Imager's challenge ip-2

by L. E. Modesitt

  I stopped by my quarters, leaving my patroller’s cloak behind, and then headed to the dining hall. Because I was a bit early, I stopped by my letter box, not that I really expected anything. But there was a letter there, and it held the red stripe. Who would be sending me an urgent message by private courier? I looked at the writing . . . and swallowed. It was Khethila’s-and that was anything but good. I didn’t quite rip the envelope open.

  Dear Rhenn,

  I am writing this because Father and Mother did not have time to. We have just received word that Rousel has been badly injured in a wagon accident in Kherseilles. We don’t know how it happened, but his legs have been crushed, and he has other injuries.

  It seems so unfair. He had just written that he had managed to get a stonemason to rebuild the wall on our property. He had worked all night and day with the mason to meet the deadline stipulated by the legal agreement in order to avoid a 500 gold penalty, and there are other problems as well.

  You cannot do anything, I know, but you should know. Father and Mother have already left on the ironway for Kherseilles with Culthyn . . .

  I lowered the letter. I had no doubts that Rousel’s injury was anything but an accident, and that Ryel had been behind it. Then I slipped the letter inside my waistcoat and left the dining hall, heading across the Bridge of Desires, because that was the closest place to find a hack. The mist had turned into a light rain and I was damp, but not soaked, by the time I was inside a coach and headed to see Khethila.

  Why Rousel? Even as I asked myself that question, I knew the answer. Because he was Father’s heir to Alusine Wool and because Ryel was a typical sadistic High Holder who wanted to prove that he could destroy my family, slowly and deliberately, without a shred of proof to link anything illegal to him. Everything he’d caused to happen would show as either perfectly legal or connected in no way to him.

  The rain was heavier when I left the hack, and I gave the driver a few extra coppers for his trouble, then hurried up under the portico roof, where I gave the knocker several sharp thraps. After several moments, the door opened slightly, and I could see the chains.

  “Khethila . . . it’s me. I just got your message, and I came immediately.”

  She opened the door. “Oh . . . Rhenn . . . you didn’t have to.” The tone of her voice contradicted her words.

  I stepped inside, closed the door, and put my arms around her.

  She sobbed silently for a time, then stepped back and blotted her eyes. They were blotchy. “Thank you.”

  “It’s all I can do right now.” That was more than true, unfortunately.

  She looked at me. “You didn’t eat, did you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’re pale. We can go into the kitchen. You can eat, and we can talk. There’s some cold fowl and cheese and some fresh bread. I didn’t have cook fix a supper . . .”

  “Anything would be fine.” I followed her through the family parlor and into the kitchen.

  Before long, I was sitting on one side of the table in the breakfast room, lit by a single wall lamp, and she was on the other. I had slices of bread, cheese, and fowl on a plate, and we each had a glass of Grisio. She needed it more than I.

  “What happened?” I asked, after taking a bite of the sharp white cheese. I was hungry.

  “I don’t know much more than I wrote. Rousel was hit by a horse that spooked and knocked him under a brewer’s wagon that was moving. Remaya sent a dispatch by ironway. Father talked to someone he knew to get a compartment on the afternoon train.” Khethila took a healthy swallow of the Grisio. “It’s almost like the Nameless or the Namer is after Father.”

  “Or some commercial rival,” I suggested.

  “Could anyone . . .” She let the words die away for a moment. “Of course they could. Some people will do anything. But who?”

  “It could be someone with an old grudge, who just waited until the time was right to hurt the family the hardest.” That was as close as I was going to get because, with what I planned, no one in my family, especially Khethila, could afford to know why it was happening.

  “It could be Rousel, too,” she said softly. “He hasn’t always been as careful as he should be.”

  “You need to think about it. So will I. You’ll keep me informed?”

  “I promise.”

  After that we talked, first about Rousel and the factorage in Kherseilles and then about less consequential things, but I did mention I’d been required to attend the Autumn Ball, and that led to a few questions about Madame D’Shendael, none of which I could really answer.

  Then, as it got close to eighth glass, I rose to go.

  “You can’t stay tonight . . . can you?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t stay anywhere at night besides the Collegium.”

  “That’s a stupid rule.”

  “No. Unhappily, it’s not. Imagers can image in their dreams, and dreams aren’t always under control. Especially at a time like this.” I’d never been told I couldn’t say that, and she needed a real reason, tonight more than any other.

  “Oh . . .”

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone else that. It’s not something the Collegium likes known, but tonight I didn’t want to just say that it was a rule.”

  That brought a shaky smile to her lips. “I won’t . . . but thank you.” After a moment, she said, “Charlsyn can take you back. I’ll let him know.”

  I didn’t argue, even if it meant that Khethila would end up paying him more for the week.

  38

  I didn’t sleep well on Mardi night, not with nightmares about more fires in the factorage, and runaway wagons, and lightning striking the house while Khethila was in it, but at least I didn’t image any more fires in my sleep. It was a relief to get up and deal with the simple physical tasks of exercising, sparring, and running. For that time, at least, the effort kept me from dwelling on my worries about Rousel and Father. I was quiet enough at breakfast, but no one noticed because Ferlyn was talking about how the Northern Fleet had destroyed another Ferran flotilla.

  When I finally got to Third District station, I didn’t see either the captain or the lieutenant, and that was fine with me.

  Lyonyt was waiting, bouncing from one booted foot to the other. “Master Rhennthyl.”

  “Good morning, Lyonyt.”

  “A good morning it is, sir. Not a cloud in the sky, and but enough breeze to keep a patroller comfortable on his rounds.”

  I hadn’t brought anything with me, nothing to stow in the cubby that was temporarily mine. So I gestured to the doors, and we headed out. As had seemed to be the case in all the rounds in the area of the taudis, we saw very few people on the first round-and none of Youdh’s toughs. Their absence bothered me, because it suggested the time for observation was over, and I resolved to be as alert as I could be throughout the day. I did have to make an effort not to get distracted by worrying about Rousel.

  We were finishing the second round, heading down Mando, the unofficial boundary, Alsoran had told me, between Jadhyl’s territory and that of Youdh, or the bad part of the taudis and the really evil section. West of Mando, the ground rose, not a great deal but a good two or three yards over the next block, so that when I looked westward up the alleys opening on to Mando I couldn’t see the end of the alley. This section of the taudis had to be ancient because the alleyways were barely wide enough to fit a single large wagon.

  The row houses were all old and weathered, and the faintest odor of elveweed drifted unevenly in the air, an odor that would strengthen with each round in the day. But none of the houses on the east side of the street had empty windows or those that were boarded over. Admittedly, many of them had crude shutters, often only of oiled wood, but they did have shutters. I thought that reflected well on Jadhyl, or at least better upon him than the shabbier conditions of the area to the west did upon Youdh. Youdh was truly an old-style taudischef of the sansespoirs.

  We walked down the east side of M
ando, and I glanced up the next alley, only to see a large wagon, its wheels blocked in place at the top of the rise, and so broad that there was less than a hand’s width between the wagon bed and frame and the high brick walls of the courtyards adjoining the alley.

  “Help! Help!” A frantic high-pitched scream echoed down the alleyway.

  We both turned.

  A dark-haired woman, scarcely more than a young girl, was pressed against the rough bricks of a second-level terrace by a man in shabby clothing. She struggled to get away, then ducked under his arm, but he grabbed her blouse and ripped it open, leaving her mostly naked from the waist up. I couldn’t help but notice she was well formed and most attractive, before she tried to wrench away from the far larger man once again.

  “Help!”

  It was too far to image anything accurately, and they were moving about so quickly I might hurt the wrong one if I tried. Even as I hurried across Mando and up the alley, followed by Lyonyt, I kept looking in all directions, although I thought it was probably early for most taudis-toughs. I saw no one anywhere, except for the screaming half-naked woman and the man trying to assault her. Even so, I checked and strengthened my shields.

  Lyonyt’s knife was out, shimmering in the midmorning sunlight.

  When we reached the courtyard wall below the terrace, a good twenty-five yards from the street, I discovered that the high side wall to the courtyard below the terrace had no gate.

  “Help me!”

  Up on the ancient roof terrace, the attacker was ripping away the girl’s skirt.

  “Help!” Her voice rose into a shriek.

  But there was something wrong . . .

  At a low rumbling sound, almost like thunder, I glanced up the alley, only to see that the enormous wagon was rolling-more like hurtling-down the stone-paved alleyway at us, less than ten yards away and already moving far too fast for us to outrun it. I could also see that it was loaded with stone and rocks, and that the axles and the wagon bed were too low to dive under the middle and let it pass over.

  “Down, flat, against the wall!” I snapped and dropped to the alley pavement, carrying Lyonyt down as well, so that we lay stomach down beside the brick wall. I strengthened my shields and tried to tie them not to me, but to the cracked stone pavement beneath us and the brick wall against which my shoulder and side were pressed.

  The rumbling thunder crashed over us, pressing us down, and then passed.

  “Stay down,” I hissed, not moving.

  The next sound was that of the wagon impacting something, most likely the stoop or the front of a house on the other side of Mando, and wrenching and splintering wood and the diminishing lesser rumbles of stones coming to rest.

  “Keep still . . .” I was wagering that whoever had set up the attack would want to check out the carnage, and I wanted them close-very close-before I moved. I was getting very tired of being attacked, especially when I hadn’t even been chasing or investigating Youdh, but Mardoyt.

  I didn’t move, but kept my eyes open.

  After a time, it could have been as long as half a quint, two figures began to walk down the alley. Both wore the purple jackets.

  I wasn’t in any mood for fairness. I just waited until the pair were less than five yards away when I imaged oil and grease under their boots, and a blast of air to unbalance them. They both went down, but not as hard as I would have liked. I scrambled to my feet, glancing around in all directions, but seeing only the two toughs nearby . . . but several near the part of the alley that was the top of the rise.

  The taller one immediately did something I didn’t expect, not exactly. Rather than even get up, he just looked at me, and then five rusty knives impacted my shields before dropping to the pavement. The shorter one scrambled to his feet and fell again, then regained his footing and raced away from Lyonyt, yelling something to the two taudis-toughs farther up the alley.

  Before I could even think what to do next, another set of weapons slammed into my shields-this time, what looked like iron crossbow bolts. They were followed by flaming oily fireballs.

  “Spawn of the Namer!” blurted Lyonyt.

  Then came three large spiked objects, so heavy that when they struck my shields, I was slammed back against the brick wall. One of them dropped from my shields and splintered the heavy stone of a paving stone. Another stuck with a point wedged between two paving blocks.

  At that point, I’d had enough. Even so, I didn’t want to overdo it, because I wanted the imager alive. I imaged salt and caustic into his eyes, not in the massive amounts that had killed Diazt, but enough, I thought, to blur the imager’s vision or blind him for a quint or so. As I did so, I charged him, putting a knee into his chin and snapping his head back. He just tumbled back onto the ancient cracked and uneven paving stones, mumbling.

  “. . . can’t see . . . Ravyt! Ravyt!”

  The man who lay there trying to rise and rubbing at his eyes was the tough who had escaped me at Mardoyt’s house, and the same one who had observed me when I walked past the Puryon Temple early in the week.

  “Get him tied up, Lyonyt. Quickly.”

  At that moment, the imager-tough rolled on his side and then started to rise and lunge away. I dropped on his back with both knees, slamming him into the pavement again.

  He was still, or mostly still, while Lyonyt and I manacled his hands behind him. I kept my weight on him while Lyonyt bound his feet at the ankles. Then, I concentrated, as well as I could, enough to image a length of black cloth-not very good wool, but sufficient for my purposes-and I immediately began wrapping it around his upper face and across his eyes.

  Only after he was secured did I glance up at the terrace-silent and empty. The two, or at least the man, had been creating a distraction-enough of one that we had not been able to escape the stone-weighted wagon.

  “Sir? The cloth?”

  “He’s a renegade imager, but he has to see to image.”

  “Sir . . . that’s Youdh.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The one who ran off . . . he was yelling to the others that you’d gotten Youdh.”

  Youdh? The imager was Youdh himself?

  I couldn’t say I was surprised.

  “Sir . . . what do we do now?”

  “We tie him up really tightly and cart him to the pickup point and have the pickup wagon take him to Imagisle. Imagers who commit crimes are subject to the laws of the Collegium. Besides, no gaol can hold an imager without special procedures.”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir.”

  “Do you have another suggestion?”

  “No, sir.”

  Youdh was neither light nor cooperative, and he squirmed a great deal. We carried him for a time, then rested, and carried him farther, until we reached the pickup point. But I wasn’t about to give him any vision and any leeway whatsoever, not after he’d tried to kill me so many times.

  While we were waiting, I decided to see if he’d talk, but I didn’t want to ask him anything that dealt with possible Patrol corruption, not with Lyonyt standing beside me.

  “Youdh . . . why did you keep trying to kill me?”

  “Friggin’ imager-patroller, spawn of Namer-sow and cursed canine . . . friggin’ everything up . . . couldn’t find a teat on a copper cow . . .”

  “What do you get from the equalifiers . . . or do you have to pay them?”

  “Give more ’n the Patrol types.”

  That was suggestive, but I wasn’t going to pursue it. “So they do pay well. A few golds a month?”

  “Frig you . . .” The mutter was low, but clear.

  After that, he said even less.

  Almost a glass passed before the wagon arrived. When I told the driver where we were headed, he looked at me, then at Lyonyt, almost helpless.

  “Take us where Master Rhennthyl wants,” Lyonyt finally said. “You really want to be the one to bring a taudischef imager to the station?”

  With the clarity of those words, the driver swallowed and said,
“Yes, sir.”

  Although Youdh didn’t seem to have much to say, except mutter, I watched him closely on the slow wagon trip down the Midroad and then the Boulevard D’Imagers, thinking. If Youdh was an imager, why couldn’t he have used his abilities in little ways to help the people in his area of the taudis? Or couldn’t he afford to reveal that to anyone except his toughs because the equalifier priests, whom he needed, opposed imagers? Or was he like Diazt, who would rather have been the meanest and least powerful taudischef than a respected imager?

  Once the wagon finally came to a halt outside the receiving hall on the east side of Imagisle, I hopped off.

  “Lyonyt . . . if he does anything, hit him hard on the head with the truncheon. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lyonyt’s voice was resolute, but he was far from happy. I couldn’t say I blamed him, but I had no idea where the Collegium’s equivalent of a gaol was. That hadn’t been on the map I’d memorized, or if it had been, I didn’t remember.

  I walked into the reception hall. I barely knew the prime on duty and had to struggle with his name. “Jakhob, is either Master Dichartyn or Master Schorzat here?”

  “Master Dichartyn, sir, but . . .” He gulped.

  “But what . . . ?”

  “He’s meeting with someone, sir.”

  “In his study?”

  “Yes, sir . . . but . . .”

  “I’ll take care of it.” I turned and walked down to the study, where I rapped smartly on the door.

  There was no answer. So I rapped harder.

  “I’m not to be disturbed.” The words were snappish.

  “It’s Rhennthyl, and I have the renegade imager trussed up and blindfolded out in a Civic Patrol wagon outside the receiving hall. Exactly what would you like me to do with him?”