Imager's Intrigue: The Third Book of the Imager Portfolio (3 page)

Subcommander Cydarth walked in directly behind Kharles. He had black hair and a swarthy complexion. Part of his upper right ear was missing. “The commander will be right here.” His voice was so low it actually rumbled, and I recalled how I’d reacted when I’d first heard him speak years before. I’d read of voices that deep, but I’d never heard one until then.

We all remained standing for several moments, until Commander Artois entered and shut the door behind himself. Three or four digits shorter than I was, he was also wire-thin with short-cut brown hair shot with gray. His flat brown eyes never seemed to show emotion. He sat at the end of the table, with Cydarth taking the place at his right. The rest of us sat, those in the first three districts to his left, those in districts four through six on his right, if below the subcommander.

“Good morning, Captains.” Artois paused, then continued. “Some of you know we had a problem Samedi evening and yesterday. For those of you who don’t, I’ll summarize.” He tilted his head slightly, looking momentarily at Jacquet, before continuing. “Samedi evening there was a premiere of a new opera at the Place D’Opera. After the opera ended, an explosion destroyed a wealthy factor’s coach and killed him, his wife, his eldest daughter, and the coachman. The factor was Broussard D’Factorius of Piedryn. He was visiting a cousin here in L’Excelsis. A message was found pinned to his body after the explosion. The message claimed that the factor had been killed because of his mistreatment of workers on his lands. The signature, if one could call it that, was ‘Workers for Justice.’ Eight years ago, a High Holder was shot, not fatally, and he received a similar message. There’s no other record of such a group.”

Jacquet said nothing, but the fingers of his left hand drummed silently on the edge of the table.

“We have another problem,” Artois went on. “Broussard’s formal coat, cravat, and shirt were shredded. The envelope was intact when found on his chest by the patrollers on the scene.” The commander looked to me. “Captain Rhennthyl, is it possible for an imager to stand that close to a blast and then place such a message?”

“No, sir. No imager I know of at the Collegium could do that.” I managed a rueful smile. “At one time, I was caught in an explosion when I was a good fifteen yards away. I did survive, but I had broken ribs and couldn’t move for days, even with a brace. It was two months before I healed.”

Cydarth nodded, thoughtfully, and I wondered why.

“I thought as much,” replied Artois. “That means someone who was nearby planted the envelope. It’s also likely that whoever it was knew explosives and channeled the blast pattern, then hurried up in the chaos and pinned the envelope.” Artois glanced to Jacquet. “The patrollers had been diverted by a fight just north of the building. The man who began the fight escaped, and the man who was attacked was apparently innocent.”

Cydarth looked sideways at Artois, not quite questioningly.

“I could be mistaken,” Artois said dryly, “but I think it highly unlikely that an elderly and frail chorister emeritus of the Anomen D’NordEste would willingly choose to be involved in such a diversion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“High Councilor Suyrien has requested that the Civic Patrol and its patrollers exercise special vigilance around locations where wealthy factors or High Holders are likely to be present, except for the area around the Council Chateau, where Council security will exercise such vigilance.” Artois’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if he’d been requested to deliver such a request, knowing that it was probably close to useless.

Third District had few worries along that line, with more than half of its territory comprising the northeast taudis and adjoining areas where those of only slightly higher means lived and worked…although I did have to say that matters in the taudis had improved over the past few years, if far more slowly than I had hoped.

“We may see more of such attempts, and we may not. Right now, Captain Jacquet and his patrollers are looking into all aspects of the matter, and the subcommander or I will let you know of anything that may affect your districts. Now,” Artois went on more briskly, “the subcommander will return the proposed bud gets and manpower requirements you submitted earlier. I’ll go over the revised guidelines. As I told you at the last meeting, you will have your final bud get to me no later than next Lundi…”

From there on, the meeting dealt with administrative details, and it lasted another glass. When the commander and subcommander finally left, the rest of us stood.

Bolyet glanced across the table at Jacquet. “I have to say I’d rather not be in your boots. Is there anything I can do?”

With Bolyet, I knew, the question wasn’t a polite formality.

“Not at the moment. I’ll let you know if there is.” Jacquet paused, picking up the large envelope he’d received, as had all of the captains, and letting Kharles, Subunet, and Hostyn leave the room. Then he added, “I’ll bed every cheap tart in your district, Rhenn, if this is the work of some workers’ movement.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Bolyet.

Jacquet shrugged. “Too direct for a High Holder, unless it’s a High Holder not trying to have it traced to him. The bomb had a directed blast pattern, and that means someone who knows explosives. Could be a retired Navy armorer.” He looked at me.

“Some of the imagers at the armory could build something like that, but none of the ones who could build it would be able to use it very well. They’d also be facing an immediate death sentence if they did.” I frowned. “If you could send me a report on the bomb, though, I might be able to run it by some armory specialists and find out more about who did build it. I could also use the information to make sure someone didn’t reveal something to someone they shouldn’t.” I didn’t mention that I could also eliminate anyone on Imagisle as a possibility…or discover if they were.

Jacquet nodded. “I can do that. Might be tomorrow before you get a copy.” He looked to Bolyet and then to me. “If you hear about anyone on the shady side suddenly getting flush, it might help.”

“We can have the boys keep their eyes and ears open,” promised Bolyet.

I just nodded. Then Bolyet and I followed Jacquet out into the upper level hall, down the steps, and out onto the sidewalk.

“Give my best to Alsoran.” Bolyet grinned before he stepped into the hack he’d hailed. “I still don’t know how you managed to persuade him to go back to Third District.”

“I will.” I grinned. We both knew that Alsoran had agreed to the transfer because it meant his making lieutenant earlier than otherwise would have been the case, and because he and I got along, which wasn’t always the case between district captains and their lieutenants, as I well knew after suffering through three years of working with Warydt, his predecessor.

I hailed the next hack to take me to Third District station. As I rode up Fedre to Sudroad, I couldn’t help agreeing with Jacquet that the explosion was a symptom of something far worse, although I couldn’t have said why at that moment.

Third District station was located on Fuosta, midway between Quierca and South Middle. The one-story building was hardly impressive. Its once-yellow bricks had turned grayish-tan, and the narrow barred windows in the front on both sides of the double doors of the single entrance added to the grim appearance, clean as the structure was. The doors were battered and iron-bound oak with equally ancient heavy iron inside hinges, and could be barred, although we’d never had the need. The open space inside the doors that could have been called an anteroom was empty, although in the morning, after the day shift arrived, there would have been patrollers checking their equipment and getting the word from the handful of men coming off the midnight to morning shift. Over the past few years, I had managed to get the time-dimmed glass of the windows replaced, and the cracked and ancient floor retiled with deep gray tiles, rather than with the dingy light gray that had always looked dirty.

Lyonyt was working the duty desk when I entered the station. He smiled as he looked up from the high and narrow desk set out just far enough from the wall on the right that he could squeeze his stool behind it. “Good morning, Captain.”

“Good morning.” I smiled back and kept walking to the first door on the right, where I stepped inside. The small study, little more than three yards by four, was typical for a Patrol Captain, and even slightly larger than Master Dichartyn’s study at the Collegium, for all that he was the head of all security operations, both in Solidar and worldwide. There was a narrow desk, with a wooden armchair and a worn gray cushion, three creaking wooden file cases against the left wall, and four straight-backed chairs, lined up against the right inside wall for the moment. The two outside windows were barred.

Lieutenant Alsoran followed me into the study. He was the biggest patroller I’d ever run across, standing a good ten digits taller than me, and I was taller than most. His shoulders were also much broader, and there wasn’t the faintest trace of extra flesh around his midsection. His black hair was cut short and still faintly curly below his visored cap, and his eyebrows were thick and bushy. “Good morning, Captain. How did the meeting go?”

“As usual, with one exception. Did you hear about the bomb that exploded near the Place D’Opera on Samedi night?”

“Some of the patrollers were talking about it.”

“A wealthy factor from Piedryn was killed, with a note pinned to him, signed by a workers’ group—Workers for Justice—that no one has heard from in years. Have our patrollers keep their ears open. If someone comes into unexplained golds, I’d like to hear about it.”

“I’ll let them know.” Alsoran paused. “You don’t think that’s it, do you?”

“Let’s say that I think it’s unlikely that a workers’ group could build, place, and explode a bomb with that much precision.”

“What about foreigners? The Ferrans haven’t been happy with Solidar ever since the Winter War.”

“They certainly could find the expertise, but I can’t figure out why they’d target a factor whose lands and wealth come from wheat, corn, and agricultural goods. If they went after a High Holder like Young Ryel, who has factories and mills as well as lands, or after High Holder Shaercyt, who owns most of the port facilities in Westisle…that would make more sense. Or especially a factor like Councilor Glendyl, whose works manufacture engines and locomotives.” I managed a smile. “Anyway, we’re not likely to see anything like that in Third District.”

“Even with the rag-paper mill?” Alsoran didn’t quite laugh.

“Even with that.” I grinned back at him.

The mill was small, housed in a building that incorporated three once-abandoned taudis dwellings a block off Mando, adjacent to Quierca, in what had been the worst part of Third District. It represented an idea Seliora, Mama Diestra, and I had come up with, using the expertise of Factor Veblynt and admittedly, some golds from Seliora’s family. Because it wasn’t close to any streams, and because the re-used water requirements necessitated more filtration and settling tanks, it was small; but after four years, it reliably produced small runs of high-quality writing paper with special designs that were more and more in demand in L’Excelsis. It also employed some thirty-odd local taudis-dwellers, both full-and part-time, largely women who could not work full-time or young men who wanted to learn the trade. The entire operation usually broke even, but the greater advantage was that it had provided some twenty young men—so far—with the skills to work in Veblynt’s larger paper mills, without his having to train them. It also had contributed—along with what Seliora called the “simpleworks”—to improved living conditions in the taudis, and that helped reduce the violence, if not as much as I’d hoped.

“Then, there’s the continuing bud get problem.” I shook my head. “The commander turned down our request for another patroller. I’m afraid we won’t get one next year, either.”

“We’re covering the toughest part of L’Excelsis…well…what once was the toughest part of L’Excelsis,” Alsoran said, “and we do it with fewer patrollers than any other district.”

“I told him that, but he said that since we’ve reduced the number of offenses, we don’t have the same priority as Captain Kharles does in Sixth District, with all of his difficulties with the Hellhole taudis.”

“We’re supposed to do a bad job so we can get enough patrollers that they can work regular shifts like they do in Second, Fourth, and Fifth districts?” Alsoran’s tone was gently sardonic.

There was no point in pursuing that. We both knew it. “Before I forget, I’ll be in late on Meredi morning. That’s if I get a report from Jacquet tomorrow. I’ll need to track down some things dealing with the bombing case.”

“Be careful, sir. Every time you go off to track down things—”

“I know. Something happens.” Seliora offered the same kinds of warnings. “But this might not be quite so dangerous. I’m just looking for information, and I’ll be on Imagisle.”

The dubious look I received from my lieutenant suggested that I wasn’t being terribly reassuring. “Right now, I’m going for a walk, along South Middle, and I’ll see if I can run into Smultyn and Caesaro.”

Alsoran laughed. “Lyonyt wagered that you’d follow young Santaero up Elsyor.” Alsoran laughed again. “Now, I’ll have to.”

“The scenery’s better on Elsyor. Go collect your copper,” I replied in a mock-gruff voice.

We both headed out, walking up Fuosta together, past the cafes and the one bistro, if one could call it that, clustered just up from the station. I alternated eating a mid-day meal, when I ate at all, among the various places where I actually didn’t get indigestion.

We turned east on South Middle. Just before Dugalle, Alsoran crossed South Middle to take Elysor north. I flexed my imager shields, as much as to make certain that I was holding them as anything, because I’d been forced to develop them early on. They were proof against bullets, and slings and arrows, so to speak, and perhaps small explosions, but not against cannon, falling buildings, and large explosions—as I’d discovered early on as an imager.

Much as I tried not to spend too much time with the patrollers on their rounds, I still felt that, if I didn’t spend at least a glass a day with one or more of them, I’d end up out of touch with them and with the district. Besides, if I met with them after their rounds, that took their time, and we were stretched thin, and if I met with them in the station during their shifts, then the district wasn’t being patrolled. Also, as I’d discovered early on, I learned more by talking to them on their rounds.

I glanced at the chest-high brick wall to the right, separating the side yards of the taudis-dwellings from the sidewalk and South Middle. At least the bricks were clean. I’d had to lean on Horazt to get that accomplished, but he’d finally managed to take care of it by the expedient of assigning clean-up duties to those members of his gang who misbehaved. That had actually worked better than either of us had thought because the taudis-gang members didn’t want anyone else writing on the walls after that.

A block after I crossed Dugalle, still on South Middle, I could see the square structure of the woodworks ahead, on the block before Mando—Seliora’s “simpleworks,” built from the stones and bricks of the former Temple of Puryon. It had taken two years to construct after the temple had been blown up by the Tiempran fanatics. The taudis-dwellers who worked there produced sturdy, simple, but well-finished benches, tables, and chairs designed for bistros, cafes, and taverns. Since those establishments suffered breakage, there was a continuing market for solid and inexpensive furniture.

Before I reached Mando, I saw Smultyn and Caesaro walking toward me, their eyes scanning the avenue, the side streets, and the yards. They walked not quite casually, alert but relaxed, and that meant the day’s rounds had been good—so far.

“Good morning, Captain,” offered Smultyn, the short, dark-haired senior patroller of the pair.

“Good morning. Why don’t we head back the way you came, and you can tell me what you’ve seen this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

As we passed the woodworks, I glanced to my right at the long and low building.

“Everything’s fine there,” said Caesaro. “Fuhlyt said that all the wood was returned.”

“Good.” I’d just passed the word to Horazt. “Has anyone said anything more about that smash-and-grab at the silversmith’s?”

Smultyn shook his head. “Not much. The serving woman at the bistro one door up said that it was a taudis-youth, but one wearing a open jacket with an orange lining, from what she could see.”

“Orange? That’s one of the Hellhole gangs, isn’t it? The Midroad north of the Guild Square is a long ways from the Hellhole.”

“It could be a local, using orange,” suggested Caesaro.

“Not smart.” Smultyn looked to me.

“I’ll pass the word to what ever taudischef I see next.”

“Jadhyl was looking for you. He said it wasn’t trouble.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll find me.”

In fact, less than two blocks past Mando, I saw Jadhyl in his green jacket. For what ever reasons, the taudis-gangs in my district had always worn colored jackets, rather than black ones with colored linings that the wearer had to leave open to show affiliation. The taudischef was talking to a youth under a lamppost. He said something, and the youth hurried off.

“I’ll catch up with you,” I told Smultyn, before I headed down the side street.

“Yes, sir.”

Jadhyl just waited until I stopped, then inclined his head. “Master Captain.”

I’d never seen anyone who looked quite like the east-end taudischef, with his faintly golden-tinged skin and his natural golden-brown hair and piercing eyes. He always spoke in a way that I could only have described as slightly over-precise. He’d never said where his parents had come from, only that they’d died when he was young, and he’d avoided answering me the one time I’d asked. I’d never asked again, because there wasn’t any point in it.

“Jadhyl.” I nodded in return. “I thought you might like to know…” I explained about the explosion, then finished, “If you hear anything, I’d appreciate what ever you might wish to share with me.” Before he could reply, I added, “There’s one other thing. We had a smash-and-grab at the silversmith’s—Alaint’s place just off the Midroad.”

“He’s not that friendly,” replied Jadhyl. “Kantros wasn’t much of an artist, but he’d smile now and again.”

“That’s true, but one of the serving girls got a look at the thief. He was wearing orange under his black jacket. Now…if he was a Hellhole tough out of his territory…”

“Thank you. I do appreciate your courtesy, Captain. I don’t mention that often enough. Would that your predecessors had been so. I’ll talk to Deyalt. If it’s someone who shouldn’t be wearing orange…we’ll take care of it.” Jadhyl smiled.

His words meant I’d have to tell Horazt.

“On the other matter…I have not heard anything, but if I do, you will know. Explosions…” He shook his head, then smiled again. “My nephew Gayhlen. You might recall him?”

“He’s the one at the woodworks.” Among the taudischefs, “nephew” usually meant a son born of a woman not a wife or a permanent companion.

“Yes. Fuhlyt says he could pass the apprentice-level skills for the woodworkers’ guild.”

I nodded. “Is he truly the kind who will work hard and not cause trouble?”

“I would not ask otherwise, Captain.”

“Then he may list me as a referring sponsor.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. “He’s a good boy, and it’s best if he leaves the taudis.”

What that meant was that Gayhlen was hard-working and gentle-natured, and thus unsuited to his “uncle’s” occupation.

After I left Jadhyl, I had to walk quickly for a good block before I caught up with Smultyn and Caesaro. Smultyn looked at me inquiringly.

“He doesn’t seem to know about the smash-and-grab, but…we’ll see. He wanted to see whether one of his nephews who’s been taught by Fuhlyt might be considered as an apprentice woodworker.”

“Some of those kids are good,” said Caesaro. “A couple of them are selling wooden boxes and little things. They’re not bad.”

“The more of them that get into real work, the better for us,” added Smultyn. “We’re not seeing near as many elvers anymore.”

Part of that was because I’d pressed the taudischefs to avoid selling elveweed to the younger people. There wasn’t any way that those already addicted would change.

I stayed with the two patrollers all the way to the Plaza SudEste and then down Quierca for a ways before I left them. Nearing Fuosta, I saw a short, dark-haired, and all-too-familiar figure ahead. Horazt was the first taudichef I’d met, because his “nephew” Shault had shown imager talents, and I’d been Shault’s unofficial preceptor and helped ease the boy—now a youth and a promising imager secundus—into the routine and discipline of the Collegium. Horazt had a worried look on his face.

What concerned me more than his expression was that he was looking for me. Horazt was the most secretive of the three taudischefs in Third District, and I’d been fortunate that he’d had a problem with Shault, or I’d probably never would have been able to work with him.

“What is it?” I asked, pleasantly, but without smiling.