“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.
The rain and drizzle lifted on Meredi night, and the weather cooled so much that there was frost everywhere early on Jeudi. The grass and walkways were so slick that no one ran all that fast, and we finished in a ragged pack. I did wear my cold-weather cloak and gloves for the walk to Patrol headquarters, and with the wind, I was more than glad that I had. The building seemed empty when I hurried in off Fedre and made my way to the charging desk—also vacant, since I’d clearly arrived before Gulyart.
The glass was
just ringing as Gulyart hurried in. He wasn’t wearing a cloak, but a heavier blue wool uniform. “Good morning, Master Rhennthyl.”
“Good morning, Gulyart. There’s no one here.”
“That’s because there was trouble in the South Middle taudis last night, and the subcommander called in everyone he could, even some who had morning duty. We’re going to be busy. We won’t get a break for lunch, and we’ll probably be working till sunset or beyond.”
“What happened?”
Gulyart shrugged. “I don’t know, except someone started street preaching one of those southern religions—”
“Not Caenen duology?”
“No. The Tiempran equality stuff.”
I stiffened inside. Master Dichartyn had said something about the Tiempran First Speaker rewarding those who struck near the heart of their enemies. Was that the reason for the riot . . . or part of it? A year earlier, I wouldn’t have known much more than the words he used, but the Collegium had been good for my education, if at the cost of a certain naïve tolerance.
The main faith in Tiempre was monotheistic, but the key tenet of their single powerful god was that all good qualities were present in all human beings. That in itself wasn’t all that bad, to my way of thinking, but some of the corollaries were anything but good. If a trait wasn’t present in all people, then it was suspect or evil. Because something like only one in a hundred thousand people had the talent for imaging, imagers were agents of the evil one. So were people who were excessively tall or short, and those who were what might be called village idiots were imprisoned in work plantations lest they contaminate others. Very intelligent people were looked on with skepticism, as were the deformed.
“It got out of hand,” I suggested.
“Someone started preaching that the Council was following evil because it gave special privileges to the most evil of all—you imagers. He started in on the High Holders after that, screaming that they denied the goodness of equality and made it impossible for the people in the taudis ever to get good jobs, and then he finished up by inciting them to strike out against the Civic Patrol, because we’re the agents of the evil oppressors of equality . . . something like that.”
“And that started a riot?”
“It wasn’t too bad.” Gulyart snorted. “They’ve got almost a hundred waiting to be charged.”
“Disturbing the peace and damaging property?”
“Mostly. Maybe twenty or so got caught assaulting someone, and a few attacked patrollers. They didn’t get the street preacher, though. He’d better be hiding. Street preaching’s a straight shot to life in a penal manufactory.”
I could understand that. Any religion in Solidar had the right to assemble and worship—but only on private property and under a roof. It could be in a hovel or a barn or any structure, but street preaching or soliciting was banned. Soliciting was a misdemeanor the first time, but not street preaching. The possible connection to the Tiempran government was also disturbing, but how could one prove it?
“First Patroller Gulyart! The first prisoners are coming in.”
A gaol patroller appeared with two men. “These two were part of the mob, disorderly. Nothing much else.”
“What is your name?” Gulyart looked at a short, swarthy young man about my age.
After the slightest hesitation, the man looked blank.
“Appelio? Niomen? Habynah?” asked Gulyart.
“Adyon Khurnish.”
“Adyon, son of Khurn,” Gulyart murmured, “but put it down as he said it.”
I checked the files for both versions of the name. “There’s nothing here.”
“If I hear him right, he’s speaking what sounds like accented Tiempran. That means he’s probably from Gyarl.”
The prisoner had said nothing, but there had been a flicker of something when Gulyart had mentioned Gyarl—a comparatively small land, landlocked and sandwiched between Caenen and Tiempre with about half the people of Caenenan background and half of Tiempran. “He’s from Gyarl, I’d wager,” I offered, “but he doesn’t want to let us know it.” I had to wonder at that, because Solidar let in anyone who wanted to work as a laborer. It cost too much to post guards everywhere along something like eight thousand milles of coast—that was the area ships could approach enough to let down boats, anyway. Besides, unless someone spoke decent Solidaran, except it really was Bovarian, as it had adapted since Rex Regis had unified all of Solidar, he wasn’t going to go anywhere but the fields or day labor. That wasn’t exactly a threat to our peace and prosperity. Besides, how many could afford ocean passage?
“That’s his problem, not ours,” Gulyart said, hurriedly writing out the charging slip and filling out the line on the charging ledger, then looking at the other prisoner. “You? Habynah?”
“Isoloh Solonish.”
I checked his name as well, but there was nothing. So I slipped back beside Gulyart and wrote out the ledger entry while he finished the charging slip.
“They’re both charged with disorderly and disturbance.”
As the two were marched out, I had the feeling that both had understood at least some of what we had said, but I didn’t have time to say anything, because they were followed by another gaol patroller with three men, all in manacles.
“Hydrat, here,” announced the burly patroller, “he was in for disorderly maybe a year back, far as I recall. Be under Hydrat D’Taudis. No father . . . half-Pharsi scum.”
Hydrat’s name was there, but the note was that the charges had been dropped.
“Charges were dropped against him,” I told Gulyart.
“You’re the fortunate one,” Gulyart said.
“They’ll drop these, too . . . officer. I wasn’t doing anything.”
“No, just being disorderly,” added the gaol patroller, “throwing buckets of piss at the riot squad.”
“I never touched a bucket.”
Gulyart didn’t say a thing, and I copied what he’d written on the charging slip, including the charges of disturbance, disorderly, and assault on a patroller.
“This one looks like all-Pharsi scum. Says his name is Chelam D’Whayan. He was one of the others throwing buckets of piss.”
“That’s not assault,” claimed the scrawny and small black-haired figure, barely a man, if that. “Disorderly, not assault.”
“You can tell the justice that. Is Chelam D’Whayan the right name?” asked Gulyart.
“Yeah. . . .”
The patroller yanked the manacles. “He’s ‘sir’ or ‘officer’ to the likes of you.”
“Yes . . . sir.” The words were quiet, but Chelam’s eyes flared.
There was no record on him, either.
The third was taller, with black hair and an olive skin. Pharsi-Caenenan heritage, I would have guessed. He gave only his name—Chardyn D’Steinyn.
The following prisoner was manacled and gagged. Welts covered the left side of his face, and a wound below his ear had been bandaged. Blood had soaked through part of the dressing.
“This one’s major. Name is Fhalyn D’Sourkos. Disorderly, disturbance, and assault with a weapon. He used a pair of dirks against a mounted riot patroller. Horse had to be put down. He’s gagged because he spits.”
Gulyart didn’t have the gag removed, but that name didn’t have any record, either. Fhalyn did try to kick the gaol patroller on his way out. That type used the riot as an excuse, hoping he wouldn’t get caught in all the chaos. I’d have wagered that as many as we’d end up charging, even more had escaped.
We must have charged close to twenty people before a woman patroller, wiry and tough-looking, appeared with two women who looked to be in their late twenties, but then . . . they might have been younger under all the smudged makeup.
“These two are charged with disturbance and street soliciting. They left their premises during the riot and solicited on the street.”
Like street preaching, soliciting on public grounds and streets was an offense, a misdemeanor, but s
till a crime. Sexual favors could be solicited, but only if the solicitor stood inside a doorway or a window of property with the consent of the owner. Most of the time, I’d heard, patrollers allowed a little leeway.
“We didn’t,” said the brunette. “Aloust would have beaten us.”
“Enough to bruise us where it really hurts,” added the other, a thin, black-haired girl, who, upon closer inspection, probably wasn’t any older than Khethila. “One of the rioters dragged me from the window. Then two patrollers grabbed me!”
“Your name?” asked Gulyart firmly.
“Alizara. That’s it.”
There were no Alizaras listed in the records, nor did the records show anything for the older woman, who had given her name as Beustila.
“Likely as not, neither name is real,” muttered Gulyart.
“Aren’t many of them false?”
“Not so many as you’d think, not when we can check for a hip brand, but there are plenty of false names. The girls change their names, or they use false ones for their work.”
As Gulyart had predicted, we didn’t finish until well after sixth glass. Because I knew I’d already missed dinner, I stopped and ate a sausage blanket and noodles at Fiendyl’s. I only got a few glances, probably because everyone there had seen me more than a few times.
One man kept looking toward me until one of the servers stopped and murmured a few words to him, something like “. . . works over at the Civic Patrol . . . eats here a lot . . .”
I had a long walk back to Imagisle, and one that required carrying full imager shields the entire two milles plus. As I walked through the cool evening, glad for my winter cloak, with a brisk wind blowing out of the northeast, carrying a chill that must have come all the way from the Mountains D’Glace, I couldn’t help thinking about all the people who had been charged and how almost none of them had any past record. There were never many, because the Patrol didn’t like repeat offenders, but there had been one or two, sometimes three, out of every ten on the other days. Today, I only recalled two out of close to sixty. Maybe there had been three.
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