Imager's challenge

47

Needless to say, I stayed late with Khethila, but did get a ride back to the Collegium with Charlsyn, only to sleep fitfully and wake up early on Jeudi. Because of the nightmares, most of which I didn’t remember, about all sorts of mayhem and violence being perpetrated on Khethila, one of the first things I did, after lighting the desk lamp, was to write a brief note to Seliora. I did take care to make it seem as harmless as possible.

Dearest,

Since I won’t see you until Samedi at the sitting for the portrait, I thought you should know that Rousel died over the weekend. Given the circumstances and the severity of his injuries, I had feared this might happen. There will be a memorial service here in L’Excelsis next week, but I do not know when yet.

I know that this might be an imposition for Grandmama Diestra, but Khethila will be all alone at the house until my parents return on Solayi, and you understand that, as an imager, I cannot stay there at night. If there is anything that can be done to see that she is not disturbed, I cannot tell you how greatly I would appreciate it.

I did sign it “With Love, Rhennthyl.”

After I sealed the letter, I sat at the desk for a time, recalling what Martyl or Dartazn had said about Master Dichartyn-that he never seemed to sleep and that it was no wonder, with what he had done. I also recalled what Maitre Poincaryt had said about Master Dichartyn not having had as few problems or enemies as I did in more than ten years.

But why? Why did it have to be that way?

Couldn’t the Collegium work matters out better with the Council and the factors and the guilds? Or had they, and what we lived under was the best they could do? That didn’t seem like the most satisfactory of answers, not to me, but it had been brought home forcefully that at times the best of compromises exacted a great burden on those caught between the millwheels of the compromisers.

Finally, I got into exercise clothes and headed out.

Both Master Dichartyn and Master Schorzat were there for the morning exercises and run, and I thought about telling them about Rousel. First, I dismissed it because saying anything would just leave more traces back to me. Then I realized that I could certainly say that he’d died of injuries in a wagon accident and that I would need part of a day to be at the memorial service. Not mentioning it would suggest more than being straightforward.

After the exercise routines, where I got thrown more than I should have in sparring, and the run, I cleaned up and hurried through breakfast. I did force myself to eat because I knew I needed to, and then headed to the administration building to find Master Dichartyn. It was early enough that he was there, and no one else was, when I rapped on his study door.

“Come in.” His voice was tired. “What is it, Rhennthyl?”

“Just one thing, sir. Last night I received word that my brother died of injuries he received in a wagon accident. I just wanted you to know that I’ll need part of a day next week to go to the memorial service. I trust that won’t be a problem.”

Dichartyn looked at me intently. “I wondered. You seemed distracted this morning.” He frowned. “You found out just last night? Last night?”

“Yes, sir. I got an urgent message from my sister. He died in Kherseilles over the weekend.”

Master Dichartyn looked at me. “I imagine you’re upset. Don’t do anything foolish. Foolishness won’t bring him back or help you.”

“No, sir. I understand that. I won’t do anything foolish.” In time, I’d do what was necessary, but not until that time.

He kept looking at me. I met his gaze.

Then he nodded. “Please let me know when the service is. There won’t be any problem.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I had the feeling Master Dichartyn knew about Alynat, and the timing puzzled him. That was fine with me.

After leaving Master Dichartyn and before leaving for Third District station, I did arrange with Beleart to send the letter to Seliora by private courier. That cost me a silver, but it was worth it. I hoped they could help . . . but Seliora and her family had offered.

I hurried off to the extra duty coach where, as the driver headed out over the Bridge of Hopes, I sat on the hard seat worrying about what Ryel might do next and hoping that Seliora’s family could and would help-and that I could repay them without compromising my position at the Collegium. Yet . . . the Collegium’s frigging unspoken and unbending rules and the frigging unbending customs of the High Holders were what had gotten me-and my family-into the position where I found myself. And . . . for all that I knew Alynat’s death was necessary, the fact that it had been bothered me.

When the duty coach turned on Quierca and then on Fuosta, I thought I saw mounted riders ahead. The conscription team? That was all I needed.

I hurried into the station, where all the patrollers were drawn up, and joined Lyonyt and Fuast. “What’s happening?”

“The lieutenant just said that he needed to talk to everyone before they headed out,” replied Lyonyt.

“It has to be about the conscription teams.”

“He didn’t say.”

It wasn’t that long before the lieutenant walked from his study and stopped short of the assembled patrollers. He waited for the murmurings to die away before he spoke. “Some of you have already seen that the Navy conscription team has arrived. They’ve set up a cordon all along South Middle, up to Saelio and across to Quierca and back south to Goryn. . . .”

That mean the entire taudis was cordoned off.

“. . . If past practice is any guide, all they’ll do today is man their perimeter and grab anyone who’s the right age without an approved job or schooling who tries to sneak by them. They’ll start taking their teams door to door tomorrow. Just patrol the outside of your round and keep clear of their teams,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t try to cross the cordon lines, and don’t argue with them. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” came a response, mostly in unison.

“That’s all.”

We let some of the other patrollers-those whose patrols did not include the South Middle taudis-leave the station first, then followed.

“Could be a long day.” Lyonyt glanced up at the thin overcast that had turned the sky a bluish silver. “Good thing it’s not too hot.”

When we reached South Middle short of Dugalle, I could make out the pattern of the cordon. There were riders stationed every fifty yards or so and roughly three men armed with oak batons, longer than truncheons, set equidistant between the riders, who also carried batons. The riders had pistols, but the uniformed men in olive-green uniforms-I thought they were marines-did not. There was a larger group of marines opposite the Temple and another group, it appeared, farther up South Middle.

“Why do they do it this way?” asked Fuast.

I’d had the same question.

“They don’t say, and they don’t like us asking. If you ask me, I’d guess they figure that if they just hold their position for a while, everyone inside will calm down.”

I had my doubts about that, particularly since the conscription teams cordoned the taudis areas of cities only before going house to house. It was almost as though they wanted to provoke resistance so that they could use force.

We kept back from the riders and marines, actually walking on the north side of East Middle until we passed Saelio where the cordon ended. Then we resumed our normal patrol round. After we patrolled the avenue and up to Saelio on Quierca, we crossed the street and walked past Dugalle to the end, before turning and retracing the same pattern.

We were nearing Mando on South Middle when a white-haired and bent old woman, accompanied by a boy, walked across South Middle. One of the riders was closest, and he yelled out, “You there! Halt!”

The woman either did not hear or did not understand, and while the boy tugged at her sleeve, she shifted the bundles in her arms and kept walking.

“Halt!” yelled the rider, turning his mount and lifting the long baton.

“Stay here,” I hissed at Lyonyt, moving forward toward what I saw as an unnecessary use of force.

The mounted officer urged his mount into a quick trot toward the woman, bringing the baton into position for a vicious cut.

“Grandmere!” cried the youth, a boy not that much older than Shault.

I managed to throw a partial shield, at an angle, just as the officer struck, and the horse staggered sideways, nearly unhorsing the officer. I didn’t know Navy rank insignia but the silver bars indicated an officer. His position suggested a junior one.

He wheeled the horse back toward the pair, raising the baton to strike again, even as the boy tried to help the old woman pick up her scattered parcels and groceries.

I stepped forward. “You don’t ride down old women, Lieutenant, conscription team or no conscription team.”

“What?” He reined up and turned in the saddle, looking down at me. He was older, probably a junior officer who’d come up through the ranks. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the grays and the insignia on my visor cap. “You don’t tell a conscription team what to do. Not even an imager does. No one breaks a cordon, and no one carries in food for those taudis-types. No one, and don’t tell us what to do.”

“I’m just asking you not to ride down helpless old women,” I said mildly.

“Get out of the way, or your Collegium will hear that you interfered.”

I was getting very tired of arrogance, everywhere. Namer-tired, and there was no one close to us, not close enough to hear, not yet. “Do you prove your manhood by abusing women and boys? Are you that type?”

I could see him flush.

“Or do you just like abusing everyone? No . . . I can see it, you like women and boys . . . You’re not really a man . . . just someone who pretends he is.” While I’d kept my voice low, I’d tried to project total scorn and contempt toward him.

He lifted the long baton and urged the horse forward, toward me.

I imaged a barrier in front of the horse’s knees and jumped aside. The mount stumbled and went to its knees. With a little imaging help from me, the lieutenant went from the saddle into the pavement, headfirst.

I could see he was still breathing. I tightened my lips and did another quick imaging into his brain, then yelled, “Officer down! Help!”

I gestured for the boy and woman to move. This time, they hurried away, leaving some of the groceries on the sidewalk. The old woman looked back at me, then scurried more quickly.

After they were beyond the taudis wall, I turned and waited as another rider trotted toward me, followed by several men on foot.

“What happened?” The Navy type who rode up wasn’t an officer-no silver or braids-but he was even older than the lieutenant. “What happened here, patroller?”

“There was an old woman with a boy. She didn’t listen to the lieutenant when he told her to halt. Maybe she was Tiempran or Caenen and didn’t understand. I told him that. He didn’t listen and rode over me-or he would have, if I hadn’t jumped aside-and toward them. The horse stumbled, and he went right over.”

One of the men on foot ran to the fallen officer and knelt down beside him, then looked up. “The lieutenant’s dead, chief. He must have hit his head real hard.”

“Frig! That’s all we need.” The chief turned back to me.

There were a few more questions, but no one had seen anything but the horse stumble and the officer pitch forward. In time I managed to slip back to where Lyonyt and Fuast were waiting. “We need to walk farther along the round.”

“Be a good idea. Lieutenant said we weren’t to get in their way.” Lyonyt looked at me, then murmured, “Friggin’ scripties . . . don’t have to live with the mess they leave behind.”

Fuast looked from Lyonyt to me and back again, opened his mouth, and then shut it.

Lyonyt looked to the junior patroller. “Really a shame those scripties can’t ride as well as they think. If he hadn’t been trying to hurt an old woman, nothing would have happened.” He paused and looked at Fuast. “Would it?”

“Ah, no. No, sir.”

“Terrible accident,” Lyonyt went on. “Sometimes they happen, but like the lieutenant said, we leave ’em alone, and they make their own mistakes.”

That might be, but I had to hope that no one took out the death on the taudis-dwellers, although it was clear that no one but me, and perhaps Lyonyt or Fuast, had seen anything of what had really happened, and even they hadn’t seen much.

Dichartyn would have said that I shouldn’t have interfered, but the way the lieutenant had been swinging that baton, the old woman would have been dead, or crippled for the rest of a short and miserable life. And for what? The old woman had been trying to get out of his way, and the boy was far too young to have been a conscription evader.

For the next two glasses, we just kept walking, circling one way around our section of the taudis and then back the other. Although a section of the Avenue D’Artisans was part of the round, it hadn’t been cordoned off. Even so, word had gotten around, and there were far fewer people there, as well. Several of the shopkeepers and bistro owners couldn’t be happy with fewer customers, either.

For a time, I dropped back behind the other two, scanning the taudis closely, trying to get a sense of what might be happening inside the cordon.

That was when I caught some of Lyonyt’s low words to Fuast.

“. . . good thing Master Rhennthyl was there . . . might help us later . . .”

“What did he do?”

“. . .never ask . . . things happen to folks who cross imagers . . . all you need to know is that it was an accident . . . even if the captain asks . . .’sides, frigging scriptie deserved it . . . white-haired old Pharsi not that good, but never hurt anyone . . .”

At least Lyonyt felt I’d done the right thing. But had I? Probably not, in Master Dichartyn’s eyes, were he to know. According to him, from what I’d seen and heard, I should have let the lieutenant beat and possibly kill an old woman, rather than involve an imager, because it might reflect badly on the Collegium. In Dichartyn’s eyes, the old woman should have suffered, and I couldn’t accept his arrogance or the dead lieutenant’s. Yet that, too, was arrogance on my part . . . but I knew it, and the lieutenant hadn’t cared that he’d been arrogant. Master Dichartyn? That was another question.

We kept walking, but everything was quiet, and I heard and saw nothing from the Temple of Puryon, even though I had the feeling that, locked up as it was, it was anything but empty. By the time we finished the last round, I was dreading returning to the station.

Fortunately, for the moment, anyway, neither Captain Haraff nor Lieutenant Warydt happened to be in sight. I didn’t exactly rush in helping Lyonyt with the round report and signing off with him and Fuast, but I didn’t dally either. I was out of Third District station in less than a quint after fourth glass.

Once I walked down Fuosta a block, I stopped to think. I wished I’d been able to think more quickly with the lieutenant, but there hadn’t been time, not if I wanted to save the old woman. But I had very bad feelings about what would happen on Vendrei. Even if the scripties-and it was hard to think of them in other than derogatory terms after seeing their tactics and my encounter with the Navy lieutenant-didn’t blame the taudis-dwellers for the lieutenant’s death and saw it as an accident, they’d still be resentful and looking for targets. And I couldn’t help shivering slightly as I recalled the flash image of the Temple exploding. Was that truly farsight . . . or just what I feared? How would I ever know?

Still . . . I had to do something.

I turned east at the next alley and stepped into the late-afternoon shadows, waiting, then raising concealment shields before walking slowly up the low rise of battered and cracked paving stones. Three blocks later, I reached the cordon. No one looked in my direction, not that they should have, as I walked as close to the midpoint between two marines as I could, some five yards from each, then continued up the alley and into the taudis, the west quarter. After a block I dropped the concealment shields. On top of regular full shields, holding them was an effort. Not a great one, but still an effort.

Coming as I was from the west, I took a little longer to find Chelya’s house, and I didn’t see any of Horazt’s toughs along the way. Once I stood on the stone stoop, I drew back the patroller’s blue cloak to reveal my grays, then rapped.

No one answered.

I rapped again.

Finally, the door opened. Through the narrow crack, I could see Chelya’s eyes widen as she saw me.

“Shault’s fine. I need to find Horazt. Now. There’s going to be more trouble.”

She looked at me. “He might be at the red house on Weigand near the corner of the crooked lane.”

“If I don’t find him there, I’ll be back.”

She kept looking at me, then offered a melancholy smile. “He will be there.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed before I could step back. I turned and began to walk the three or so blocks to Weigand, trying to ignore the growing soreness in my feet and lower back. I was glad the sun had not set, although it had dropped behind the roofs to the west, when I reached Weigand, because none of the row houses had numbers, all looked similar. The “red” house was more like faded burnt umber, but no other dwelling was painted any reddish color.

Once more I stood on a stone stoop and rapped, this time with a tarnished brass knocker that wobbled when I lifted it. There was a long silence before the peephole in the door opened. Then it closed. I was ready to rap again when the door opened and Horazt stepped out. He was barefoot, and his shirt was untucked.

“Master Rhennthyl . . . you friends with the scripties to get in the taudis?” His voice was sardonic.

“No. I had to use imager skills to get past them, but I needed to see you. The Tiempran priests are planning something, probably tomorrow. If . . . if they leave the Temple . . . or if you see them away from the Temple, and you can capture them and hold them for me, I’ll give you five golds.” I paused, then fumbled with my wallet, and handed him the gold I’d been carrying for days. “Here’s what I owe you.”

He took the gold, fingered it. Then it disappeared. “You don’t want much, do you?”

I shrugged. “Something else. If there’s anyone you like, keep them away from the Temple for the next few days. No matter who’s there.” I forced a grin. “But it wouldn’t hurt if someone enticed Saelyhd to be there.”

Horazt spat to one side. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Shault is one reason. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you. When the Collegium tried and executed Youdh, he was terrified that someone might come after you.”

That stopped his half-open mouth from uttering anything . . . for a moment, anyway.

“Another reason is that the Collegium and the Civic Patrol can probably work with you and Jadhyl, but not Saelyhd. A third reason is that I don’t like the Tiempran priests using our taudis-dwellers as expendable weapons against the Council. I don’t like the kind of toughs Youdh and Saelyhd use, and I don’t want to see another riot between the taudis and the Patrol or the scripties. You’ll get hurt, and the scripties will use it as an excuse.”

“Like I said . . . you don’t want much.”

I shrugged again. “The golds are mine. I’d offer more, but I don’t have it. I’ll do what I can, but the next few days could be bloody. If you think it would help you, I’d suggest you pass on what I’ve said to Jadhyl and Deyalt.” I stepped back. “That’s all.”

He was still watching as I moved down the steps and then toward the alley that would take me to and beyond the cordon. I thought he might be interested, but who could tell?

Again, most likely because of the presence of the conscription teams, I had to walk all the way out to the Midroad before I could find a hack to hail, and I felt as though the driver hit every hole and rough spot on Midroad and then the Boulevard D’Imagers on the way back to Imagisle.

My feet ached with every step I took across the Bridge of Hopes and the quadrangle. Thankfully, at least I thought I was thankful, there were no notes or messages in my letter box or under my door. But I wondered just how long that might last.