Antiagon Fire (9 page)

Then, at fourth glass, the three of them walked to the salon in the dwelling—or what had been the salon until much of the furnishings had been removed and replaced with a long table that had likely been used for dining—for a meeting of all the regimental commanders in Southern Army and those under Quaeryt’s command.

Skarpa was waiting outside the door and beckoned to Quaeryt.

“Just go on in,” Quaeryt told Alazyn and Khaern. As he stopped beside Skarpa, Alazyn and Khaern nodded and stepped through the doorway into the makeshift conference room.

“Not all the other subcommanders are here yet,” added Skarpa. “Just Fhaen and Fhaasn, and Meinyt.”

The one most junior and the two loyal to Skarpa.
While that didn’t surprise Quaeryt, it suggested certain … possibilities.

“Kharllon isn’t here yet, either,” added Skarpa in a low voice.

“He’ll be the last, but barely.”

“My thought as well.”

Two subcommanders approached, hurrying down the hallway from the front hall. The first was graying, the second balding and blond. Both nodded to Quaeryt and Skarpa. “Good afternoon, Commander, Submarshal.”

“Good afternoon, Dulaek, Paedn,” replied Skarpa. “We’ll be starting in a few moments.”

No sooner had the pair entered the salon than the last two officers, who had to be Commander Kharllon and Subcommander Meurn, appeared from the rear of the building, walking at a steady, but not swift pace. Both nodded politely and said, “Good afternoon, Submarshal.”

Quaeryt followed them into the salon, noting as he entered that the head of the table had been left for Skarpa, and the chair to Skarpa’s right for Quaeryt. Kharllon had taken the place to Skarpa’s left, across from Quaeryt. Quaeryt did not sit, but remained standing as the other officers rose when Skarpa entered.

“As you were.”

Quaeryt seated himself, taking a quick look at Kharllon, a clean-shaven, square-chinned man with short light brown hair shot lightly with silver, who looked to be perhaps ten years older than Quaeryt. Kharllon smiled warmly at Quaeryt, even with his pale blue eyes, and nodded. Quaeryt returned the nod and smile.

“Part of the purpose of this meeting is simply for all of you to see the other regimental commanders,” began Skarpa. “Some of you already know each other, but most of you don’t know Commander Quaeryt except by name, or Subcommander Khaern, Subcommander Alazyn, and Subcommander Fhaen, who is succeeding me as commander of Third Regiment. Several of you have not met Subcommander Meinyt.” As he spoke each officer’s name, Skarpa gestured toward the man. After his opening words, Skarpa outlined both the orders for Southern Army and those for Quaeryt and his forces, then gave the order of march for the morning, although Quaeryt knew that the submarshal had to have provided that to each officer individually already. “The regimental order will change daily, as I’ve discussed. Are there any questions or observations?” Skarpa looked toward Kharllon.

“Have you been given any indication how long this operation … is expected to take, sir?”

“Until we’ve accomplished what’s necessary. Several months, if not longer. Commander Quaeryt will be operating independently once he and his forces leave Ephra, of course.”

“I’m curious, sir,” asked Meurn, “as to why seven regiments are necessary to deal with High Holders who have only a few hundred armsmen.”

“Together they might mass more than a regiment. We’ll also be stationed almost on the border with Antiago. Relations between Rex Kharst and the Autarch were never good. Those between Lord Bhayar and the Autarch have not been any better. Aliaro sent regiments against Southern Army on the march up the Aluse. Aliaro has attacked Ephra at least once already…”

“Will this operation be similar to what was required in Tilbor?” Meurn asked.

“Only in that we’re likely to be dealing with rebel holders. The land is very different.”

“Have you been there? Or has Commander Quaeryt?”

“Actually, I have been in both places,” replied Quaeryt. “Tilbor is far cooler, and the trees are mainly evergreens, with greater ease in riding through them, with limited undergrowth. In southern Bovaria and northern Antiago the forests are thicker, the air damper, and the undergrowth almost impassable.” Quaeryt was exaggerating a bit, since he’d actually only spent a few weeks over several years in Antiago while his ship had been in port in both Kephria and Liantiago, but he didn’t like the intent behind Meurn’s questions.

After that, there were few questions, mainly those asking for honest clarifications, and a quint past fifth glass found Quaeryt walking back toward the estate house under a sky that was threatening rain—a cold rain, from the way the wind out of the northwest felt.

At least you don’t have to worry about conducting services and giving homilies.
Yet, even as he thought that, Quaeryt realized that, in a way, he missed those aspects of acting as a chorister—or at least he missed the thought behind creating the homilies.

He found Vaelora in the sitting room of their quarters, looking at two large kit bags and a pile of garments. With a grin, he started to open his mouth.

“Don’t say a word, dearest. Not a word.”

Quaeryt didn’t. He retreated to the bedchamber with
Rholan and the Nameless,
the only volume in sight. He began to leaf through the pages. In light of Vaelora’s terse command, he found one passage amusing, not that he would have dared to show or read it to her.

Men think women vain when they fret over their appearance and their clothing, and Rholan was little different. Any woman could have told him that what a man calls vanity in a woman is not undue worry over her appearance, but an attention to detail to assure that her personal presentation will enhance her power and control. Yet the men who belittle a woman’s concern over her dress would think nothing amiss about fretting over who owes them as little as a copper or whether the cooper or the tanner or the wool factor treats them with proper respect. What is the difference? A woman’s appearance is so often the measure of what small power she may have, and that power may be diminished if she fails to match or exceed in appearance and demeanor another woman. Many have noted that a man’s power is measured by the respect he is accorded by others, and in the world in which women dwell, respect is seldom granted to women except in their appearance. As the son by blood, if not by inheritance or recognition, of a High Holder, Rholan was less than cognizant of this difference in how power is established, and that may explain in part why so many who followed him so faithfully were men …

There was something about the passage, though, that nagged at him, and he was still pondering what it might be and why it bothered him when Vaelora indicated they should leave their quarters just before sixth glass. With only one of Vaelora’s kit bags packed, Quaeryt refrained from any comment as he and Vaelora descended to the second level and the small family dining room, where Bhayar, alone, was already waiting.

“I did insist on game hens this evening,” Bhayar said. “It will be a time before you’ll have a chance for such delicacies.”

“You’re most thoughtful,” replied Vaelora.

“I try, for if I did not, Aelina would discover it sooner or later.”

As they seated themselves at the table, Quaeryt heard the pattering of raindrops against the dining room window and glanced briefly toward the ancient leaded panes.

“With luck,” Bhayar said, “the rain will have passed before you depart in the morning.” He took the carafe of white wine, filled Vaelora’s goblet, then his own, and handed the carafe to Quaeryt. After Quaeryt filled his goblet, Bhayar raised his. “To a safe and successful journey.”

Once they had finished drinking to the toast, one of the uniformed servers presented each of them with a bowl of a soup.

Vaelora tasted it first and nodded. “A pumpkin soup. It’s particularly good for an evening like this. We haven’t had that in years.”

“Pumpkins don’t grow well near Solis.”

Vaelora nodded in return, then looked squarely at her brother. “I have my ideas, but what do you expect of me on this journey?”

“To be yourself, and to offer your best judgment to Quaeryt. I do not expect you to efface yourself when you deal with the Pharsi High Council. That is why I have named you both as my envoys in the documents you will carry.”

Vaelora glanced at her husband.

“I haven’t seen the documents.”

“Did you think he was placating you, sister dear?” asked Bhayar.

“That thought had crossed my mind, foolish woman that I am.”

Quaeryt winced.

Bhayar laughed softly. “Your husband would not placate you in something that important.”

“Oh … does that mean I should not worry if he attempts to placate me?” Vaelora’s smile was mischievous.

For her expression, if not her words, Quaeryt was grateful.

“I think, sister dear, I am most grateful for the man to whom you are wed.” Before Vaelora could reply, Bhayar gestured toward the server who entered with three platters. “And also grateful for the arrival of the game hens.”

“They’ll be far more tender than any fowl we’ll have for some time,” added Quaeryt quickly, “and better prepared.”

“Not if I supervise the cooking,” said Vaelora.

Quaeryt and Bhayar exchanged knowing glances, then busied themselves with the fare on their platters, which included lightly boiled fresh green beans with almonds, sage-herb rice, and an apricot glaze on the game hens.

After a time and several pleasantries, Bhayar cleared his throat. “The return from Khelgror may be far more dangerous than the journey there, especially if you are successful.”

“Because many would prefer that Telaryn be excessively occupied with Khel for years to come? Do you think Aliaro would actually send troops into Khel?” asked Quaeryt.

“Troops?” Bhayar shrugged. “I’d wager against it, but I wouldn’t put it past him. I wouldn’t put anything past him, even secretly supplying elveweed to Skarpa’s troopers.”

Quaeryt sensed the undercurrent in Bhayar’s words, not that such was surprising, given the way Aliaro had treated Bhayar and Vaelora’s sister Chaerila, and how he had dismissed her very existence after her death in a childbirth that had been fatal to her and the infant.

“I do want you both to take care.” Bhayar looked from Quaeryt to Vaelora. “And since neither of you takes enough care of yourself … Vaelora, try to keep him from doing too much. And you, Quaeryt, keep reminding her that she is with child, and that, even if she can do something, she needs to think about whether she should now that she has to worry about more than herself.” Bhayar laughed. “I’ve said my piece. I have my doubts that either of you will fully heed my words … but try.”

The wry irony of his words brought smiles to the faces of both Quaeryt and Vaelora.

“Oh … there’s one other matter,” said Bhayar. “I said I’d have the funds for you for the expedition. Skarpa will have the pay chests for all the men, including your regiments, and the golds for food and supplies until you reach Ephra. You can’t be commandeering food and lodging in Khel—unless and after they refuse terms, and even that wouldn’t be good. So, along with the documents naming you envoys, I’ll have three hundred golds for you in the morning. Make it last as long as you can.”

“I definitely will,” promised Quaeryt.

The dessert was an apple tart with a flaky crust just a shade overcooked, Quaeryt thought, both from tasting it and seeing the brief frown from Vaelora after her first bite. Still, he thought it tasty and far better than what they would be eating in the weeks ahead.

Later, after they had sipped brandy with Bhayar and then parted, neither Quaeryt nor Vaelora said anything as they climbed the steps to their tower quarters and then made their way into the small sitting room. Vaelora settled into one of the ancient armchairs. Quaeryt did not, walking to the window and then back toward his wife.

“You’re pacing,” Vaelora said quietly.

“Your brother’s never expressed that much concern before.”

“That worries me,” Vaelora replied.

“He’s worried. I don’t think he wants to send us, but the last thing he wants is to fight in Khel. If the High Council refuses his terms, he’ll either have to fight or resign himself to an independent Khel … and that will lead to battles that he or Clayar will have to fight later.”

“Can’t we use that point with the Pharsi leaders?”

“What point?”

“If they agree to his terms, there won’t be any more wars and deaths, and right now, Bhayar is inclined to be more generous.”

“We can certainly try.” Quaeryt could see Vaelora’s eyes narrowing. “I know. Merely trying isn’t enough. We have to make it work, some way or another. I just hope whatever way it is doesn’t turn out to be too bloody.”

“We’ll have to see that it doesn’t, dearest, won’t we?”

Quaeryt nodded, wondering, not for anywhere close to the first time, just how he and Vaelora could do that.

8

Well before seventh glass on Lundi morning, Quaeryt, Vaelora, and first company left the hold house where Quaeryt had spent more than a month, and began the short ride of a half mille south of the hold—and two milles or so north of the Chateau Regis—to the piers serving both the River Aluse and the Great Canal.

The sky held high thin gray clouds, and the road was muddy, but not excessively so. Quaeryt could only hope that all the mounts and marchers of the regiments would not turn the canal towpath into slop, although it appeared well packed and graveled. The two kit bags containing Vaelora’s garments were bulging, and Quaeryt avoided even looking close to where they were strapped behind Vaelora’s saddle.

“What can you tell me about the canal boat?” asked Vaelora as they turned on to what passed for a main road.

“Well … the squad leader who’s been caring for it said that it was fancy and clean. It’s not leaking, and all the fittings look to be sound.”

“Dearest…”

“It’s some twenty yards long, and barely five wide, and there is a small galley, a salon, and a small sleeping cabin. The crew quarters are cramped.”

“You’re not saying much, dearest. How is it furnished? How large is the bed? Is there a wash chamber?”