L. Modesitt - Imager's challenge

“That is what Master Dichartyn said.”

“I doubt he said it quite that way.” Cydarth’s smile belied the sardonic tone of his words.

I waited.

“There’s one thing I want to emphasize before we get you settled. Most patrollers will call you ‘sir’ or ‘Master Rhennthyl.’ That is a courtesy, in the sense that you are not their superior. You cannot order even the lowest patroller to do anything. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir. Master Dichartyn made that clear.”

“He would have. He understands a bit of what we do.”

I managed to keep a pleasant smile on my face, but I had no doubts that Master Dichartyn understood far more than either the commander or the subcommander realized.

“For the next few days, you’ll be assigned to observe the charging desk here in headquarters. I want you to study every person charged, and then read whatever past records we have on them, not that there will be many.” He looked at me. “Do you know why?”

“To note on their charging record, because those who have committed a single major offense will either be executed or will spend the rest of their life in a penal workhouse. Those who have more than three minor offenses will be spending years in the penal manufactories or on road or ironway maintenance.”

“Exactly . . . except for one thing. Do you know what it is?”

I had no idea. “No, sir.”

“What if they’re of common appearance and have changed their names?”

“Aren’t repeat offenders branded on their hip?”

“They are after a second offense, but there are minor offenders who move to another city after serving time for one offense and then change their names. You’ll learn to recognize that type.” He gestured toward the door. “Let’s get you settled in with First Patroller Gulyart. He runs charging downstairs.”

Again, I found myself following as Cydarth walked swiftly to a narrow staircase at the end of the hall and headed down it. At the bottom was a door with a heavy iron bolt, which he slid aside before opening the door and stepping into a ground-floor chamber a good eight yards long and four wide. While there were several benches, most of the space was without fixtures or furnishings, except for wall lamps. On one side of the room was a low dais, or the equivalent, on which rested a solid-front wide desk. There were two chairs behind it. One was occupied.

When the patroller behind the desk saw us, he stood immediately, if slightly awkwardly. On each shoulder of the upper sleeve of his pale blue shirt was a single chevron of a darker blue.

“Gulyart, this is Master Rhennthyl. He’s the new imager liaison to the Patrol. He’ll be spending the next two weeks with you.” Cydarth turned to me. “For now, you’re just to observe.” Then he turned back toward the staircase.

I’d expected another far older patroller, but Gulyart looked to be somewhat less than ten years older than I was, with short blond hair and pale brown eyes. He offered the first genuine smile I’d seen since arriving at headquarters. “Master Rhennthyl, I’m glad to meet you.” He gestured to the wide desk. “The other chair is for you. A bit crowded, but this is the only way you’ll see how charging works.”

I didn’t even have a chance to sit down before someone called out, “Gulyart! They’re bringing in the prisoners from last night.”

“The charging desk is only open until midnight,” Gulyart explained quickly. “After tenth glass, they just put them in the holding cells. Most are just troublemakers or drank too much . . . a few elvers, at times, but we don’t get that many most nights.” He squared himself in his chair and adjusted the ledger-like book in front of him.

I sat down quickly.

The first prisoner was a little man with a big head and unruly wavy blond hair that stuck out from his skull. His hands were manacled behind him. His eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles beneath them. The patroller escorting him looked from Gulyart to me and back to Gulyart.

“He claims his name is Guffryt. He was picked up on the Midroad just off the triad. The charge is drunkenness and attempted assault on the patrollers who apprehended him.”

“I was just heading to my place to sleep, and they grabbed me,” protested Guffryt.

“Where is your place?” asked Gulyart mildly. “Your home address, please?”

After a long moment, Guffryt looked down.

“Where do you live?”

Finally, Guffryt replied, “Where I can.”

“You’re charged with public disturbance, drunkenness, assaulting a patroller, and vagrancy.” Gulyart looked to me and gestured toward a set of stacked cases against the wall behind us. “The files are there. The names are alphabetical. The stack of cases to the left has the live files, the one to the right the names of victims where no one was charged. If you wouldn’t mind seeing if there’s any paper on this man?”

It took me several moments to find the case with the names beginning with “G” and a few more to get to the end. “There’s no one listed under that name.”

“Thank you.” Gulyart turned to the patroller. “Just a moment.”

I sat down, watching as he wrote out a charging sheet, with the same information as he’d already entered in the charging ledger before him, then handed the sheet to the patroller. “He goes to the magistrate.”

I did know that lesser offenses were handled by the magistrates, rather than by one of the full justices.

“Let’s go, Guffryt. Count yourself lucky,” said the patroller, a hefty man.

I wouldn’t have called him lucky, because he was facing at least a year on a road gang or in one of the penal manufactories.

Before the next prisoner arrived, I pointed at the cases behind us. “Are those all the records?” How could there be that few files when there were close to two million people in L’Excelsis?

“Once someone’s executed, their files go to the execution records in the cellar. If they go to a penal workhouse or permanent manufactory, the records go with them.”

With that explanation, the smaller number of file cases made more sense.

Then yet another prisoner appeared, a scrawny dark-haired woman, more like a girl, I thought, until I saw the lines in her face.

“Her name is Arinetia,” offered the patroller. “Battery with a broken wine bottle.”

“He deserved worse than that. Ripped my clothes and wouldn’t pay.”

Gulyart looked at the patroller. “Do we have a patroller witness or a statement by the victim?”

“No, First Patroller.”

“Nothing? I can’t charge her with anything without a statement or a witness or a victim.”

“Lieutenant Narkol had his men bring her in, sir.” The escorting patroller looked helplessly at Gulyart.

“I’ll have to release her.”

At that point, the woman, even with her hands manacled, turned and lunged at her escort, trying to bite his arm.

Gulyart sighed. “I’ll book her for battery against a patroller. Magistrate’s court.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went to the file case, but there was nothing under the name Arinetia.

Right after the patroller hurried the woman out, Gulyart turned to me. “Odds are that the man she attacked was a taudischef, and if she’s released, no one will ever see her again. Two to four months making brooms is far better for her.”

“Did you get that from the lieutenant’s action?”

“It’s a guess, but his district has the south taudis-town, you know, the one east of Sudroad and south of D’Artisans.” He turned to the next prisoner, not only manacled but gagged as well.

“This one’s Skyldar. Jariolan, probably,” explained the patroller. “He knifed a cabaret girl when she wouldn’t go with him. She was dead when they got there. Here are the statements.” He handed over a sheaf of papers.