife’ll do you better than a truncheon.” The knife vanished. “Always got fidgety halfway through the day. Caymeyrl was always telling me to settle down. Said a good butcher had to be solid. . . .”

  We kept walking, turning east on South Middle. I listened, but kept my eyes moving. For all his chatter, Lyonyt didn’t stop looking, either.

  Just after we passed the Puryon Temple, I caught sight of another tough, this one some twenty yards up Weigand—the first through street to the south past the Temple. He watched us until we were out of sight. I didn’t look at him but once, but could feel his eyes on my back.

  I didn’t see a purple jacket under the nondescript brown cloak, but I would have wagered he was wearing one.

  “. . . Sansolt always listens, but he never says anything . . . gets to a fellow after a while. Now, Jaovyl, he’s a good man . . . got the round east of the Guild Hall this rotation. . . .”

  Before long, we reached the Avenue D’Artisans, and after less than two quints with Lyonyt, I could see why he’d been paired with the quiet and solid Alsoran.

  “That place there. It’s called Yualtyn’s. Don’t eat there. Wasn’t bad when it was Gosmyn’s. Hetyr fixed a good honest ragout. Yualtyn bought him out two-three years back. Now all they serve is that Tiempran shit that burns your mouth before you open it. Over there, Chapytoc—good bootmaker. Does good resoling, too. . . .”

  Lyonyt did suggest a different place to eat at midday, a patisserie called Jehan’s, which served a folded fried flatbread filled with lamb and mint with a cucumber sauce. I didn’t know that I’d have wanted it every day, but it was tasty and filling and a definite change.

  After we ate, we reversed the direction of the rounds, but outside of the increasing odor of elveweed, something that happened late every afternoon, the remaining rounds were without any major incidents.

  Once I left Lyonyt at the station, I walked down Fuosta and north on Quierca until I could hail a hack. I had the driver drop me in front of Alouette—a patisserie on the Avenue D’Artisans not all that far southwest of Sudroad. If I were to wait for Mardoyt as long as I might have to, I needed something to eat. I settled for a heavy almond-filled croissant and a mug of tea. The tea was merely hot and adequate. The croissant was good enough that I’d come back, perhaps even pick up some to take to my parents and Khethila . . . and, of course, I’d have to make sure there were two for Culthyn.

  I took my time walking down the avenue and then across it and wending my way to Saelio, raising concealment shields more than three blocks away from Mardoyt’s duplex. When I reached the vantage point from where I could observe the oak in front of the house, I settled into the lengthening shadows and prepared for a long wait. Most of the oaks’ leaves had turned, as had the leaves of the other seasonal trees along the street, and possibly a third had fallen onto the grass and the walks, but they were not dry enough yet to rustle that much when someone walked through them.

  I took out the scrap of purple cloth and imaged a larger duplicate, concentrating on replicating the warp and weft of the weave, as well as the weight of the threads. Then I stu
died what I’d imaged. Even as someone who’d been raised to appraise wool, I could detect no noticeable difference between the smaller sample and the larger imaged section of cloth.

  Then, I imaged out some sections of the selected oak limb, one that was already dead and hung over the walkway leading to the duplex, not enough that it would break, except in a storm, but enough to make the next step easier.

  I kept waiting. I felt I had to, because I needed to resolve the problems Mardoyt was causing before the problems Ryel was causing got even worse. Sooner or later, Mardoyt had to come home, if not tonight, then on Mardi or Meredi, or even Jeudi. I was getting more than a little irritated that I was having to spend so much time dealing with a Patrol officer who was so corrupt, and about whom no one seemed to want to do anything. More than a few patrollers knew what he was doing, and I didn’t see how that helped the Civic Patrol maintain any sort of standards in the slightest.

  I waited, but Mardoyt still did not appear.

  The sun dropped low enough in the west that the entire street was in shadows. Then, roughly a quint after the bells of the nearby anomen rang out sixth glass, a figure in a blue cloak turned the corner and walked up Saelio. It was Mardoyt, his head down, clearly thinking, as if he was worried. He was so preoccupied that I doubted he would have seen me even if I had not been holding concealment shields.

  I imaged away the remaining key sections of the oak limb before Mardoyt was even close to the walkway to his house. It took even more effort to use an extension of imaging shields to hold it in place while he neared.

  Then, as he turned, I released those supports, and projected shields to hold him in place. The limb toppled, seemingly slowly, but it took all the imaging effort I could muster with extended shields to direct the limb so that the heavier end twisted and slammed into Mardoyt. Just before the limb hit, I released the shield around him, but he couldn’t move fast enough to avoid the limb’s impact as it smashed across his left shoulder and then crushed and pinned his left leg.

  Still behind concealment shields, I slipped up to the unconscious officer and left the imaged scrap of purple in his hand. I also accomplished a last touch of imaging.

  I stepped back, realizing that I was soaked in sweat. I could feel my control of my shields slipping away. So I retreated into the shadows and tried to move quietly down the street.

  I’d made it less than five yards from the mass of limbs and foliage when I heard a scream from the front porch—that of Mardoyt’s daughter. The sound went through me like a knife—or more like the assassin’s bullet I’d taken. I kept moving, trying to keep in mind that the patroller whose death Mardoyt had arranged had certainly had those who loved him, and I hadn’t done anything to Mardoyt when Youdh’s toughs had started attempts on my life. That didn’t count the attempt with the granite stones.

  Besides, I kept reminding myself on the long and chill walk back to the Collegium, I hadn’t killed Mardoyt. If . . . if things went as I’d planned, he’d live, and he’d receive a stipend. He just wouldn’t keep his position and be able to take bribes and arrange murders.

  If . . .

  When I woke on Mardi, I had my ability to raise shields back, and a dull headache that faded after breakfast. Mardi’s rounds with Lyonyt were much the same as those on Lundi—until we finished the last round and were heading back west on South Middle, through an autumn mist that wasn’t quite a light rain. We crossed Weigand, with the Puryon Temple ahead.

  “Over there, Master Rhennthyl!” Lyonyt’s voice was low, but insistent. “Left, up maybe thirty yards.”

  Two men, wearing purple jackets, and not cloaks or waterproofs, despite the mist, stood on a stoop of a house with boarded-up windows. They looked directly at me. Both were old for taudis-toughs, close to my age. One might have been the imager-tough, but I couldn’t be certain.

  Neither man said anything or moved as we walked past. They just watched us.

  “That’s not good, Master Rhennthyl. Means they got it in for us.”

  For me, most likely, but I didn’t voice the thought. “These days, they may have it in for everyone, what with a conscription team coming sometime this fall or winter.”

  “That’s what I been hearing. You don’t know when, do you?”

  “No. The captain asked me yesterday. I didn’t know then, and I haven’t heard anything since.”

  “That’ll bring more trouble. Always does.”

  We certainly didn’t need more trouble. I knew I didn’t.

  Once we’d reached the station, we completed the round report, and I signed off on it. Then, I left the station, after a nod to Lieutenant Warydt, who returned the nod with his usual smile, and walked down South Middle until I could catch a hack back to the Bridge of Hopes. On the ride back to Imagisle, I couldn’t help worrying about the two toughs. I worried a bit about Mardoyt, but mostly hoped that his injuries were as I’d planned . . . except I could still hear the scream of Mardoyt’s daughter.

  A thin prime was waiting for me on the Collegium side of the bridge.

  “Master Rhennthyl, sir?”

  His presence could only mean that Master Dichartyn was looking for me, but I just replied, “Yes?”

  “Master Dichartyn would like to see you, sir, right now, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, sir . . .”

  Three “sirs” strung together like that meant more trouble.

  “He’s in his study?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’ll head right there.”

  The frightened prime followed me, if at a distance, until I knocked on Dichartyn’s door.

  “Master Dichartyn. It’s Rhennthyl. . . .”

  “Do come in and close the door, Rhennthyl.”

  I did.

  He was standing by the window. He just looked at me for a long time before speaking. “This afternoon, I had to spend some time with Commander Artois. He was not exactly happy with the reports he had received from Subcommander Cydarth.”

  “Did something I do displease them?”

  “Did you?”

  “I did a normal patrol round yesterday, sir. I don’t see how that could disturb anyone. Captain Harraf did ask me if I knew when the conscription teams would reach the Third District, and I told him that I didn’t know, except that it was likely they would begin in L’Excelsis in the next few weeks. He wasn’t happy that I didn’t know more.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Last week, Master Schorzat said that they’d already begun in the west of L’Excelsis.” I paused, then added, “Captain Harraf has kept asking about the Navy conscription teams.”

  For just a moment, there was a flicker of something in Master Dichartyn’s eyes. “Most of the teams direct the conscripts to the Navy.” He cleared his throat. “Last week, you asked for a patroller pay scale. Why?”

  “Might I ask why Commander Artois was displeased, sir?”

  “Patience, Rhennthyl. We’ll get there in good time.” His tone suggested that I wouldn’t be happy to get where he was going. “The pay scale?”

  “I was still concerned about Lieutenant Mardoyt. He—or someone working for him—has been altering the charging records of the Patrol. Statements come back to the charging desk that charges have been dropped. Some of those charges were dropped while I was observing the justicing administration, and while I was present in the hearings, and they were never brought up before the justice. There aren’t any records to support the entries, either, in many cases. After seeing Lieutenant Mardoyt’s house—”

  “How did you manage that? Following him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go on.”

  “He has a house on Saelio below Sudroad. It’s a duplex, but a large one in a good neighborhood. It struck me that it would have been difficult to rent or buy such a house on the pay of a lieutenant, but I didn’t know because I don’t know what a lieutenant makes. So I went to find you, and Beleart said Master Schorzat—”

  “We’ve talked about that. Go on.”r />
  “Yes, sir. He said that the pay scale wouldn’t prove anything. I realized that but thought I might as well know the pay rates, in any case.”

  “So why did you attempt to kill Mardoyt?”

  “I did no such thing. When did this happen? Is that what Commander Artois was suggesting? Or the subcommander?”

  “I will note for the record that you denied attempting to kill one Lieutenant Mardoyt. What did you do with regard to Mardoyt?”

  “I told you. I’ve been following him, trying to see whom he met, trying to figure out how he was doing what he did. You have been very clear with me, sir. You said that you did not want to hear anything from me that I could not prove. I admit fully that I have been following Lieutenant Mardoyt. He is the only member of the Patrol associated with a death caused by an almost identical method as was attempted on me—granite falling from a height. The first patroller under him was killed that way. Likewise, he has changed or removed charges from records. In addition, he knows all about the young lady I have been seeing, in more than fair detail, and he was clear in letting me know that. . . .”

  That did catch him by surprise.

  Before he could say anything, I went on. “Yet, only Captain Harraf knew where I would be when the granite blocks ‘fell’ off a scaffold and nearly killed me. Now . . . as you have pointed out, all this does not constitute proof. So I’ve followed the lieutenant after work a number of nights to see if I could come up with something that might be acceptable as proof. Last week—on Mardi—while using concealment shields slightly down the street from Mardoyt’s house, I was attacked by two taudis-toughs. Both were wearing the purple jackets of Youdh’s toughs under their cloaks. One was an imager—not terribly well trained, but strong. He used a dust spray to show my position to the gunman and battered at my shields. The gunman fired and hit my shields. I fell and waited. When he came close enough, I dropped him and shot him with his own weapon. I left the body and the weapon there, but the tough who was the imager was already gone.”