L. Modesitt - Imager's challenge

“Would that vote include women? If it didn’t, I don’t see that it would make much difference in the way the Council worked.” Her tone was dismissive.

“As far as the High Holders go, it would.”

“Not that much.”

“You might be right.” I thought it would make a great difference, but I wasn’t about to argue about it.

“You’re being condescending, Rhenn.”

I shrugged, then lowered my voice. “How are matters in Kherseilles?”

Khethila frowned, as if debating whether to pursue what she thought had been my condescension, then shook her head. “Someone bought the notes Rousel took out and demanded immediate payment. We arranged it, but it cost another twenty golds . . . and Father had to post a bond of another hundred with the Banque D’Kherseilles to keep the line of credit.”

“So he lost nearly three hundred golds this season?” That amount of loss was hard for me to understand. Through bad judgment Rousel had lost in two months more than I’d make in six years, and the factorage in Kherseilles wasn’t that large.

“Four hundred, if you count the bond,” Khethila said quietly. “His receipts are down, too. I think someone has put out the word not to buy from him. We’ve even gotten orders here lately, asking us to ship to places like Mantes, and they used to take delivery from Rousel in Kherseilles.”

“Do you know who bought the notes?”

“The Banque D’Rivages, but they wouldn’t have done it except as an agent. Why would a banque nearly thirteen hundred milles from Kherseilles buy notes secured by the stock of a small factorage in Kherseilles?”

I had an idea, but at the moment I certainly had no way to prove it. Even if I did, what had been done was strictly legal. Ryel would have made certain that everything remained within the law, or at least within the appearance of the law.

“Someone’s here . . .”

That was my mother’s voice, coming from the hall.

“Rhenn! You didn’t say you were coming.” Accusation mixed with warmth in Mother’s voice.

“I didn’t know I was coming.”

“That’s probably because he’d planned to see Seliora, and she had other plans,” suggested Khethila sweetly, a statement clearly offered as retaliation for what she thought had been condescension.

“I did see her, already, but it had to be brief because she had to work.”

“On Solayi?” asked Mother.

“A large and urgent commission.”

“Good for her,” Father said bluffly. “She and her family know what’s important. That’s why they’ve been so successful.”

The briefest of frowns crossed Khethila’s brow.

“So long as they don’t do it every Solayi,” added Mother. “Didn’t you have dinner with her family and some of their relatives last night? How was it?”

“They were all very nice. One of her aunts runs a bistro not all that far from Patrol headquarters. It’s called Chaelia, I think.”

“I haven’t heard of it,” Father replied.

“Is it in a good area?” asked Mother.

I laughed. “I don’t know. I haven’t been there, but it can’t be too bad because it’s only a few blocks from Civic Patrol headquarters, and that’s only a half block off East River Road.”

“If you eat there, dear, I do hope it’s in a good area.”

After that, we talked about, or rather I listened to Mother rhapsodize about Remaya and Rousel’s son Rheityr.

I barely made it back to Imagisle in time to eat and then go to services. I stood where I could watch Shault. Lieryns was next to him, I thought, but I wasn’t totally sure in the dim light, and I didn’t want to get close enough that my observations would have been noted.

As often was the case, one part of Chorister Isola’s homily resonated with me.

“. . . Naming is as much about control as about labeling or identity. We tend to think that when we name something or someone we have gained control. The superior always uses a diminutive to an inferior. That, too, is part of the sin of naming. The man or woman who can act as though there were no names is far greater than one who insists on a hierarchy of names. . . . Is it any accident that those who most relish naming are those who are most loath to give up power, position, or control? . . .”

I had to admit that I really hadn’t thought about the way names were used as a symptom of power and of how people used them in that fashion, but it certainly made a great deal of sense, and I made a mental reminder to try to watch for that in the days ahead.

Lundi was a very busy day at the Patrol charging desk. So was Mardi. Meredi morning didn’t look to be that much better because, when I got to headquarters, there were offenders waiting everywhere even before Gulyart and I started to register the charges. By tenth glass, when we had three-quarters of a glass off to eat lunch, we both were more than ready to leave the confines of the Patrol building. The rain had subsided to a comparative drizzle, not too uncomfortable for mid-fall, as we stepped outside.

“This week has been like most of them,” Gulyart said. “There’s no charging done past Samedi at noon, and none on Solayi. So the holding cells are full by Lundi, and sometimes more than that, and it takes days before we get caught up. Last week was lighter than usual.”

“I liked last week better,” I said with a laugh. “You’d think some of them would learn.”

Gulyart shook his head. “They only get one chance to learn, two at most, before they end up on penal work duties for life. Most who get caught aren’t bright enough to see that.”

That was obvious-once he’d pointed it out, but I hadn’t thought of it that way. Some people just took longer to learn, but I could see the Civic Patrol’s view. Why should law-abiding citizens have to pay because lawbreakers had a hard time learning?

We walked to the second closest bistro-Saliana’s-because Gulyart said that he could only take so much of the heavy potato noodles at Fiendyl’s, the bistro almost directly across Fedre from headquarters. Heavy noodles didn’t bother me, just so long as they weren’t greasy. Saliana was supposedly from Tilbora in the far northeast of Solidar, and her place offered more than a few goat dishes. I had a red-spice goat curry over rice, and I used every bit of the rice, flatbread, and lager to try to keep the food from burning my mouth.

“Hot, isn’t it?” Gulyart grinned. “Brown-spice is as hot as I can take it. Captain Lheng won’t go farther than yellow-brown.”

“Next time, I’ll have the yellow-brown.” Even with the lager, flatbread, and rice I’d had with the meal, my mouth still felt like it was erupting in flame.

When we stepped out of Saliana’s, something slammed into my shields. I couldn’t help but stagger. A quick glance around revealed nothing other than people going about their business, and none of them even looked in my direction.

“You all right?” asked Gulyart.

“I slipped . . . tripped on something.” I looked down as if trying to locate what it might be. I wanted the bullet-anything to give me a clue as to who was shooting at me-and yet I knew I didn’t dare spend time searching. So I tried the idea of imaging it into my hand-and I had it in my palm. Except it was so hot that I almost dropped it and had to juggle it before slipping it into my waistcoat pocket. “I don’t know what it was. Maybe I kicked it away.” I shook my head. “I hate feeling clumsy like that.”

I didn’t want Gulyart, or any of the patrollers, to know that I was a target. That would just make learning about the Patrol even harder.

“Just be glad you weren’t wearing riot gear,” replied Gulyart. “Couple years back, more than that, I guess, because it was when I had just joined the Patrol, we had to go into the taudis below South Middle to put down a fight between two taudischefs and their enforcers. Some bastard threw hundreds of scrap bearings onto the street just as we charged them. Mualyt smashed his elbow so bad he got stipended out. That was the last time anyone talked about getting rid of the mounted riot squad. Most of them have other duties, though, these days.”