Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “You could see all the way to Imagisle from the top of the tower,” I observed.

  “I’m certain that’s the point,” replied Shomyr. “The terrace offers almost as good a view, and the extensions of the roof allow one to sit there in the late afternoon without getting that warm. They’ll doubtless have shades or screens for the time around sunset.”

  I kept sketching as quickly as I could, trying to put in the various buildings in a quick diagram of where everything was located in respect to the walls and the gates, and the curving drive from the gates leading to the covered front portico looked as though it fronted a gallery or a grand salon stretching across the west side of the chateau.

  Shomyr let the mules take their time plodding up the relatively gentle, if long, slope. Neither he nor Seliora spoke as I drew.

  Once we passed the gates, I scrambled to the back of the wagon and continued my work. The gates were simple but heavy iron grilles, without even a crest or coat of arms on them. Two heavy iron bars on the inside secured the gates. The stone pillars anchoring them rose almost a yard above the top of the adjoining wall. There was no exterior gate house, but I could see the shape of one against the wall and just inside the gates. The paved drive was wide enough for two carriages abreast and curved northward to the portico, then circled back eastward to rejoin itself. In the middle of that circle was a miniature garden, with a fountain statue in the center, although I could not make out the figure in any detail. The ground to the north continued to slope upward. Against the northern wall, some four hundred yards uphill, was a curved stone structure that puzzled me for a moment, until I realized that it had to be some sort of cistern or water reservoir, feeding both the chateau and the fountain, and the water source was probably a spring or a stream even farther uphill.

  “There’s a turnout at the top of the hill. I can stop there for a bit. That would seem natural,” Shomyr said.

  “I’d like that.”

  I couldn’t see all of the chateau from the turnout, but since the wagon was barely visible from below, I took my time—almost a glass—before I told Shomyr that I had what I needed.

  He turned the wagon back around and headed slowly downhill—as would any teamster.

  I kept drawing and filling in all the details that I could. In fact, I drew all the way back. When we pulled up in the courtyard of NordEste Design, it was just past fourth glass. Dark clouds were massing to the northwest, and the wind had turned chill.

  Once the wagon stopped and Shomyr set the brake, Seliora turned in the seat. “Could I see?”

  “Of course.” I showed her the first sketch, which was almost a diagram of where all the buildings were, then the others in turn.

  Shomyr looked at the sketches as well, then shook his head. “I didn’t see half of that.”

  “It takes practice. Master Caliostrus would put an arrangement of fruit or something on a table, and tell me to look at it carefully. Then he’d remove it all, and make me draw it from memory. He got most upset if I left something out. You practice like that for seven years, and you get very good at noticing details.” Unless it was something that I hadn’t looked at that way, or hadn’t known how to study when I’d last seen it—like the back of the factorage.

  “Can I help with the wagon?” I asked.

  Shomyr shook his head. “You need to change and get back, don’t you?”

  “I have some time.”

  “That’s all right.” Shomyr nodded to his sister.

  Seliora took my arm, not saying anything until we were farther away. “He’s happy to be able to help. He’s also pleased that you offered to do what you could with the wagon, but he likes to handle things in his own way.”

  I could understand that.

  “You go change,” she added, “and then we can talk, can’t we?”

  “For a little,” I admitted.

  She used a heavy key to unlock the door at the top of the steps, then locked it behind us. Once we were in the main foyer, she turned to me. “Go change. I’ll wait here.” She took off the scarf and shook out her hair.

  For a moment, I just admired her, then headed for the stairs, carrying the drawing board and all the sketches. When I finished changing and made my way back down to her, carrying my bag filled with exercise clothes and the sketches, she had two mugs of hot tea and a plate of biscuits waiting on a side table flanked by two chairs.

  “How did you manage that so quickly?” I asked, settling into the chair across from her.

  “I didn’t. Mother did. She was watching for our return.”

  “You and your family . . . you’re all remarkable.” I paused. “Thank you for today. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” I took a sip of the tea, a small sip. It was hot, very hot. “If I could ride, it would have been easier.”

  “You can’t?” She grinned. “We should teach you.”

  “You can ride as well?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be able to? I used to ride messages for Papa when I was little.”

  “I should learn . . .”

  “Good. Next week, we’ll put you on the mare.”

  “Just like that?”

  “You can’t ride without getting on a horse, Rhenn.”

  She had a point there.

  Her eyes met mine, and she smiled, if briefly, before asking quietly, “After today, what will you do?”

  “Keep trying to find out enough to know how to deal with an arrogant High Holder in a way that threatens no one else.” Or overtly involved the Collegium.

  “If anything happens to Ryel, won’t his son . . . ?”

  “And his nephew. The possibility that they might is part of the problem.”

  “That’s like Pharsi revenge. Sometimes it never ends.” She looked at me. “Unless there’s no one left to carry on.”

  “I hope it doesn’t have to go that far.” I didn’t want to think about that for the moment, or about Pharsi revenge . . . or even bring up the pistol incident. “The biscuits are good.” I paused. “Do you want to start on the portrait next Samedi? Can you?”

  She nodded, her mouth full, then smiled.

  I took another sip of hot tea.

  Lundi morning was such a rush that even by taking a duty coach, doubtless stretching the rules, I barely reached the District Three station by seventh glass. The station was anything but impressive, a one-story building whose once-yellow bricks had turned a grayish tan under the impact of time and grime, an impression not helped by the narrow barred windows, or by the overcast and low clouds. I walked quickly through open double doors of the single entrance. They were battered and iron bound oak with equally ancient heavy iron inside hinges.

  A young patroller with circles under his eyes looked up from the high and narrow desk set against the wall on the right, then stiffened. “Sir . . . you’re Master Rhennthyl? Captain Harraf is expecting you. The first door there.” He gestured.

  “Thank you.”

  Two other patrollers on the far side of the open space inside the doors that could have been called an anteroom made a show of checking their equipment, but I could feel their eyes on my back as I walked past the duty patroller, then pushed through the already half-open door and stepped into the small study, little more than three yards by four. Captain Harraf was a small man, not much more than to my shoulder, with bright black eyes that protruded slightly, and short jet-black hair. His pale blue uniform was spotless, as was the top of the desk he stood beside—with the exception of an oblong of folded heavy bluish gray cloth. “Master Rhennthyl.”

  I inclined my head. “Captain Harraf.”

  “I’m glad to see that you’re the kind who takes punctuality seriously.”

  “I’m glad to be here.”

  “We’ll see how you feel in a few weeks.”

  A few weeks—with the implication of a longer time than that? That gave me a definitely uneasy feeling, because Third District was the most dangerous district in L’Excelsis.

  “Before I offer you an
assignment, I want to be clear on several points. You can’t arrest or detain anyone. Only the patroller with you can. You understand that?”

  “Master Dichartyn and the commander and subcommander have made that clear.”

  “Good. A few points about station rules. I’m obviously in command. When I’m not here, Lieutenant Warydt is in charge. Should neither of us be here, the senior patroller first takes command. You won’t see too much of the lieutenant in the next few weeks, because he’ll usually be here from the third glass of the afternoon until ninth glass, although it’s sometimes tenth glass. We switch off on the late shift.” He cleared his throat. “For your safety, but also for the safety of the patrollers you accompany, I’m also going to insist that you wear a standard patroller’s cloak over your grays. You’ll also learn more that way.” He picked up the folded gray-blue cloth that turned out to be a cloak, and a new one at that, and handed it to me. “Your cap is close enough that most people won’t notice it anyway.”

  He was doubtless right. From a distance any imager’s visored cap didn’t look all that different from those worn by the patrollers, just a touch grayer, while theirs were more gray-blue. Both cap devices were pewter, but the patroller’s cap held a starburst, while mine held the circled four-pointed star.

  “Your first patrol will be one of those less adventuresome. You’ll accompany Zellyn along the triangle—down South Middle to the Midroad, then back on Quierca and up Fuosta to the station. There’s usually not much happening, but there would be more if some patroller didn’t cover it.”

  “I imagine that’s true everywhere in L’Excelsis, but more so in Third District.” I slipped on the patroller’s cloak.

  “Very much more so.” Harraf turned toward the door. “Zellyn!”

  A patroller hurried in and stopped. “Sir.” He was red-faced with a silvering brush mustache and bushy eyebrows above sad and pale brown eyes.

  “This is Master Rhennthyl, and he’ll be accompanying you on your rounds for the week.”

  “Yes, sir.” Zellyn turned to me. “Master Rhennthyl.”

  I nodded. “Zellyn, I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Captain Harraf cleared his throat. “You two had best be off.”

  As I left the study with Zellyn, one thing was very clear. Captain Harraf didn’t want to spend much time with me.

  “You ready for a long day on your feet, sir?”

  “I think so, but the day will tell.”

  Zellyn laughed. “That it will. That it will.”

  We walked out of the station and headed right, up Fuosta toward South Middle, two and a half long blocks away.

  “How long have you been with the Patrol?”

  “Nearly fifteen years, sir, most of it right here in Third District.”

  “Would you tell me about your round?”

  “We rotate through two or three rounds a year, switch every three months, usually. Means we’re familiar with the areas, but that we don’t get too friendly, if you know what I mean. This round’s the best of the bunch I walk. Biggest problem is the taudis-kids near the shops on Quierca. They’ll lift anything that’s not chained down. The Pharsis and the Caenenans are the worse. Tiemprans aren’t much better.”

  “How do you tell the difference between the Tiemprans and the Caenenans?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The darker the tan, the more likely they’re trouble. Not all of ’em. Lot of good kids, but the bad ones are more likely to be dark.”

  Was that because they were poorer? Or because they and their families had less respect for those who didn’t follow their beliefs? Or because the patrollers just watched them more closely? Or something else? Whatever the reason, I could tell there wasn’t any point in asking.

  Small shops clustered on each side of the station, and then eating places—most so small and mean that I wouldn’t even have called them bistros, but perhaps taudiscafés. Only the small cafés were open. For a moment, I wondered why they were so close to the station, until I realized that there was a far smaller chance of robbery and theft.

  When we turned onto South Middle, walking toward the Midroad, there were few people on the sidewalks, but more than a handful of coaches and wagons passing by, although the wagons were more prevalent, but then, South Middle was a thoroughfare.

  “You ever have trouble with the wagons?”

  “Only when they’re loading or unloading. Those times, it’s still not that often because most places have at least two fellows working the wagon. Not much that’s small and light, and that’s what quick-thieves are looking for.” Zellyn waved to a graying and trim man wearing a leather apron outside a shoemaker’s shop that could not have been more than five yards wide.

  The cobbler smiled and returned the wave.

  After we’d walked just a single block west, the buildings on both sides changed from low brick structures, with modest shops, to stone and brick or stone-faced edifices two and three stories high, with larger shops and lace-curtained windows gracing the living quarters above.

  Zellyn pointed to one of the iron grates set at the base of the curb and the side of the road pavement. It covered the opening to the storm sewers below. “We’re supposed to report any time a grate’s been broken or blocked with crap. Sometimes, the penal crews even get them fixed the same week.” He snorted. “Usually not.”

  Another hundred yards on stood an iron pole topped with a blue globe. A heavy iron bar circled the pole at eye height. “That’s a pickup point for the Patrol.”

  I had to think for a moment before I realized what it was—a place where an offender could be cuffed to the railing, if necessary, if a patroller could not march him or her back to the station. “How often do the pickup wagons run by?”

  “Supposed to be once a glass.” Zellyn laughed.

  Walking the first part of the round, back to the station, took about a glass. The second part, patrolling up and down the side streets between Quierca and South Middle, from Fuosta west to the Midroad, took about twice as long, mostly because Zellyn passed pleasantries to various people he recognized. Then we did the first round in reverse, and went back the other way. After that came a bite to eat at Kleonya’s, a bistro on Quierca, but a half block off the Midroad. After eating, we continued variations on the round.

  Along the way, we helped an older woman who had tripped on a curbing and gotten her scarf caught in a wagon tailgate, listened to a grocer complain about a young thief who had stolen a melon the afternoon before when there weren’t any patrollers around, and warned a pair of youths who lounged in an alleyway, clearly eyeing some older and frailer women who made their way to the produce stand on Quierca halfway between the Midroad and Fuosta.

  That was my day with Zellyn, and I paid for a hack to drive me back to Imagisle. My feet were definitely sore, and then some. Even after running down Grandisyn and arranging for him to install a small coal heater with a flue, I was at the dining hall a bit early. It had been a few days since I’d talked to Shault, and I hoped to catch him before dinner, but he was already seated with the other primes and seconds. So I walked over. He looked up.

  “After dinner by the doors.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I nodded and headed back toward the masters’ table, if deliberately.

  “What did you do now?” asked someone in a murmur.

  “. . .probably something from Master Ghaend . . . all the masters stick together . . .”

  The masters’ table had more than a few there, but rather than sit next to Master Rholyn, I took the place beside Chassendri. Maitre Dyana sat to her right, this time with a thinner pink scarf, but still shimmering and brilliant.

  “What are you doing now with the Patrol?” asked Chassendri, passing the wine carafe.

  “Accompanying patrollers on their rounds. Last week, I watched justice proceedings, the week before I helped with the charging desk.” I poured the wine—a red, but not a Cambrisio—then handed the carafe back.

  “Has it changed your view of th
e Patrol?”

  I thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. I never saw patrollers much. So I didn’t have a good opinion or a bad one.”

  “That’s probably fortunate for the commander,” added Maitre Dyana.

  “Can you tell what they think of imagers?” Chassendri handed me the platter of fried river trout, not exactly my most favorite of meals.

  “They’re careful to be respectful, but for most of them that respect comes from fear, I’d guess, and the respect isn’t all that deep.”

  “That makes sense,” Chassendri replied.

  The faintest smile crossed Maitre Dyana’s lips, but she said nothing.

  “Maitre Dyana,” I asked, “do you recall if Master Dichartyn had any comments on his time as a Patrol liaison?”

  “If he hasn’t mentioned it, then he has his reasons.” After a moment, she added, “Commander Artois was a district captain at that time, as I recall, but he became subcommander shortly after Dichartyn became head of security.”

  “The previous subcommander was stipended off?”

  “As I recall, he developed a lingering illness and died shortly after accepting his stipend.”

  Lingering illness? Lead imaged into his system? Or something else? Maitre Dyana wouldn’t have said anything, let alone have phrased it that way, had matters been natural. I nodded.

  Chassendri shook her head. “You covert types are chilling behind those pleasant facades.”

  “I’m just a junior master trying to learn enough to keep out of trouble,” I protested.

  “Maitre Dichartyn wouldn’t have sent you to the Civic Patrol without a very good reason, and it isn’t just for experience,” countered Chassendri.