Antiagon Fire (51 page)

Just after midday on Jeudi, a day so clear and warm that Quaeryt had removed his riding jacket, they approached a small town whose name—as chiseled on the millestone—was Clianto. To the north of the town were low hills covered with orchards, mostly of olives. Several hundred yards ahead, on the right, a young man leading a donkey pulling a cart stopped dead, as if frozen where he stood as he looked from the outriders to the troopers that followed. Then, after several moments, he immediately turned the cart down a lane and began to run, yanking on the donkey’s leads, trying to get the animal to move faster.

“There’s another poor boy who can’t believe what he’s seeing,” Quaeryt said to Skarpa, riding beside him. Every day since they’d left Kephria, Quaeryt had seen similar reactions by the Antiagons, and he couldn’t blame them. First was the shock, and then the fear.

“You can’t blame them. So far as I know, no one’s ever invaded Antiago.” Skarpa looked to Quaeryt. “You’re the scholar. Is that so?”

“The Naedarans held some of the Lohan Hills, but nothing this far south.”

“They got around, from what you’ve said.”

“It’s hard to say, but at the height of their power, their land was likely half the size of old Tela.”

“They had imagers, too. So why didn’t they expand more?”

“For the same reason no one’s used imagers effectively since then.” Quaeryt laughed softly. “Rulers don’t trust imagers, and they don’t use them effectively.”

“You’re trying to change that.”

“Trying is a good way of describing it.” Quaeryt didn’t want to go into more detail, not when part of the reason for invading Antiago was tied to his ambitions for assuring that life for imagers in all Lydar would be far better in the future than it was or had been.

As they neared the edge of the town, Quaeryt raised the heaviest shields he could, not because he expected any attack, but as another way of keeping in practice, then turned in the saddle. “Imagers! Full shields!” As he turned back to study the town, he could hear one set of words.

“… not like the attacks on Nordeau…”

Quaeryt wanted to shake his head at Threkhyl’s muttered comment. Instead, he ignored it and concentrated on learning what he could about Clianto and what the town might tell him about Antiago.

“Can’t believe how much warmer it is here than even in Kephria,” observed Skarpa. “Not even a sign of Antiagon troopers.”

“There hasn’t been time for Aliaro to learn that we’re here.” Quaeryt glanced to the slightly higher hills to the east, where he spied a white-walled villa, large, but not sprawling, and certainly not close to the size of a Bovarian or Telaryn high holding. Perhaps two milles farther south along the eastern hills was a second villa, somewhat smaller, whose walls were a pinkish off-white. A single rider galloped along the last few hundred yards of the road leading to the first villa, but no dust rose in his tracks, suggesting a far better surface than Quaeryt had seen on most roads in Bovaria.

The dwellings on the outskirts of the town were built of some sort of brick covered with stucco and then whitewashed, although the wash on many houses had faded or been turned faintly rose-colored by dust from the reddish dirt. Roofs were either flat or gently sloped, suggesting that excessive rain was not a problem.

While Quaeryt saw a few men and women farther toward the center of town hurrying into buildings, the streets, lanes, and alleys were empty as Southern Army rode down the main street. Not all shutters were closed, but most were. Those that were not likely could not be easily closed, Quaeryt suspected. Just as he was about to suggest that they stop in the central square to water mounts and see what they could learn, two riders in green livery rode out of a side street and turned their mounts south.

Quaeryt thought about trying to image, but the riders were already more than a hundred yards away, and anything he did at that distance that would be effective would likely also be fatal. “Zhelan! Send a squad after those two!”

“Yes, sir! Second squad! Forward!”

Second squad moved out after the liveried riders, but not at a gallop.

“Young idiots,” snorted Skarpa. “Charging off will tire their mounts too fast. Older riders would have walked their mounts down a side street and sneaked out of town. We never would have seen them.”

“Jhalet’s got some of the best mounts and riders,” said Zhelan from behind the two senior officers. “If anyone can catch them, he can.”

Quaeryt said nothing, well aware that he still knew far too little about horses and how to pace them. Instead, as first company reined up in the square, he quietly surveyed the buildings, taking in what likely passed for a chandlery, then a small cloth factorage.

On the west side was one of the pair of two-story structures in view, the other being the inn, and the only stone building fronting the square. After several moments, a white-haired man wearing dark gray trousers and a white shirt emerged from the stone structure and walked slowly toward Skarpa and Quaeryt, finally halting a good five yards away and bowing before speaking. “Honored sirs.”

It took a moment for Quaeryt to understand his words, as heavily accented as they were, so much so that the way the older man spoke was almost like another language. Quaeryt was glad it wasn’t. Having three languages in Lydar was bad enough. “Are you the councilor for Clianto?”

“No, sir. I am Khelito. I am the administrator appointed by the Autarch.” The man’s voice was pleasant, but edged with concern. “What would you have of us, honored sirs?”

“Water, and some supplies,” replied Skarpa.

“We have little. Clianto is not a wealthy town. Might I ask why armed men in strange uniforms are riding through Antiago?”

Skarpa looked to Quaeryt.

“The uniforms are those of Telaryn,” explained Quaeryt. “Lord Bhayar of Telaryn has combined Bovaria with Telaryn. Autarch Aliaro’s ships have attacked Telaryn ships without provocation, and a number of Bovarian High Holders have fled into Antiago rather than pledge allegiance to Lord Bhayar. That is why we are here.”

“There are no High Holders here, honored sir.”

“I am certain that is so, administrator”—Quaeryt almost said councilor—“but we are on our way to deal with the Autarch.”

“Then, Lord Bhayar intends to take our lands and make Antiago part of Telaryn?”

“He intends to make all Lydar one land. He has no intention of taking your lands. He will only take the lands of those who raise arms against him or who aid those who do.”

“We have no arms to raise. We have little enough to aid ourselves.”

“You have fine olive orchards.” The plea of poverty was getting on Quaeryt’s nerves, given that the town looked moderately prosperous.

“We do not own the orchards. Shahib Folinero does.”

“Is one of the villas to the east his?”

Khelito laughed gently. “No. The larger one belongs to Orchard Master Ghario. He manages the orchards for the Shahib. The lesser one belongs to Orchard Master Zheno. He manages the orchards to the south for Shahiba Shenia.”

“And they both live in Liantiago?”

“Of course. How could it be otherwise?”

“You don’t see Antiagon armsmen near here, I take it?”

“Not often. Last spring, many marched through here on their way north.” The administrator shrugged. “They must have returned to Liantiago another way. They did not return by the north road.”

“Do you collect the tariffs for Autarch Aliaro?”

“Who else would do so?” Khelito’s voice was tinged with puzzlement, as if any other arrangement would have been unthinkable.

“Who collects them from you?”

“Those who come from Liantiago who serve the most noble Autarch.”

“Who are these collectors?”

“They are the regional tariff collectors.”

“Do armsmen accompany them? How many?”

“I have not counted them. There are not many.”

“Who besides collectors and armsmen?” Quaeryt could tell that Skarpa was puzzled at the line of questioning.

“I would not know who they are, only that the tariff collectors defer to them.”

“Do the armsmen defer more to those you do not know than to the tariff collectors?”

There was the slightest trace of hesitation before Khelito replied, “I could not say, honored sir.”

While Skarpa issued orders for regiments to water their mounts and then re-form on the south side of the town, Quaeryt dismounted and continued to talk with the town administrator.

“What maps do you have of the land, and the way to Suemyran?”

“Maps? There might be one…”

More than a glass later, when the regiments were re-formed on the south side of town, and several wagons loaded with grain for the mounts, Quaeryt watched as Jhalet led second squad—and two men in green livery with gold piping on their jackets and trousers, their hands bound, and their mounts on leads—back up the road.

“One of them threw this into a false olive hedgerow,” reported Jhalet, riding up beside Quaeryt and extending a brown leather dispatch folder.

Both captive riders looked to be young, if older than Quaeryt’s youngest undercaptains, and neither looked directly at Quaeryt. “Who do you serve?”

The younger of the two shook his head.

The other rider said, “High Holder Chaelaet.” He glanced at the other. “They’ll find out soon enough.”

Quaeryt glanced toward Skarpa, who had ridden over. He held up the case. “Do you want to read it first?”

“Go ahead.”

Quaeryt turned to Jhalet. “If you would hold the prisoners over there until we finish?”

“Yes, sir.”

After waiting until the captives were out of earshot, Quaeryt opened the case and extracted the single folded and sealed sheet, breaking the green wax and unfolding the parchment, then began to read.

Your most puissant power—

Most puissant power? Talk about trying to curry favor.
Quaeryt couldn’t help but smile as he continued reading.

As a longtime admirer and ally, which you know well, I regret that I must be the bearer of tidings less than favorable. As I reported in an earlier dispatch, the tyrant Bhayar insisted on a fawning and impoverishing allegiance on the part of High Holders in southern Bovaria. When we refused to meet with his submarshal, he leveled five holds so thoroughly that nothing remains. It is said that this was accomplished by imagers, but I cannot verify this. The invading army is apparently comprised of three to four battle-tested regiments, mixed foot and mounted, far too large for our forces, but certainly not beyond your capabilities, especially since, knowing you to be a just and reasonable ruler, we would be willing to place our resources at your disposal in repelling the invaders …

After finishing the letter or dispatch—Quaeryt wasn’t sure what to call it—he extended it to Skarpa and waited.

When Skarpa finished, he smiled sardonically. “What do you think?”

“It’s a veiled plea and bargain. Chaelaet is saying he and the other High Holders will support Aliaro if Aliaro will destroy us. But there’s so much evasion and distortion…”

“Like his not being able to verify that you used imagers?”

“That, and the fact they all fled over the border to avoid meeting with us.”

“They’re all pissing-in-their pants scared of you and the imagers, and they’re not about to admit it to Aliaro.”

“Because they don’t want him coming to terms with Bhayar and because they want him to destroy the invading force so that they can secede and become part of Antiago?”

“That’s the way it looks. They know that they’ve burned their bridges with Bhayar.”

“That’s true … but they didn’t have to.”

“People are like that,” Skarpa said. “They get an idea in their heads, and when things don’t go the way they think they should, they don’t think. They react and do something stupid … and they’ll blame someone else.”

“I need to see what else I can find out.” Quaeryt gestured toward the two captives.

“Let me know.” Skarpa slipped the dispatch back into the case and extended it back to Quaeryt. “Question them on the ride. We need to get moving.”

“I’ll do that. Don’t you want to keep the letter?”

The submarshal shook his head. “I can’t do anything with it, but it might help us both if you keep it safe. You’ll see Bhayar sooner than I will.” Skarpa smiled, then turned his mount.

“Only if he’s displeased with me.”
And that’s getting more and more likely.

Quaeryt eased the mare over to where Jhalet waited with the captives, but didn’t begin questioning them until the entire column was moving south and he was riding between them behind Skarpa and Zhelan.

“What’s your name?” Quaeryt asked the older captive.

“Erlaet.”

“Where did you leave High Holder Chaelaet?”

“North of here … and east. Town called Vholia.”

Quaeryt had to concentrate to understand, because the southern Bovarian accent was almost as heavy as that of the Antiagons. “How far south from Chaelaet?”

“Two days’ ride.”

Two quints and scores of questions later, he’d discovered very little else that shed light on where Chaelaet and the other fleeing High Holders might be, at least not until he could talk with someone who knew the geography and towns along the Lohan Hills.

55

For the next three days, under slightly hazy but sunny skies, Southern Army marched and rode southward through towns invariably similar in architecture and agriculture to Clianto and the lands surrounding it. Early on Meredi morning, Quaeryt and Skarpa sat at opposite sides of a small table in the study of a villa in Nankico, a town perhaps half the size of Laaryn. The villa was normally used by the orchard manager of a Shahib Alzonio, who was resident, unsurprisingly, in Liantiago.

“We should reach Suemyran late the day after tomorrow,” said Skarpa. “That’s if we don’t run into trouble.”

“I’d think that Aliaro might at least have a garrison or outpost there,” ventured Quaeryt.

“You think we should see about surprising a post when we don’t even know if there is one and where it might be?”

“I was thinking about sending a battalion around Suemyran and setting up a hidden picket line on the road to Barna. The local commander, if there is one, or the town administrator might just send a courier or a messenger to Barna and then on to Liantiago. We don’t have to know where the post is—just the route that a messenger might take.”