Imager's Challenge (41 page)

That turned out to be wise, because slouching against a gatepost, across Saelio, was a figure in a black cloak, and that figure looked to be a taudis-tough, although I couldn’t tell if he happened to be one of those who had been watching me on Mardi.

“Over there,” hissed someone.

I turned in the direction of the sound, to see another tough, one who looked to be wearing a purple jacket under yet another nondescript black cloak. The second tough was looking in my direction, but not at me. I took another step, and at the scuff of my boots on the sandy stone, his head turned more toward me.

Then something
twisted
at my shields, and I staggered for a moment. Another imager? After me? I strengthened my shields and tried to determine from where the attack had come, just as something exploded against my shields, rocking me back again.

Whoever the other imager was, he was powerful, but I could sense the lack of technique. I dropped behind a scraggly hedge, trying to see through the dimness. Could it have been the second tough?

Dust flared into a column, just on the other side of the hedge.

“Now!”

With that single command came a flurry of shots, all aimed at the dust column. Most missed, but several hit my shields, and one twisted me around, and I sprawled on the ground behind the hedge.

I decided not to move, and held my shields as I watched and waited. After a time, perhaps half a quint, I heard footsteps. Then I could see the first tough moving through the late twilight across the street and toward me. He held a pistol.

Given his intent, I didn’t wait any longer, but imaged air into his brain and heart vessels. He convulsed and pitched forward onto the walk. The pistol
dropped onto the dirt beside the walk. I grabbed the weapon, aimed it at his head, and fired.

After that single shot, I heard boots on stone, running, followed by voices, and someone yelling.

I got to my feet, dropped the pistol by the dead tough, and eased around the hedge to the street. The second tough had vanished. So had Mardoyt, and his house was unlit.

Holding concealment shields, I walked back toward the avenue, thinking about what had just happened. Mardoyt had known he was being followed, and he’d gotten word to Youdh. That didn’t surprise me, but what did was that one of the toughs, seemingly one of those working for Youdh, was an imager of sorts, and had the ability to detect another imager.

That was anything but good, especially since Mardoyt had to know that I was looking into his activities.

I kept walking until I reached the avenue, where I turned westward, still watching around me and thinking. I’d been shot at, attacked by an unknown imager, and I still had no proof of anything at all—even though I knew Mardoyt was connected to Youdh and the unknown imager. I thought about reporting the imager to Master Dichartyn . . . and decided against it. First, I didn’t have the kind of proof he wanted. Second, I didn’t even know where to start as far as identifying the imager, and third, Master Dichartyn wasn’t even around, and I wasn’t about to report so little to anyone else. Besides, then I’d have to explain too much about what I was doing . . . because I didn’t have any real proof to back that up, either.

Even though I’d walked all the way back to Imagisle on Meredi night, trying to puzzle out what I should do next, and arrived footsore and tired, I didn’t sleep all that well. My dreams were filled with imagers I could not see, and whenever I tried to move toward them, Master Dichartyn appeared between me and what I could not see. I tried to image a light, and he imaged darkness around it. When I woke on Jeudi, I definitely had the feeling that I was not only fighting against Mardoyt and Harraf and the unknown taudis imager, but the Collegium itself—and that didn’t even take into account my problems with High Holder Ryel and his efforts to ruin me and my family. At that thought, I had to wonder what Ryel might be planning next . . . but I had to deal with the Civic Patrol problems first.

After breakfast, I did remember to check my letter box, where I found two items. One was the copy of the Civic Patrol pay schedules and the second was an envelope note addressed to me in Seliora’s handwriting. On seeing the pay schedule, I had the definite feeling that I should not have asked for it, although I couldn’t have said why, and not just because of what Master Schorzat had said. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my waistcoat and opened Seliora’s note, not without some qualms.

Dear Rhenn,

I am so pleased that your mother wants us for dinner. I hope that you have already accepted. I look forward to seeing you on Samedi.

The closing read, “With love.”

I took a deep breath. I hadn’t really expected anything else, but . . . I also knew I wasn’t necessarily that good at predicting how women might react. Then I hurried back to my quarters and dashed off a quick note to Mother to confirm that we would be there, rushed to the reception hall, because Beleart could post the note from there for me, and hurried to the duty coach.

All in all, I made it to the station just before seventh glass, but not before Alsoran.

“Good morning, Master Rhennthyl.”

“Good morning.” I glanced back toward the study doors of the captain and the lieutenant, but didn’t see either. “Has anything happened?”

“According to the duty desk, it was real quiet in the taudis last night.”

That didn’t surprise me. At least some of the toughs had been elsewhere. “Let’s hope it continues that way until you get to Fifth District.”

Alsoran smiled and turned toward the door. “I wouldn’t be arguing against that.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

The first and outer round was as quiet as the night before had been reported. Then, halfway through the second round, we heard screams and found an elver trying to batter his way into a dwelling that wasn’t his. It took both of us to subdue him and keep him restrained until the pickup wagon carted him off.

After that, there were more people on the streets and lanes, and two times when older women reported grab-and-runs. We couldn’t find either youth.

Lunch came, and we ate, and then went back to walking the round.

In midafternoon, I happened to ask Alsoran how he’d worked out the way he’d developed of patrolling the round.

He grinned. “Just did.”

“You must have put some thought into the order.”

“All things have an order. That’s true. My papa told me that time after time when I was little. You do things in the wrong order, and you run into trouble. If you try and it doesn’t work, maybe you forgot to do something first. He was a great one for doing it step-by-step.” Alsoran laughed. “Sometimes that works, and sometimes it doesn’t. It’s always worth trying.”

I nodded slowly. That didn’t seem to be my problem.

“The thing I learned here on the Patrol is that sometimes you do the opposite.”

“The opposite?” I had an idea what he meant, but I wanted to see if I did.

“You put in too many steps.” He shook his head. “Take elvers who’ve gone crazed. The procedures say that we’re supposed to tell them to halt and that we’re patrollers. There’s no elver who’s overweeded that’ll hear anything. You try to talk to them, and before you can say three words, they’re either running from you or at you. You have to know what steps to skip.”

As we finished the last round of the day, Alsoran’s words kept echoing in my thoughts. That could have been because Master Dichartyn—all the maitres, really—had pressed so hard on me the need to proceed logically, to go through all the steps, one by one. There were more than a few problems with that. First, any logical progression would lead back to me. Second, no matter how
hard I searched, I would never have the kind of absolute proof that Maitres Jhulian and Dichartyn had kept stressing. But . . . that worked two ways. And it meant that I never should have asked for the pay schedule.

It also meant that there was little point in following Mardoyt until I made another set of preparations. So I just took a hack back to Imagisle.

As I sat in my quarters before dinner, I continued to think about Mardoyt. I knew that he was changing charges, even eliminating the records of any charges in some cases, or sending back notes that the charges had been dropped. He was also connected to taudis-toughs and a taudischef, most likely Youdh, and those toughs had tried to kill me. Twice—through imaging and shooting at me. Equally important, I hadn’t done anything to threaten anyone. I’d only followed Mardoyt.

I also had to wonder if imaging had been used to topple the pile of granite that had left me without shields for almost a week. If that were so, it suggested most strongly that both Harraf and Mardoyt were linked to Youdh, but in the case of Harraf, I had less information. I certainly couldn’t call it proof.

At dinner, I ended up sitting between Chorister Isola and Quaelyn.

“How is your pattern analysis going?” I asked Quaelyn, after we had served ourselves from the platters brought out by the servers. I hoped he might reveal something of interest.

“There are always patterns.” He smiled. “Sometimes we can read them, and sometimes we can’t.”

“Do you analyze patterns that affect the Ferrans?”

“I have, but there’s little point in that now.”

“When we’re at war?”

He shrugged. “Their response will be to build as many weapons, ships, and landcruisers as they can and train as many soldiers and sailors as possible. Ours will be to deny them effective use of all that matériel. Because we control the sea after last week’s battles, they will turn their fury against the Jariolans on land. The Jariolans will let them attack until they are overextended, and until winter is at its height, when the steam engines of the landcruisers have a tendency to freeze up, and they will counterattack. That is what the patterns indicate.”

“People aren’t patterns,” Isola pointed out.

“No, honored chorister. People
are
patterns. We could not function without routines, schedules, and habits, and the confluence of these create patterns in every society. Success in war is being able to maintain your vital patterns and to deploy others the enemy cannot replicate or counter while anticipating and disrupting all his patterns.” Quaelyn shrugged. “Those words make it sound far
simpler than the strategies and tactics necessary to do so, but in the simplest terms, that is what war is all about.” He smiled at Isola. “One of the patterns that few recognize is that of titles and naming, but I would judge that you as a chorister would see that.”

I recognized that titles formed a pattern in any society, but what did that have to do with war? I didn’t ask, but I might as well have, because Isola read the inquiry in my expression.

“You have to remember, Rhenn, that names and titles are like chains. Some few people wear them like fine light jewelry links that can be snapped in an instant, but for most the links are heavy enough to bind them within the confines and expectations that their name and title impose on them. The more traditional or formal a society is, the stronger those links, and both the Ferrans and the Jariolans are like that.”

I frowned. “And we aren’t?”

“The Council is, and much of Solidar is. The Collegium, or those who lead and direct it, is not . . . and yet is. Think about your training.”

While I was thinking, she went on.

“This is also true in families. Names come with expectations. Parents don’t say that the eldest child should be especially responsible, but the way in which they act effectively adds that expectation to the child’s name, perhaps every time that the child hears his name.”

I hadn’t thought of it in quite that fashion. Then, I was more interested in the implications of what she and Quaelyn had been discussing . . . and how it related to me.

There was a silence. A thought had occurred to me. “You know so much about this . . . but you’re here in L’Excelsis . . .” I looked to Quaelyn.

He laughed. “I’m an analyst of patterns, not a military commander.” After a pause, he cleared his throat and added, in an almost embarrassed tone, “Every year, I teach a course at the staff college in pattern recognition and analysis. That’s for senior officers.”

“Oh . . . I didn’t know.”

“There’s no reason you should have,” he said gently.

It was just another example of something else that the Collegium did that appeared nowhere in writing.