Imager's Challenge

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “My family? Oh, because too many people know we’re close, and that would lead back to you?”

  “I don’t think we need both the Collegium and the High Holders after you and your family.” I tried to keep my tone dry. “Although I did hear from Lieutenant Mardoyt that you were more than capable of protecting yourself.”

  “Grandmama said that would come up.” Her words were not quite defiant. “When did he tell you this?”

  “This last week.” That was a bit of a stretch, but not that much.

  “He’s an evil man and not to be trusted.” She offered a wry smile. “But it is true. Ricardio attempted to take some liberties with me. He ripped my blouse right off me. I shot him in the shoulder. Then I told him that if he said a word about it, he’d never say another. He said I was a bitch.” She sighed. “I didn’t want to shoot him. That’s why I had to.”

  “What?” I didn’t understand that.

  “I kept trying to discourage him gently. He wouldn’t discourage. I even warned him. He laughed and lunged for me. Some people only understand force. It’s best to avoid those altogether . . . if you can.”

  “Because, in the end, you have to use force to stop them?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  By that token, if I’d had any sense, I should have avoided Johanyr totally—except he hadn’t given me that choice.

  “Do you think I’m terrible for that?” Seliora asked quietly. “I suppose I should have told you, but . . .”

  “You hoped I’d understand, and feared I wouldn’t?”

  She nodded again.

  “Dear one . . .” I smiled. “If anyone understands being pushed into doing something necessary and unpleasant, I’m certainly getting to that point. Sometimes, there aren’t any alternatives.”

  “There are always alternatives,” she replied, “but if we accept them, we become less.”

  I’d thought about that, if not in her case.

  “What can I do to help you?” she asked after a moment, a question that also asked if we could leave the shooting behind.

  “Could you find out what you can about Ryel’s commercial enterprises, especially in L’Excelsis? I’m fairly certain he has interests in or control of the Banque D’Rivages.” I paused. “But I’d rather have no information than have anything leading to you and your family.”

  “I can see that. I can ask, and we’ll talk it over.” Seliora nodded slowly. “Can I ask what you have in mind?”

  “In a general sense. I’m trying to figure out what might be called misdirection. I can’t wait too long, because the greatest pressure Ryel can put on me is through my family. If he presses your family right now, he offers an opportunity he doesn’t want to give.”

  That was clear enough to me, because Seliora and I weren’t even betrothed, let alone married. If Ryel acted against them, now, they certainly could use their taudis contacts against him and his family, and it was unlikely that the High Holder—his heirs, especially—would get much support for attacking a crafting family not involved in his feud. That also meant that I had to deal with Ryel before I could even consider marrying Seliora.

  “I see that. Still . . . I should tell Mama and Grandmama to be prepared if he does act against us.” Her smile was cold.

  There wasn’t much more to say about that, not really, because I had only a vague idea of how I would actually attempt to carry out what I had in mind. So I looked at Seliora and smiled. “How are your greens?”

  “Good. And yours?” The mischievous smile reappeared.

  “Excellent, if not quite so good as those prepared by those in a certain kitchen off Hagahl Lane.”

  We would enjoy the rest of the evening. About that, I was determined. I was also relieved to have heard Seliora’s words about the shooting. It did confirm what I already knew. She wasn’t about to be demeaned or abused, regardless of the cost. Her reaction also strengthened my own feelings about dealing with Ryel.

  Because I was the duty master on Solayi, I could do more thinking and reading, and planning, but not much else. The day was uneventful, except for having to get up early. No would-be imagers appeared. No one reported any imagers killed or missing, and the dining hall was so deserted at midday that I was the only master there.

  Even though I’d already told Shault that I’d delivered his coins and message on Meredi evening, I did motion him aside after lunch.

  “How are your studies with Master Ghaend going?”

  He didn’t quite meet my eyes.

  “You’re having trouble with the reading?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that because, to me, reading had come almost naturally. “Is it the letters or the way they sound?”

  “No, sir. It’s the words. I can sound them out, but there are so many that I don’t know what they mean.”

  “Haven’t you heard of a dictionary?”

  He looked absolutely blank.

  “Come with me.”

  As we walked, I began to explain. “A dictionary is a book that has all the words one could ever use, and it explains each word in smaller words, usually, anyway. . . .”

  While the library was dark, as it always was on Solayi, I found a dictionary and signed it out to Shault, cautioning him that he’d have to pay for replacing it if he lost or damaged the book. Then I sent him on his way, but he seemed almost relieved.

  A dictionary—something so simple that it was obvious . . . except to a very bright boy from the taudis and one who was still fearful enough that he didn’t want to ask anyone, and who would seemingly tell only me, and only if questioned.

  Thankfully, that was the most eventful happening of Solayi.

  I did have to get up earlier on Lundi to fit in both Clovyl’s exercises and sparring, as well as report on the duty to Master Schorzat. But I managed to arrive at Third District station before seventh glass in time to meet Alsoran before the morning patrols began.

  Alsoran had definitely been picked for his patrol round on the basis of physical appearance and capability. He stood a good ten digits taller than me, and his shoulders were far broader. There wasn’t the faintest trace of extra flesh or fat around his midsection. His black hair was cut short and still faintly curly below his visored cap, and his eyebrows were thick and bushy, almost meeting above his nose.

  “Good morning, Master Rhennthyl.”

  “Good morning, Alsoran.”

  “You ready?”

  “As ready as I can be.” That meant that I was only holding very light shields, with triggers, because anything more caused a pounding headache. That wasn’t exactly ideal, but letting anyone know I was less than fully able would have been worse. I thought that it was unlikely that Mardoyt or Harraf would try anything too soon after the last incident, and I hoped I was right.

  Without another word, we walked out of the station and headed southwest on Fuosta. We’d almost reached Quierca before Alsoran spoke again.

  “I heard about what happened when you went with Huerl and Koshal.” Alsoran’s slightly high-pitched voice was mild. “I recall something like that happened to a first patroller out of headquarters, except he got killed instead of the brigands.”

  “I’d heard that. I was assured it was an accident.” I laughed. “I’m not fond of accidents.”

  “Being as you’re an imager, I’d wager you aren’t, sir. It does seem strange that they’ve got you walking rounds, not that I’m complaining, mind you.” The bushy eyebrows rose.

  “The commander wants me to understand everything that you patrollers do. I got the feeling that he worries that if I don’t have that understanding, I might recommend something that might cause more problems than doing nothing.”

  Alsoran shook his head. “Doesn’t hold on this round. In the taudis, someone’s always doing something wrong. You do something, and you got problems. You do nothing, and you got more problems.”

  “You’re speaking from experience. How long have you had this round?” />
  “On and off, for six-seven years. They rotate us, but I always get rotated back here.” He laughed. “Suits me. The elvers and the taudischefs in my round know the rules, and they don’t give us problems. It’s always the young toughs, and most of them don’t last.” He shook his head good-naturedly. “Some of them get it, and they work out, but the others . . .”

  I let a moment of silence pass before I asked, “How do you set up your round?”

  “Always do a circle on the edges first. That way, you get a feel for the day and what’s happening before you get really inside the taudis. We go out South Middle or Quierca, doesn’t much matter, and then along the Avenue D’Artisans. The stretch along the avenue and the two streets behind it are the only part of the round that aren’t in the South Middle taudis. From the plaza or from Quierca, depending on which way we go, we head back to Mando—that’s the west end of the round. Lyonyt always says that Mando’s the border between nasty tough and really evil.”

  “And your round takes in all the really evil side?”

  “Nah . . . our side is just tough. But you can’t stop looking. The moment you do . . . that’s when trouble starts.”

  We’d walked two blocks along Quierca. On the south side of the street were row houses, most with heavy shutters or bars on the lower windows, but the dwellings—mostly of faded and soot-stained yellow brick—were neat. Through the occasional gaps between the duplexes and triplexes, I could see hints of gardens and trees in the rear courtyards. On the north side, where we walked, there was the chest-high wall at the back edge of the sidewalk. The ground between the wall and the dwellings was mostly bare, except for straggly weeds. Still, after the first four blocks, most of the windows on the lower level had heavy shutters, and almost none had windows boarded shut, although I could see traces of smoke coming from chimneys of the few houses with boarded-up windows.

  “Quiet this morning. Usually is on Lundi,” observed Alsoran.

  Even the Avenue D’Artisans seemed to have fewer wagons and coaches, but that might well have been because I’d never been there so early in the morning before. The shops were still all shuttered. The walk back down South Middle was equally quiet, but the row dwellings on the south side, in the taudis, looked even more dilapidated than those off Quierca.

  When we reached Mando, Alsoran looked to me. “From here on, don’t stop looking.”

  “I won’t.” Especially since I was in no shape to hold full shields.

  Mando was more like a lane than a street, and an odor of wastes, human and otherwise, drifted up around us.

  “Don’t work on the sewers here much,” said Alsoran. “Can’t say I blame ’em.”

  The lane ran three long blocks, then turned almost at a right angle and ran another three long blocks back to Quierca. We didn’t see anyone on the lane itself all the way, but a block or so short of the end I caught the smell of elveweed—a strong odor.

  “Elveweed,” I noted.

  “From the brown place there on the left,” replied Alsoran. “Always smell it there in the morning. Haven’t had any trouble, though. Not yet, anyway.”

  “How long has it been that way?”

  “Two-three years.”

  “Have you noticed more elvers?”

  “The captain just rotated us back here a month ago. Spent four months on a round east of the Guild Hall. Must be twice as many elvers since we were here last. Younger, too. The young ones steal more. Older ones work as loaders, smoke when they’re off. Youngers can’t be bothered to work.”

  We turned back out Quierca to the next street. I couldn’t tell the name because the paint on the wall had been scratched away.

  We made it to the last lane at the east end of the taudis area before we ran into trouble. Two blocks in on Saelio, a burly youth a half head taller than me leaned against a brick post that might once have held a lamp. He had a straggly beard that did little for his appearance, and the nearly new yellow and red plaid cloak did even less.

  “Alsoran! You got a newbie.” The tough spat in my direction, but not at me.

  I smiled. “You do that again, and you won’t have teeth to spit through.”

  A long knife appeared. “Says who?”

  “Don’t you think that’s an assault on a patroller?” I asked Alsoran, keeping my eye on the youth.

  “Old man . . . stay out of it,” the tough warned. “What you going to do, newbie?” He spat again.

  I cheated, admittedly, because I lifted full shields, if against my body, before I disarmed him, swept his legs out from under him, and dumped him on the stone pavement. The knife clattered to the stones. I kicked it away.

  Inadvertent tears welled from his eyes as he massaged what was probably a sprained wrist. “Trolie bastard . . . get you . . .”

  “No, you won’t. All you had to do was not spit and not draw a knife. I could have smashed your kneecap so you’d never walk right again,” I said in a conversational tone. “Consider it a kindness. Also consider that if you try it again, you just might not wake up after your face smashes into the pavement, rather than your backside.”

  His eyes dropped to the gray imager trousers, then widened, and he scrambled to his feet, backing away and holding the injured wrist. “Yes, sir.”

  I watched as he scuttled toward the narrow alleyway between two houses with crude heavy shutters over the lower windows.

  “Gave you special training, did they?” asked Alsoran.

  “Not that special. There are probably fifty others as good as I am. I’m just the newest.”

  “You didn’t image anything.”

  “Generally, I’d rather not.” That was true, if misleading.

  “Better that way. He’ll remember that you took him without it.”

  I hoped so. Even from the momentary use of shields, my head ached.

  Fortunately, while we began to see people on the streets and lanes of the taudis during the second round, most were older.

  One graying woman called from her front stoop. “Alsoran . . . Fedark got promoted. He’s a boatswain third.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Give him my best!”

  As we continued on, Alsoran said, “Her boy was too smart and too good to stay here. I talked him into enlisting. They give a better deal to the enlistees than the ones they conscript.”

  “That’s true of the imagers, too.” Very true, because imagers who didn’t come to the Collegium often ended up dead.

  After the second full round, we stopped to eat at Elysto’s—a small bistro in the one good section of the round, just off the Boulevard D’Artisans—and I enjoyed the batter-fried lamb and onion croissant and the rice fries with the balsamic vinegar.

  Then we were back on our feet once more, reversing the direction of the round.

  For a good half glass, nothing occurred, although there were more people on the streets. We headed down Mando once more, where I caught sight of three taudis-toughs leaning against the low brick wall of a front porch.

  One of them called out, “Such brave trolies. We do like our brave trolies.”

  Another sang,

  “See our trolies prance and go

  Till the scripties start their show . . .”

  “Such brave trolies.”

  Alsoran flushed, but said nothing, not until we had almost reached South Middle.

  “Hate the conscription teams. Most of the ones they pick up here just end up in the Westisle penal crews, and it takes weeks for things to settle out after they leave.”

  “Do you think it could be worse this time, with the Tiempran priests stirring up things?”

  “Sure as the Namer won’t be better.”

  We walked through another round and more. It was close to third glass when we started up Kyena from Quierca toward South Middle.

  Just as we neared a lane that was more like a narrow alleyway, I heard a faint click. A taudis-tough stepped out with a pistol aimed in our direction. I threw up shields, even as I snapped, “On the right.”


  Except that it wasn’t on the right. As the one tough fired, three others charged from the left.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The shots slammed into my shields, driving me back. The impact felt like knives driving into my brain, and for a moment I couldn’t even see. Any imaging was definitely not a possibility.

  As my eyes cleared, I saw that all five of the toughs had iron bars, and the bars had pointed ends.

  I charged the one on the left, so that I could get under the bar before it swung down. My block was good enough that he dropped the bar to the pavement. It landed with a dull clang, but I’d already put an elbow through his throat, and he staggered away.

  I used a side-kick on the next tough, right on his knee, and he pitched forward.

  Alsoran had used his truncheon on one, who’d gone down, and had slammed it down on the wrist of a second with a sickening crunch. Another iron bar clanked on the uneven stones of the sidewalk.

  The last tough vanished up the side lane.

  Two figures lay on the pavement. The one hit with the truncheon on the head was unmoving and not breathing. The other had a leg twisted from the knee down and a bruise across his forehead. He was breathing.

  Alsoran scooped up the pistol dropped by the one tough and slipped it somewhere under his cloak. Then he picked up the wounded taudis-tough and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of meal. “We’ll have to leave the other. One of us needs to have both hands free.”

  It might have been better with me lugging the wounded tough, but I didn’t feel like saying so. My head was throbbing, and intermittent stabs of pain ran down my spine.

  The remaining block of Kyena was eerily empty. So were the two short blocks from Kyena down South Middle to the nearest pickup point, where Alsoran laid the tough out on the ground next to the pole.

  “He’s not going to wake up soon, maybe not at all.” Alsoran straightened, shaking himself to relieve sore muscles. “Those weren’t local, not from this part of the taudis.”