Imager’s Battalion (15 page)

“Oh?”

“That way the steward will have to explain … if he can.”

Quaeryt did not smile … quite.

The ride back to the town took a good glass, and Quaeryt couldn’t help but puzzle over the fact that the road to the holding looked to be better than the main road westward along the river. Reloading the barrels across all the supply wagons took even longer than the return to Rivecote Sud, although Quaeryt did not remain to watch that, but spent a good glass checking the patrols, and then briefing Captain Shaask from Skarpa’s Second Battalion, since he’d been chosen to garrison the town and keep order.

The remainder of Meredi was uneventful. Most of the locals stayed off the streets, and the scouts discovered no signs or tracks of Bovarian forces, although Quaeryt had no doubt that there were at least some Bovarian scouts watching Skarpa’s force from a distance. The Bovarians continued to hold Rivecote Nord, as evidenced by the presence of uniformed troopers or officers on the north cable ferry tower.

Skarpa’s scouts from the east reported back in late afternoon that they had spotted Telaryn troops on the north side of the river some fifteen milles east of Rivecote Nord. With that information in hand, Skarpa summoned Meinyt and Quaeryt to discuss preparations for the regiments and Quaeryt’s battalion to depart on Jeudi morning. That meeting took another glass, and Quaeryt’s guts were growling by the time he walked into the public room for what passed for the evening mess.

The skeptical serving woman looked at him, neither warmly nor coldly, then turned away. But when he sat down at the table with Skarpa and Meinyt, she reappeared and set a beaker of pale lager in front of him.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks, not for now.” She nodded and stepped away.

“What was that about?” asked Meinyt.

“I think it’s a reminder and a suggestion that things might not be too bad if we leave the townspeople to their lives.” Quaeryt took a sip of the lager. It was far better than what he’d been served for breakfast. “It also might be a quiet thank you.”

He thought so, but in war, how could he ever know for certain?

17

As the southern army moved out of Rivecote Sud early on Jeudi morning under a hazy sky that promised more hot and damp weather, Skarpa, Meinyt, and Quaeryt rode side by side behind the vanguard.

“If we make good time, we’ll reach Villerive before the first of Agostas,” said Skarpa.

“That’s without trouble, and there’s always trouble,” countered Meinyt.

“What sort of trouble do you see?” Skarpa’s voice held an amused tone. “Besides more merchants and holders happy to take the troopers’ coins? Or do you think our troopers will be enticed by the charms of the local women?”

“Not on this side of the Aluse.” Meinyt snorted. “At Villerive, we’ll all have trouble. They say it’s the bawdiest city on the Aluse. It’s got more taverns and taprooms than even Estisle. Myskyl thought he had trouble with Rescalyn’s vale? He didn’t know trouble.”

Skarpa looked toward Quaeryt. “What sort of trouble do you see?”

Quaeryt thought. “I’d be surprised to see Bovarian troopers or raiders trying to burn crops until we get close to Villerive. That’s more likely on the north side of the river. The lands are better there. So are the roads, and there should be more High Holders.” He added, “I think we should pay a visit to High Holder Cassyon. Or his holding.”

Skarpa raised his eyebrows.

“We already visited Rheyam. It also won’t hurt if Lord Bhayar has a better idea about as many High Holders as possible. Or if they get the idea he keeps a close watch.”

“Won’t he just replace them all?” asked Meinyt.

“He could, but that wouldn’t be wise,” said Skarpa. “The only people he could use that would be trustworthy and able to keep the holding in line are officers, and they’d have to be at least majors. That would take more majors than we have. If he brings in the junior sons of Telaryn High Holders, that will mean we’ll end up fighting more…”

Quaeryt nodded.

“We all don’t need to see each holder,” said Skarpa. “That will just slow us up. You should. You’re the one with ties to Bhayar, and he’ll listen to you.”

“I wouldn’t take the whole battalion, just a company, and an imager or two. First company, this time.”

“First company until you’ve worked more with the Khellan officers,” said Skarpa mildly.

“That was my thought. Is there anything else I need to know now?”

“I’ll send a courier if the scouts discover anything.”

“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt eased his mount onto the shoulder and rode back to Fifth Battalion, assigned to follow Meinyt’s Fifth Tilboran.

Once back in formation, beside Zhelan, he turned in the saddle. “Major, we’ll be making visits to High Holders along the way to Villerive. The first will be at High Holder Cassyon’s. His holding is this side of Deauvyl. I’ll be taking first company and two of the undercaptains, Shaelyt and Akoryt. Undercaptain Voltyr will be in charge of the remaining undercaptains.” Quaeryt could sense Zhelan’s curiosity and added, “I’m gathering information about the High Holders for Lord Bhayar. The more information he has, the happier he’ll be about that.”

Zhelan nodded. “I can see why you were picked for that, sir.”

Quaeryt didn’t quibble. He’d picked himself, and Skarpa had agreed, and that almost amounted to the same thing in practice.
Almost.

After riding a glass or so with the battalion, but also riding out and making several inquiries from local growers—through closed and barred doors, and at more than a few times getting no answers at all—Quaeryt and first company finally came to a pair of brick and redstone pillars flanking a graveled drive that angled up a low rise to the south of the river road.

Ghaelyn and Quaeryt followed the outriders up the drive, with the company behind them, and onto a hilltop that had been flattened, decades before, if not longer, judging by the size of the oaks that surrounded and shaded the hold house. With two stories, plain yellow brick walls, and a length of less than forty yards, the hold house was positively modest—for a High Holder.

As Quaeryt rode toward the front entry, a brick-paved area with a roof extending over the drive and supported on the far side of the drive by two brick pillars, he saw a tall, dark-haired man, flanked by two others, standing on the brick stoop in front of the double goldenwood doors.

“First company, halt!” Quaeryt turned in the saddle and looked to Shaelyt, Akoryt, and Ghaelyn. “Hold here.” Maintaining full shields, Quaeryt rode forward and reined up short of the stoop. “Greetings,” he offered in Bovarian.

“Greetings to you, officer,” returned the tall man.

“Are you High Holder Cassyon?”

“Why might you suggest that?”

“Your reputation,” replied Quaeryt.

The man laughed, if with a slight nervousness. “I’m Cassyon, but what is it about my reputation?”

“Some people in Rivecote Sud would rather deal with you than with the nearer High Holder. I surmised that a holder with that reputation might be one to greet an invader’s forces.”

“Invader? Most would style themselves liberators or something more flattering.”

“Such as unifiers?” Quaeryt offered a wry smile as he thought of the small volume. “I won’t claim that for Lord Bhayar. Rex Kharst invaded Telaryn. We destroyed his forces, and Lord Bhayar determined that there would be no peace in Lydar until either Telaryn or Bovaria triumphed.” Quaeryt smiled ironically. “You might say that we’re invading to procure peace since the alternative was to be invaded.”

“What do you wish from me … is it commander?”

“Subcommander.”

“You’re young even for a subcommander … or are all Bhayar’s senior officers young?”

Quaeryt smiled. “I’m by far the youngest subcommander.”

“If I may observe, then you are either very good or very well connected, if not both.”

“I’ve had the fortune to accomplish what Lord Bhayar required.”

“As do all officers who survive.” Cassyon moistened his lips. “I understand that your army has the power to take or destroy all that I have, but I would prefer that it not come to that.”

“I have no intentions of such … unless you attempt something foolish. Right now, all I require of you is your pledge not to take up arms against Telaryn so long as we control the lands east of Deauvyl, and to sell any goods we deem necessary at a price we set.”

“Oh?”

“We purchased flour and other goods from Rheyam at about one-third of the market price. I’d prefer to pay more, but at the moment, that’s not possible.”

“What did you do with Rheyam’s goods you did not purchase?”

“Replaced the locks and left them.”

“Might I ask why, assuming you’re telling the truth, you are so comparatively generous?”

“That’s very simple. Lord Bhayar would prefer to rule than to destroy. As for the truth, you can send someone to Rivecote and to Rheyam’s hold and have them see for themselves.”

Cassyon nodded. “And if I do not so pledge? What will you do?”

“For the moment … nothing, unless you immediately raise arms. Once the fighting is over, however, you risk losing everything.”

“If I pledge to Bhayar, when the fighting is over and Kharst has won, then I will lose everything.”

“I am not asking you pledge to Lord Bhayar. I am asking that you pledge not to raise arms against him so long as his armies control these lands.”

“I could pledge and lie.”

“You could,” said Quaeryt. “That would be foolish.” As he spoke the last words, he image-projected absolute authority and the sense that Cassyon’s lands would be in ruin and all on them would be dead.

Cassyon took a half step backward. Then he looked at Quaeryt, even more closely. “Who … what … are you?”

“Subcommander Quaeryt, sometime scholar, former governor of the province of Montagne, and brother by marriage to Lord Bhayar.”

“And you are a
mere
subcommander?”

“That is what I have earned, High Holder Cassyon.”

“I will pledge not to raise arms so long as your lord holds these lands and to sell to him or his commanders what he may require. I do so because you are not a subcommander, or not just a subcommander.” Cassyon shook his head. “I am not a coward, but a man would be a fool to stand against death upon a horse.” He paused. “Do you require goods now?”

“No. We may never require goods of you. Then, we may.” Quaeryt nodded. “Good day.” He flicked the reins gently, then guided the mare back to where first company waited.

As they headed back down the drive, Shaelyt eased his mount up beside Quaeryt’s mare.

“Sir … what did you do?”

“I talked to him, Undercaptain. I asked him to pledge not to raise arms against us and to sell goods to us, if required. That’s all I said.”

“Sir … even I could sense death and destruction rise around you and flow over the High Holder.”

“
Even
you, Shaelyt?” Quaeryt smiled. “You’re Pharsi. You’re one of those who can sense what is not said or spoken. Perhaps Cassyon could as well. I did attempt to convey, without words, that failing to pledge would lead to death and destruction. But I said nothing of the sort.”

“You are like the ancient lost ones…” Shaelyt’s voice was low.

“That … I couldn’t say, not having known any of them. I don’t even know who my parents were, save that they had to have been Pharsi, because I look that way and because I remember a few words and phrases.”

“No, sir, you are Pharsi, and you are a lost one. You may even be
the
lost one.”

“Shaelyt…” Quaeryt let a little exasperation show in his voice. He’d been called that several times, but never where he could follow up on what it meant. “Would you mind telling me exactly who ‘the lost one’ is supposed to be. If you’re going to insist that I might be something, it would be helpful to know what it might be.”

Shaelyt said nothing for several moments as they neared the pillars at the end of the drive.

Quaeryt could see that Third Regiment had caught up and was passing the gate. He reined up and signaled the company to halt. It would be easier to let the regiment pass and then cross behind the supply wagons and catch up to Fifth Battalion going single file and using the wider shoulder on the river side of the road. He turned to the Pharsi undercaptain. “Go ahead.”

“Sir…”

Quaeryt waited.

“The first lost ones were those imprisoned in a valley in the Montagnes D’Glace by Erion. He sent shafts from his mighty bow into the pass that led to the northern valleys of Khel and brought down the cliffs on each side on the warriors who were about to attack the Eshtorans. He said that while the descendants of those warriors might escape, their past desire to slaughter innocents would always mark them as lost ones, and that they would not be truly saved until the time of the last lost one—
the
lost one who would change everything across all Lydar. He also said that the lost one would come as one truly lost to his heritage and from afar, and that he would have a voice that few could resist and that he would triumph not by force of arms, although few would ever be able to withstand him, but because he sought justice and mercy for Pharsi and non-Pharsi alike.” Shaelyt paused, then added, “My father told me that most Pharsi forget to mention the last part. They don’t like it that the lost one would seek mercy for both the Pharsi and for those who have persecuted us for generations.”

“Does this … legend say anything about what justice is supposed to be?”

“Not that I heard, sir.”

Quaeryt shook his head. “I’m a scholar who’s gotten tolerably good with a half-staff out of necessity”—
and imaging
—“and I’ll admit I’d like to see justice and mercy for those who’ve been denied it, such as scholars, imagers, Pharsi, and anyone else who’s been deprived. But … I don’t think that qualifies me as the lost one. There have been men before me, and there are those today, and there will be others in the future who seek those ends. Certainly, Rholan did. In his own way, so does Lord Bhayar, and that is one reason why I’m here.”
Not the only one, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that.
Even as he thought that, another thought crossed his mind.
If you hadn’t believed that, you wouldn’t have Vaelora.