Imager's Challenge by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L. E. Modesitt Jr.
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
“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