Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (47 page)

“Rholan understood how easily names, even personal and proper names, could become so much more and so much worse than the sounds we use to identify ourselves as individuals … so … when we think of a name, especially our own, we should not fall in love with it, but regard it for what it is—a tool like any other tool. Like any tool, it can be most useful, and when misused, it can become dangerous, even deadly.…”

Even though the homily was short, Quaeryt knew he’d said enough, perhaps more than enough, and he stepped back to let the commander deliver the benediction.

Only after most of the worshippers had left did Zirkyl turn to Quaeryt. “You amaze me, scholar. To start with a grammar lesson and then tie it into another inspection of Naming … I’ve never heard any chorister do that.”

“I haven’t either, sir,” added Skarpa as he approached.

“You may be wasted as a scholar,” continued Zirkyl.

“Alas, sir, that is what I am.”

The commander shook his head. “Such a pity.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to point out that the prime requisite for a chorister was to believe in the Nameless, and that he was only certain about believing in some of the precepts of the Nameless. Instead, he said, “We cannot be anything we wish; we can only be the best at what we are.”

Zirkyl nodded slowly, but then added, “Do not set your sights too low, master scholar.”

If you only knew, Commander. If you only knew.
“I will keep that very much in mind, sir.”

“See that you do.” The commander smiled before he turned and left Quaeryt with Skarpa.

“What do you have your sights set on, scholar?” asked Skarpa, his tone half-amused.

“Not to let thoughts of fame and glory impede what I wish to accomplish,” replied Quaeryt lightly. “And you?”

“I’d like to be an effective regimental commander.”

“You just might be,” said Quaeryt, smiling. “Do you want to join me for another lager? I think we can persuade them to serve us.”

“Yes … but I’ll take ale.”

The two walked back into the officers’ mess.

60

The sun was still above the hills to the west on Jeudi afternoon when Quaeryt rode up the paved road and through the eastern gates into the Telaryn Palace. The brisk winds that had cooled him on the last few glasses of the journey were a definite sign that the hotter weather was beginning to wane, even if it was only the fifth day of autumn. After two days of riding and practicing his shields as often as he could, Quaeryt was pleased that he could hold shields he was certain were strong enough to block a crossbow quarrel—if for less than a quint continuously. He had the feeling he’d need them every bit as much in Tilbora if not more than he had while riding patrols out of Boralieu.

He hadn’t sent any reports to Bhayar from Boralieu, but knowing that he’d be returning on a Jeudi, over the previous week he’d written a totally factual report of the events of his month at the outpost, mentioning his injury in passing, but offering nothing about any of his abilities, except an improved capability in the saddle, or any speculations whatsoever. He also had written a summary report of each week’s activities for the princeps.

He had barely dismounted in the stable courtyard when a young ranker hurried up.

“Scholar Quaeryt, sir? The princeps would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

Earliest convenience? What exactly does that mean?
“Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I take care of my mount.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.” The ranker hurried off.

After unsaddling and grooming his mount, Quaeryt dumped his gear in his quarters and retrieved his report for Straesyr, then hurried back to the second level of the main section of the palace and into the princeps’s anteroom. Vhorym looked up from his table desk, then stood. “The princeps will see you immediately, sir. Just go on in.”

Straesyr actually stood as Quaeryt entered his study. “How are you feeling, scholar? How’s that chest wound? I heard you’d been wounded on a patrol. The first reports weren’t that good.”

The princeps’s warm voice held concern, and Quaeryt thought that his ice-blue eyes weren’t quite as hard and calculating as usual.

Quaeryt felt fine, but he replied, “I’m still sore and bruised, but I’ll recover.”

“The governor was greatly concerned. He hadn’t thought you’d run into such an attack that soon. He’d recommended your going on routine patrols at first.”

“It was a routine patrol. Even Captain Meinyt thought so. There were only a few backwoods types. They had crossbows. We lost one ranker, and two others besides me were wounded. Two of the attackers were killed. I didn’t do too much, except talk to the officers, after I felt better, for the next few weeks.” He extended the sheets of his report. “Here is a consolidated report of the time I spent in Boralieu.”

Straesyr smiled and gave a rueful headshake. “It’s a pity you’re a scholar and not an officer. You’re intelligent. You get the job done, and you’re obviously durable.”

“I’m not terribly good with weapons, sir.”

“You think. That’s far more important for an officer.”

Sometimes you think too much.
Quaeryt kept that thought to himself.

“There is one other thing.” Straesyr smiled, reached down, picked up a sealed missive off the desk, then handed it to Quaeryt. “This arrived a few days ago by courier. It appears to have been addressed by the same hand as the one awaiting you when you first arrived.”

Quaeryt took the missive and looked at the script. “It does look the same.”

“Without being too intrusive…”

“She is a young lady to whom I was introduced by her aunt just before I left Solis. She posed a number of scholarly issues, and I replied before I departed for Boralieu. While she is charming, I am a scholar, and scholars are not known for their wealth, and I have no family. I will, of course, continue to write, because a woman whose intellect is so sharply honed is rare.”

“You phrased that in an interesting fashion, scholar.”

Quaeryt laughed softly. “I have found little different in the basic ability of men or women to think. I have found great differences in the proportion of each who are trained to use their thoughts and faculties to the fullest.”

“My wife would agree with you, as would my daughter, young as she is,” said Straesyr dryly. “I will have to relate your observation to them.”

“Are they here in Tilbora?”

“My wife was not about to allow me to remain here unaccompanied. That may be suitable for a widower such as the governor, she said, but not for a handsome and intelligent man. We have quarters in one of the row houses beyond the stables.”

“I saw children…”

“Doubtless at least one of them was mine.” The princeps smiled again. “You have had a long day, and I would not keep you yet longer. You will be in your study in the morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Until then.”

Quaeryt inclined his head and departed.

As he walked back to his quarters to unpack and see what he could do about getting his garments washed, he thought again about the princeps. Behind the open mannerisms, Straesyr concealed a great deal, possibly even more than did Rescalyn. Yet his mention of his wife had been anything but casual, even as easily presented as those words had been.

Not until he was back in his quarters, which had been swept and cleaned in the last day or so, did he study the letter that bore Vaelora’s handwriting, although only his name and posting were written on the outside. Interestingly enough, he could detect no sign that the seal had been tampered with, none at all, and he finally broke it and extracted the sheets of paper inside and began to read.

Dear Scholar Quaeryt—

I am in receipt of your correspondence of 33 Agostas. I do appreciate your thoughtful commentary on the points that I raised previously, and I cannot convey how pleased and relieved I was to learn that you arrived safely in Tilbora, despite the difficulties you encountered in your travels.

You had observed certain aspects of my discourse and addressed those with care and consideration. In addition, I would propose, if but tentatively, an additional observation. I believe, and it is, of course, only my belief, that among all people, and particularly among women, those who are often most effective in changing the course of events are those who are many times the least noticed or noticed as having been merely helpful …

Those words struck Quaeryt, and he reread them, then nodded.

… That being said, there are doubtless many who are effective and well-noticed, and of great accomplishments and meritorious achievement, but, if one can believe the histories and, indeed, the legends, it would appear that of those many a rather large proportion did not live to the ages they might have had they not been so well-noted in their accomplishments.… Again, this is but the opinion of a woman, and one who has led a most sheltered life.…

He couldn’t help but smile at that line. No one in Bhayar’s household led exactly a sheltered life. Protected, but not sheltered. He continued to read through her notes on several books she had read, and her pithy, if carefully couched, observations.

… and although fall is approaching, the weather remains more reminiscent of summer than of fall, or even of harvest. I do hope my words have not been excessive or terribly less than scholarly, and I look forward to your reply.

Again, the letter was signed with but her single initial.

As Quaeryt reread the letter, something else nagged at him, and he retrieved her second letter, and reread it quickly, then her original letter—and laughed quietly. While the logic and the validity and structure of the basic thoughts were still there, the second and third letters contained far more flowery and self-deprecating phrases and qualifications, phrases which he believed not at all, but whose purpose was all too clear. What remained unclear—and likely would for some time, perhaps always—was her motivation in writing. Did she feel so constricted within her palace that such letters were her only escape?

Quaeryt had no way of knowing, and he was not about to ask, not when he enjoyed receiving those missives—and replying—and when asking might offend her enough to cause her to cease writing. He immediately sat down to compose a reply, but only finished slightly more than a page before he realized it was time to eat—and that he was indeed hungry.

When he reached the mess, he stopped cold, seeing most of the officers in their jackets and realizing that it was mess night. He didn’t immediately see any of the officers he had come to know when he entered the mess, nor did he see Phargos, about which he was slightly relieved, although he doubted that Gauswn or the other officers in Sixth Battalion had yet had the chance or the inclination to discuss his homilies in Boralieu with the regimental chorister. He shrugged and made his way to his place, where Haestyn and Dueryl greeted him and immediately begin to ply him with questions. Those were cut short by Rescalyn’s arrival. The marshal’s words were brief, essentially welcoming back the officers of Sixth Battalion.

After Rescalyn’s words, Quaeryt bantered with those around him and enjoyed the seasoned roasted fowl with the rice and mushrooms in sauce.

When he returned to his quarters after the evening meal, he struggled through his reply to Vaelora, let it sit on the writing desk while he finished unpacking, and then reread it again.

Mistress Vaelora—

I am in receipt of your letter of 24 Erntyn, although I did not receive it until I returned from a month spent with the cavalry at Boralieu post. I fear I am not cut of the cloth to be a cavalry officer. On the very first patrol I accompanied, I took a crossbow quarrel in the shoulder. As the governor has said to Lord Bhayar in his dispatches, the hill brigands are indeed troublesome types. One even later boasted that action against his holding would incite all the hill holders into revolt. Fortunately, a salutatory visit in force arranged by Commander Zirkyl, who commands the post at Boralieu, convinced the hotheaded holder that his words were most unwise. The injury from the quarrel limited my riding with patrols for several weeks. Fortunately, later patrols were not so eventfully difficult for me …

From there, Quaeryt gave a brief summary of his patrols, then addressed her words to him.

While I have not had time to give full consideration to your latest missive, and will not have that time if I am to dispatch this tomorrow morning, your words do give rise to some thoughts, particularly in light of my task to assess the difficulties of administering a province such as Tilbor.…

Governor Rescalyn is a good and thoughtful governor, who has clearly studied the precepts of administration and ruling, but he is most especially an excellent marshal. The soldiers and cavalry here are well-trained and extraordinarily devoted to the marshal. One officer claimed that his men would attack the Nameless if the governor so ordered. If only Rex Kharst knew what an effective and disciplined force the marshal has trained. It must comprise close to two regiments, if not three. How quickly they would disperse anyone sent against them, but, having seen, firsthand, the smallest bit of fighting, I would not wish such on anyone unless it becomes absolutely necessary, although the forces here could certainly form the spearhead of any army required to repulse the Bovarians … or for any other purpose necessary. I am most certain that Lord Bhayar understands far better than I to what uses such a dedicated force can be applied, for I am but a scholar of history and can only look back and peruse the dusty tomes dating from even before the times of the Yaran warlords.

Given Vaelora’s education and personal history, Quaeryt had every hope that she would understand the references, and the implications, assuming she ever received the letter—and that whoever read the correspondence before she did would not. If she did, then he had no doubts that she would inform Bhayar … and Bhayar was definitely not insensitive to the undercurrents of power.

Finally, he closed the letter.

Your thoughts and words offer both insight and cheer, and I am more than glad to receive them, and to reply with what insight and wit I can offer.