Imager's Challenge (14 page)

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 still 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.

I was more than tired when I reached the quadrangle at close to eighth glass. Given the day, how late it was, and especially given Master Dichartyn’s condescension of the afternoon before, I didn’t see any necessity to report on what had happened at the charging desk. He would have been briefed on the riot, and a report was bound to be in both
Veritum
and
Tableta
as well.

I just washed up, undressed, and went to bed.

Vendrei wasn’t all that much better than Jeudi at the Patrol headquarters charging desk, because we got another twenty prisoners who had been held at Third District station until we could work through those we’d already dealt with—and we still had to charge those brought in for the daily range of crimes and offenses.

The chargings slowed to a halt in the afternoon around fourth glass, and at that moment, a fresh-faced patroller, several years younger even than I was, appeared. “Master Rhennthyl, the subcommander would appreciate a few moments with you.”

“I’m fine,” Gulyart said. “Go while things are slow.”

The young patroller led the way up the back stairs, and in moments I was in Subcommander Cydarth’s study. Although Cydarth was standing by the window, looking out at a clear gray-blue sky, he turned to face me. He did not sit, nor motion for me to do so.

“Rhennthyl, how have you found the past two weeks on the charging desk?”

“Most instructive, sir.”

“Oh, and in what fashion, might I ask?” As when I had talked to him before, his words were even, but still carried a sense of the sardonic.

“Certainly in more than any one fashion, sir. The volume of senseless and petty offenses cannot help but remind one of the need for law and patrollers. The few vicious crimes point out that there are always those who would hurt others, if not removed. The care with which the patrollers I have seen carry out their duties increases my respect for them.”

“If you take only those thoughts back to the Collegium when you eventually return, the Patrol will be more than repaid.”

I ignored the condescension and the implication that I would provide nothing to the Civic Patrol while assigned as liaison. “In time, I’m certain that I will learn more.”

His face tightened for a moment. Then he shrugged. “You saw all those who were charged in the riot on Jeudi night, did you not? What did you think about them?”

I’d thought more than a little about it, but I was not about to share all those thoughts with the subcommander. “It seemed strange to me. The weather wasn’t hot. There weren’t any problems such as the time when that lace mill burned and they discovered that the women had been chained to their machines and burned alive. There wasn’t a conscription team near. . . .”

“Exactly. You were here barely more than a week, and you can see that it shouldn’t have happened . . . but it did.” He paused. “You worked security at the Council Chateau, Master Dichartyn said. How closely did you observe the councilors and their visitors?”

“Most closely in the course of my duties. Otherwise, I never saw them.”

“A few assassins ended up dead due to your efforts.” He paused and looked at me. “Sometimes . . . one can determine where one stands by his enemies.”

“That well may be, sir, but almost every councilor was a target of some assassin or another even in the time I was there. From what I observed of those charged here, there were a few more that looked to be of Ferran origin, but that may have been just what I saw.”

“One of the men picked up in the riot spoke Tiempran and had a wallet with some Jariolan golds. How likely is it that a taudis-dweller who speaks Tiempran and Solidaran and has Jariolan golds in his wallet happens to be in a taudis riot in L’Excelsis by accident?”

“That would seem highly unlikely, sir.”

“You might pass that on to Master Dichartyn.”

“I’m certain he will appreciate that.”

“As for you, Commander Artois has decided that you should spend the next week or so observing cases presented in the justice courts. That way, before you start accompanying patrollers, you’ll have an idea of the process after someone is arrested and charged. You’ll be observing and assisting Lieutenant Mardoyt. He’s in charge of making sure that the prisoners and the officers involved in each case appear on time and with all the supporting evidence.”

“Yes, sir.” There was something behind Cydarth’s words, and it didn’t help that Grandmama Diestra had warned me against Mardoyt.

“Lieutenant Mardoyt has the study two doors down. He’s expecting you.” Cydarth turned and looked toward the window.

I didn’t bother to say more, but stepped out of his study and walked through the empty anteroom and down the slightly dusty hallway. The second door was ajar. I rapped gently.

“Master Rhennthyl?” asked a smooth baritone voice.

“The same.”

“Do come in.”

As I entered, the man who rose from the small writing desk in a narrow room with a single window was blond, blue-eyed, and slender. Slightly shorter than I, he also offered a warm smile, and there was the slightest crinkle around his eyes when he smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Subcommander Cydarth has been most favorable in his assessment of you, and I have to say that anyone who has demonstrated master qualities as both a portraiturist and an imager has my admiration.”

I smiled as warmly as I could in response, even though I felt there was a calculating coldness behind the lieutenant’s superficial warmth. “The subcommander was most admiring of your abilities, sir, and I hope that I’ll be able to be of some assistance in addition to observing.”

“I’m sure you will be.” Another smile followed the words. “What we do—that’s me, and now you, and four patroller clerks—what we do is to prepare the presentation of charges to the justices in the central judicial district here. Not for the minor cases that go to the magistrates; we just send them there with the charge sheets. There are six districts that serve L’Excelsis, and we handle all of the major charges from them. We have to make sure that the charging slip matches the prisoner, that a date and time is set for the case before the justice, and that we have an escort and a covered wagon to take each consignment of prisoners to the court building in the Square of Justice. We also have to make sure any patrollers involved in a case are present, and witnesses as well. Once the sentence is passed, we then make sure the papers are correct and complete before we turn the prisoner over to the penal guards.”

“Is there an advocate for the ones who can’t afford to pay for one?”

“There are two public advocates on duty every day at the court. They get half a glass, sometimes a little less, to meet with each prisoner before they go before the justice. But don’t worry. You’re mostly here to watch and ask questions. Just be here a bit before eighth glass on Lundi. Then we’ll go over the prisoners and the schedule for the day, quickly, so that you can see what’s involved. The clerks actually prepare the final schedule the afternoon before, but schedules are roughed out sometimes a week in advance. . . .”

The lieutenant went on for another quarter glass before he sent me back down to the charging desk. After that, we only charged two more offenders, both for trying to make off with hams from a butcher.

As we got ready to leave for the day, I turned to Gulyart. “Thank you. I appreciate your time and showing me how the charging desk works. On Lundi, I start to observe Lieutenant Mardoyt and the courts.”

“I appreciated the help, especially this week.” Gulyart grinned. “The lieutenant is very smooth, very polished. Watch him closely, and you’ll learn a lot.”

“I’m sure I will. I just might stop back here occasionally.”

“You’re always welcome, sir.”

As I walked back toward Imagisle, I couldn’t help but think that my own impressions, not to mention Gulyart’s polite words, tended to confirm what Grandmama Diestra had said.