“That place there. It’s called Yualtyn’s. Don’t eat there. Wasn’t bad when it was Gosmyn’s. Hetyr fixed a good honest ragout. Yualtyn bought him out two-three years back. Now all they serve is that Tiempran shit that burns your mouth before you open it. Over there, Chapytoc-good bootmaker. Does good resoling, too. . . .”
Lyonyt did suggest a different place to eat at midday, a patisserie called Jehan’s, which served a folded fried flatbread filled with lamb and mint with a cucumber sauce. I didn’t know that I’d have wanted it every day, but it was tasty and filling and a definite change.
After we ate, we reversed the direction of the rounds, but outside of the increasing odor of elveweed, something that happened late every afternoon, the remaining rounds were without any major incidents.
Once I left Lyonyt at the station, I walked down Fuosta and north on Quierca until I could hail a hack. I had the driver drop me in front of Alouette-a patisserie on the Avenue D’Artisans not all that far southwest of Sudroad. If I were to wait for Mardoyt as long as I might have to, I needed something to eat. I settled for a heavy almond-filled croissant and a mug of tea. The tea was merely hot and adequate. The croissant was good enough that I’d come back, perhaps even pick up some to take to my parents and Khethila . . . and, of course, I’d have to make sure there were two for Culthyn.
I took my time walking down the avenue and then across it and wending my way to Saelio, raising concealment shields more than three blocks away from Mardoyt’s duplex. When I reached the vantage point from where I could observe the oak in front of the house, I settled into the lengthening shadows and prepared for a long wait. Most of the oaks’ leaves had turned, as had the leaves of the other seasonal trees along the street, and possibly a third had fallen onto the grass and the walks, but they were not dry enough yet to rustle that much when someone walked through them.
I took out the scrap of purple cloth and imaged a larger duplicate, concentrating on replicating the warp and weft of the weave, as well as the weight of the threads. Then I studied what I’d imaged. Even as someone who’d been raised to appraise wool, I could detect no noticeable difference between the smaller sample and the larger imaged section of cloth.
Then, I imaged out some sections of the selected oak limb, one that was already dead and hung over the walkway leading to the duplex, not enough that it would break, except in a storm, but enough to make the next step easier.
I kept waiting. I felt I had to, because I needed to resolve the problems Mardoyt was causing before the problems Ryel was causing got even worse. Sooner or later, Mardoyt had to come home, if not tonight, then on Mardi or Meredi, or even Jeudi. I was getting more than a little irritated that I was having to spend so much time dealing with a Patrol officer who was so corrupt, and about whom no one seemed to want to do anything. More than a few patrollers knew what he was doing, and I didn’t see how that helped the Civic Patrol maintain any sort of standards in the slightest.
I waited, but Mardoyt still did not appear.
The sun dropped low enough in the west that the entire street was in shadows. Then, roughly a quint after the bells of the nearby anomen rang out sixth glass, a figure in a blue cloak turned the corner and walked up Saelio. It was Mardoyt, his head down, clearly thinking, as if he was worried. He was so preoccupied that I doubted he would have seen me even if I had not been holding concealment shields.
I imaged away the remaining key sections of the oak limb before Mardoyt was even close to the walkway to his house. It took even more effort to use an extension of imaging shields to hold it in place while he neared.
Then, as he turned, I released those supports, and projected shields to hold him in place. The limb toppled, seemingly slowly, but it took all the imaging effort I could muster with extended shields to direct the limb so that the heavier end twisted and slammed into Mardoyt. Just before the limb hit, I released the shield around him, but he couldn’t move fast enough to avoid the limb’s impact as it smashed across his left shoulder and then crushed and pinned his left leg.
Still behind concealment shields, I slipped up to the unconscious officer and left the imaged scrap of purple in his hand. I also accomplished a last touch of imaging.
I stepped back, realizing that I was soaked in sweat. I could feel my control of my shields slipping away. So I retreated into the shadows and tried to move quietly down the street.
I’d made it less than five yards from the mass of limbs and foliage when I heard a scream from the front porch-that of Mardoyt’s daughter. The sound went through me like a knife-or more like the assassin’s bullet I’d taken. I kept moving, trying to keep in mind that the patroller whose death Mardoyt had arranged had certainly had those who loved him, and I hadn’t done anything to Mardoyt when Youdh’s toughs had started attempts on my life. That didn’t count the attempt with the granite stones.
Besides, I kept reminding myself on the long and chill walk back to the Collegium, I hadn’t killed Mardoyt. If . . . if things went as I’d planned, he’d live, and he’d receive a stipend. He just wouldn’t keep his position and be able to take bribes and arrange murders.
If . . .
37
When I woke on Mardi, I had my ability to raise shields back, and a dull headache that faded after breakfast. Mardi’s rounds with Lyonyt were much the same as those on Lundi-until we finished the last round and were heading back west on South Middle, through an autumn mist that wasn’t quite a light rain. We crossed Weigand, with the Puryon Temple ahead.
“Over there, Master Rhennthyl!” Lyonyt’s voice was low, but insistent. “Left, up maybe thirty yards.”
Two men, wearing purple jackets, and not cloaks or waterproofs, despite the mist, stood on a stoop of a house with boarded-up windows. They looked directly at me. Both were old for taudis-toughs, close to my age. One might have been the imager-tough, but I couldn’t be certain.
Neither man said anything or moved as we walked past. They just watched us.
“That’s not good, Master Rhennthyl. Means they got it in for us.”
For me, most likely, but I didn’t voice the thought. “These days, they may have it in for everyone, what with a conscription team coming sometime this fall or winter.”
“That’s what I been hearing. You don’t know when, do you?”
“No. The captain asked me yesterday. I didn’t know then, and I haven’t heard anything since.”
“That’ll bring more trouble. Always does.”
We certainly didn’t need more trouble. I knew I didn’t.
Once we’d reached the station, we completed the round report, and I signed off on it. Then, I left the station, after a nod to Lieutenant Warydt, who returned the nod with his usual smile, and walked down South Middle until I could catch a hack back to the Bridge of Hopes. On the ride back to Imagisle, I couldn’t help worrying about the two toughs. I worried a bit about Mardoyt, but mostly hoped that his injuries were as I’d planned . . . except I could still hear the scream of Mardoyt’s daughter.
A thin prime was waiting for me on the Collegium side of the bridge.
“Master Rhennthyl, sir?”
His presence could only mean that Master Dichartyn was looking for me, but I just replied, “Yes?”
“Master Dichartyn would like to see you, sir, right now, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, sir . . .”
Three “sirs” strung together like that meant more trouble.
“He’s in his study?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll head right there.”
The frightened prime followed me, if at a distance, until I knocked on Dichartyn’s door.
“Master Dichartyn. It’s Rhennthyl. . . .”