Imager’s Battalion (23 page)

The slightest hint of color crossed the High Holder’s face, and he took a step forward.

Ghretana stepped back slightly.

“You do not need to worry, dear one,” oozed Fauxyn. “Not at present.”

“You are a fool, Fauxyn, if you think that,” she replied pleasantly, as if she were suggesting a walk on the verandah.

“I’ve been called many things, dear one, but there are none left who have called me that.”

Quaeryt eased to the side as he heard footsteps so that he could watch both the archway and the parlor, but the only one who entered was Arion.

The major halted and handed the half-staff to Quaeryt. “Subcommander.”

“A staff? You would face me with a staff?”

“I think you would be better served if we repaired to one of the entry halls,” Quaeryt said. “After all, you would not wish to ruin this fine carpet with blood.” He walked to the archway and turned. “Are you coming?”

“A staff? How did anyone ever allow you to become an officer?”

“Actually, that wasn’t my choice. It was Lord Bhayar’s. One refuses him at great risk, but you should know that about rulers … shouldn’t you?” Again … that was a guess, based on what he’d seen so far.

Fauxyn’s face tightened, just fractionally. “You do need to learn about your betters … even if your men decide to murder me once I’ve disposed of you.”

Quaeryt glanced to Arion. “Major, if High Holder Fauxyn should happen to wound or kill me, he is not to be touched. Whatever his fate may be is to be left to Lord Bhayar. Is that clear?”

Arion’s response was immediate. “Yes, sir.”

“And the hold is to be left untouched—except for any supplies we may require.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are so honorable.” Fauxyn’s words were mockingly ironic.

“My men will keep their word. So will I.” Quaeryt walked back down the wide corridor to the receiving hall, where he turned and waited with Arion, who had accompanied him.

“Do not trust him,” murmured the major.

“I will trust him to be what he is,” replied Quaeryt, watching as Fauxyn stepped into the main entry hall with its goldenwood wainscoting and damask-covered walls.

“A staff … so awkward … so classless. But one must do what one must.” Fauxyn eased his blade from the scabbard in a practiced and flowing motion.

“Let’s call it a rod, Fauxyn. A rod for a spoiled child of a High Holder.” Quaeryt smiled, taking the half-staff in a two-handed and balanced grip. He also raised full shields, but held them almost against his uniform. “Tell me … why didn’t you leave Fauxheld? You must have heard we were advancing.”

“That is another most impudent question.” Fauxyn moved forward.

“Was it because you displeased your rex? Or because Lady Fauxyn would have greater freedom in Variana?”

“So impudent … and so foolish.” Fauxyn’s blade flickered toward Quaeryt.

Quaeryt moved the staff but slightly, deflecting the lighter weapon easily, his feet taking up a balanced stance. Even after all the recent battles where he had used the staff while mounted, he was far more comfortable with it on foot.

Fauxyn’s blade was close to a blur, but Quaeryt had learned the half-staff on the pitching decks of a merchanter, and its greater length offset the speed of the lighter weapon.

The High Holder feinted, then danced to one side before dropping impossibly low, attempting an underthrust.

Quaeryt parried it, almost pinning the High Holder’s blade to the polished marble floor before Fauxyn darted back.

“A rather accomplished blackguard … but when one deals with the lower classes, one must stoop to their level, must one not?” Abruptly Fauxyn stepped back and flipped the light blade to his left hand, and what looked to be a double-ended throwing knife appeared in his right. Before he finished speaking, the knife flew at Quaeryt.

Quaeryt twisted the staff, but missed … and the blade bounced off his tight-held shields just before it would have sliced into his shoulder. He moved forward immediately, twisting and turning the staff so that it was as close to a blur as he could manage.

“So fortunate, one time,” said Fauxyn mockingly, retreating and producing another blade, which he hurled at Quaeryt’s chest. The sharp-edged knife, deflected off shields and the staff, clattered to the marble. Fauxyn’s eyes widened.

In that moment, Quaeryt struck, one end of the staff knocking Fauxyn’s blade from his hand, and the other coming back and cracking the High Holder across the side of the jaw. As Fauxyn staggered, Quaeryt put as much force as he could into the next strike, right into the High Holder’s right knee. The knee cracked, and Fauxyn went down, with a short scream that he could not quite choke off.

Lying on the marble and trying not to writhe, Fauxyn glared at Quaeryt. “Go ahead. Kill me. That’s what you want.” The words were almost garbled, most likely because Fauxyn’s jaw was also broken.

Quaeryt shook his head. “No. That would be too easy. You need to understand that Lord Bhayar decides who lives and who does not, and that you need to obey. I will leave you to the tender care of your wife.” He turned to Ghretana. “He should live. I expect him to live. Is that clear? Very clear?”

Lady Fauxyn tried to conceal her swallow. “It is indeed.”

“Excellent. We will be back for what supplies we determine you can spare, most likely tomorrow. I expect nothing to be moved. Nothing at all.”

She nodded, involuntarily, then said, “You are not just a subcommander. You are more than that.” Ghretana looked to Arion. “Is he not, Major?”

“Yes, Lady. He is a lost one.”

She frowned.

“A child of Erion, you would say.”

“I meant … his position.”

Arion smiled. “That is not my part to say, although he is well above me and his official rank.”

Quaeryt looked to Ghretana. “Good day, Lady of Fauxyn.”

“Good day, honored sir.” There was not the slightest hint of mockery in the curtsey that followed her words.

Quaeryt turned to see the functionary with the scar glancing from Fauxyn to Ghretana before stiffening under Quaeryt’s gaze.
What was all that about?

While there was no point to asking about a glance, because the retainer would certainly deny anything, Quaeryt tried to fix the man’s visage in his mind. Then he walked out of the damask-walled receiving hall, the unsmelled odor of corruption strong in his nostrils. Neither he nor Arion spoke as they reached their horses and mounted.

25

Before leaving Fauxyn’s holding, Quaeryt took the time and the precaution of inspecting the storehouses, where he discovered several hundred barrels of assorted provisions, including almost a hundred barrels of flour and ten of rice, not to mention other staples.

Once he’d completed the inspection and the companies were on the road back to Caernyn, he couldn’t help thinking over the incident with Fauxyn. Fauxyn had been insolent, almost seeking a fight, creating a situation that no commander could have afforded to let stand, yet one that would most likely resulted in his own death. He couldn’t have been so stupid as to think otherwise. Why had he behaved so? He’d been equally scornful and contemptuous of his wife … despite the fact that he’d gained title and lands because, under the laws of Bovaria Quaeryt had studied so many years before and which it was clear had not been changed, she’d been forced to marry him to keep the holding in her own bloodline.

At the same time, it bothered Quaeryt that he’d had to depend on his shields to avoid being wounded.
It was another form of battle, wasn’t it? Fauxyn attempted to cheat as well, after all.
Still, the fact that he thought of shields as cheating bothered him.

“You are concerned about what happened?” asked Arion after they had ridden for several quints.

“More about why it happened,” replied Quaeryt dryly. “Why were the holder and his wife still there?” He had his own ideas, but wanted to hear what Arion thought.

“He was ordered to remain,” suggested the major. “Only Kharst could have done that.”

“And?”

“You would know better than I, sir.”

“He wanted to offend me enough that we would destroy the hold … and thus destroy his wife’s heritage? And leave nothing for Kharst to claim if we’d executed the entire family?”

“I could not see any other reason for his acts.”

Neither could Quaeryt.

“You have destroyed him,” added Arion. “He will die or live as a shell of himself.”

“Because his wife will make sure he survives as a cripple?”

Arion nodded.

“I thought that only fair. The lands were hers, and so long as he lives, she cannot be forced to marry someone else.”

“If she has no children, he will live only long enough for her to find another High Holder suitable for her. If she has children … he will live only long enough for her to claim that he died of natural causes that came from his stupidity in attacking you.”

Quaeryt nodded. Arion sounded as though he knew the Bovarian laws of succession better than did Quaeryt. “How do you know the laws of Bovaria?”

“I studied to become an advocate … until the time of the Red Death and the Bovarian invasion. Then there was greater need for skill with arms than with law.”

“Isn’t there a great deal of difference between the laws of Khel and those of Bovaria?”

“In many areas, they are similar. In the matter of property-holding and legal standing, women have more rights in Khel than they do in Bovaria … or Telaryn.”

That scarcely surprised Quaeryt, not given what he had learned about Pharsi women, especially in the last year. “But why did you study the laws of Bovaria and Telaryn?”

“Not so much the laws of Telaryn. Because there was much trade between Bovaria and Khel, our factors needed to know what recourse they had under Bovarian law.”

“Not much, I imagine,” said Quaeryt dryly.

“More than the Bovarians wanted us to have. That was another reason for the invasion. Many Bovarian factors owed thousands of golds to Khellan factors and traders, and they did not wish to pay what they owed…”

As Arion explained, Quaeryt listened, discovering in greater depth yet another reason for the Bovarian invasion of Khel.

In the end, it wasn’t much before the evening meal by the time the companies returned to Caernyn. Because Skarpa was tied up with his regimental quartermaster and requested that Meinyt and Quaeryt meet with him after the evening meal, Quaeryt checked with the other Fifth Battalion company commanders and the imagers, barely finishing before it was time to eat.

Afterward, Quaeryt and Meinyt waited until the public room of the River Inn emptied before joining Skarpa, as he had requested, in the corner farthest from the kitchen and the entry archway. Quaeryt brought a recently refilled mug of pale lager to the table. Meinyt’s mug contained lager, Quaeryt suspected, while Skarpa’s likely held ale.

Skarpa set down his mug and motioned for them to sit, then looked to Quaeryt. “How did your venture with the High Holder go?”

“Let’s say that it didn’t go exactly as planned, but he does have supplies that will be available to us. We also learned a few things … perhaps confirmed is a better word…” Quaeryt went on to explain what had happened.

When he had finished, Skarpa nodded. “That sounds like what I’ve heard about Rex Kharst. It’s good to know about the supplies.” He paused. “I’ll need to report about your encounter.”

“I had thought as much. I’ll also note it in my observations of High Holders.”

“Just say that this … Fauxyn was insolent and unwilling to be cooperative. He attacked you, and rather than killing him, you merely broke his knee and jaw. That should be sufficient, and that is what I will also report. His acts come from Bovarian law and customs, and Bhayar doesn’t much care for them. So they shouldn’t concern us or the campaign.” Skarpa turned to Meinyt. “Do you have anything to add?”

“We’ve seen boats putting out from the north side of the river. They’ve had Bovarians in uniform watching us.” Meinyt looked to Quaeryt. “You didn’t see any sign of scouts, did you?”

“No tracks, no sign of them.”

“Except for the river, neither have we,” said the grizzled subcommander. “How long does Deucalon want us to sit here waiting?”

“He’s decided to move,” replied Skarpa. “This afternoon, just before supper, I received orders to advance to the town just east of Villerive. That’s why I was talking to the quartermasters about supplies. We’re to head west immediately and take up positions to be able to move within glasses to intercept any Bovarians using the bridge at Villerive. We’re also to keep the bridge from being destroyed.” Skarpa glanced at Quaeryt. “Or be prepared to rebuild it.”

Quaeryt winced. “I think we need to be closer than that to the bridge.”

“We’ll see.”

“Did the marshal say anything about how they’re doing?”

“Only that they are advancing steadily without significant opposition.” Skarpa snorted. “We’ll likely run into that at Villerive.”

“Or Nordeau,” suggested Quaeryt.

“Why do you think they’ll wait until Nordeau?” Skarpa’s voice was level.

“If the maps are accurate, Nordeau is only a hundred milles from Variana. We’re already two hundred milles into Bovaria. Villerive is close to eighty milles east of Nordeau. If they wait at Nordeau, rather than Villerive, Kharst will have more time to bring forces from the west and southwest. He has to know that he’ll need every man and mount he can gather.”

“You don’t think they’ll just let us take Villerive?”

“No. If I were Kharst, I’d try to bleed us as much as possible, using as few troopers as necessary, all the way from Villerive to Nordeau.”

“They’ll try and hold us until the fall rains come,” said Meinyt. “Until winter, maybe. Said that Deucalon should have moved faster.”

“It may be that Lord Bhayar has made that point,” suggested Skarpa. “Regardless … we are where we are, and you need to have your men ready to move out at seventh glass in the morning, Subcommander Meinyt.”

“Sixth glass for Fifth Battalion?” asked Quaeryt. “So we can pick up those supplies from Fauxheld?”

Skarpa nodded. “I’ll have the quartermasters’ wagons following you. You’ll need to have all dispatches and reports ready just before sixth glass.” He swallowed the last from his mug, then set it on the table and stood. “That’s all.”