L. E.Modesitt - Imager’s Intrigue

The mother looked to me, then down at the boy.

“I did what I could.”

We kept watching. Finally, he moaned. “Mama…Mama…”

She looked at me once again, her eyes wide.

“Don’t let him eat anything spicy. Just plain heavy bread for a day or two.”

She nodded, but her face was white, although tears oozed from the corners of her eyes.

When she left, cuddling her son, and murmuring to him, I stood there for a moment. I could only hope I hadn’t damaged him permanently in some way that wouldn’t show up until later.

Jaerdol and Zandyr just looked at me as I rejoined them.

“Sir? What did you do?”

“I tried to image some elveweed he ate out of his stomach. I hope it works.”

“He was about to die. He looks better now,” Jaerdol said.

“He might have gotten better anyway,” I pointed out.

The two looked at each other.

If the boy lived, there would be another story…and more problems. Either way, I needed to talk to Master Draffyd, the imager and doctor at the Collegium. If word got around Third District, who knew who else might come running, and for what. It was just another example of why Master Dichartyn and Maitre Poincaryt were always stressing the importance of doing things in a way that looked like you were doing something innocuous. What I really should have done was to have taken the boy, imaged out the elveweed fragments he’d chewed, probably because he wasn’t being fed enough, and then thumped him on the back and claimed that he’d just been choking.

But, again, I’d been caught short and hadn’t been able to think that quickly.

“You’d think that imagers can do anything.” I laughed. “We can’t.”

That brought dubious looks from both patrollers.

“Come on,” I said. “You have a round to cover, and I need you two to tell me what you’ve seen recently in each block.” I pointed to the second house ahead on the right. “What can you tell me about that one?” That was probably unfair, because I knew that the eldest boy was a quartermaster third in the Navy, because I’d gotten him to enlist before a conscription team drafted him, and that he sent a pay allotment home to his widowed mother. The younger brother was a bigger problem.

“She’s got one boy still at home,” said Zandyr, “and an aunt living with her. The boy’s a loose cannon. Horazt won’t even touch him…”

We continued on the round.

When I finally returned to the station, it was close to a quarter past second glass, and four patrollers were walking toward the duty desk from the holding cells.

“What happened?” I asked.

“A dray horse spooked and pulled a brick wagon into a spirit wagon,” offered Alsoran, who was following the four, “on South Middle just west of the Plaza.”

“Don’t tell me. In the mess, some of the taudis-kids tried to steal the spirits, and the two teamsters got into a fight, and then the avenue got clogged up, and the cutpurses showed up…”

I glanced from Alsoran to Smultyn, whose tunic was smeared in grime.

“Close enough, sir. One of the taudis-toughs caused the brick wagon’s dray horse to spook. We had to chase him, but we got him.”

“How old does he look?”

“Old enough that he can’t plead for the Army or Navy.”

“And the others?”

“Petty theft, except for one assault. The brick teamster’s in there, too. He tried to take a knife to the spirit wagon guard. Guard cold-cocked him.”

I couldn’t help frowning at that.

“It was a set-up,” suggested Smultyn. “He paid the tough to spook the horse, and he guided it so the brick wagon sideswiped the spirit wagon. That’s why all the kids were waiting. The guard accused him of that, and the knife came out.”

“Do we know if he’s the regular teamster? I’d wager he’s not.” I took a deep breath, because from the Patrol’s viewpoint, it didn’t matter.

“Oh…and there was one other thing,” Alsoran added, with a wry smile.

“Both wagons were overloaded for their axle types?”

He nodded. “We had to cite them both. The Patrol teamsters came out and drove them to the holding yards.”

That meant another complaint to the Council, because none of the traders and factors liked having to comply with the weight limits. The wagon owners would pay to get the wagons and teams back, but they knew Commander Artois wouldn’t ever relent. His niece had been killed by a runaway overloaded wagon. So they petitioned the Council, but the Council had refused to change the law.

The rest of the afternoon, what was left of it, was far less eventful.

Desalyt was the duty driver who picked me up outside the station. As I was about to enter the coach, he handed me an envelope. I didn’t open it until I was inside and headed toward NordEste Design.

The single line on the sheet read, “My study before dinner, please.” It was signed with a single “D.”

I didn’t even want to speculate. But…was it about the inevitable resumption of war between Ferrum and Jariola? Or some follow-up about the explosion? Or something else entirely? What ever it happened to be, it would complicate life.

I barely managed to get to the covered portico at NordEste Design before Seliora hurried out with Diestrya, closing the door behind her with a firmness just short of slamming it.

I decided against saying anything for a moment and took Diestrya’s hand so that we both walked her to the coach, unseen imager shields protecting all of us.

Once Desalyt had turned the coach off Nordroad and we were headed southwest on the Boulevard D’Ouest toward the Nord Bridge over the Aluse, I finally asked, “What happened?”

“Are you trying to soothe me?”

“No. I can see you’re upset about something. I thought you might want to talk about it.”

Seliora glanced down at Diestrya, then shook her head. “Later.”

After we’d covered another few blocks, I said, reluctantly, “I’m going to have to stop and see Master Dichartyn before dinner.”

“Again? You’ve had to…” Seliora broke off the sentence.

“He doesn’t ask unless it’s important.”

“Important to him.”

“I know.” I offered a helpless shrug. Maitre Dichartyn was my superior in the Collegium.

Once the duty coach came to a halt at its post on the west side of Imagisle, I did hurry down to the administration building.

Master Dichartyn was standing by the window of his study when I entered, but he did not speak until I closed the door.

“You’ve seen the newsheets, have you not?”

“I have. To which problem are you going to direct my attention?” I didn’t feel like guessing.

“Grain ware houses. You might recall that I mentioned a High Holder Haebyn. The two ware houses that were destroyed and damaged were his.”

“So we now have a subterranean conflict between eastern High Holders and freeholders? I assume the grain factors are on the side of the freeholders. Are they?”

“Wouldn’t you rather deal with a freeholder than a High Holder?”

“Is this because river flows are down, and the freeholders have bought out water rights? Or is it because grain production is up and the freeholders can underprice the High Holders?”

“Something along those lines,” Dichartyn replied. “In dry years, the High Holders have more water, but in good water years the freeholders can underprice the High Holders to the point where the High Holders lose golds.”

“That’s very interesting, but what’s the connection between that and the Collegium and one Civic Patrol Captain?”

“Nothing…yet. Except for one thing: the report of Broussart’s death was in error. He was apparently called away and let one of his assistants take his wife and daughter to the opera.”