Antiagon Fire (24 page)

“I agree, Lady,” added Skarpa, with a laugh.

“Thank you both,” replied Quaeryt dryly.

“Can’t say I’m surprised that there are raiders here,” Skarpa finally said, easing his mount almost to the left shoulder of the road to allow Vaelora to ride up between him and Quaeryt. “No large towns, no sign of High Holders.”

“But what are they raiding?” asked Quaeryt. “The most valuable goods are on the river … or in Ephra or Kephria.”

Skarpa frowned. “If they’re raiding, they aren’t doing it for nothing.”

The column continued southward, and a mille later, as the road curved back eastward around a low hill, two scouts rode toward them, reining up and then riding beside Quaeryt along the shoulder on the east side of the road.

“The raiders were gone when first company got there. They attacked a wagon.”

“Who were the riders?” asked Skarpa. “Could you tell?”

“No, sir,” replied the scout. “They wore dark green, all of them, like uniforms.”

“Someone’s private army,” ventured Quaeryt.
But that raises even more questions.

Ahead, Quaeryt saw a wagon, and first company, formed up on the road to the south of the wagon, with a squad of rankers and Zhelan surrounding the wagon.

The first thing that Quaeryt noticed as they rode closer was the blackened area around the rear of the wagon, as if someone had started a fire that had failed to ignite the broken tailboard. The wagon itself was small, half the size of a dray with large high wheels supporting a body barely three yards long and perhaps half as wide. The wagon bed was a yard deep and a canvas sheet had been tied across barrels and kegs set on their butt ends, but the containers had been smashed open and their contents strewn across the road and the west shoulder.

Quaeryt had no trouble smelling the overpowering odor of what had been in the wagon. “Elveweed,” he said to Vaelora.

“All those barrels?”

“It looks that way.”

The single draft horse lay on its side, unmoving in its traces. Seeing the dark stain on the dirt, Quaeryt reined up beside Zhelan and looked closely. One side of its skull was crushed in.

“What sort of weapon…?” He shook his head.

“Something like a morning star,” answered Zhelan.

“But … does anyone use those anymore?”

“Someone did here.”

“They had to be carrying it on purpose—just for that.” Quaeryt couldn’t think of any other reason for carrying such a heavy weapon, one unnecessary in warfare when almost no one wore armor any longer. Then he noticed the body of the man in gray, sprawled on the road in front of the dead horse. His skull was also crushed.

A woman knelt by him, her body shaking.

Vaelora dismounted, handing the reins of her mount to one of the scouts, and strode over to the woman. Quaeryt followed, still mounted.

“We weren’t doing nothing,” sobbed the woman, looking up to Vaelora. “Traes, he was just trying to put food on the table.”

“With elveweed?” murmured Quaeryt.

“Why did you need the elveweed to do that?” asked Vaelora.

“Only thing folks’ll pay for hereabouts. Traders sneak north from Antiago. Elveweed don’t grow there.”

Quaeryt frowned. “You couldn’t sell it in Ephra?”

“How’d we get there? Can’t afford the ferry. ’Sides, factors … holders don’t let no one doesn’t hold a medallion sell nothing there. Who’s got silvers for that?”

“What about selling it yourself farther south?” asked Quaeryt.

“You crazy? Antiagons fry anyone selling elveweed … except some of their own. That’s why we sell to their traders.”

“Who attacked you?”

“Friggin’ holder. Had to be Chaelaet. Dark green.” The woman’s eyes took in Quaeryt’s uniform and then that of Zhelan. “Who are you?”

“Commander Quaeryt of Telaryn. We’re headed to Ephra.”

The woman turned to Vaelora. “You help me, Lady … please … You are a lady?”

“I am.”

“Don’t let them…”

“They won’t touch you. They’re not like the Bovarians or the holders here.” Vaelora paused. “They know they’d answer to my brother … and to my husband.”

“… husband?”

“The commander is my husband. You can ride with us so long as you wish.”

Interestingly enough, the woman did not ask who Vaelora’s brother was.

Or perhaps she thought that Vaelora’s husband was also her brother.
Quaeryt had heard that such marriages occasionally occurred among the oligarchs in Jariola, but why would a Bovarian woman think that might happen in Lydar … unless she knew so little of geography that all places outside of Bovaria were the same?

By the time the troopers had cleared the road and brought up a spare mule to hitch to the wagon, which was unharmed, Vaelora had calmed down the woman and had her riding beside her while a trooper drove the wagon, along with the supply wagons. Vaelora said little, and whenever Quaeryt glanced in her direction, she shook her head, indicating that the woman was not ready to say more than she had.

Quaeryt motioned to Skarpa, and the two rode farther ahead, putting more distance between their mounts and those of the women.

“Have the scouts found out more about those riders?” asked Quaeryt.

“I was about to ask you.”

“Zhelan said they were long gone by the time first company reached the wagon, but the woman said the riders had to belong to a holder named Chaelaet because they wore dark green.”

“That’s a start. Don’t care much for elveweed, but I care even less for holders sending armsmen out to smash heads.”

“From what Bhayar intimated, some of the High Holders here may be trading in elveweed themselves. It could be that they don’t want anyone else doing it.”

“That would make sense.” Skarpa snorted.

“That means you’re going to have trouble with them as well as with Aliaro.”

“And if I come down on the High Holders, they might just decide to make this part of Bovaria part of Antiago, you think?”

“They might threaten that. If they do, you’ll have two strong imagers. Don’t argue. Just have Threkhyl topple their holds in on them.”

“You’re sounding like Meinyt again.”

“There are times when young commanders can learn from grizzled old subcommanders,” retorted Quaeryt. “But then, the more I see of Bovarian High Holders, the less I’m impressed.”

“You’ve never been impressed by most High Holders.”

“I’m even less impressed by those here in the south.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Both men shook their heads as they continued to ride southward.

22

By fourth glass on Lundi evening, Southern Army reached Geusyn, the largest town they’d seen since leaving Daaraen. While there were actually nine inns in the town of various sizes, all with stables, in the end Skarpa, Quaeryt, and the senior officers had to work hard to get all the troopers and mounts in what passed for quarters, with Kharllon gently pressing for his regiment to use the northernmost inn.

Skarpa had arranged for the senior officers to be quartered in the River Inn, and Quaeryt couldn’t help but wonder how many inns there might be of that name all across Lydar. The one in which he and Vaelora were staying was an oblong two-story structure, solidly built, clean, and with little else in terms of architecture or design to distinguish itself—except that it had three plaques rooms, suggesting to Quaeryt that more than a few traders engaged in plaques.

While Vaelora dealt with the widowed woman, and tried to help her … and learn what she could, Quaeryt sought out the inn’s stablemaster. Ostler, really, he reflected as he sized up Haern, a wiry man a good ten years older than himself.

“What’d you be wanting, sir, besides the grain and fodder for your mounts?”

“Information.”

“Don’t know as I’d be the best for that.”

“I’m sure you would be for what I’d like to know. You’ve seen people come and go for years here, I’d imagine.”

“More ’n ten years, sir.”

“Do most traders stay here in Geusyn as long as they can … or do they go to Ephra as soon as possible?”

Haern laughed. “No one’d go to Ephra sooner than they had to … or stay long there, not given a choice. Place is filled with red flies, green skeeters, and flux. A night at an inn not so good as here costs twice as much, and the food’s worse. Only reason traders go there is to get their goods on an outbound trader or buy and off-load from a spice ship from the south. Otelyrn and the like, you know. Wouldn’t say that there might not also be curamyn and a few other things, either. Course the traders’d go to Kephria if they could, but with the walls and the guns and the imagers…”

“Do the Antiagons fire at everything coming down the river?”

“Aye … well … sometimes, mostly at vessels not showing an Antiagon trade flag … that’s why fewer and fewer trade ships call at Ephra, and why most leave on the early morning or early night tides. Been that way ever since Rex Kharst sneaked imagers near the piers at Kephria and they fired warehouses there. Say that none of the imagers and boats escaped, not that their deaths stopped half the port quarter from burnin’. Could see the flames all the way up here that night…”

“What about the ferries? How do they avoid the Antiagon guns?”

“The current and the tides. They use the current to cross the river heading downstream, then wait for the tide coming up the Gulf so that they can cross the river to the towpath below Geusyn, and mules tow them back up to the piers here.”

After another quint’s worth of questions, Quaeryt thanked the ostler and headed back into the inn. There, he met with Zhelan, Alazyn, and Khaern. He still waited a quint longer for Skarpa to finish meeting with his senior quartermasters before he could draw the submarshal away and relay what he’d learned so far.

When Quaeryt finished, Skarpa looked at him. “The more I learn about Bovaria, the more I wonder how Kharst governed it at all.”

“He didn’t. He tariffed it and used the tariffs to build an army to plunder elsewhere and to terrify High Holders into paying the tariffs to support him and the army.” Quaeryt knew he was oversimplifying, but he wasn’t sure that he was that far off.

“Do we even want to go to Ephra?” asked Skarpa.

“I don’t think you should,” replied Quaeryt. “You’d just have your army trapped there, and all the real problems you face are on this side of the river. I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Are your ships there?”

“I don’t know. There was no one at the ferry piers when we got here, and no one else seems to know. I can only check tomorrow.”

Skarpa nodded. “I’ve arranged a senior officers’ mess—that includes Lady Vaelora—in the large plaques room at sixth glass. We need to go over what you and I and the other commanders have found out, and what everyone thinks.”

“We’ll be there.”

After leaving Skarpa, Quaeryt turned and headed up the narrow stairs, stairs that creaked with every step, to find Vaelora. She unbolted the door when she heard his voice.

He smiled, seeing her in a camisole.

“Dearest … not now. I’ve been washing up.” She stepped aside and rebolted the door behind him.

In order to take his mind off what he’d just seen, he looked around the corner room, large enough for an inn, but without curtains, only inside shutters, and a wide bed that sagged slightly in the middle. “What do you think of the quarters?”

“They’re more spacious and less gracious than the canal boat. What are you going to do with it now?”

“Leave it at the piers with the supply flatboats. They’re all guarded. I suppose I should see if it can be towed upriver, although I don’t see how, given the lack of towpaths and the state of the roads.” He shook his head.

“That’s a pity. It’s a beautiful boat, and I’d hate to see it rot away.”

Quaeryt agreed, but he didn’t have a ready solution. “What happened to the woman?” he finally asked as Vaelora walked back to the table that held a washbasin and pitcher. He removed his visor cap and set it on the plain square table at the side of the bed.

“She left. I couldn’t persuade her to stay. She said she had an aunt. I doubt she does, but I don’t think she trusts anyone, especially troopers and officers from Telaryn, and she would have felt like a captive if I’d insisted.”

“We rescued her. You know—she knew—what those troopers—raiders—would have done.”

“She did, and she was grateful. She was also afraid our kindness wouldn’t last.”

“Mine, you mean?”

“Most likely,” Vaelora admitted. “I gave her some coppers and silvers. She didn’t refuse.”

“What’s her name?”

“Willina,” replied Vaelora. “She’s younger than I am.”

That surprised Quaeryt, given that Vaelora was not quite twenty-two, and Willina looked ten years older than his wife.
Just how hard has the woman’s life been?
Quaeryt was all too afraid he knew. “How long has she been married?”

“I don’t think they were married. She lost a child to the flux in Agostas. Her man grew elveweed in the swamps on the other side of the river and rowed it across on dark nights.”

Quaeryt almost asked why, before recalling that there were no towns—except Ephra—on the west side of the River Laar anywhere near. “Dangerous business to grow it in the swamps, row across the river, try to avoid the High Holders’ patrols, and sell it to Antiagon traders.” He nodded as he recalled the wagon—light, high-wheeled, able to cover rough ground, and built more for speed than for capacity—a smuggler’s wagon. “Why were they on the road, then?”

“She said something about having to make up time to meet the traders. They’d had to travel around Ghaern because another High Holder had set up road blocks to see if anyone was carrying contraband.”

Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. In Laaryn, the factors controlled trade, but near Ephra, it sounded like the High Holders—or some of them—did so.
But Bhayar told that they might be a problem for Skarpa.
“I’m beginning to wonder if Kharst really even governed down here.”

“His wanting to take Ferravyl makes more sense now,” offered Vaelora.

“In a way, it does,” mused Quaeryt, “but he’d still have had to take the whole river and occupy Solis. That would have cost him dearly, even if Solis is a better port. Here, all he’d have to have done is take Kephria and some territory to the south to get a decent port, not an entire chunk of another land. He already controlled the river—except for this part.”