“I’ll be there.” I couldn’t help smiling, and it certainly didn’t hurt to see her smile back at me.
The wind had turned much colder by the time I returned to the hack, and as I rode back to the Bridge of Desires, I realized that if I reached my rooms without incident, it would be one of the few times in recent months that nothing had occurred after I had left Seliora.
I didn’t relax until I was back in my rooms, but nothing happened. “Not this time,” a small voice whispered inside my skull. I had the feeling the voice was right . . . that sooner or later, I’d have an unpleasant surprise, courtesy of High Holder Ryel, but I’d still had a wonderful evening.
12
Just before eighth glass on Solayi, after waiting for nearly half a glass, I hailed a hack off the Boulevard D’Imagers and asked the driver to drop me where South Middle turned off the Midroad, close to four milles northeast of the Bridge of Hopes.
South Middle angled off Midroad, so that it actually ran almost due east-west, unlike the Midroad, which angled from the northeast to the southwest. In practice, the central part of South Middle where I was headed, almost a mille from the intersection, was the north border of the South Middle taudis, where the street riot supposedly caused by street preaching had taken place. I wanted to walk the distance to get a feel for it, and Solayi morning was a good time. It was bright, if cool with a brisk wind under a sky with only a few clouds, appropriate for the first day of Feuillyt and the official first day of fall. Not that many were out on the streets.
The first sign that I was approaching the taudis was a chest-high brick wall to my right, on the south side of South Middle. The bricks had once been yellow, but now presented a mottled tannish brown appearance. In a few places, there were patches of faint yellow, where graffiti had been scrubbed off by one of the penal road crews. The second sign was that I could hear children playing beyond the wall.
I glanced over the time-smudged brick barrier wall and across the narrow strip of dirt that had been a parkway decades earlier at the rows of ancient two-, three-, and four-story dwellings, the wall of one building indistinguishable from the next. Most of the front stoops were empty, but I saw one man with a tangled beard, puffing on a long pipe of the type used for elveweed. I glanced farther south along the row of battered brick dwellings. There might have been another elver on a stoop near the cross street.
I kept walking.
A dark-haired woman with two children, both girls, looked up as I approached.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir.” She took their hands and did not meet my eyes. Her shawl and cloak were both spotless, but the wool was frayed in places, and the pattern an Extelan weave that had not been available since before I had become an apprentice to Caliostrus.
Two boys almost old enough to be working stepped through a gateless gap in the wall. The taller one looked at me defiantly, but only for a moment, until the other murmured something, and both turned and headed back into the taudis.
Just ahead, again on the right and behind the wall, was the first new building I’d seen, a narrow, single-storied, yellow-brick structure with a steeply pitched roof. A cupola of sorts rose on the nearer end above the three sets of double doors that made it look like a meeting house or an anomen of some sort, but I’d never seen an anomen like that, which suggested it was one for another faith, although they wouldn’t have called it an anomen.
For the next half mille, I saw no one else at all close to me, and I turned back.
I almost had reached Sudroad before I could hail another hack. This time, I had the driver take me a quarter mille beyond NordEste Design, farther out Nordroad, and drop me off. I didn’t know if I’d see or sense anyone with less than savory intentions, but if I did, I had an idea I wanted to try.
The only problem with my idea was that on the entire walk back, I saw almost no one. In fact, I saw fewer people than I had walking past the taudis. I did reach Seliora’s a fifth of a glass or so before I was due, but that wouldn’t be a problem. I dropped the polished brass knocker twice and waited.
Odelia was the one who greeted me. “Is there anyone you’d like to see before Seliora?” she asked, her tone innocent.
“Not if I expect to leave here with her speaking to me,” I replied, knowing that if I were a High Holder, I would have replied in a pleasant tone with words like “Were I not to speak with her first, speaking to anyone else would be an anticlimax.”
As she stepped back to let me enter, Odelia laughed at my more direct approach. “I think she’s probably in the foyer by now.”
Odelia and I walked up the stairs, reaching the foyer just as Seliora stepped out of the archway from the side staircase. She was more casually dressed than on the evening before . . . with a simple black pullover sweater and black slacks. A heavy silver chain and matching silver earrings were the only jewelry she wore. She did smile, openly.
“Everyone else will be down shortly, except Mother and Aegina. They’re in the kitchen.” She looked at me. “Your face is windburned.”
“I went for a walk. I had the hack drop me off farther out Nordroad. I walked back, but I didn’t see anyone.”
“Good. You shouldn’t have. Grandmama got tired of having people shoot at you. She called in a favor, and for a while there will be some old . . . acquaintances watching.”
I managed not to shake my head.
“Grandmama won’t know until tomorrow at the earliest when you can meet with Horazt. I’ll send a note by messenger to the Collegium. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Much better. It has to be after fourth glass.” I paused. “It doesn’t have to be, but it would be a great deal easier if it were.”
“We thought as much. Besides, most taudischefs prefer the evening.” She paused. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I didn’t have much breakfast, and I’ve walked a lot.”
“Good.” She led me toward the dining chamber.
Seliora had once told me that they never had a formal evening meal on Solayi, except on holidays like Year-Turn. As I looked at all the platters of food spread around the table, I could see why.
I enjoyed the meal and remainder of the afternoon before I had to leave for Imagisle and the evening services at the anomen. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I felt almost guilty on the hack ride back.
13
Lundi morning, Clovyl was relatively gentle with me in his hand-to-hand instruction, showing me ways to disarm someone with either knife or pistol. I refrained from pointing out that I could just image the weapons out of their hands. My caution was warranted, because he addressed that just before I was to actually try the moves on him.
“One of the reasons you need to learn this sort of thing, Rhennthyl, is because most imagers can’t image for a while if they get a stiff blow to their skull. The good assassins and spies know that.”
“It would have been nice to learn that earlier.”
“You would have, if you’d come to the Collegium a good bit younger than you did,” Clovyl replied mildly. “We teach that to the junior primes, but it would have taken years to go over everything with you, and it didn’t make sense to hold you back. You really would have done something stupid, then.”
“Thank you.” My words were not sarcastic. I meant them.
Clovyl looked puzzled.
“No one ever simply explained what you just did. A great deal of my frustration with the Collegium derives from the continual assumptions that I know things I don’t. If someone had just said what you did . . .”
“That’s probably true, Rhenn, but you have to realize that you’re also one of the oldest imagers ever to show up at the Collegium. No one, and I mean no one, has any experience with training a mostly developed imager. Most imagers who develop the skill as late as you did end up dead before the Collegium ever knows about them. That was why you ended up with Master Dichartyn as your preceptor. Usually, he only works with thirds and junior masters.”
That made me feel even more stupid, because I really should have noticed more. I’d known I was older than most of the primes, but before I’d had a chance to really think about it, I’d been made a second-and there were many seconds older than I was. There were even graying seconds.
I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on learning the moves better. Then I ran the customary four milles and hurried through the rest of the morning routine so that I wouldn’t be late to Patrol headquarters.
I wasn’t. In fact, I was waiting outside Mardoyt’s door when he arrived.
“Have you been here long?”
“No, sir. Just a fraction of a glass.”
“Good. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to the patroller clerks, and you can go with First Patroller Baluzt and the coach-wagon taking this morning’s lot to the courts. He can explain how the procedures work.” Mardoyt offered a generous and open smile. “Possibly better than I can.”
“You’re the one who has to make sure all the supporting documents get to the court?”
“I also have to make certain that witnesses appear for any major offense. Tracking them down isn’t always easy, and it often takes a lieutenant and two patrollers to make sure that they do show up. We have another coach-wagon for witnesses.” He turned. “This way.”
We only walked across the hall into a room twice as large as the commander’s anteroom, and far more crowded, with seven writing desks and an entire wall filled with file cases stacked one on top of another. Three of the desks were empty, with files stacked on them. The walls might once have been white, but were now more like a dingy beige.
Only one of the patrollers seated at the desks even looked up, and that was a stocky and balding patroller first. “Sir?”
“This is Imager Master Rhennthyl, Baluzt. He’s the new imager liaison to the Patrol, and the subcommander wants him to see how we work. He spent last week on the charging desk.”
“Welcome, Master Rhennthyl. We’re not the exciting part of the Patrol, but if we don’t do our job, offenders get back on the street to cause more trouble.”
“I’ll leave him in your hands, Baluzt.” With another warm smile, Mardoyt inclined his head and then gracefully turned and left.
I stood waiting.
“Good. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to the patroller clerks, and you can go with First Patroller Baluzt and the coach-wagon taking this morning’s lot to the courts. He can explain how the procedures work.” Mardoyt offered a generous and open smile. “Possibly better than I can.”
“You’re the one who has to make sure all the supporting documents get to the court?”
“I also have to make certain that witnesses appear for any major offense. Tracking them down isn’t always easy, and it often takes a lieutenant and two patrollers to make sure that they do show up. We have another coach-wagon for witnesses.” He turned. “This way.”
We only walked across the hall into a room twice as large as the commander’s anteroom, and far more crowded, with seven writing desks and an entire wall filled with file cases stacked one on top of another. Three of the desks were empty, with files stacked on them. The walls might once have been white, but were now more like a dingy beige.
Only one of the patrollers seated at the desks even looked up, and that was a stocky and balding patroller first. “Sir?”
“This is Imager Master Rhennthyl, Baluzt. He’s the new imager liaison to the Patrol, and the subcommander wants him to see how we work. He spent last week on the charging desk.”
“Welcome, Master Rhennthyl. We’re not the exciting part of the Patrol, but if we don’t do our job, offenders get back on the street to cause more trouble.”
“I’ll leave him in your hands, Baluzt.” With another warm smile, Mardoyt inclined his head and then gracefully turned and left.
I stood waiting.
“What we do is simple, sir, and it’s the Namer’s pain in a sow’s rump.” Baluzt gestured at the piles of paper in front of him. “I get to make sure that we have all the papers on each prisoner, especially the charging slip, and Fagayn runs down the arresting patroller, the prisoner, and any witnesses that the lieutenant brings. Then I ride the coach-wagon over to the Square of Justice. Most times, we have two of them, one for prisoners, and one for patrollers and witnesses. If we’ve got a lot of prisoners, we’ll run a second load around noon. Then we sit in the chambers and produce prisoners, documents, patrollers, and witnesses when the presiding justice or the magistrate wants them. If we can’t, I get to explain to the justice why not. I don’t like that, and the lieutenant likes it less. Sereptyl handles the other chamber most days.”
“Do you ever deal with cases for districts other than in L’Excelsis?”
“Not unless we have a prisoner who’s a witness for them. That’s a pain, but it doesn’t happen often.” Baluzt stood. “You’ll ride with me, sir. We got to get this procession moving.”
I smiled. “I’ll try to stay out of the way.” I followed him down the corridor to another set of stairs that led down to the alleyway behind the Patrol building.
The two coach-wagons drawn up and waiting each took four horses. They were long enclosed wagons with but a single door and four rows of bench seats. On top, there was a seat for the driver-padded, if skimpily-and a seat behind the driver. After all the witnesses and prisoners were accounted for, I climbed up the first wagon to sit beside Baluzt behind the driver.
The patroller driver turned the coach-wagon onto East River Road, heading south, until we reached the Sud Bridge, then crossed the river and continued on the Avenue D’Commercia until it intersected the ring avenue around Council Hill. The Square of Justice, with the Hall of Justice and its various courts, was on the south end of the ring avenue. The trip took about three-fifths of a glass.
The patrollers escorted prisoners and witnesses in through a side door guarded by another patroller, and then up a back set of stairs into the justicing chambers. The one where Baluzt led me was not all that large, no more than fifteen yards by eight, with a dais at the north end. Upon the black dais was a wide and featureless black desk. Low-backed benches ran down the center of the chamber, facing the dais. They ended six or seven yards short of the dais. On each side of the open space were three shorter rows of benches.
Baluzt and I sat in the front row of the benches on the east side, with the three witnesses and the patrollers who would testify in the rows behind us. The prisoners, manacled with their hands behind their backs, sat in the benches on the west side facing us.
Shortly after we entered, several advocates appeared, and then the bailiff stepped forward and thumped a heavy oak staff, its uppermost part a bronze sheaf of some sort of grain. Everyone rose, and the presiding justice appeared, wearing a long gray robe, trimmed in black, unlike that of the Collegium justices, whose robes were trimmed in both black and red.
Another thump, and the bailiff intoned, “You may be seated. Bring forth the accused.”
Two patrollers marched forward a swarthy but graying older man until he stood before the dais.
“Sactedd D’Rien, you are charged with disturbing the peace and disorderly conduct. Who stands to defend the accused?” asked the justice.
“I do.” A man in a gray robe with white trim stepped forward and stood between the west benches and the dais.
“Who presents the case against the accused?”
“I do.” The angular prosecuting advocate was a brown-haired, clean-shaven man who didn’t look any older than I was.
“State the charges against the accused.”
“The accused faces a charge of disturbance and disorderly and using a weapon in refusing to desist in that behavior.”
The justice turned to the public defender. “How does the accused plead? Guilty, Not Guilty, No Plea, or For Mercy?”
“Guilty, Your Honor.”
The justice looked directly at the manacled old man. “Sactedd, your defender has offered a plea of Guilty. Do you accept that plea?”
“Yes, sir.” The weariness behind the words suggested a man for whom a penal workhouse or even a road crew would be a blessing.
“Having pled Guilty, this being your second conviction, you are sentenced to the rest of your natural life at light duty in the penal workhouse at Stuerlt.”
The first case was over so quickly that I was still wondering how it had gone so fast when the bailiff thumped his staff. “Bring forth the accused.”
The same two patrollers marched forward another man, younger, but clearly not in full possession of all faculties. He swayed as he walked.
“Longtime elver,” murmured one of the patrollers behind me.
“Zolierma Aayo, you are charged with public incapacity and use of a banned substance. Who stands to defend the accused?”
“I do.” The second of the two public defenders stepped forward.
Zolierma, an outlander of some sort, by his name, also pled Guilty, although I wondered if he had any idea of what he pled, and was sentenced to a penal workhouse as well.
I took more interest in the third case, when the bailiff intoned, “Bring forth the accused,” and the two patrollers marched forward two much younger men.
“Hydrat D’Taudis and Chelam D’Whayan, you are charged with disturbance of the peace, disorderly conduct, and assaulting a patroller. Who stands to defend the accused?”
“I do.” Instead of the two public defenders, another advocate, older and more dark-skinned, stepped forward.
“How do you plead?”
“They both plead Not Guilty to all charges, Your Honor,” offered the advocate.
“Very well.” The justice turned. “You may proceed, Prosecuting Advocate.”
As I recalled, there had been three men charged with throwing the liquid from slop pots at the patrollers, but I saw only two.
The prosecuting advocate turned toward us. “Patroller Tyenat to the bar.”
A tall and muscular patroller stood and stepped forward until he stood below the dais.
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