Imager's challenge

8

Lundi was a very busy day at the Patrol charging desk. So was Mardi. Meredi morning didn’t look to be that much better because, when I got to headquarters, there were offenders waiting everywhere even before Gulyart and I started to register the charges. By tenth glass, when we had three-quarters of a glass off to eat lunch, we both were more than ready to leave the confines of the Patrol building. The rain had subsided to a comparative drizzle, not too uncomfortable for mid-fall, as we stepped outside.

“This week has been like most of them,” Gulyart said. “There’s no charging done past Samedi at noon, and none on Solayi. So the holding cells are full by Lundi, and sometimes more than that, and it takes days before we get caught up. Last week was lighter than usual.”

“I liked last week better,” I said with a laugh. “You’d think some of them would learn.”

Gulyart shook his head. “They only get one chance to learn, two at most, before they end up on penal work duties for life. Most who get caught aren’t bright enough to see that.”

That was obvious-once he’d pointed it out, but I hadn’t thought of it that way. Some people just took longer to learn, but I could see the Civic Patrol’s view. Why should law-abiding citizens have to pay because lawbreakers had a hard time learning?

We walked to the second closest bistro-Saliana’s-because Gulyart said that he could only take so much of the heavy potato noodles at Fiendyl’s, the bistro almost directly across Fedre from headquarters. Heavy noodles didn’t bother me, just so long as they weren’t greasy. Saliana was supposedly from Tilbora in the far northeast of Solidar, and her place offered more than a few goat dishes. I had a red-spice goat curry over rice, and I used every bit of the rice, flatbread, and lager to try to keep the food from burning my mouth.

“Hot, isn’t it?” Gulyart grinned. “Brown-spice is as hot as I can take it. Captain Lheng won’t go farther than yellow-brown.”

“Next time, I’ll have the yellow-brown.” Even with the lager, flatbread, and rice I’d had with the meal, my mouth still felt like it was erupting in flame.

When we stepped out of Saliana’s, something slammed into my shields. I couldn’t help but stagger. A quick glance around revealed nothing other than people going about their business, and none of them even looked in my direction.

“You all right?” asked Gulyart.

“I slipped . . . tripped on something.” I looked down as if trying to locate what it might be. I wanted the bullet-anything to give me a clue as to who was shooting at me-and yet I knew I didn’t dare spend time searching. So I tried the idea of imaging it into my hand-and I had it in my palm. Except it was so hot that I almost dropped it and had to juggle it before slipping it into my waistcoat pocket. “I don’t know what it was. Maybe I kicked it away.” I shook my head. “I hate feeling clumsy like that.”

I didn’t want Gulyart, or any of the patrollers, to know that I was a target. That would just make learning about the Patrol even harder.

“Just be glad you weren’t wearing riot gear,” replied Gulyart. “Couple years back, more than that, I guess, because it was when I had just joined the Patrol, we had to go into the taudis below South Middle to put down a fight between two taudischefs and their enforcers. Some bastard threw hundreds of scrap bearings onto the street just as we charged them. Mualyt smashed his elbow so bad he got stipended out. That was the last time anyone talked about getting rid of the mounted riot squad. Most of them have other duties, though, these days.”

There were three more prisoners waiting when we got back to the charging desk, and the rest of the afternoon wasn’t much better, because they kept bringing in more prisoners.

As soon as I returned to the Collegium late in the day after finishing my observational duties, I made my way to Master Dichartyn’s study, where I rapped on the door.

“Rhennthyl, sir. I need a few moments with you. Something’s come up.”

“I’ll be with you in a moment.”

A moment was close to a quarter glass, but that wasn’t surprising once I saw Master Schorzat leaving, since he ran the covert field operative section of the Collegium and reported to Master Dichartyn.

As soon as I’d entered the study, Master Dichartyn looked up at me, almost wearily. “What have you to report?”

“On Samedi night, someone took a shot at me, and the same thing happened today at lunch, when Gulyart and I were walking back toward the headquarters building. I think the shot came from a window or the top of a building. I just told Gulyart I stumbled on something.”

“Do you think he figured out what really happened?”

“He didn’t press me or look at me strangely. If he did, he’s not saying, not to me.”

“If he is, I’ll learn later,” Master Dichartyn said. “Did you see anyone?”

“No. They were using a rifle, possibly a sniper rifle.”

“Were they actually trying to hit you?”

“There was just one shot both times. Each hit my shields. Today, I managed to image the bullet into my hand.” I slipped the flattened lead from my waistcoat pocket and handed it over to him.

“You imaged it into your hand?” His eyebrows went up.

“I couldn’t very well go grubbing around for it. I thought it would either work or it wouldn’t.”

“How do you know you didn’t just image a new bullet?”

“I don’t, I suppose, except it was so hot it almost burned my hand, and it’s flattened on one side.”

“It’s probably the one fired at you. Still . . .” Master Dichartyn studied it for a moment. “Definitely a sniper bullet. It could be Ferran or Jariolan, or even Solidaran. Might be Tiempran.” He smiled faintly. “Have you offended any more envoys?”

“I haven’t even met any more, sir.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t offend them. It’s likely that you didn’t get all of those involved with the Ferran operation. Someone who was watching and identified you got away, and now has orders to remove you.”

“Do the Ferrans even have a new envoy?”

“They do. He’s been here a little over two days. One Stauffen Gregg. The Honorable Stauffen Gregg. He brought a staff of ten.”

“I don’t believe you mentioned that.” I managed to maintain a pleasant smile. The “recall” of the previous staff now sounded like more of a return to a reprimand . . . or worse, not that my experiences had left me with any liking for the Ferrans.

“There was no reason to, until now. You aren’t working Council security any longer.”

There were times that Maitre Dichartyn could be condescendingly, obnoxiously infuriating. This was one of them. I kept smiling. “What do you suggest that I do about the sniper?”

“You’ll need to get a good look at him if you want to deal with him. And it’s probably best that you don’t tell anyone on the Patrol.”

Master Dichartyn’s words were a veiled reminder that I wasn’t to trouble the Collegium by leaving a would-be assassin alive. Nor was I to mix Collegium business with Patrol business. I didn’t ask for more information. He didn’t know any more or wasn’t about to tell me, but I suspected the former.

“Is there anything else?” asked my superior. “I need to see Master Poincaryt.”

“I’ve spent a little time on Samedi and yesterday evening with young Shault. I have to say that I worry about him.”

“So do I, but your short visits are definitely having an effect. Ghaend reports that he is studying and making good progress, and Gherard says that the seconds have decided that if you’re watching him, they’d best leave him alone.”

I had my doubts that such forbearance would endure, but I could hope it would last long enough for Shault to gain understanding and confidence.

Master Dichartyn rose from behind his writing desk. “If that’s all . . .”

“That’s all for now, sir, but I thought you should know.”

He just gestured toward the door. I left and headed back to my rooms.

Immediately after I entered my chambers, and the room that was study and salon, I walked to the writing desk, where I placed several objects on the left side of the writing desk-an oval ceramic paperweight, a copper pen nib, and a Solidaran silver crown. Then I covered them with a sheet of writing paper and stepped back four paces. I concentrated on imaging the pen nib onto the open palm of my right hand.

It appeared there, almost light as a feather.

I repeated the process with the coin and the paperweight. After looking closely at all three and seeing that they looked the same as they had before, I then set the three on the right side of the desk and lifted the paper on the left side. There was nothing underneath. To my way of thinking, I’d imaged the originals to my hand, rather than creating new objects by imaging. Either that, or I’d destroyed the originals and created copies, but that seemed most unlikely to me, since I didn’t feel that tired, and imaging something from nothing or duplicating something through imaging took much more effort. Master Dichartyn had been skeptical of my ability to image the bullet that had been fired at me back to myself. Yet he’d seen me image items from one point to another before. Or was it that I’d been able to image something I hadn’t seen or studied . . . and quickly?

I shrugged. I was hungry, and it was almost time for dinner. So I turned and headed out of my rooms, toward the staircase down to the quadrangle and then directly for the dining hall.