Imager's Challenge (20 page)

“That sounds good. Cambrisio or Grisio?”

“We have a sparkling Grisio.”

“Done.” I grinned.

Staelia returned with the wine almost immediately, and I sat and sipped it, studying the others in the dining area. Almost all the diners wore coats or dresses or skirts with jackets. I was the only person dining alone. Couples or sets of couples comprised those at other tables.

In a short time, Staelia returned, placing the “small” plate of greens before me—a full salad with fresh fall apple slivers, toasted almond fragments, and a crumbly bluish cheese.

“Thank you.”

“We’re glad you came. Would you mind if Taelia and Sartan came over and met you?”

“Not at all.” While I couldn’t have said anything else, I did want to meet them.

In moments, they were there. Taelia looked to be a year or two older than Khethila, and she took more after her father, shorter, a bit more solid than her mother, with Clyenn’s light brown hair.

Sartan was taller than his mother, a shade taller than me, black-haired, and was probably about twenty. His mother’s features looked good on him, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he said, “I’m very glad to meet you, Master Rhennthyl. Everyone has been talking about you.”

I didn’t bother to conceal the wince. “I just hope it’s not too bad.”

They all laughed. Then Sartan and Taelia slipped away.

“They’re good children,” Staelia said.

“They look that way.”

Someone entered the restaurant, and Staelia nodded and left.

I addressed the “small” salad, and after Staelia had seated the two couples who had just entered and turned them over to Taelia, she eventually returned to my table.

“Did you like the greens?”

“They were excellent. What was the cheese?”

“Blue cave cheese from north of Eshtora. It doesn’t take much to give a special flavor to greens. It’s a pity it doesn’t take heat. You can’t use it in most cooked dishes unless you add it at the very end.” She paused. “Seliora is my favorite niece.”

“She thinks most highly of you.” I had an idea what might be coming next.

“You know that Seliora thinks you’re very special.”

“I think she’s more than special.”

“That’s good. I’ve never seen her look at anyone like she does you . . . but . . .”

“You have reservations about me?”

“You could be a very dangerous man, Rhenn, and women can be hurt by dangerous men, even unintentionally.”

Staelia’s words were a bit of a shock. I’d never been called dangerous, and she wasn’t flattering me by doing so. Still, she deserved an answer. “I’m involved in a dangerous profession, Staelia, and I’ve never hidden that from Seliora or her parents.”

“I know, but Betara has her reasons.”

“I know that, too,” I replied softly. “I’ve thought about it more than a little, and Seliora knows that.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “You look the type to have done that.” A crooked smile followed, part affectionate and part wry. “That makes you more dangerous and more desirable, and not just to Seliora, you realize.”

That
was something I hadn’t thought about.

“Good! You need to think about that. Now . . . I need to get your entrée.” She straightened and headed for the kitchen.

I took another sip of sparkling Grisio, thinking that it was no wonder none of the men in Grandmama Diestra’s family strayed. I also wondered if the death of Aegina’s husband had been exactly unrelated to the family, despite what Seliora had said about it.

Staelia returned with a platter that she set before me. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.” I was still hungry enough that I started right in. The fowl had been pounded thin and tender, breaded in some sort of savory crumbs I didn’t recognize, cooked quickly at high heat while only browning the covering, and then served with some sort of thickened wine sauce with sautéed mushrooms. The side vegetables—beans and carrot strips—were still crisp, yet both warm and tender.

I ate it all, enjoying every bite, and I’d barely finished when Staelia returned.

“How was it?”

“Delicious, better than you said, if anything.”

“Good. Clyenn will be pleased.”

“I’m going to have to go. I do have this meeting . . . How much?”

“You’re almost family . . .”

“I’m also with the Patrol, and not paying . . .” I shrugged. “That could cause me some difficulties. I hope you aren’t offended, but I’m a very junior master and need to be very careful.”

She smiled, an expression of both understanding and relief. “It would be a silver and one, but we do give all patrollers a tenth off. So just a silver.” Her eyes twinkled. “And you don’t tip family.”

“Yes, Aunt Staelia.”

She laughed softly, but she did take the single silver coin.

As I left, I realized that the dinner was one of the best I’d had in a restaurant, and I wondered why Seliora hadn’t suggested we eat there. Because it
was
family, or because she hadn’t wanted to expose me to Staelia’s protectiveness too early? I’d have to tease her about that. In any case, I wouldn’t be taking any patrollers to Chaelia’s to eat, but not for the reason I’d originally thought, but because most of them couldn’t have afforded it, and I couldn’t afford to pay for them as well as for myself. In fact, I couldn’t afford to eat there often.

It didn’t take long to hail a hack. Once inside, I donned the awful wool cloak and the mismatched plaid cap. I had the driver drop me about a mille up South Middle, past the side street that held the Third District Civic Patrol station, but a half mille short of where I was to meet Horazt.

The driver gave me a knowing smile when I paid him. Doubtless he thought I was up to something out of a swash-and-dagger mystery . . . or looking for low pleasures with lower women.

Now that the sun had set, as I walked eastward on the south side of South
Middle, my shields as strong as practicable, I could see more people on the streets, but most of them were men. The worn cloak and the cap seemed to help, because I got far fewer glances than I had when I’d walked the same street earlier in obvious imager grays.

Before I reached Dugalle, Horazt stepped out of a niche in the wall and began to walk beside me. He wore a black cloak, one finer than the plaid I’d donned, but no cap.

“You wanted to talk to me, Master Rhennthyl?”

“I did. First, I wanted to tell you that Shault is doing well at Imagisle. He had a little trouble at first, but now—”

“He wrote Chelya. He said that after you talked to him, no one bothered him. His mother and I thank you for that kindness.”

“He still has a long road to walk, and it’s not an easy one.”

“He’ll do better there.”

“I think so, but it’s not easy.”

We kept walking, not slowly, but not all that rapidly, either.

I gestured to the oblong structure ahead and to the right of the chest-high wall. “That’s the Temple of Puryon, isn’t it?”

“Call it that and the equalifiers get real upset.” Horazt’s voice carried a sourness. “They want everyone to call it the House of Equality. Don’t much like taudischefs or imagers.”

“So I’ve heard. The Patrol said that the riot was caused by street preaching.”

Horazt didn’t say anything.

“Was it?”

“Nah . . . well . . . sort of. One of their priest-fellows stood on the steps and started one of their rhyme stuff. You know . . .

“To Puryon all give love and praise,

To Him all hymns of joy we raise,

Praise Him, all living here below.

Praise Him, and all equal things we know . . .”

Horazt broke off. “It’s something like that, anyhow.”

“You don’t much care for the equalifiers, I take it?”

“They’re like the stones lining the river, in the shallow water near the edge. You step in, and they’re so slippery that you’re in up to your neck ’fore you know it.” Horazt spat to the side, downwind, thankfully. “They talk about how everyone’s got equal stuff inside ’em, but they don’t say till later that
anyone who’s real different belongs to the Namer—well, that’s not what they call Him, but He’s the evil one that collects the spirits when folks die and freezes ’em so they shiver forever . . .”

“Do the priests in the Temple pay for advocates when the Patrol picks up offenders?”

Horazt just spat again.

“The other day, there was a man who was in the riot. He looked like he was Caenenan or Tiempran. He got the charges dropped, and the other two went to the road crew for a year.”

“Chardyn D’Steinyn,” Horazt admitted.

“Your doing?”

He shook his head. “He’s an enforcer for Youdh. Youdh went to their priest”—he inclined his head toward the Temple building—“and Chardyn came back the next day.”

“What does it cost?”

Horazt looked at me hard.

“I’m not a patroller, but I’ve spent the last few weeks at headquarters, and there are charges dropped and prisoners released without charges. I’ve got a good idea about who does what, but I want to know how it looks from where you are. I need to know what they pocket.”

Horazt shrugged innocently. “I don’t do that dung.”

“I didn’t say you did, but I’d wager that you know what it costs those who do.”

“I heard Chefaryl say that the going rate’s three golds to kill a minor, ten golds for a major, five golds to drop a major to a minor. Can’t pay out of a charge if a patroller’s injured. Got to pay quick, right up-front, before they go before a justice.”

“Are there special occasions when a taudischef has to pay more?”

Horazt grinned. “Not me. Don’t pay. Anyone stupid enough to get caught I don’t want. I told my boys that.”

“But Youdh?”

“He’s like an old-time taudischef. Got favorites. Got lots of golds.”

“Who makes the payoffs for Youdh?”

Horazt shrugged.

“Who takes them? It’s got to be some lower level patroller, not that they stay there.”

“Mardoyt gets them. Everyone knows that. Baluzt is his pocket man. Word is that some goes back to Harraf.”

None of that especially surprised me, although I suppose that it would have
a year earlier. “And it’s all in coin, with no proof of anything. Don’t Youdh and the others worry about being double-crossed?”

“It happens. That’s why Baluzt is a first patroller and pocket man. Smyrrt got too cocky, held out on Artazt, down in the hellhole. A course right after that, Artazt got mixed up in something with a High Holder. Detazt took over.”

“I suppose it works the other way, too.”

Horazt frowned.

“Someone gets arrested, and there’s no proof, no witnesses. I saw that happen last week. The justice had to dismiss the charges. I don’t suppose there’s a going rate for that.”

“Two golds . . . so I hear. Enough of all that.”

I accepted that . . . for the moment. “Did Youdh’s people start the riot?”

“They weren’t mine or Jadhyl’s.”

“And Youdh’s chefdom is the one closest to the Temple.” That was a guess.

“Horses drop dung where they please. Most times in their own stableyard.”

“How long before Youdh makes another move for your territory, do you think?”

“He’ll pay dear, friggin’ sow-sucker.”

“Someone’s been shooting at patrollers and others with snipers’ rifles.”

“Don’t know about that.” Horazt slowed and stared at me. “I’m meeting with you. My turn, now. You walk with me through Youdh’s streets, and we’d both better walk out.”

“Fair enough.” I’d known he’d want something in return, and I hoped I could keep matters from getting too expensive.

“You know when the conscriptors are coming through the taudis?” Horazt’s tone was offhand, but his bearing wasn’t.

“I haven’t heard anything. You think that might cause another riot?”

“Might. Sometimes that’d be the only way to get the young ones away ’fore they get dragged off. There’s talk of war, and a couple of black coach-wagons headed out the Sudroad yesterday.”

What Horazt said made too much sense, but I still didn’t know. “You’re probably right, but I haven’t heard anything.”

He spat once more.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” I said gently, “tell me more about the South Middle taudis, things everyone here knows, like which part is your territory, which is Jadhyl’s, which Youdh’s . . .”

“I got the part north of Dugalle . . .”

I listened and watched as we walked a half mille past Dugalle before we got to Feramyo.

“Here.” Horazt turned.

I kept pace with him

“Not so many equalifiers down here,” I said.

“Youdh doesn’t like ’em.”

The buildings were older than those near the Temple—or the House of Equality—and even the handful of better-kept dwellings with recently washed windows seemed to have years of grime caught within the glass itself—at least that was the way they seemed from the lamplight coming from within. The faint but acrid smell of elveweed was more prevalent. With the sun completely set, only a handful of streetlamps lit, and neither moon more than a crescent, seeing more than a handful of yards in any detail was difficult.