Then I walked him back to the two seconds, who escorted him out of the receiving hall.
Haensyl looked up from the granite desk at me. “Sir . . . do many of them from the taudis make it?”
“Some do, but it’s harder for them. Shault’s young enough that in some ways it will be easier, but he’s going to be lonely.”
Haensyl nodded.
I went back to the duty study, thinking. Concentrating on the patroller procedures was even more difficult, because I kept thinking of Shault. The remainder of the day was uneventful, except for the drizzle that began just before the evening meal.
When I got to the dining hall, I was pleased to see that Mayra had arranged for several of the younger primes to sit with Shault. From what I could tell, while he was subdued, he occasionally spoke, and not just in monosyllables.
After dinner, I did attend services at the Anomen Imagisle, on the south end of the granite isle that held the Collegium. I did have to stand on one side, in a spot reserved for the duty master. Except for the imagers emeritus, of course, everyone stood through the services.
A small choir of imagers offered the choral invocation, and they sang well, a talent I certainly did not possess, and after that Chorister Isola followed with the wordless end to the invocation. She still remained the only woman chorister of the Nameless that I’d ever seen, not that choristers were restricted to being men, since no one could know or presume whether the Nameless was male or female, or indeed both at once. After that, she opened the main part of the service.
“We are gathered here together this evening in the spirit of the Nameless and in affirmation of the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”
The opening hymn was “Without the Pride of Naming,” and I sang it softly, for the benefit of those near me, but I did speak more loudly through the confession.
“We do not name You, for naming is a presumption, and we would not presume upon the creator of all that was, is, and will be. We do not pray to You, nor ask favors or recognition from You, for requesting such asks You to favor us over others who are also Your creations. Rather we confess that we always risk the sins of pride and presumption and that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we too often strive to arrogate our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our petty plans and arid achievements have meaning beyond those whom we love or over whom we have influence and power. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your nameless magnificence and that all that we are is a gift to be cherished and treasured, and that we must also respect and cherish the gifts of others, in celebration of You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”
After the confession and offertory, Chorister Isola stepped to the pulpit for the homily. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” came the reply.
“And it is a good evening, for under the Nameless, all evenings are good.” She paused momentarily. “In this time of year, harvest is drawing to a close, and before long, the winds will turn chill. With that cold that will end the year, many of us will feel a loss, often an unnamed loss, as if a year passing is a year lost. Yet there are those who seize upon the year, the name of the year, as if it were a vintage. You will hear people say, ‘755 was a good year, better than 754 . . . ’ ”
Certainly, the past year, 755 years after the founding of L’Excelsis, had been a year of profound change for me, and in that sense, it had been better.
“. . . yet when we focus on the names, whether those names are those of years or of people, or of places, we cling to the names as if they were locks on doors or bars on windows that would protect us. Names are but a false security because they do not reflect all that is. The number of a year does not capture the events of that year, the warmth of loves found, the bitterness of loved ones and friends lost, or the satisfaction of accomplishments. . . . The greatness of Rholan the Unnamer lies not so much in his rejection of names, but in his affirmation of life beyond names and labels. . . . The very name of the place where we meet-the anomen-is a reminder that we should hold to what is and not to the names of such places, just as we should recall the experiences of the years we have lived and not merely their numbers. . . .”
I listened as she finished the homily, glad that she was a good chorister, and one who made me think, even as I doubted whether the Nameless did indeed exist.
For some reason, her homily triggered thoughts about my own losses, but mostly about Shault, who had just lost all that was familiar to him, humble though it might have been. I was glad to see that Mayra was with him. She towered a good fifteen digits over him, but she seemed patient, and occasionally whispered instructions to the taudis-boy. Twice Shault pointed to me and murmured to Mayra. I was surprised that he’d located me among the more than two hundred imagers in the anomen.
After services, I hurried to catch up to Mayra and the two boys with her.
“Mayra?”
She stopped and turned. “Yes, Master Rhennthyl.”
“Is Shault settled in?”
“As well as he can be until we can get him to the tailor tomorrow.”
“Good . . . and thank you.” I looked to Shault. “In the morning, you’ll meet with Master Dichartyn. He can be very stern, but you should listen to him carefully.”
As I hurried away from them back to the duty study, I caught a few words from behind me.
“. . . must be strong . . .”
“. . . young for a master, but he’s very powerful . . .”
And still less experienced than I would have liked, something that having had to deal with young Shault had reminded me.
4
Needless to say, at quarter before sixth glass on Lundi morning, when I entered the receiving hall to close out the end-day duty, Master Dichartyn was the one who was there, rather than Master Schorzat or Master Jhulian.
Master Dichartyn smiled at me. It wasn’t a wry smile, not exactly, but it held a trace of amusement. “I understand you took in a young imager yesterday afternoon. A taudis-child.”
“Yes, sir.” Had I done something wrong?
“You seem to have made quite an impression on him, Rhenn.”
“I just followed the procedures.”
“He said that you scared his taudischef, and no one ever scared Horazt. Exactly what did you say to him?”
“I just told Horazt my name and that if the second gold didn’t go to the boy’s mother, sooner or later I’d find out, and there would be a new west quarter taudischef.”
“I thought as much.” Master Dichartyn shook his head. “You know that young imagers from the taudis have much more trouble adjusting to the Collegium. You’re really too young to mentor a young imager, but Shault respects you, and that’s half the battle. Master Ghaend will handle his assignments and day-to-day work, but you need to talk to him twice a week, at least for a while, starting tonight, after dinner. You know why, don’t you?”
“He needs another taudischef, and one approved by Horazt.”
Master Dichartyn nodded. “You’d better get on your way, if you want to eat and get to Patrol headquarters on time.”
After that, I hurried to the dining hall, early enough that most of the primes and seconds weren’t there. Neither was Shault. I slipped into a seat next to the gray-haired Maitre Dyana, because any other seat I would have taken would have suggested I was avoiding her.
“Good morning,” I offered.
“Next time, don’t scan the table when you’re close enough to have your eyes read.” Her bright blue eyes pinned me in my seat. As always, she wore a colorful scarf above her imager grays, and this one was a brilliant green, with touches of an equally bright violet. Her unlined face suggested she was far younger than did her hair and experience.
I laughed, if apologetically. “Every time I see you, I learn something.”
“Good. You might even learn enough to survive your abilities, young Rhenn. Commander Artois has a good brain encumbered by solid grasp of
protocol and procedure. He might listen to you if you can avoid offending him. The easiest way to offend him is to flaunt protocol and ignore procedures.” She handed me the platter of sausages and scrambled eggs. “You’d best eat. You don’t have much time, not if you don’t want to arrive sweating and flustered.”
I took her advice and drank my tea and ate quickly, then set out for my first day at the Civic Patrol, adjusting the gray visored cap that imagers wore when on duty off Imagisle.
Although the headquarters of the Civic Patrol of L’Excelsis was slightly less than a mille from the south end of Imagisle, there wasn’t a bridge there. Instead, I had to take the Bridge of Hopes across the River Aluse and then walk almost two milles along the East River Road, before turning east on Fedre and walking another half mille.
The two-story headquarters building was of undistinguished yellow brick, with brown wooden trim and doors. There were three doors spaced across the front. The left one clearly was for a working patroller station, because I could see patrollers in their pale blue uniforms hurrying in and out, the mark of a shift change. The right door looked disused, as if locked. So I took the middle door, or rather the right-hand door of the set of double doors in the square archway above two worn stone steps leading up from the sidewalk. The left-hand door was locked.
Inside was a table desk, with a graying patroller seated behind it. He took in my imager’s uniform and the silver imager’s pin. “You’re here to see Commander Artois, sir?”
“Yes . . . if you’d direct me.”
“Second floor, up those steps and to the right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
The wide steps weren’t stone, but time-worn dark oak. I arrived just before eighth glass on the second floor of the anteroom that led to the commander’s private study. There were two small writing desks in the anteroom facing the wall on each side of the door through which I’d entered. Each had a straight-backed chair behind it, and two backless oak benches were set against the wall, facing each desk. Between the desks was a door, presumably to the commander’s private study. At the left desk sat another graying patroller.
“Master Rhennthyl?”
“Yes. I’m here-”
“To see the commander. You can go in. He’s expecting you.”
I opened the door and stepped into the study, a space no more than four yards deep and six wide. Artois had risen and stepped around an ancient walnut desk set at the end of the study closest to the river. To his right, on the innermost wall, was a line of wooden cases. On the wall opposite the desk was a tall and narrow bookcase, filled with volumes. Facing the desk were four straight-backed chairs. Two wide windows, both open, were centered on the outer wall and offered a view of the various buildings on the north side of Fedre and some beyond, but not so far as the Boulevard D’Imagers. There were no pictures or anything else hung on the walls, and only a pair of unlit oil lamps in wall sconces flanking the desk.
Artois was three or four digits shorter than I was and wire-thin. Under short-cut brown hair shot with gray, his brown eyes seemed flat, the kind that showed little emotion.
“Our latest imager liaison.” He nodded. “Young . . . doubtless powerful and shielded, and with Namer-little understanding of the Civic Patrol.”
“Yes, sir. That’s an accurate summary.”
“Are you being sarcastic, Master Rhennthyl?”
“No, sir. I’ve studied the procedures, but I’ve only worked briefly with one patroller. I do think I can learn, and there are situations where I might be helpful.”
“Outside of being an imager, what do you know?”
“I was a journeyman artist for three years after a seven-year apprenticeship, and my family is in the wool business. So I know something about art and the guilds, and about factoring and commerce. I’ve been trained to take care of myself.” I doubted that there was much else I could say that he didn’t know.
“Do you know accounting?”
“I used to do ledger entries.”
“You’ve killed men in the line of duty. How many and under what circumstances?”
I had to think for a moment. Diazt, the first assassin, the Ferran, Vhillar, and at least two others. “At least six, sir.”
“At least? You don’t remember?”
“When the Ferran envoy’s assassins tried to attack, I blew up their wagon. There were at least three people killed, but I got knocked unconscious. So I don’t know if there were more.”
“Let me put it another way. How many have you killed face-to-face at different times?”
“Three.” That was counting Vhillar.
“You realize that many patrollers have never killed anyone. That’s not our task.”
“Many imagers have not, either, sir, but even more people would have died if I had not acted.”
“How many did you attack first, before they did anything?”
“None, sir. One of them tried to kill me three times before I killed him.”
“Three times?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I doubt they were all reported.”
“The first and last times were.” I paused. “I don’t know that. Patrollers were there the first and last times. I don’t know what they reported.”
Artois smiled faintly. “Don’t you trust our finest?”
“It’s not a question of trust, sir. I don’t know what they did. I reported to Master Dichartyn. He was my superior.”
Those words actually got a nod, a grudging one, I thought.
“Do you know why we agree to have imager liaisons, Rhennthyl?”
“I’ve been told why the Collegium wants me here; I haven’t been told why you agree to it, and it would be only speculation on my part to say.”
“Only speculation.” Artois repeated my words, sardonically. “Would you care to speculate?”
“No, sir. I’d rather know than speculate.”
“You are here because you are potentially a powerful imager. Powerful imagers can cause great problems if they do not understand how L’Excelsis works. The Civic Patrol is a key part of the city. We want you to understand how matters really work. Occasionally, you will be helpful. Until you have a better idea of how, just stand back, protect yourself, and watch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will actually report to Subcommander Cydarth, and he will rotate you through observing various patroller operations. When and if you finish your initial rotations, you will use the empty desk in the outer study here. That won’t be for some time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need to meet the subcommander.” Without another word, Commander Artois turned and walked past me, opening the door.
I followed him out through the anteroom and to the right to the next door, where we entered a slightly smaller anteroom arranged in a similar fashion to that of the one outside the commander’s study, save that there was only one desk, and no one was seated there. Artois pushed open the study door, already ajar, and stepped inside.
Subcommander Cydarth was standing beside his desk, looking out the window. He turned. He was taller than the commander and had black hair and a swarthy complexion. Part of his upper right ear was missing.
“Cydarth, here’s your liaison, Maitre D’Aspect Rhennthyl.” Commander Artois nodded to me. “I’ll leave you in the most capable hands of the subcommander.” He left the study without a word.
“The commander can often be abrupt, but he’s quite effective.” Cydarth’s voice was so low it actually rumbled. I’d read of voices that deep, but I’d never heard one before.
“That is what Master Dichartyn said.”
“I doubt he said it quite that way.” Cydarth’s smile belied the sardonic tone of his words.
I waited.
“There’s one thing I want to emphasize before we get you settled. Most patrollers will call you ‘sir’ or ‘Master Rhennthyl.’ That is a courtesy, in the sense that you are not their superior. You cannot order even the low
est patroller to do anything. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. Master Dichartyn made that clear.”
“He would have. He understands a bit of what we do.”
I managed to keep a pleasant smile on my face, but I had no doubts that Master Dichartyn understood far more than either the commander or the subcommander realized.
“For the next few days, you’ll be assigned to observe the charging desk here in headquarters. I want you to study every person charged, and then read whatever past records we have on them, not that there will be many.” He looked at me. “Do you know why?”
“To note on their charging record, because those who have committed a single major offense will either be executed or will spend the rest of their life in a penal workhouse. Those who have more than three minor offenses will be spending years in the penal manufactories or on road or ironway maintenance.”
“Exactly . . . except for one thing. Do you know what it is?”
I had no idea. “No, sir.”
“What if they’re of common appearance and have changed their names?”
“Aren’t repeat offenders branded on their hip?”
“They are after a second offense, but there are minor offenders who move to another city after serving time for one offense and then change their names. You’ll learn to recognize that type.” He gestured toward the door. “Let’s get you settled in with First Patroller Gulyart. He runs charging downstairs.”
Again, I found myself following as Cydarth walked swiftly to a narrow staircase at the end of the hall and headed down it. At the bottom was a door with a heavy iron bolt, which he slid aside before opening the door and stepping into a ground-floor chamber a good eight yards long and four wide. While there were several benches, most of the space was without fixtures or furnishings, except for wall lamps. On one side of the room was a low dais, or the equivalent, on which rested a solid-front wide desk. There were two chairs behind it. One was occupied.
Imager's challenge ip-2 Page 4